Thursday, April 05, 2007

On Hiatus

Most of you have probably realized this already, but I'm going to take a bit of time off from posting. It's become something of a chore recently, and I've been much more interested in pursuing other forms of writing. I'm not stopping the site permanently or anything like that, but I need to take a few weeks off to make some headway on my other projects. For now, I'm going to take a sabbatical for... let's say the month of April. There's a good chance I may decide to bring posts back sooner, or I may not. If you want to keep up to date, there are a couple of options. You can subscribe to the feed, which will automatically email you when I update, or you can email me at and I'll email you when I update.

Thanks for the loyalty, and sorry for the break, but a (Egg)man's gotta do what he's gotta do.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Yuma Wedding

First off, I want to apologize to Bob for this post. The wedding in Yuma had no drama, no burning secrets revealed, no shocking revelations. However, for the Eggman, this was good news. All in all, it was actually a pretty relaxing weekend for me. I could give you the full play-by-play, but it'd be pretty boring, and I'd have to reveal more details about my GF and her dad than I'm comfortable with. So rather than a full report in the typical detailed style of Raynok, I will simply give a few highlights.

Thursday night: My GF and I went to the Kings/Suns game with Lunatic Jim and my buddy Mitch from work. Sadly, Artest wasn't there because he had to appear in court for beating his wife. The game was uneventful, but I got pretty drunk. Straight from the game, GF drove us to Yuma. I had packed a picnic stoner kit for the car, and with a fair amount of booze already coursing through my body, the weed hit me hard and fast. I listened to 1st Wave and Left of Center, my two favorite Sirius stations, while I drifted away to visions of yellow headlights and slick black pavement.

Friday: Apparently there was some sort of breakfast/brunch event on Friday morning, which is why we arrived on Thursday night. From the beginning, GF told me that I didn't have to attend this event. I held fast to this, continuing to slumber until I had gotten my fill. I rose to meet the day around noon or maybe 1 pm, commencing with my marijuana high before my feet even touched the ground.
GF had returned from brunch and was in the bathroom when I heard a knock at the door. I was in my boxers, laying on a La-Z-boy with the pipe on my chest, watching the Food Network and scratching my hairy balls, hoping GF would come to the rescue. I was forced to answer the door myself, and this is how I came to meet the Bride for the first time. Both my GF and the Bride got a little high with me, but then they talked about wedding stuff, so I went back to the TV.
At 4, GF had to go somewhere to rehearse the wedding. She was one of the bridesmaids, so I guess they have to teach you special ways to walk and stand for the ceremony. I had to meet her and the rest of the wedding party for dinner at 6 PM for the Rehearsal Dinner. At the time, it was this event which I was dreading the most. I figured that at the wedding I'd be able to escape and do my own thing, but at the Rehearsal Dinner I'd have no choice but to grin and bear it, politely enduring the barrage of small talk.
I decided to start drinking at 4:30 PM in preparation for the event, and smoked a mega-sized bowl right before I was to be picked up. The boyfriend of one of the other bridesmaids was waiting outside in his truck, and as soon as I got in, he told me I smelled great. I was immediately puzzled by this remark, especially since I hadn't showered in four days, but I soon realized this guy smelled the pot smoke clinging to my body. I offered him some and we got super toasted and showed up to the dinner a little bit late.
This turned out to be fine though, as everyone else at dinner was already smashed. Alot of them even teased us about being noticeably high. About 20 minutes into the dinner, the mother of the Bride was sitting on my lap, loudly professing her love for me to the entire table. She later came back with us, along with the Bride and a few others, to get high after dinner as well.

Saturday: This was the big day, and GF had bridesmaid responsibilities starting at around noon, so again I was left to my own devices. I basically practiced the same drill from Friday, except this time I had GF's dad to hang out with. I had only one drink, right before we left for the wedding (around 6), but I was very high.
The ceremony took place outdoors, and it was a pretty area, but I was immediately disheartened when I saw 5 or 6 different guys wearing jeans. I, of course, was buttoned up in my fancy brown pants. The actual commitment ceremony was pretty stupid, and the pastor (minister? priest?) was a complete moron. He tried to be funny but his humor came off as cheap and sexist. After about 20 minutes, we were let loose on the bar.
Based on Friday night's events, I had expected a pretty rowdy time, but it just never happened. There were no professional bartenders, just 2 ladies (who looked to be friends of the families) serving the drinks. As such, the drinks were weak and poorly made. The dancefloor never really filled up, and people by and large seemed to be in control of their faculties. To achieve the level of drunk that I had originally sought would have required a monumental effort on my part, and it just didn't seem worth it.
An hour or two after daylight disappeared, the party started to fizzle out. Dinner was long gone, and I was hungry. I was talking to Sean, the bridesmaid's boyfriend who had brought me to the rehearsal dinner, and he was hungry also. Soon enough, the conversation turned to cheeseburgers, and Sean told me there was an In n' Out Burger close-by. I was sold. I told GF's dad about the proximity of the In n' Out, and this piqued his interest as well.
It took a while, but the two of us eventually convinced my girlfriend to leave the wedding early,so that we could purchase fast food cheeseburgers. All three of us got double doubles, and the apartment where we stayed was mere minutes from the In 'n Out. As soon as we walked in the door, I sprinted to remove my brown pants and button-down. I emerged from the bedroom in mesh shorts and attacked that double burger like I hadn't eaten in days.
I felt satisfaction wash over me. Not only did the cheeseburger sandwich quell my fierce appetite, but it also represented the end of my duties as the date of a bridesmaid. The wedding was over, I had juicy burger in my stomach, and not one single person asked me "What do you do?" the entire weekend. For the Eggman, that spelled sweet success.

I have to go back to Yuma in 2 or 3 weeks for another wedding.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Off to Yuma

I have to go to a wedding in Yuma this weekend. Yuma is a small town in Arizona near the border of Mexico. My girlfriend grew up there, and 2 of her best friends who still live there are getting married, so this will be the first of two weekend trips out there. I am not looking forward to this, for two main reasons:
1. I hate small talk. I hate a lot of things, but small talk definitely ranks among the things I hate most. Small talk, especially with strangers, is pure torture for me.
2. I have to wear brown pants. I hate wearing brown pants because they are constricting and uncomfortable. I especially hate wearing brown pants when I'm told that I have to wear them because everyone else is doing it.

To be fair, my girlfriend said I can get as drunk as I want to, and she's taking us to the Suns/Kings game tonight, so I can't really complain. Also, her dad will be at the wedding, so I'll be able to get stoned with him. From what I've heard, these western cowboys really like to party it up, so who knows, it might even end up being a good time. At any rate, this weekend is sure to be an interesting and new experience for me. You can expect a full report on Monday.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The Craigslist Do

Late September, 2005
New York City

Gark strolled out of Striker's room with a shit-eating grin on his face. Striker had been out, likely with the Virus, the tiny demon to whom he was chained. It was through Striker that I originally met Gark, yet these days I rarely ever saw the two of them together. Gark held a seething hatred for the Virus in his steady, booze-slowed heart and he now had a mild distaste for Striker, for willingly dating such a demon.
Gark had begun to show up at our place in Miami the second year we were living there. It was back then that I learned not to ask Gark questions like "How did you get here?", "When are you leaving?" or "Did you take that out of my room?". Not because I was afraid of Gark (although I was) but because Gark simply couldn't answer questions like that. He'd respond in some sort of nonsensical tangential manner that would always end up involving pussy.
Gark and Striker had gotten along well in those days in Miami, as they both shared the common, all-consuming goal of getting pussy. Striker was able to communicate with the guy much better than I could. Evidently, they had grown up together, so Striker was able to understand Gark's fragmented, stream-of-consciousness ramblings.
Gark had been upset by Striker's decision to date the Virus, but to my surprise, this did not stop him from visiting the apartment. He'd stop by with a few 40s or a half-empty bottle of peach schnapps- whatever he could dig up- and just start boozing it up in our living room. He wouldn't say a word to Striker, but he'd constantly prod me to go out in search of pussy with him. Sometimes he'd come in boozing and just sit in Striker's room, perched against the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the women in the building across the street.
But on this Monday evening, it seemed Gark had done his homework. For weeks, he'd been singing the praises of Craigslist, prattling on about how it was going to revolutionize his sex life. I have to admit, I hadn't thought much of this drunkard's ramblings at the time. But now Gark was saying that a girl had responded to his ad, and he'd just spoken to her on the phone. Her referred to her only as Strauss, and he said Strauss wanted us to meet her at the Port Authority. "What do you mean us?", I queried. As Gark began to respond, I realized something shocking- this man was sober! I interrupted to ask if this was indeed the case, and Gark responded in the most coherent manner I'd ever heard. It was like meeting a new person. He explained that he hadn't yet had time to get drunk yet, and while explaining this, he poured himself a tall glass of vodka topped off with a splash of gatorade.
He also explained what he had meant by "us". He had posted the ad looking for a girl who wanted to get double teamed. Fresh off the last double team with Gark only weeks prior, I was not up for another round*. Gark assured me he had taken care of all the details this time- the girl was OK with getting banged by us separately, as long as she got to have two cocks in quick succession. I told him I refused to go to the Port Authority, but he could invite the girl to the apartment. If she looked OK, I'd bang her. If not, he was on his own. Gark was quick to agree to this, and he gulped down a large portion of his cocktail before retiring to Striker's room to make his phone call.
I made a vodka and gatorade cocktail for myself and settled down on the couch. Terminator was on TV. I hadn't seen it in a while, and I was surprised by how dated it looked compared to how cool I remembered it to be.
I thought about the ridiculous turn my evening had taken. I pondered this currency-free pre-arranged fucking, and wondered how close it was to prostitution. Ultimately, I decided I didn't care either way. I killed my drink and made another one. Gark was on his third.
The Terminator had already killed the first two Sarah Connors by the time Strauss arrived. Stoned up, lightly buzzed and enraptured by the awesome cyborg violence, I had nearly forgotten all about our guest. Gark jumped up and answered the door in a majestically creepy manner, hungrily eyeing his prey as he fixed her the house special, vodka gatorade. They sat on the couch, and I was introduced to this curious young nymph called Strauss. She was small and impish with a pale complexion and chin-length sandy colored hair. Her face was not entirely unpleasant, having a round and average look to it, only mildly spoiled by the dark circles under her eyes. Strauss was not somebody I'd approach in a bar, but I'd definitely fuck her in a bedroom of somebody's after-party. At any rate, I had decided that, yes, I will intercourse this strange wanderer, brought to my apartment at the hands of a ghoul called Gark.
Gark and Strauss sat next to each other on the smaller couch. The Terminator was repairing his arm and his glowing red eye. I said nothing, staring straight ahead at the screen as I became more immersed (and more impressed by Cameron) in this dark dystopian world. After a few moments of awkward silence, Gark stood up, downed his cocktail and pulled Strauss into Striker's room. He did not close the door.
I made myself a third stiff cocktail and smoked a bit more herb as I watched the Terminator kill an entire precinct full of cops. I heard a belt unbuckling and lowered the volume for a moment. I heard nothing. I listened for a good 10 seconds, and still nothing. I turned the volume up and got back to the task of boozing when I heard a loud slapping sound. I turned the volume back down. More silence. After about 5 seconds, I heard another very loud slap followed by more silence. This pattern continued for several minutes, and so I turned the volume back up.
Sarah Connor and Reese were in the motel room, about to conceive the baby who would ultimately lead the humans to victory against the evil machines. All of a sudden, Strauss exited Striker's room fully nude and went into the bathroom. She looked happy enough. She closed the door to pee, and Gark sauntered out in a pair of Striker's mesh shorts. He looked pleased. "What the fuck were you doing to her?," I asked, perplexed by the strange sounds I'd heard. Gark told me that he had been fucking her at an extremely slow rate, while slapping her on the ass extremely hard every few seconds. When I asked why or how he could possibly want to get off that way, he answered in the typical Gark nonsense I had come to expect.
Strauss exited the bathroom and approached me. She looked pretty good naked. I became aroused. She asked if I wanted her to start with clothes on, but I told her to just get in my bed. I had only been wearing shorts to begin with, so I got naked as well and jumped into after her. We did not kiss, but instead began immediately to explore the other's body. It was an interesting experience. Definitely not romantic, it reminded me of my first sexual experiences in the 6th grade. I got naked with Kirsten and Laura** one day after school, and we explored each others' bodies with earnest human curiosity, a far different prospect than the stumbling hormone driven encounters of high school or the artless thrust of drunken adult hookups. And this excitingly anonymous encounter brought back those first beautiful memories.
"I'm just gonna fuck you regular. I'm not gonna do anything weird like Gark," I assured her. After a minute or two of groping and stroking, I hovered over her in the missionary position. I took a condom from the night table and she sheathed it over my boner for me. I proceeded to bang her in a straightforward, no frills manner, finishing inside the condom rather than a more humiliating portion of her skin. When I was done, we immediately removed ourselves from each other's grasp. I pulled on mesh shorts and left her to collect herself.

The Terminator was hot on Sarah's trail, and Gark was sitting on one end of the couch. I sat on the other end of the couch, and Strauss, still nude, sat between us. I sat back and took a couple pipe hits as the blood from my rapidly softening boner began to disperse back into the body. Gark began fondling Strauss' leg and soon enough she on her hands and knees, facing away from him. He was back-fingering her, which was forcing her face onto my crotch. Gark took his other hand and put his fingers in her asshole. Strauss was now loudly moaning and my boner rose up to meet her face. She pulled it free from my shorts and choked herself with it, while her body swayed at Gark's command, his hands deep inside her like a puppeteer. After consuming this second, weakened load of my essence, Strauss wiped her mouth and, like a real trooper, turned around to take it from the other side. Having just lost 2 bales of semen in quick succession, I was feeling drowsy and contented, idly poking at her muggy birth canal as she sucked away at Gark's knob. The Terminator had emerged from the flames as a metal endoskeleton, his red eyes gleaming in the night. As this freight train of a movie began to slow to a stop, Strauss consumed Gark's seed. He had her back in her clothes and ready to leave even before the end credits started rolling.
Gark said he'd walk her out, and Strauss and I shared nothing more than a casual wave goodbye. Gark had impressed me on this ordinary Monday evening, and I resolved to think twice before doubting this strange and resourceful fellow again.

*I'll tell the story of the first double team with Gark another time.
**The hottest babes in the whole elementary school.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Why I Use Drugs

It's 3 pm on a Saturday afternoon- St. Patrick's Day actually, and I woke up about an hour ago. I've just railed two thick tracks of cocaine, roasted a deep bowl of marijuana, and cracked open my first, and likely only, beer of the day*. You may read that sentence and think that I have a severe substance abuse problem, and by most common standards, I do. But that's the problem with our hyper-labeling society; if you consider the facts, I believe my behavior is quite reasonable.
For one thing, both marijuana and cocaine are less harmful to the body than America's legal alternatives: alcohol and tobacco. In fact, if you employ a vaporizer for the inhalation of weed, there are no harmful effects on the body at all. As for cocaine, it's a simple amphetamine, negligibly different from the prescription meds we give our kids to focus, the diet pills we take to lose weight, or our morning coffee. But our government has used these particular drugs as tools to marginalize those who are bold enough to try them. If you are caught possessing or using these naturally occurring plants, it's like a black smear across the blue skies of your future. If word gets out about your secret life as a DRUGGIE you will be shun by society and passed over for that new promotion, in favor of one of your more straight-laced colleagues who doesn't "need drugs". Well, for any of you that 'don't need drugs', you'd be wise to consider quitting the booze- because it is by far the worst drug out there**. When I consider my own past and reflect upon the hundreds of alcohol-related incidents, I think of the thousands of dollars worth of property destruction, countless brushes with death, and an ocean of tears from women I've insulted- not to mention the irreparable damage I've done to my body. This website alone is a near monument to the poor-decision making that alcohol begets. But I am not against alcohol. Obviously, I love the stuff. I am merely lobbying against the unfair and unwarranted reputation of certain illicit drugs.

Earlier, I mentioned that the cocktail of drugs which I have ingested this afternoon could be considered reasonable, so let me defend that. For one thing, I will concede that cocaine is addictive. But that's not to say it can't be used responsibly. Personally, I have only purchased the drug a handful of times since I first tasted it, my sophomore year in college. Most of the times I've indulged in white devil it's been nothing more than a couple lines or a few key bumps per evening. As for this afternoon's nontraditional, solo ingestion, I have my reasons. I worked last night until after 3 AM, less than 12 hours ago. I am squatting in Quazar's abandoned apartment. The air conditioning is broken, and the place is littered with trash and fractured memories from the days when I first began my new life out here. The balmy, dingy air of the apartment wrought a fitful sleep for the Eggman, and as I sit here now, surrounded by refuse and covered in the residue from my own masturbation, I have to leave for work in about 30 minutes. I am over-tired, I am grumpy, and I am in no mood to deal with the boozy revelers who have likely already taken over Mill Avenue. Should I get in my car and head to Starbucks, squandering the few minutes of personal time allotted to me today, so that I might spend $6.50 on sugar-laden caffeine-delivery agent? Or should I snort the coke, which is free***, more effective, more fun, and sitting right in front of me on the table? To me, the answer is obvious.
I don't feel I have to explain my early afternoon beer, since as I write this, millions of Americans are (legally) getting wasted to celebrate a holiday which holds absolutely no meaning. So I've ingested a small bit of amphetamine to jumpstart my day, and enjoyed some alcohol to soothe my weary body. But what about the marijuana?
For me, marijuana is a daily vitamin, my tonic for the mind. It mellows my anxiety and allows my wind to wander, to think about things from a different perspective. Consider the following.
Sometimes, when I wake up, especially if I wake tired or hungry, I am in a poor mood. I check my blog email and find no new comments. I check the user stats and see that it stagnates around 100 per day, as it has for months now. I think of the life that I lead, and the hours I spend providing this content. Then I surf the web and check out the other more popular blogs. I see the painfully mundane things they write about, and the dozens upon dozens of comments from similarly vapid idiots, echoing the same hackneyed sentiment as the dogshit post they are responding to. I begin to lose hope. I ask myself what's the point. I think about how incredibly stupid the general public appears, and I write myself off as too extreme, too highbrow for the common idiot. Dark thoughts enter my mind like the sudden onset of a summer shower. I don't feel like eating. I don't feel like writing. I browse the internet and marvel at the apparent success of others. I lay around and despair about the hopelessness of the human condition. I watch as the masses conduct their daily business, blissfully ignorant, while we continue to hurtle toward the annihilation of our species and our planet at a breakneck speed.

People wonder why Americans today suffer such a greater amount of psychological disorders than ever before. To me the answer is obvious. It's this ridiculous electronic world we've created for ourselves. We have so many choices that we really have no choice at all. Everything in our society revolves around money and its accompanying superficialities. I have to toil day and night in search of money and fame. I must have a smoothly shaved face and perfectly carved abdominal muscles. I have to eat dinner in fancy restaurants and ensnare the best looking wife. I'm all but forced to compare myself to the ridiculous icons of success whom we worship in this country, simply because everybody else does. Even those who are decidedly unsuccessful funnel all their money into copying the rich and famous, as they try to substitute the appearance of being rich in lieu of saving up to become actually rich. The whole system is designed to show you how much worse your life is than everyone else's, and it all becomes a sick parade of lies. In these moments, things are incredibly bleak. I feel like I'm dead last in a race I never intended to compete in. The will to continue becomes weak in me, and the only thing that keeps my earthly body clinging to this planet is the thought that my suicide would cause undue pain for my family and a handful of loved ones.
But one breath of that sweet, sweet cheeba and I can finally see the world again. Not the world in which you live, that of glass and skyscrapers, diet soda cans and gasoline. But the real world, our home, the earth. I am reminded me of the simple pleasures in life, like the sun shining on my skin. I remember that there are other choices, other paths I can take. If it ever becomes too much, if the grind and society's expectations ever reach a breaking point for me, I can abandon my place here and move to some wilderness untarnished by the hand of man. I can forgo the daily trauma of this digital world and focus on the basic daily goal of acquiring food for sustenance. A lungful of pot smoke helps me to recall everything about life that makes it worth living. Without having to obsess over how to acquire money, my mind is able to daydream, and my imagination runs wild. Every idea becomes worthy of cogitation; movies and art can be seen in a different light; I can listen to music instead of just hearing it.

I question everything, even established beliefs, which allows me to have boundless ideas. This is arguably the most important aspect of the marijuana high. I don't smoke weed because it brings me to a fantasy world, but because it removes me from one. I assure you, the reality you inhabit is far less real than the truths I acknowledge on a daily basis. Those of you who think of nothing but the chase for the almighty dollar lose sense of the big picture, and that can be dangerous. As a whole, we are easy to mislead. If we accept whatever society tells us without thinking for ourselves, we invite exploitation. Those in search of evidence need only look as far as any of the world's major religions to see that humans can be convinced of literally anything. Or just take a look at what Hitler was able to do to Germany.

But I'm not so naive as to claim pot can save the world. Marijuana affects different people differently, but for me, it's a much needed respite from the drudgery of our civilization. When I smoke, my mind is free from the shackles of our intensely demanding society, if only for a short while.

Personally, I have chosen a difficult journey. I have abandoned the beaten path to prosperity and success, eschewing the 'rat race', in favor of following my dream. For now, my dream is simply to earn enough money from writing that I can sustain my own existence. But when I think about my life generally, I have many dreams I hope to accomplish. I have, deep in my heart, a very child-like and hopeful idealism. But that small bright center is surrounded by a tough black layer of thorny sinew, developed from years of being jaded by this shame-based society of deception and lies. By allowing me to smile or laugh at life's simple pleasures, this magical plant somehow unlocks that hidden part of me, the part of me that is still truly and naturally human.

That is, in essence, why I use drugs. For all the same reasons that you law-abiding pussies use alcohol and cigarettes, you workout fiends use supplements, and you fat slobs eat cake: because they make me feel good, and they help me get through life.

*Editor's Note: I ended up having 2 beers before work. The albino had numbed my throat and the ice cold beer went down so pleasantly that I treated myself to a second. I began this post at the time specified in the beginning, but finished it at a later time.
**I'm talking about the drugs that civilized people use, so I'm not including crystal meth, heroin, crank, or crack.
***Qz found this 1/4 full bag while cleaning out his place and obviously couldn't take it back with him on the plane.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

The Whore of Fortune

The past week has been extremely busy for our bar, and Mill Avenue in general. The convergence of several factors have contributed to this, those being ASU spring break, March Madness, and MLB spring training. This was a magical time for me in Arizona last year, but it's a different story now that I'm dealing with the obnoxious drunks rather than being one of them. Although the onset of Spring has been more tiring and keeps me out later than usual, I have to admit that it's pretty entertaining to watch this new brand of idiotic drunks.
On Wednesday night, I got to observe an interesting phenomenon: the Whore of Fortune. I first noticed her because she was hot. She was tall, thin, and blonde, with a pretty, lightly freckled face and an all-American look about her. At first, I couldn't see much of her physique because she was wearing a loose fitting dress. It was tight up top on her A cup breasts, but the bottom half was baggy and flowing, so you couldn't see her body. Luckily, Whore of Fortune, or WoF, was hiking the dress up as she was sluttily gyrating to the music, exposing her smooth, tan legs for all to see. At one point, she pulled the dress up so high on the side of her leg that the thin silk strap of her thong panties were visible.
This immediately attracted the attention of a large male at the table next to her. With a close cropped shaved head reflecting an early onset of male pattern baldness, and a general dopey look about him, this gentleman was one of the lesser males of his pack. Lucky for him, those other males had gone off to procure alcohol or to try to cram their fingers into the holes of women. This fellow wasted no time in approaching WoF. I anticipated a hasty rebuff, for, at firse glance, WoF looked to be well out of Male A's league. But to my surprise, she seemed to be very receptive to his advance. After some brief conversation, WoF introduced him to her pack, a wildly incongruous bunch which, until this point, I had not noticed. The first thing that caught my eye about this pack was its centerpiece, an overweight and largely immobile, tattoed-up black girl. The next largest was a busty asian with an expressionless face in a sexy black dress, and two rotund, haggardly hispanic girls for good measure. As Male A worked his way around the table, he paused for the longest at the fat black slob. I recognized this as a shrewd technique; he would ingratiate himself to the group by befriending its ugliest member, thereby gaining trust.
Apparently one of these creatures had been born on this particular date some 20 years ago. Male A accordingly ordered a round of drinks for the group. Oddly enough, while Male A was busy conversing with the great beast, the rest of the girls, including WoF, went up to the stage and started dancing. To my surprise, Male A continued his conversation for quite a while. I admired his commitment to the ruse.
Soon enough, Male A's pack returned to their table, right next to the den of WoF. When she and her mates returned from the table, WoF went around to the all of the new males and spent a little time with each one of them, whispering in their ears, acting coy, and snaking her body around in a general whorish manner. The males in question were all pretty typical looking, well-muscled fratboys. She spent the longest period of time with a black guy in a pastel-striped polo shirt. He seemed to do the best job at flirting with her, finding little ways to touch her arm or the small of her back as they leaned close to speak. I was pretty sure this guy was going to walk away with it, and I was a little disappointed. From her early moves at exposing her legs, I thought there was a chance she might flash a tit or show her ass cheeks; if she went home with this guy, the show was over for Raynok. But then I saw the two break out their cell phones and exchange phone numbers. This Whore of Fortune had not yet stopped spinning.

Throughout the evening, I observed her heavily flirting with at least 10 other guys, and she initiated first contact in each situation. I abandoned my hopes of seeing her young flesh, as she was clearly more interested in landing a prime cock for the evening, rather than giving a free show. All the while, she was enjoying free cocktails from a large percentage of her many suitors. The small bit of leg was all she needed to get the ball, or balls, rolling.
Without the promise of seeing her nipples or smooth hiney, I began to pay less attention to WoF. I had other, more pressing matters to deal with, such as ejecting the small girl who could no longer stand or the Mexican fellow who fell asleep on the pool table on two separate occasions.
I still kept tabs on her actions during the night, and as last call was just about to end, I saw her taking shots with a spiked haired frat boy from the original group of males. This guy seemed to think he was about to close, but as soon as the shot was taken, WoF's pack of friends stumbled past the bar on the way to the exit, grabbing her hand on the way and dragging her, giggling, out the door with them.
This WoF was more shrewd than I had anticipated, earning an entirely free evening at the bar for herself, as well as perks for the motley crew of hound dogs she ran around with. It was certainly an interesting phenomenon to observe, and WoF was a skilled grifter, but sadly, after seeing the dejected faces of the men she had bamboozled, I can only assume this will all end in date rape.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

A Better One That Got Away: Jessie

This story takes place around the same time that Striker and I were decimating the Neighborhood Girls. As luck would have it, I actually remember the day of the week. It was a Tuesday night, and the Grove was largely empty. Striker and I were strolling around, hopping from bar to bar in search of the best, or easiest, crop of babes. We weren't having much luck; for some reason it was a ghost town. As it would happen, this worked to our advantage. We turned the corner approaching Moe's when we saw 2 babes that we knew. They were from the hottest sorority, and we had hung out with them a bunch of times with our upstairs neighbors and other random times around town. One of the girls was the knockout that I referred to in yesterday's post. She was a gorgeous sophomore named Jessie. Striker and I actually had a fair bit of history with her.
Our neighbors*, the upstairs girls, were very important in their sorority organization. The hottest one was the President of the sorority if I'm not mistaken. As such, all kinds of sorority proceedings took place at our house. This gave Striker and I the unique opportunity to watch Jessie grow from a girlish and somewhat ungainly sapling into one of the dominant forces of hotness at the entire University, all in the span of less than two years.
Jessie was tall and leggy with dark brown hair and smoky eyes. She had an exotically beautiful face with subtle hints of Asian or Polynesian descent. Her body was womanly in the traditional sense, with a thin waist, smallish tits, big round hips and a sweet bulbous ass. Physical beauty aside, one of Jessie's best characteristics was that she was a party girl. From her earliest days as a freshman she could rip a bong like a pro and stay out all night without getting sick or bitching out. She displayed a preternatural skill for installing herself in the most important (read: richest and hottest) social circles in the city. But the best part was that she was never stuck-up or bitchy about it. She never turned up her nose at us or referred to me as "shoe guy" like some of the other puckered cunts in her circle. That's not to say she was easily approachable to any Charlie Nobody off the street, but she definitely displayed some semblance of human emotion, unlike the other reptilian whores which stalked the streets of South Beach. She was a veritable wild girl, possessing a rare mix of unpredictability, knowledge of her own beauty, and the adventurous spirit of a true partier. Perhaps her most enduring quality was her intangibility; her ethereal spirit which all men sought to possess, but which, by her very nature, allowed her to slip through your fingers like the passing of a dream. Imagine Jenny from Forrest Gump or Penny Lane from Almost Famous if they lived in modern day Miami.

On this night on the Grove, as the four of us approached each other, Jessie greeted both Striker and I with impetuous hugs and cheek kisses. Jessie was with a girl called Robin, a very pretty blonde freshman. Robin was a southern belle, and exhibited many of the same wild party-girl features as Jessie. Robin was a little better proportioned in the modern sense, with fat tits balancing out her healthy butt cheeks. We had met Robin a few times before, but were far less acquainted with her.
Almost immediately, the girls expressed their displeasure with the barren streets of the Grove, prodding Striker and I for suggestions on what to do. Before we realized what had happened, our two-man vagina search party had morphed into a perfectly balanced group of four. We were now 'with' the girls, as if we had pregamed and set out on the town with them from the start. It was already nearly 1 AM, and before encountering the babes, we had all but resigned to head back home. But these girls wanted to party, and we had no choice but to comply. Of course, we were worthless for ideas on where to bring our newly formed foursome. Striker and I were poor and possessed zero social status in the city of Miami. We had our pirate bartender fix us some blackout specials while we discussed the direction of the night, and out of nowhere the girls decided they wanted to go to the Playwright. The Playwright is a cool Irish bar, with its only downside being that it's on South Beach, a good 15-20 minute drive from the Grove.

Striker and I were typically smashed, but of course we weren't going to pass up a golden opportunity like this. We agreed to go with them, and it was an unspoken caveat that either Striker or I had to drive.
The girls wanted to do some cocaine before the long drive, so we went back to Jessie's dorm room with them. Just being in her bedroom confirmed everything I had ever thought about Jessie. There was sexy black lace lingerie casually hanging off the edge of the bed, cool band posters on the wall, a Pomeranian, and a ROOR bong. If you encounter a 19 year old girl who owns one of these, it's pretty fucking special. So Jessy brought out a little mirror and chopped up some tracks, and we had some drinks, and in 3o minutes time we were back on the road heading toward South Beach. I have no recollection of who drove us there.

It was after 2 AM by the time we had our first Playwright cocktails in our hands. The Playwright was not significantly more crowded than any of the bars in the Grove, but it was on South Beach, which was apparently enough to appease their capricious female minds. As the chips were falling, it seemed I was aligned with Jessie and Striker was with Robin. We spent a couple hours, and went through our usual bag of tricks, and the girls seemed to be really digging it. The only concrete memory I can conjure up from our time there is that of a morbidly obese gentleman in a velour track suit who was playing pool near us. I complimented him on his outfit, and he became very angry with me. I was able to assuage his anger, and at the end he gave me his business card which indicated that he was an independent contractor of whores.
It was very late in the night, and the Playwright crowd was dwindling down when we decided to head home. But before getting back on I-95, a porno emporium caught our eyes. For those of you familiar with the area, I'm referring to the gargantuan sex shop right next to the Burger King before you get onto the MacArthur Causeway. The girls wanted to go in, so we parked the car and the four of us flooded into the place like giddy schoolchildren. This absurd sex store was rife with possibilities for humor, and Striker and I were using our best comedic game. The girls were giggling up a storm and, though we didn't purchase anything, we definitely left the store on a high note.
We all wanted to get actually high to punctuate the night, so we headed back to our Ponce house. It was around 5 or 6 AM at this point. Our other roommates were asleep, so we went into my bedroom where we could listen to music or watch TV at a reasonable volume. Striker and Robin were sitting on the couch next to my bed, and Jessie and I were sitting up on my bed. There was an awkward lull in the conversation as we discussed what we should do next. Eventually, we decided on watching a movie, and the girls were clamoring for Zoolander. Jessie settled into my bed, pulling the covers over her lithe, nubile frame. Striker and Robin were getting close on the couch. I fetched the movie from the living room, inserted it into my XBOX and fired it up. And nothing happened. Despite my best efforts, I could not get the movie to play. The sun was starting to rise, and the fledgling daylight was beginning to filter through my blinds, bathing the room in a muted orange glow. The combination of the morning sun and my failure to accommodate the latest whim of these girls turned disastrous. After what seemed like an almost telepathic communication, the girls simultaneously decided they'd call it a night and asked us to drive them home. Striker retired to bed, and I walked out to my car with these beautiful young creatures as the first rays of a new morn guided my path. Both girls sat in the backseat together for the 1.5 mile drive to campus, and I took this as an insult. I postulated that Jessie didn't want to sit in the front seat next to me as a precaution against any awkward attempts at a goodnight kiss or something of that nature. I was insulted by this move, but I wasn't surprised, as it once again demonstrated Jessie's advanced skill as a wild party girl. We lived in two different worlds, and in the light of day, she had different allegiances to maintain.

Nothing notable ever happened after this landmark encounter with Jessie, although my sister once told me she heard that Jessie and I frenched. If it happened, I certainly don't remember it.
Striker was able to build upon this encounter and eventually established a somewhat regular schedule of hooking up with Robin, even getting himself into a few sessions of intercourse. Oddly enough, this young Robin would soon fail out of school and reemerge years later in New York City as the Black Crow. But all that will be discussed later in the NYC series.

As for Jessie, she got a boyfriend in the middle of Spring semester. He was the kind of guy who went tanning, wore hats with the Ferrari logo, and worked out in wifebeaters which cost more than I make in a week of work. Whether she is still dating him or some other beautiful man born into wealth, I do not know.
Jessie lives in a world with which I could never compete. Cartier jewelery, sushi dinners, champagne, and late afternoon boat trips; cigarette ash, eyeliner, expensive cocaine, miniature show dogs, and weekend jaunts to Europe. In the immortal words of Patrick Swayze, I'm "just a fool to believe I have anything she needs. She's like the wind.". Of course, the cruel irony is that Jessie, or any other wild party girl for that matter, can't keep up that pace forever. 10 or 15 years from now, when her natural looks have faded and her skin hangs a bit more loosely, those millionaires will not lavish her with the same attention. Only then will she look back and think about how she wasted her time, her energy, and her body on rich pricks to whom she's just another object that money can buy. By the time she realizes the true emptiness of status and rectangular strips of green paper, it will already be too late.
The wild party girl is a rare and fleetingly beautiful species, like a supernova, or Ginger from Casino, destined to burn so bright before inevitably burning out.

Before I moved away, Jessie told us that she had posed for Playboy and would be in the October college girls issue. I was working at the mortgage company in Jersey when I found confirmation on the internet that issue had hit newstands. I left work and drove to the first convenience store I saw, leaving the issue unopened until arrived at my house. Luckily no one was home, and I tore open the magazine before even untucking my shirt or loosening the firm grip of my fancy work pants. My eyes widened as I happened upon the sole image of Jessie, a full page photo of her in a bikini bottom with soft pert breasts fully exposed*. I ripped out my cock like a man possessed and furiously pumped at it while I stood over her picture, seconds later expelling the cumshot with the force of a shotgun blast. I felt a strange calm immediately after, having finally released that festering scum from the depths of my angry balls, a scum that should have rightly been released nearly 8 months prior.

*Just to clarify, Striker and I lived in a duplex where four sorority babes lived above us in a separate unit.
**I have to assume that many of you assholes will email or comment to me that you want to see pictures of Jessie, especially her topless shot. I do possess the picture, but I won't share it with you, simply because I don't want to get sued. I have provided enough clues throughout this post, and if you're halfway intelligent, you should be able to find the picture if you really want to.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

My Horrifying Night Out Sober (Miami)

My departure from Miami was imminent; it was only a matter of weeks before I'd be gone for good. Contrary to this fact, Striker and I had signed a lease on a new house. Having fully obliterated our current surroundings and being rather averse to changing our ways, we thought a change of scenery would do wonders for us. In the halcyon days before I lost the Ritz-Carlton job, I had planned on staying in Miami, at least until Striker finished law school. We loved living on Ponce De Leon, but the dungeon-like quality of the bottom floor had been getting to us. The top floor of the place 2 houses down from us was vacant, and with nary a thought to my future, I foolishly signed the lease.

But alot had happened since that point. My ex-girlfriend Violet had hooked me up with a temping company, and they staffed me at a small private conflict resolution firm. I had to wear a shirt and a tie, but the work was very easy. It was run by 2 women, both of whom were mothers, and their families were their main priority. The conflict resolution business was merely a supplemental income for them. As such, they only came in about twice a week. My only real responsibility was answering the phone, and so, predictably, I was usually pretty bored.
As I'm sure you know, a man can only sit alone in front of a computer for so long before he begins to masturbate. And masturbate I did, nearly every day that my bosses didn't show up. After about a month, I was laid off from this job. They claimed that the temping company had finally found them a proper legal secretary which they had been looking for all along. Whether this was the truth, or whether I was canned for jerking off in their place of business, I will probably never know.
After the Ritz-Carlton debacle, I tried once more for gainful employment in Miami, this time through the mortgage company that my father works for. This too ended badly. I went on an interview, and the droopy, formless cunt of a woman who interviewed me never even called me back, despite my efforts to follow-up. I was embarrassed and my father was furious. I think it's important to note that pretty much anybody can get hired as a loan officer. The job is 100% commission, so the company has almost no risk when hiring new employees. Despite this, the woman who interviewed me had correctly identified me as a shiftless dirtbag, and I didn't get that job. And that was pretty much the death knell. Miami didn't want me, I was out of money, I had no prospects, and no work experience of any value. New Jersey was my one and only option.

Our house was still in shambles, hot sauce on the ceiling and remnants of the late night panty raid still adorning the walls. One evening, in a depressed and blacked out frenzy, I scrawled a crpytic message on the outside of my bedroom door. Written in thick, black sharpie, the message read "Go Fuck Yourself. SUCK MY OIL". The second portion of the message was of course adapted from "Technical Difficulties", one of my favorite Dr. Octagon* songs.
We had given our landlord notice that we'd be moving out, and four (extremely hot) girls came by one day to check the place out. We actually knew them- they were in my sister's sorority and good friends of the girls that lived upstairs. They had been used to the clean, bright, carpeted heaven of the upstairs apartment and were resolutely shocked when they saw the decrepit hell hole that we inhabited. Brianna, one of the more stuck up girls in the crew, was to be taking over my room. The look on her face at seeing my door was priceless; the black letters violently gashing the white of the door, nonsensical curses sending chills up her spoiled, puerile spine. At any rate, the girls decided to take the place, making our egress from the original Ponce house imperative. It also turned our former house into a bastion of hotness, home to 8 girls total, of which one was a legitimate knockout, 4 were very hot, and the worst of the bunch would easily be classified as 'pretty'.

Even though I was moving back to Jersey, I still intended to keep our new place as a sort of 2nd home. My expenses would be zero since I'd be living with my parents, and the rent at the new place was only $600 per month. I figured that as long as I made a decent living in NJ, I'd have enough money to easily pay the rent and fly down for one long weekend a month. But Striker and I had another problem with the new place- we needed a 3rd roommate. We weren't on great terms with our other 2 roommates from the original house, and all the dudes we knew from law school had already seen how we lived and would never agree to lodge with us. Eventually we found our 3rd housemate in the form of Jocelyn, a girl we barely knew. Jocelyn was 5'6 with nice full tits and an attractive face. She was about 8 pounds overweight and wore clothes that were a little too tight for her. Jocelyn was the best friend of a slim, cute blonde named Diana whom Striker had speared on a one night stand.
The strange thing about Jocelyn is that I interacted with her for a period of weeks, but my sober self had absolutely no idea who she was. In fact, if not for the horrifying night out sober to which the title of this post refers, I'd have no ability to describe her at all.

I don't remember exactly what caused me to be out in the Grove without getting properly boozed, but I certainly remember how I felt. Striker and I started out in Sandbar, and the second we walked in I felt a sharp rush of anxiety. The overripe humidity of the Springtime Miami heat was choking me and I felt a gloss of sweat begin to coat my body, pooling in my armpits and beading on my forehead. I felt like all eyes were on me, and in all likelihood, they were. Less than 24 hours ago, I had been charging around the bar singing, screaming, and dancing like a steroid-laden gorilla on acid. Have you ever seen Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure? You know the scene where Genghis Khan is let loose in the San Dimas Sporting Goods store? That's more or less the way I behaved every time I went out in those days.
None of the eyes staring back at me looked familiar and I got the distinct feeling of being talked about. This initial stage of bewilderment did not last long though, as Striker and I were approached by several 'friends' even before acquiring our first cocktails.
One of the first people to approach me was Jocelyn, and I had no idea who she was. Ever the consummate wingman, Striker realized this and was able to clue me in while Jocelyn was making her way toward us. I suspect that most of you have not had the experience of conversing with a woman who knows you, when you don't even recognize her and have no idea what your relationship consists of, but let me tell you, it's not a good time. All I knew about this girl was that she had been on the receiving end of my back-handed compliments, boorish behavior, and aggressive groping for weeks. I didn't know what, if anything, we usually spoke about and I didn't know how I normally behaved around her. I felt extremely uneasy and excused myself from the conversation as quickly as I could, the sweat enveloping me, my palms clammy.
I had scarcely caught my breath after that awkward moment when I was accosted by another stranger, this time a tall, lanky black guy with glasses. He came right up to me with his hands positioned as if he was playing an imaginary piano and repeatedly shrieked "Benny" in a piercing falsetto. I did not recognize this man, but I did recognize his wild behavior. He was doing an impression of my impression of Elton John singing his classic "Benny and the Jets", a go-to move of mine from my formidable repertoire of drunken merriment. Though I felt a bit uncomfortable, I joined this man for a quick chorus of the song before excusing myself to fetch a much-needed libation. Striker later informed me that I had been hanging out with that man for weeks, and we sung "Benny and the Jets" nearly every night.
I felt like I was in a parallel universe, almost like I was seeing the Grove for the first time. I was aware that I had a bit of a blacking out problem, but I did not realize the extent until this particular evening. It was then and there that I realized I needed to turn my life around. I had learned an important lesson that night: going out sober stinks. I vowed never to do it again.

Striker and I left the manic warzone of Sandbar behind for the more private, subdued ambiance of Moe's, and I got myself nice and smashed. The evening continued on in the normal fashion, and those strangers whom I encountered earlier were already drunk enough to forget our initial awkward encounters.

As for Jocelyn, things between us began to escalate at a much quicker pace now that I actually knew who she was and what she looked like. On subsequent encounters we engaged in flirting and heavy petting, but she wouldn't let me do a 1st base on her. Then one afternoon, I got a strange call from her. She was coming from some party in Hialeah or some other shit-town suburb, and she wanted to stop by. She made a point of mentioning that she was dressed only in a bikini. At the time of the call I was sitting around my room getting high with MoMo and Little Jerk, so I told them to promptly get the hell out. They retreated to Striker's room, and I fixed myself a stiff cocktail. When Jocelyn arrived, I had a very faint buzz, largely due to the empty stomach I was drinking on. I was also very stoned.
The two of us were sitting on my bed, but to my surprise, she had other things on her mind besides sex. She started talking to me about her family and showing me pictures on her cell-phone. What the fuck was this? I was very confused. When a woman calls me in the middle of the day to tell me that she's drunk, wearing a bikini, and coming to my house, I assume I'm getting laid. I interrupted her idle jabber-jawing with a nice bold french, and she accepted. It was a ferocious make-out, as we had been building up to it for quite a while. I pulled her top to the side exposing her plush tits. Before long, I had her bottoms pulled to the side and had two fingers exploring the inner Jocelyn. She was very wet, and I was fingering her from behind while she was bent over me. Then I did something kind of stupid. I craned my neck and shifted around so I could get a look at her pussy, and she caught me. All the lights were on and the sun was shining outside, and apparently seeing me pull this uncouth move on her was enough to hurtle her back to reality. She said we were moving too fast, and we should get to know each other better first. We stopped hooking up, and she wanted to talk some more, but I was obviously not interested. She left soon after.
In the short time between this ill-fated meeting and my departure from Miami, Jocelyn and I decided that her moving in with Striker and I would be a good idea. She was looking for a new place to live and we needed a 3rd roommate, so that was that.
I left Miami in May, before our lease at the new place started. Jocelyn actually moved a bunch of shit in and paid rent for a few months, but never spent any time there. By the time I came back to visit in Autumn, she was already gone. Striker had scarcely even seen her, but one day two enormous Hispanic men showed up to collect her belongings. To this day, I don't know what became of her or why she never really lived at our place. Months later, she was replaced by a mute Asian man named Esteban, whom Terry likened to the Asian Guy who throws lit fireworks in Jack Horner's house at the end of Boogie Nights.

*Dr. Octagon is one of my favorite rappers, and his seminal album, Dr. Octagonecologyst, remains one of my favorite albums of all time. Dr. Octagon is actually an alter ego of Kool Keith, (a founding member of the golden age group Ultramagnetic MCs), and Dr. Octagonecologyst is a concept album revolving around the idea that "Dr. Octagon is an incompetent, time-traveling, possibly extraterrestrial surgeon who pretends to be a female gynecologist and molests his patients and nurses.". The whole thing takes place in the future, namedrops Chewbacca several times, and makes little to no rational sense at all. It's a truly absurd record, and aside from being hilarious, it's also sounds very dark and frightening. During these final Miami days, Dr. Octagonecologyst was my soundtrack of choice. I highly recommend it.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Odds and Ends

Hey assholes, how's the job going? No stories or angry diatribes today, just some useful information and some moderate complaining. The first thing I want to mention are two new blogs I think you should check out. Perhaps you've already seen Maniac Jones' page, but if not I suggest you give it a look. Jones has been referred to on this page many times, sometimes as Maniac, sometimes simply as 'John'. His site is very different from mine, and contains a lot of music and video footage. Be sure to check out his excellent article on the Creeper Man. The second site is actually done by Maniac's older brother, the Wolfman. His site is here. Many of you working stiffs will probably identify with the Wolfman. He is very intelligent and creatively gifted, but he sold his soul many years ago. Rather than become a writer or a teacher as he had once hoped, he attended a very prestigious law school and is now a corporate attorney. He is possibly the most miserable man I know. His blog is written in a more traditional narrative style, and though he is just beginning, I expect very good things from him in the future.

As for me, I'm still unsettled and anxious out here in Arizona. Quazar leaves tomorrow evening, which makes this his last night in town. We've had a pretty storied history out here in Scottsdale, and as I've expressed before, I'll be very sad to see him go.

Speaking of changes, I've been thinking about quitting my job alot lately. I really don't feel like working there anymore, especially as the summer approaches. The weather has turned, and we are already getting 90 degree days. Everything about working at a bar becomes worse when the heat sets in. Moving the chairs, tables, and pool tables; the smell of the dumpster; the thick, sugary alcohol sludge which melts and clings to the rubber bar mats. It's a wholly unpleasant affair. Aside from that, there are plenty of other reasons why I don't want to work there anymore, like the travel time, the fact that it overtakes my weekends, and most of all, the large amount of my time that it occupies while paying me very little in return. But alas, I am a part of this society, and so I do need money to live. My current income, while modest, is enough to feed me and keep me ably supplied with pot. I've been trying to come up with other ideas for jobs, but I haven't had much success. My best idea so far was to walk dogs in my apartment complex. I printed out some signs and posted them up, but no response as of yet.

I'd like to note that Daylight Savings happened pretty recently, and that Arizona does not recognize it; the time does not change here. That means, for you East Coast people, that I am now 3 hours behind you. I'll do my best to get new posts up in the morning, but while I continue to work at the bar, morning posts continue to be a difficult prospect.

Finally, I'd like to talk about RSS, that little orange icon at the top of the screen. I don't really understand this so much, but I'll do my best to explain. Click on the orange thing, and then choose which service you want to subscribe through. I recommend Google, especially if you already have Gmail. From there, just follow the directions and sign up, and every new post should appear in this 'Google Reader'. I believe you can integrate that directly with your Gmail. If this is unclear, you should probably ask somebody else, since I seriously don't know how this shit works.

Monday, March 12, 2007

My First Scottsdale Weekend, Part II

It was early afternoon on Friday, and Quaze and I were still recovering from our episode the night before. We were feeling satisified, as we had both gotten laid, but the feeling was limited, as our conquests were indisputably below average. We weren't exactly high-fiving and cheering our success. But a cumshot is a cumshot, and having released one in or on a woman makes a man feel pretty good. However, my mind was occupied with a more pressing concern. I was worried not about the fat girl I had just fucked, but that the fat girl that I was about to fuck.

Quazar had only been in Scottsdale for a very short time, but he is a very resourceful man. Through a friend of a friend named Fish, Qz had gotten himself set up with a very pretty girl. Before I had arrived in town, Qz and the girl had been on a couple dates, and things were going well. They had engaged in some middle school-grade sexual contact- a little frenching, a little groping- but at this early stage no genitals had been unsheathed. Based on the pace they had established, Quazar expected intercourse, or at least oral sex, on this very weekend that I was visiting. Plans were made for he and this girl, 2.0 as we called her, to hang out on Saturday night. In order to accommodate me, 2.0 was going to bring her best friend and roommate, a bruiser named Fanny. Quazar had met Fanny before, and he assured me she was a total slob. Ordinarily, I'd be somewhat excited at the prospect of a nice 'gimme' fuck, but I had just speared a jelly donut the night before. There were so many beautiful women around that I didn't want to commit myself to hogging before even taking a swing with something decent.

But it was still only Friday. I had a whole evening at my disposal with which to dedicate to getting actual babes, and I was still optimistic. We decided to go to a spot called Devil's Martini. Taking a lesson from the previous night, we pared our pre-gaming back a bit. Unfortunately, this did not help at all. Quazar and I were rejected across the board this night at Devil's, and to compensate we ended up getting just as drunk anyway. The night was edging ever closer to last call, and with zero prospects to work on, I slid back into my old technique of making merriment with the largest beasts at the bar. As it would happen, the largest beast at Devil's Martini was a man who came to be known as Lunatic Jim. About 6'5 and 275 pounds, this man was massive. I sauntered up to him using my most outrageous dance moves, threw my arm around his massive shoulder, and said something along the lines of, "let's go put our fingers inside of women". This amuses LJ, and the two of us set off in search of prey. We struck out overall, but we had some laughs, and worked well as a 2-man team. It turned out that Lunatic Jim was also new to Scottsdale, and, like Quaze, he was looking to meet people and establish a new social circle.
He and Quazar exchanged phone numbers since I was already too drunk to know what the hell was going on. Qz and I went home empty-handed, but I think Lun actually ended up getting blown somehow (Lun, if you're reading this, feel free to expound on that). At any rate, when we woke up the next day, it was Saturday, my last night in Scottsdale before heading back to New York. It was also Fat Girl Day, and as each second ticked away I was brought closer to my inevitable meeting with the great leviathan. I implored Quazar to call the date off or to coerce 2.0 to bring a different, more suitable friend, but he stood his ground. The way I saw it, I only had two options. I could fuck the slob, or I could completely ignore the slob, thus making it angry, and thereby negatively impacting Quazar's admirable quest to lay 2.0. In my opinion, it was a lose-lose situation.
"But wait a minute, Eggman," you might be thinking, "you just described the slaying of slob in exquisite detail, and furthermore, you've described copulating with countless other women of below-average stature in the past. What gives?". What gives, my friends, is that drunkenly banging out an undesirable woman is a much different prospect than knowing, in your sober mind, that you are about to commit such an act. Such was my dilemma, but my cries went unheeded, and the date was still on. Later in the afternoon though, a bright spot emerged in the darkened skies of my future. Our new pal Lunatic Jim called, and he wanted to meet up with us that evening. This meant I could hang out with him all night, but still enjoy the comfort of knowing that I had a fail-safe hound dog to swirl my dick around in if I struck out.

Quazar and I had a quiet dinner at an Italian place near his house. I ordered the cannelloni because I had seen it in the totally awesome Tom Hanks movie The Terminal.

Unfortunately, it was not very good. I didn't really know what I was ordering, and it was basically a whole mess of ground beef stuff inside a very thin, but very large tube of pasta. We were exhausted after dinner, which is no surprise considering the abuse we had subjected our bodies to over the past few days. To compensate, we purchased Red Bull and Monster energy drinks, and we even bought some energy gum. We had managed to down only one very strong cocktail each before the women arrived. When they walked through the door, sealing the fate of my evening, I was finally able to get a look at these girls whom I had heard so much about. I felt a sharp pang of jealousy when 2.0 entered with Fanny following behind. This 2.0 girl was very pretty- maybe 5'8, and slim with an All-American type face. And then there was Fanny. Fanny was actually less overweight than I had imagined, and had more of a human looking body than Bowling Ball. That being said, she was built like a Kodiak bear, with new layers of hibernation fat being packed on each year. In addition, her ass was big enough that she could easily post up Eddy Curry.

The four of us pre-gamed for a bit while watching a fascinating documentary about the Humanzee, and based on the girls' comments, it was evident that they weren't very bright. It was still early, but Fanny had already made some overt passes at me, in the typical manner of an assertive, and promiscuous fat girl.

I don't remember exactly where we went out on this evening, but it was definitely somewhere in Old Town. It was there that we met up with Lunatic Jim and his two buddies, Coke-fiend Tom and Mangy Dog. I spent much of the night with these gentleman, getting brilliantly soused in the process. Though I had complained quite a bit about being more or less set-up with Fanny, I had already resigned myself to banging her. Rather than making serious approaches, I just got wasted with LJ and his buddies. At some point near the end of the night, I encountered Fanny, and without warning, she thrust her meathooks down the front of my pants and began fondling my soft, startled genitals. After a nice meet and greet with my pliable cock and wrinkled ball bag, we parted ways again. I downed another couple drinks in the waning moments before last call, and bid goodbye to LJ and his pals.
Quazar and 2.0 had been getting pretty hot and heavy, and the four of us started back towards his place. I had accepted my fate, and was more than drunk enough to enjoy it, when Fanny suffered a potentially serious game-time injury. Somehow, this fat slob rolled her ankle while stepping off the curb. I basically had to lug her the entire way home. It was straight torture.
By the time we got to the apartment, I was very tired and very annoyed. I think Fanny might have been crying; she was in a fair bit of pain. I nursed her the only way I knew how, which was to fix her a ridiculously strong gin & tonic. I then stripped down to my boxers and got into bed, leaving the door ajar. Fanny entered behind me and got into bed with me. She was still fully clothed, and I instructed her to "get nude". At this point, Quaze and 2.0 were still in the living room enjoying the comical mating dance that was taking place between Fanny and me.

She took off her clothes and I mounted her in the missionary position. No condom, no discussion, as per usual. After a solid minute or two, Fanny posited an interesting question. "Do you want to hit me from behind?," she queried*. I said "OK", and she rolled over pointing that huge ass toward the sky. I pounded her fiercely, and the headboard was making a huge racket. I could hear Qz and 2.0 having a good laugh on the other side of the door. I made my mess on her thick lower back and immediately fell into a deep slumber.

The next day was Sunday, and I had to head back to New York. I was not excited to go back. Cold weather aside, going back to the City meant that I had to go back to reality, where I had to confront several important life issues. Quaze and I had a gloriously good time, and before I had even gotten on the plane, we were making plans for the next time I would fly out.

*"Can you hit me from behind?" is apparently Fanny's trademark quote, as she said the exact same thing to Noomin only a couple weeks later. Noomin and Ramon had come to visit Quazar, and again Qz had set up a night where 2.0 would bring ol' Fanny with her. Knowing my story, Noomin locked himself in the second bedroom at the end of the night. He heard a jostling at the door knob, and sure enough, in walked Fanny. She got into bed with him, they started fucking, and before long she uttered her famous aphorism. Noomin, of course, complied. The next morning, after Fanny was long gone, he discovered the bent-up insurance card which she had apparently used to pick the lock.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Fuck You, Scientists Who Can't See the Big Picture

Within the course of a couple days, 2 dudes sent me this NY Times Magazine article. You may want to read the article before proceeding any further, but be warned, it's fairly lengthy. For lazy people, let me sum it up. The article was about the scientific search for a neurological explanation of religion and belief in god. It presented some ideas which made sense, and it seems like scientists have some pretty good evidence for why the belief in religion persists. My question is: who gives a fuck? I can't think of a less important scientific endeavor than this. It's an indirect and cowardly way of addressing the real issue, which is why religion is WRONG? The author of the article concludes her little think-piece by noting that many of the scientists who are working in this specific field are not actually opposed to religion- one asshole is actually an observant christian. It's alarming and curious that scientists who are talented in their respective fields can have such a severely limited world view.

Any thinking man can see that religion has a stranglehold upon us. Human beings control the Earth, but religion controls the humans. For a moment, let's forget about the global terrorism problem. Let's forget about the bombing of abortion clinics. Let's forget about priests fingering little boys. Let's forget about the Holocaust, let's forget about the genocide in Bosnia or where ever the fuck that happened. Block every part of the putrid diarrhea splatter that religion has covered our earth in from your mind, and just focus on what religion has done to our government.
Because we employ the use of ancient religions, they do nothing but cause violence and lies in the hyper-modern world that we now inhabit. All the religions we subscribe to in America promote homogenization, blind faith, the suppression of individuals, and disgrace in regards to sex and our bodies. This is not a healthy way for human beings to live. We all know that politics and politicians are egregiously built upon lies, but I believe that we have religion to blame for these lies. Religion has cast a great shadow of shame upon us, and those who seek power must pretend to despise our true nature in order to gain acceptance. It's a sad state of affairs, because I think that deep down, beneath that thick layers of brainwashing and cultural rape, we are all very similar. But in order to gain acceptance in our society, you must uphold the lies with the rest of the lemmings. Imagine a world in which one's personal life did not threaten one's political career. If we could eliminate the religious shame and strip politics down to the real issues, we might actually have a chance to reform our wayward country and enact real change. No longer would we suffer under the leadership of the men who 'look the part' and thrive on deceit. If we could give blacks, homos, jews, boozebags and all the other people that religion hates an equal chance by ignoring what an archaic and laughably idiotic ideology says, then we can give ourselves the opportunity of having the best people lead our country, rather than the best liars.

In conclusion, any scientist should be able to see that religion is wrong, stupid, and dangerous. Looking for the reason it exists instead of trying to limit the damage it causes is interminably
foolish. It could be admirable work if these guys took their work to the next level, but I guess being good at science can't always save you from being a weak, yellow-bellied pussy. I believe scientists should take a cue from Richard Dawkins, and refuse to take a backseat to religion any longer. Religion claims eminent domain over every aspect of life on earth by its very nature, yet it is boldly, embarrassingly, wholly FALSE. For this reason alone it needs to be addressed and dealt with. Scientists have the power to disprove religion, to completely discredit and strip it from academic institutions, and I believe it is their responsibility to do so, in the hopes that someday we might once again be free.

Thanks to Terry and JJ for the article.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Fuck You, Fergie

Just to update you, I've been in the New York/New Jersey area for the last week. The vast majority of my friends and family live in this area so I've been rather busy, and haven't had much time to write. It was great seeing everyone, and thanks to those of you who helped the Eggman out with food, booze, and drugs, it's much appreciated. Also, to Billy, Z-man, C, and Skip- sorry about that hole in the wall, but Billy did kind of tell me to do it.
I'm getting on the plane in a few hours, but I wanted to write a short little nugget for you working guys to enjoy. Next week I'll have a lot more time, so you can expect 3 or 4 solid entries. For now, I'd like to address the title of this post.

Fergie is the singer in Black Eyed Peas with a hot body and doodyface. I touched upon this in my MTV post, but a couple days ago I was listening to the lyrics of her new song "Glamorous", and was shocked at how egregiously she insults the American public. Here are the lyrics*:

If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home u say
If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home

G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S (yeah) [x2]

We flyin' first class up in the sky,
poppin' champagne, livin' my life,
in the fast lane,
I won't change by the Glamorous,

oo flossy, flossy

The Glamorous, The Glamorous, Glamorous,By The Glamorous, ooo the flossy flossy. [x2]

[Verse 1:]
Wear them gold and diamond rings,
all them things don't mean a thing,
chaperones and limousines,
shopping for expensive things,
I be on the movie screens,
magazines and bougie scenes,
I'm not clean, I'm not pristine, I'm no queen, I'm no machine,
I still go to taco bell,
drive-thru, raw as hell,
I don't care, I'm still real,
no matter how many records I sell,
after the show after the Grammys,
I like to go cool out with the family,
sipping reminiscing on days when I had a Mustang.
We flyin' first class up in the sky,
poppin' champagne, livin' my life,
in the fast lane,
I won't change by the Glamorous,
oo flossy, flossy

The Glamorous, The Glamorous, Glamorous,By The Glamorous, ooo the flossy flossy. [x2]
[ Lyrics found on ]

I'm talking champagne wishes,
caviar dreams,
you deserve nothing but all the finer things,
now this whole world has no clue what to do with us,
I've got enough money in the bank for the two of us,
Plus i gotta keep enough lettuce to support your shoe fetish,
Lifestyle so rich and famous Robin Leach will get jealous,
half a million for the stones,
take a trip from here to Rome,
So if you ain't got no money take your broke ass home.

G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S (yeah) [x2]

We flyin' first class up in the sky,
poppin' champagne, livin' my life,
in the fast lane,
I won't change by the Glamorous,
ooo flossy, flossy

The Glamorous, The Glamorous, Glamorous,By The Glamorous, ooo the flossy flossy. [x2]

[Verse 2: Fergie]
I got problems up to here,
I got people in my ear,
telling me these crazy things that I don't wanna know (F*** ya'll),
I got money in the bank and I'd really like to thank,
all them fans I'd like thank, thank you really though,
cause I remember yesterday when I dreamt about the days when I'd rock on MTV, that'd be really dope
Damn, it's been a long road and the industry is cold
I'm glad my daddy told me so he let his daughter know.

(If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home u say) My Daddy told me so
(If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home) He Let Hïs Daughter know
(If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home u say) My Daddy told me so
(If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home) He Let Hïs Daughter know
OK, so after commanding all the poor people to take their "broke ass home", Fergie insists that she's still 'real' because she a) sometimes gets Taco Bell drive-thru (which she calls "raw as hell"), and b) once owned a Ford Mustang. It's important to note that Fergie employs some sort of bullshit slant rhyme in order to make this Mustang line fit within the verse; she really wants us to know that detail of her shadowy past. Apparently Mustang ownership was the ultimate symbol of her struggle.

"Glamorous" obviously seeks to follow in the great hip-hop tradition of the 'I made it' track. Biggie's 'Juicy' is the touchstone for this mini-genre. Well-written and a classic in its own rite, the song is still rabidly popular nearly 15 years after its inception. Note that Biggie lived in public housing, ate sardines for dinner, and had to sell crack to feed his daughter. THAT is a struggle. Driving a mustang and getting Taco Bell for dinner just means you're a middle class scumbag, you dumb fucking cunt! I'm honestly shocked that she committed these lyrics to record. But of course the song is tearing up the charts and I'm probably the only guy in the world who cares about the minutiae of a bad song by a bad 'artist'.

All that being said, this Fergie does have an amazing body, and when you don't have to look into the vapid abyss of her ugly face, you may even be able to acheive an erection. Check out the picture below.

*I've removed Ludacris' verse for the sake of brevity

Monday, March 05, 2007

My First Scottsdale Weekend, Part I

I was having a rough time of it in New York City. I'd whittled away what had previously seemed like a land of limitless opportunity into a self-inflicted house arrest. Aside from the bitter January cold which had gripped the city, I had to be extremely careful with money. While living with my parents in NJ, I had saved up enough to pay the rent for the next few months. But with few new loans coming down the pipeline, I couldn't afford to blow what little reserves I had on frivolous endeavors like meals and cab rides.
Of course, the real problem was that I was doing poorly at work. But selling mortgages is no exact science; there was no set way of increasing business. Most of the options were things I really did not want to do, and even if I did do them there was no guarantee of increased profits.
In those days, my mood rose and fell with the tide of my social calendar. When I wasn't getting women, I wasn't happy, and when I wasn't happy, I couldn't work. Without working, I couldn't get money, which was required for going out, which I needed to do to get pussy, to make me happy enough to work. Without a gameplan for how to improve my life or dig myself out of the vicious cycle I was living, I did what I always do in those situations- I go on vacation.

Quazar had recently been relocated to Scottsdale for work, and he hadn't spent much time in the area yet. I was excited to head out West, as I had never really been there before. I had never been to any part of Arizona, having only been to the Western United States on one previous occasion, as a young boy, when a homeless man called me a faggot*.

After the 5 hour plane ride, I arrived at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport to discover that this strange new land was everything I'd been looking for. It seemed almost like an anti-Manhattan. I got the tingling, anticipatory feeling that a man can only get when he arrives in a brand new city to stake his claim. On the ride home from the airport I looked about eagerly, my eyes greedily drinking in as much as they could. New bars, new restaurants, new people, new stores.
People were tan and seemed happy, and as soon as 5 pm hit, all the bars were packed for happy hour. Though the temperature was in the low 70's it seemed downright balmy compared to the icy chill of NYC.
Quazar and I had a quick dinner at a little Mexican place called Dos Gringos. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be hot young babes, the preponderance of which were blondes. Neither Qz nor I knew what Scottsdale women were like, but at this early point it was all optimism for us, our boners gleefully daydreaming as we took in the eye candy of this gorgeous desert oasis. After we scarfed down the food we swung by the supermarket for what would become our Scottsdale weekend ritual. We filled our cart with 3 handles of booze, a few liters of mixer, a box of straws, and 10 gatorades.

When we got to Quazar's apartment, I was even more excited. He had a big, roomy 2 bedroom apartment all to himself, and it was a closer walk from his place to the bars than it was for me to walk to my closest subway stop in NYC. There was a gym, a hot tub, and a pool in the center of the complex.
The bars in Scottsdale close at 2AM, which meant that we had to move our entire schedule up to accommodate our pregaming. We figured drinks were cheaper, and we'd save money on transportation, but we still wanted to get wrecked before leaving the house. We were, perhaps, a bit too overzealous on this first night. We got rip roaring smashed, and set off on foot for our destination. We didn't know exactly where we were going, only that we needed to head into the heart of 'Old Town' Scottsdale. As per usual we made to-go cups for our short journey, and on our way I had to stop to urinate in some bushes. While I did, I befriended a nearby man who was also urinating in the bushes. I told him of our situation, and he recommended we go to Axis/Radius. Quazar agreed, and this gentleman actually was able to get us into the club ahead of the line.

Axis/Radius, as it turns out, is a very large club with two floors and many outdoor areas. Quaze and got some drinks and headed upstairs, and I could barely believe my eyes. The first thing I saw when I reached the top was Mike Tyson. He was standing with a very hot and very young looking blonde girl. I was very, very drunk at this point and the exchange that followed is one of the last things I remember from this part of the night. I marched right up to Tyson, put my arm around him and said, "Hey Mike, how 'bout you buy us a couple drinks". Tyson had barely reacted with a dismissive shake of his head when I noticed Quazar's face. He was frozen with fear. In a quick second, he snapped out of it and dragged me away before I could further inflame the situation**.

Many people have commented that they are surprised I am able to recount the details of my nights out, given the level of intoxication I typically reach. Well, in this case, both Quazar and I remember almost nothing else after our encounter with Tyson. As you might guess, even Raynok has to be gloriously destroyed to accost Mike Tyson, and it only took another drink or two to put me in a full waking blackout. For the uninitiated, a waking blackout is when you have already forgotten what transpired during the night while you are still actually living it.

All of a sudden, I realized I had no idea how I had spent my last few hours. Quazar and I were ready to leave the club with 3 girls, but we had absolutely no idea how we had met them or how we had spent the last few hours. It's lucky we found some receptive women otherwise we might've drunk ourselves to death. You have to be pretty sloppy to achieve a waking blackout, and so whatever women you manage to round up will generally be accordingly so. In my case, I had managed to dig up a woman who possessed a sloppiness far greater than that which I was displaying. We called her Bowling Ball. Bowling Ball was about 5 feet tall, with a soft, rotund figure and two giant globes for breasts. Her face was garbage.
She had two friends with her. While I was frenching my little donut, Quaze was wooing her friend, Man-voice. Man-voice was actually OK looking, and Quazar was getting along well with her, thought not yet frenching. The third girl was horrific looking; ugly to the point of apparent disfigurement. We called her Angus.
This Angus character drove the 5 of us back to Quazar's apartment, and we suggested going for a late night swim. BB and Man-voice were game, so we tossed them some of Qz’s t-shirts, and the 4 of us made our way to the pool while Angus sat and waited for us on the steps of the apartment.
It was a little after 2 AM, but the pool was actually somewhat crowded with other loud drunks. The four of us took to the hot tub, and the steamy water made Qz’s ¾ baseball shirt cling to Bowling Ball’s massive milk bladders, and the cool desert air made her thick nipples protrude through the flimsy fabric. As if this wasn’t enough exposure for her, she stood up and raised the shirt enough to give everyone in the pool area a full view of her shaved bird beak.
The other drunks from the pool cleared out, so our foursome entered the pool, the cooler water reawakening our dulled senses.
Quaze and I were wearing only boxers, and each of us naturally took our respective women to opposite sides of the pool for a litte alone time. I had Bowling Ball pressed up against the wall next to a large rock structure, making us completely invisible to Qz and Man-voice. We engaged in a few seconds of sloppy frenching and I started grabbing at those fat tits like they were free money. Within seconds, I had jammed my boner in and was pounding her against the wall. At this point, Qz and MV, who had been courting at a much slower, more reasonable rate, were playfully swimming around the pool when they rounded the bend and saw me jackhammering this ham sandwich in the corner. Predictably, Quazar exploded with laugher. We all decided to head back to the apartment, where we found that Angus was still dutifully waiting on the steps.
Quaze and Man-voice went into his bedroom, and BB and I went into the bathroom; she decided she wanted to take a bath. We turned on the water and plugged up the bathtub and started going at it again. I was sitting on the toilet and she had hopped on top, riding me. Quaze busted in for some reason or another and the first thing he saw was this folded flapjack smothering me. Again, he burst into laughter and retreated back to his room, locking the door.
Bowling Ball and I moved onto the floor for some more rigorous fucking, and after a few minutes, we realized we were soaking wet. We had never bothered to turn the bath water off, and it had flooded the whole bathroom. We both panicked and started screaming and I ran out of the bathroom fully nude. I was covering my genitals with a small pillow, and yelling “flood!” at the top of my lungs and roaring for help. It had never occurred to me to simply shut off the water.
Angus was paralyzed with fear of this large, dripping wet, naked man and Bowling Ball was rolling around on the bathroom floor like a carefree hippo at home in an African river. I started banging on Quaze’s door like a maniac and finally he opened it and came to the rescue. He shut the water off and unplugged the drain, and the crisis was averted. But at this point, BB told Qz that he could stay in the bathroom. She wanted a second cock to add to the party. Before the words left her mouth I was screaming “NO!” like a wild banshee, causing Qz to go back to his room.
Bowling Ball and I dried off and went into the second bedroom. At this early point, Quaze did not yet have a roommate. Once again I drove my cock into this soft, fleshy marshmallow. I asked her where she wanted me to come and she actually said, “in my mouth”. Then I came all over her belly.
It had to be 4 or 5 in the morning at this point, and poor Angus was still just sitting on the couch alone. Quaze and Man-voice emerged from his bedroom, and now she was wearing the ¾ shirt. The 3 girls seemed to want to get the hell out of the apartment just as bad as we wanted them to leave, and in flurry of activity, all 3 were nearly out the door. Bowling Ball had partially dressed, but Man-voice was leaving in nothing more than the flimsy t-shirt. I knew it was among Quazar’s favorite articles of clothing, so I yelled at her to give it back. Right before crossing the threshold, Man-voice tore off the shirt and sprinted out naked. The prospect of seeing an actual human-looking girl naked momentarily re-energized me and I peeled myself off the floor to sprint after her. But alas, it was too late. The 3 animals were already back in their mobile cage.

*When I was 14 or 15, we took a family trip to California, stopping in a number of coastal cities. We were in San Francisco one afternoon, walking down a busy street, when a filthy, gnarled homeless man exploded out of a little cove and grabbed me by the sleeve. He screamed, “Fuck you, FAGGOT!”, inches from my face before releasing his grip and falling back into the lair. My entire family nearly collapsed with laughter. “Out of the hundreds of people on the street, he chose you,” my dad noted.

**The above picture is from my second encounter with Tyson, which occurred during my month-long Scottsdale vacation in March. No photographs exist from our brief initial encounter.

Guest Blog: Quazar's Puerto Rico

Noomin, Meathead and I recently decided to take a long weekend in Puerto Rico for President's day. After the holidays and New Years, we decided a good way to improve our psyche from the winter depression would be to plan a mini-vacation in February so we have something to look forward to. Sure work sucks and the weather is crappy, but for the next 2 months you can fantasize about the sun, booze, gambling and women that await us. I highly suggest this method. Even if you just plan a weekend with friends on the west coast, it will improve your mental health immensely during the time leading up to it. We decided to live it up and book the nicest hotel on the island. Rooms were extremely expensive, which worked against us b/c the only ones who could afford the rooms were rich Jewish families from the Northeast. In the middle of the families and honeymoon couples were us 3 assholes, boozing it up hardcore at 11am and asking each other questions like "Can you pinpoint the ugliest whore that you have banged?" It turned out we were very approachable though, as numerous older couples engaged us in conversations throughout the weekend. Noomin questioned why these people want to talk to us so badly but the answer is pretty simple. These people have been married to each other for decades, their sex life is over as they are now wrinkly and gross and their daily conversations are just repeats over the 20 yrs. A sense of excitement for them is presidential races, mortgage rates decreasing and the family dog doing something cute. They are bored out of their minds and probably thank the Lord that they find people to talk to just to break up their daily, routined lives. It's all the same for us though, they are all from New York or have lived in New York, and their kids are our age and went to school with someone we probably know. Once they hear that we are respectable, successful and hardworking Jewish kids their eyes light up, pretending that we are their actual children since their own probably don't spend time with them anymore.

Without going into too much detail about every single aspect of the weekend, our last night was by far the most eventful (with the exception of Noomin who retired early after failing to win back a couple slices he lost in the prior 2 days). The day started out with a twist as my Stage 2 local clinger from the previous day came to hang out with us at the hotel. She was not even close to as attractive as I thought the night before. I guess that is what happens when I force myself to down a bottle of vodka just to get drunk enough to hang out at the club and meet these local whores. She was amazed that the 3 of us were "Yooish" b/c we didn't look it. I tried explaining to her that Meathead was your textbook definition of what a "Yoo" looked like, and Noomin wasn't far off. But she would just laugh and point at me calling me Yooish. The rest of the day consisted of more El Presidentes and sun beside the pool. I ventured back into the casino while Noomin and Meat got a drink in the lobby. Suddenly, an out of breath Noomin appeared behind me while I was at the craps table. I gathered he had something to tell me from his bouncing and pointing, similar to when you know your dog is excited about something but you don't know what (picture Lassie episodes). I waited a few seconds and Noomin began to spit out phrases as if there was a gun to his head. I knew it was English but could only make out a few of the words. "Whores! 30yr old whores! Booze! Ranch! Whores! Mojitos! Drinks! Old whores! Bachelorette!" To the few Ricans standing besides me, they must have thought he had Tourette's (that's assuming they knew what the disease is). But I knew exactly what he was trying to say as if these caveman grunts were a spoken and documented language. He must have met a bunch of older women who came over to him at the bar for what is probably a bachelorette party. They definitely approached him and Meat and told them to come up to the Ranch for some drinks. No way would Noomin have been this excited unless the girls initiated contact first. It turned out my assumption was right on, and the night was starting to take shape.

I convinced Noomin and Meat to go up to the Ranch to meet these older whores. As we approached the bar they turned out to be a little older crowd than we expected. The women were definitely older than 30 and we nodded our heads to them while we ordered "crazy Puerto Rican tequila concoctions" from the bartender. After laughing at us he handed over extremely large Martini glasses that must have held half of a gallon. There were all kinds of shit in it and the bartender promised it would fuck us up. Little did he know we had extreme alcohol problems and it would hardly give us a buzz. While I carefully drank the mammoth cocktail one of the whores made her first approach. As she got closer I pinpointed her age to 40 based on the wrinkles near her mouth. But she was extremely attractive for a 40 yr old and was definitely a knockout when she was younger. She had a bubbly personality but a Boston accent that could crack a mirror. She revealed that it was her friend's 40th birthday so a bunch of them decided to come down to Puerto Rico to celebrate. We called her over to do a birthday patron shot and noticed her mild attractiveness and rock hard body. She looked like our friend Milk during his crazy lifting stage: small and spindly pale-white defined muscles, 1% body fat and a handshake of a lumberjack. They called over a 3rd older whore, this one way uglier and way more beaten up. Based on her looks and drunkenness, she's probably sucked a thousand dicks. But, more fun for us. We all did shots and parted ways promising to meet up later at the casino after dinner.

We ventured into Old Town San Juan to get some food at a local spot. Needless to say, 3 sets of older couples sitting next to us engage us in conversation with the line, "So are you from NY?". They were actually very nice people and we didn't mind speaking with them, especially after our 3rd super special strong Mojito that Carlos the server was bringing us. We also had the honor of being served our food by Artie Bucco from the Sopranos. A dead on look alike, the guy was running around sweating like a madman, paranoid he would upset any of his customers, as if they'd cut his throat if the meat was overcooked. After the meal I asked the super hot young hostess what bars in the area we can go to. As if she didn't see already, I pointed out that we were three 25 yr old Americans who love to drink and wanted a nice spot. Her response was a little unexpected. "The bars are dead tonight since it is Sunday, and unless you are carrying guns you don't want to just walk around town looking for places." I thanked her and immediately ushered a cab to get us the hell out of there and back to the hotel. We venture into the lobby which was somewhat crowded and head straight for the casino. Not to our surprise the older pack of whores were gathered around the blackjack table. Noomin and Meat took their spots while I assumed my space at the craps table.

While they were trying to schmooze and gamble with the women, I was approached by 2 girls smoking cigars, they were approximately a 3.5 and a 6.5 . The 3.5 had curly blonde hair, about 20 pounds overweight in all the wrong places, terrible beady eyes and mangled misdirectioned lips. The 6.5 was a redhead with an acceptable petite body, decent face and nice green eyes. The 4.5 asked my name and I paid no attention to her to focus on the higher ranked whore. It turns out they are Russian Jews from Colorado and complete losers. The redhead was a 34 yr old economist who although cute, has probably only had sex with a couple of guys in her life. The topic of religion came up and while I started to shoot down her unsubstantiated hogwash claims of a Jewish God watching over us, I could tell that my rudeness was turning her on. It was one of those times where you could literally say anything and the girl would be more attracted to you. She was bad luck though and I lost all of my money with her standing over me. Thankfully she was trying to impress me with having a good job, emptying her wallet to give me her money to gamble. We went to Roulette while I contemplated how I would approach this situation. I wanted nothing to do with her but it was late and she was somewhat attractive, definitely better than the Rican who was calling me Yooish all day. I brought her over to the blackjack table with Noomin, Meat and the other women and saw that they were much more fun and appealing than her. At this point I had a plan. I made sure she watched me as I put my phone on the blackjack table. Then I told her I had to make a phone call and walked away. I guess she got the message b/c when I got back she was gone.

I sat down at the table and we all started to shoot the shit with the women. The woman with the blood curdling Boston accent wasn't drinking as she has been on some sort of medicine for the past year that didn't allow her to. Noomin guessed that it was probably a fertility drug while I guessed AIDS, either way it wasn't good news whatever she has as it means she isn't drinking. Considering the level of drunkenness that reach, the chances of a sober girl being attracted to us at 4 in the morning is as close to 0 as you can get. The other women were drinking but seemed rather enthralled in gambling and not in us. We started to get frustrated and Noomin responded by leaving early claiming to have enough. Meat and I stuck it out as I brought the non-drinking woman to the lobby bar while Meat ventured off on his own. I guess my rationale at the time was to woo this woman with conversation and diet cokes. What the hell was I thinking? I tried what I could with the only result being her telling me I was a great guy, giving me her phone number and saying we might run into each other someday. She left and I ran up to a hotel worker and asked if Cockfighting was still open. I might as well experience some old fashioned cock fighting since it was my last night. Of course it was closed and I stomped back into the casino. Before I could the dice I look up and see Meat holding the hand of something at the entrance to the casino. I lean to the left, farther to the left and can finally see the full image of his new friend. From a distance she had nice hair and was wearing a big yellow skirt dress, but she was almost twice as wide as Meathead, and he weighs 220lbs. I was startled by this big yellow egg Meat was holding onto and started dying laughing. I knew he loved fat girls when he was drunk so I wasn't so surprised. The following was told to me the next morning as I retired for the night after seeing him leave with her.

Meathead brings this girl to the beach and demands that they go skinny dipping. When she initially refused he ripped off his clothes and sprinted into the ocean alone, thinking this would convince her to get naked on a dark beach and run into the water with a strange man. I am sure a big reason was the self-consciousness about her bulbous shape of a body. When he realized she wouldn't follow he came back onto the beach and picked her up to carry her into the water. At this point she started screaming that her skirt was $800 and couldn't get wet. He put her down and they started hooking up on the beach, rolling in the sand. With no regard for her physical well being he began finger banging her with his sandy hands. He picked her up (a physical feat in itself) and brought her into our hotel room. He jumped into the shower and convinced her to join him. As she disrobed he noticed that her ass was enormous, the biggest he's ever seen. At this point he couldn't just stop though….. while washing themselves, she actually initiated intercourse, grabbing his condom-less boner and sliding it into her warm greasy love hole. She obviously thought that soap and water washes away herpes, gonorrhea, Chlamydia, AIDS or any other STD a man she just met might have. He then placed her on the bathroom countertop and "punished" her as he likes to say. He calls himself the human piston and for those of you who know Meathead I am sure you can imagine what him intercoursing a woman would look like. I believe he once told me he actually tries to jab the woman's cervix with his boner as hard as he can, and it's a game to see how deep he can go. After making his mess on her bloated belly, they went to bed.

I honestly have no idea how I didn't hear this whole ordeal, and Noomin claims have heard a little bit of it. I knew that Meathead would get something done the final night though. The night before he brought back some 40 yr old local to our room and Noomin and I thought he had it in the bag. But she ended up passing out, and as Noomin approached our glass doors, he peeked in to see the girl asleep on the couch, with Meat standing over hear in his boxers, flexing in the mirror. Definitely the funniest scene of the weekend.

All said and done, Puerto Rico was a good vacation. Although it would be more of our speed during the month of March when Spring Break is out, I'd still recommend it to people. I still regret not seeing a cockfight, going to the rainforest or exploring a bit; but the booze, local whores and local drugs kept me happy.