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Tuesday, January 30, 2007

The Neighborhood Girls: The Sacking of Little Jerk

The filth was only matched once, by the unholy death pit of an apartment that I inhabited junior year of college. The living room was really a sight to behold. Because we lived directly on Ponce De Leon, which was a fairly busy 2 lane road, we often had cops parked out in front of our house for speed traps. Because I was always either selling or smoking pot, I had to keep the shades closed, relying on the dim light of a crappy lamp. Behind the TV, we had two lifesize cardboard cut-outs of celebrities which I had stolen back in Jersey. One was Will Smith in his Wild Wild West garb and one was Britney Spears in her early 00's glory. Gail* and I had purchased this spray paint that becomes a chalk board when it dries, and we painted large speech bubbles coming from the mouths of these characters. We kept pieces of chalk all over the living room, and the bubbles were usually filled with sexual nonsense, Will aggressively trying to fuck Britney, or basketball lines**. The floor was usually covered with dog hair, empty cans, and fast food bags that wouldn't fit into the trash. The trashcan that we kept in the back corner of the living room was the huge industrial size one that normal households use to hold the trash from the entire house for a full week. Ours would fill up in like 3 days, and that was just the trash from the living room. This was due to the huge volume of garbage generated by our massive consumption of drive-thru meals, booze, and mixers. And all this was the work of Striker and I, who had lost focus in every aspect of life besides that most vital goal of getting pussy.

Let me explain the layout of the Miami bar scene, at least during the time I was there. There are two main destinations to go out in what's generally considered to be greater Miami. There is South Beach and there is Coconut Grove. South Beach is outrageously expensive, it's hard to get into the good clubs, and was a good 20 minute drive from our house. The Grove was cheap, hassle-free, and 3 miles from our house. However, South Beach has much, much hotter babes. All the hottest UM girls wanted to be on South Beach. Thursday night was the exception. On Thursday nights everyone wanted to be in the Grove, and the line at our favorite bar went down the block. After about a year and half of splitting our time between both the Grove and the Beach, Striker and I decided to focus entirely on the Grove. My funds were dwindling, and so money was an immediate concern. We knew our Thursday nights were gonna be wild, but the rest of the nights were up in the air. Fridays were consistently dead, but any other night of the week could miraculously light up.

On the nights that were dead, Grove rats like Little Jerk, MoMo, Tess, and Gary were always around. They mostly went about their business in a small crap house of a bar called Barracuda. Striker and I would make the rounds, checking out all the different bars, and on many nights, the B-team were the best chicks around. But most of the time we spent with them was just hanging around the neighborhood. It was like a demented version of Friends where Joey and Chandler were mysogynist alcoholics and Monica, Rachel and Phoebe were way ugly and extremely horny. In terms of flirting, Striker usually wound up with the nuggets while I tended towards the human looking ones.

We wanted to maximize our time out at the bars for meeting new prospects, so we mostly saw these girls early on while we were pre-gaming or late night for our dizzy, flailing after hours. After about a month of knowing LJ, Striker would sometimes wander over to her house after we got back from the bars. She was always home before us, and she would provide him with dinky, fumbling blowjobs, afterwhich, he would pull up his pants and leave, having never even kissed her. Their relationship continued in this wolfish manner, and was a secret to all except me and LJ's best friend, Little Bumpy Jerk.

Tess would act real flirty toward me and say real sexy shit, but every time I tried to capitalize, which was often, she would deny me. MoMo was the last one I met, and during the early weeks I barely knew her. Our first and most sexual experience occurred in a very strange manner.

John was in town visiting me, and so of course we got wasted at higher level than usual. John, Striker and I were absolutely blitzed. It was an off-night in the grove, maybe a Tuesday or a Wednesday, but Tavern and Sandbar were both packed. Tavern was a shitty little wooden shack. It was extremely hot, got extremely packed and only served beer. But it was an acquired taste. If you already have a good buzz going by the time you get there, its a great place to be. The sweaty, claustrophobic atmosphere causes crazy shit to happen. I remember being in the back of the bar with Johnny, fully smashed, talking with LJ's crew and other random members of their larger social umbrella. There were a bunch of super hot babes there also, girls we knew through our upstairs neighbors. I remember feeling like I had a successful night with women, but I was basically in a walking blackout- all I had was a positve vibe of unknown origins.

Johnny and I were back at my place getting high when I got a call from a number that was identified by random letters and numbers. I had apparently mashed the keys rather than take the time to enter the caller's name. I answered the phone, and it was a girl. I had apparently invited her to come over, and she was outside. I told this mystery girl to come in, but she insisted I go out there to talk to her. I was suspicious, but I went out there and saw MoMo, parked behind my house in her white Blazer with the engine still running. I came to the driver's window and told to her come inside, but again she protested. She couldn't let Little Jerk's contingent know that she was with me for some reason, so she told me to get in the back seat. It was an unusually cold night for Miami, and I was in my uniform of bright yellow shorts, no shirt, and sandals. I remember she had the heat blasting and I was sitting in the backseat shivering. She climbed in back and sat on my lap, facing me. We started frenching in a very dynamic manner, and she liked to nibble, which I really disliked. She was reaching her hand in through the bottom of my shorts, lightly carressing my searching boner. This went on for about 5 minutes and it was pretty intense. And then she said she had to go. And she left.

The next night, John, Striker and I showed up way after hours at LJ's place. The front door was open, but all the lights were off. We marched on in to Little Jerk's room and flipped on the lights and woke up her. We were loudly telling stories of what had happened at the bar, and I was using LJ as a prop to demonstrate the way I would've liked to fuck some of the girls we had talked to that night. Striker was doing the same, and the Little Jerk was quietly enjoying being used as a little toy. John and I left, and Striker got a knobber again, that little hamster nibbling at his silver tipped hanging water bottle. I refused to call MoMo since I was insulted by her teasing. John left, and time passed, and things stayed about the same.

MoMo had just wanted me to display a modicum of effort to bang her, but I refused it on principle. For a long period of time we flirted heavily with eachother and sometimes made out but nothing serious ever came of it. A bizarre auction-type scenario developed between she and Dark Eyes in the Tavern one night, and I think that was where I probably blew my chance with her once and for all, but that will all be explained when I tell the Dark Eyes story.

As for Little Jerk, she lost her virginity on a gallant whim by a detached and extremely drunk Striker, who deflowered her from behind, face down on the mattress. Striker became completely disgusted with Little Jerk immediately upon blowing his load on her back. This brutish tryst would be the last romantic episode the two would ever share.

As the end of the semester edged closer, Striker began secretly banging Little Bumpy Jerk. Unlike her maladroit friend, Little Bumpy knew her way around a cock, and apparently her tight little body was lots of fun to play with. This continued for a while until LJ found out and the bestfriendship was ended. LBJ would later note that that two were never really that close.

I really didn't have many more dealings with this clique besides some sloppy frenches with Tess, with one notable exception. I was in the Grove on a Monday or Tuesday night, walking down the street towards Moe's. A group of 4 large German tourists was also walking on the street. They were large and blonde with thick accents, and they seemed very drunk, happy and excitable. They asked me what the best bar was, and I told them Moe's was the best bar, and they could follow me there. This got them very excited and they cheered. They asked me my name and I told them, and they cheered again. These guys were great fun to hang out with. We went to Moe's and got even more drunk and, being an off-night, there was nothing going on in the Grove. I wanted these guys to have a good time, so I invited them back to my house to get high. After getting high, these guys really wanted pussy. I really didn't have much to offer them. I didn't want to blow my chances with actual babes I was working on, and LJ and Tess were sleeping and probably wouldn't bang these guys anyway.

But then, I got an awesome idea. I decided to take these guys on a good-old fashioned panty raid. They started cheering, and I started getting all excited and we began cheering "PAHN-TEE RAID! PAHN-TEE RAID!!" over and over again. We all picked up pieces of chalk and began furiously scrawling 'panty raid' and other sexual phrases not only on the chalkboards, but all over the walls like maniacs. We worked our way up to a frenzy and ran over to Little Jerk's house like we were storming the beaches at Normandy. The front door was unlocked and we charged in, chanting 'PAHN-TEE RAID!!' the whole time, flicking on the lights and tearing through the drawers in the girls' rooms. We even woke up the ugly one. These German guys were wearing panties aroung their necks, one guy was going through the fridge, it was pandemonium. Little Jerk actually got pretty pissed off and so did Tess, although she was laughing a little bit. When they finally got us to leave, the Germans went back to their hotel and I went to bed. I think it was the last time I spoke to Little Jerk.

*In case you don't remember, Gail was our fourth roommate, a timid, virgin hippie girl who moved in with us after the Creature departed, as described here.

**During my days, I often hung out with a wily little dirtbag by the name of JP, and we would place a large amount of bets for small amounts of money on pro and college basketball.

Miami: The Neighborhood Girls- Prologue

Like all good rampages, it started off slow but worked its way up to a blistering crescendo. It began rather unremarkably with a chance encounter between a blacked-out Striker and a mystery neighbor whom neither of us had met. The next morning, a groggy Striker woke up with a new number in his phone, and very faint memories of a late-night conversation with a girl who lived one house down. I prodded him to call, but he displayed an initial reticence, cryptically noting that he remembered her to be “very small”.

He made the first call on our way up to Orlando or Tampa or some other Florida city on a mission to get laid. We gave her the good cop/bad cop routine on the phone, and since she dug it, we quickly stepped it up to bad cop/extremely bad cop. Striker uncharacteristically inhabited the role of extremely bad cop and this girl was loving it.

Although I had no idea what she looked like, I was excited to have a contact in the neighborhood. It would bring us a safety and legitimacy that’s crucial to infiltrating the UM social scene. We had an in with the hottest sorority, but nailing one of them was a crapshoot (with the hot ones, at least) since they were so into the Miami scene- the money, the VIP, the bullshit. Striker and I both wanted a 2nd tier- a B team of girls to keep us busy while we waited for the hot chicks to get horny enough to give us lowly dirtbags a chance. This neighbor could open all kinds of doors for us.

We called her on our way back into the city and demanded that she bring a friend to our house. Both girls were instructed to wear dresses. As it turned out, Striker and I were pretty beat from our drive, so we just sat around ripping the bong and watching cartoons. The girls had apparently taken our request seriously, and sat around in dresses waiting for a call that never came. The next night, Striker was able to convince the neighbor to give us a second chance and she came over to meet us. I was shirtless, sitting back on the easy chair with the bong in my hand and the TV remote on my chest. Striker was slightly more appropriately attired, wearing a T-shirt and drinking some kind of clear or brown booze.

I was disappointed when this little nugget of a girl walked into the house. She was clearly less than 5 feet tall, though substantially larger than a midget. And so this girl, Little Jerk, sat on our couch and tried making small talk with us. I remained slumped in my chair, eyes fixed on the screen, loudly burping and smoking pot between sips of my booze, rarely casting my gaze in the direction of her small, finch-like face. She was not ugly, but her face was not pleasant enough to entice a sober man to fuck such a small, strange creature. Striker, on the other hand, was ignoring her small talk, riposting her pleasantries with aggressively pointed sexual remarks. She seemed to enjoy this kind of poor treatment, and desperate for male attention, she answered every probing question that Striker asked. Soon enough she was (at our request) sitting on our laps, bending over so we could look at her ass, and other things of that nature. Eventually it came out that she was a virgin, and, as she was also a 22 year old senior, I figured that she was a complete loser and had no worthwhile friends. I went to my room, jacked off and went to bed. At this point, Striker was showing porn to Little Jerk, and I forget exactly what happened, but I know he did something to her body with some part of his.

I had underestimated Little Jerk’s potential, as, over time, she would introduce us to a multitude of different cliques of girls, all of whom belonged to a larger social umbrella. With our Scorched Earth policy, Striker and I dismantled and sexually decimated this sprawling circle of friends. Friendships were destroyed, roommates stopped speaking, and several drunken crying fits erupted in bars as a direct result of our actions.

Did we set out to disrupt the emotional well-being of this otherwise innocent group of young University of Miami students? Not really, although we were pretty amused by it. All we did was follow our boners. The weak, treacherous relationships among these girls were not caused by but merely exposed by our sweeping, indiscriminant sexual conquest of their social sphere.

Little Jerk’s clique, localized just one house away, was our entry point into the larger group. Littler Jerk lived with Tess, a bigger blonde girl who wasn’t goodlooking but was kinda sexy nonetheless, as she was often drunk, flirty, and alluded to sucking a good cock. They also had a third roommate, but she was a loser so foul and unremarkable that I can’t even conjure up a single memory which details any information about her existence. Little Jerk’s house was also the hub for meeting MoMo and Little Bumpy Jerk. MoMo was the clear babe of the group, and the only one who would be universally acknowledged as attractive. With fair skin and reddish hair, she had a Mae West, no-bullshit attitude. Little Bumpy Jerk was the best friend of Little Jerk, and remarkably enough, she was the same size. Little Bumpy Jerk had an average looking face but gross acne, hence the ‘bumpy’ moniker*. However, she had a markedly better body than Little Jerk. I think she was in nursing school or something, so she wasn’t around as much.

The group sometimes rolled with a brutish girl with a tightly slicked blonde ponytail by the name of Gary. By her appearance and demeanor, Gary was a militant, out-of-the-closest lesbian, but this was apparently not the case, as she would later prove to us. Gary hung out with a real rag-tag bunch of weirdos that included Pam the Man, Paleozoic, and Big Arms. Paleozoic** was nicknamed by the King during his visit to Miami due to her resemblance to some of the smaller flying reptiles of the Paleozoic Era. Despite its prehistoric quality, her face was pretty in an earthy, Midwestern, early 90’s full-bush amateur porn type way. Pam the Man had a scorching hot body, slim and tight, but she had a face like Paul Stanley with a lightly buttered, baked crust of pimples. She covered this crispy exterior with layers of makeup which made her look like a transvestite. Big Arms had a very cute face but a formless, doughy body and, of course, big arms. A year or so after I left Miami, she appeared on an episode of Room Raiders and was embarrassed in some way which I can’t remember.

Tess was sorority sisters with Cartoon Bunny Korver, a large, debatably attractive, meaty blonde. She was slow-witted and looked like a cross between a cartoon bunny and 76ers forward Kyle Korver. Her roommate was Missy, a mousy but pretty girl whose timid exterior belied an insatiable sexual thirst.

Little Jerk was good friends with Dark Eyes, a sexy girl of ambiguous ethnicity. Dark eyes had a round, plump ass, dark skin and sexy exotic look. Guys wanted to do her and girls wouldn’t admit she was pretty. She worked at the UM gym with MoMo, and so I saw them often, as I snuck in on an almost daily basis.

Within a couple months of meeting Little Jerk, Striker and I had gone through like a tornado, leaving in our wake one lost virginity, two broken ‘best friend’-ships, and a late-night panty raid with German nationals. In the end, every single girl in the group was touched in some way by our prolific sexual conquest. Though we wreaked havoc on this group, my consistent blackouts left me largely unaware of the aftermath of our actions, and I was often confused when my presence was met with rancor among certain cliques. Forthcoming posts will reconstruct the sacking of these social groups one by one.



*Little Jerk is named after a scene from 1990 blockbuster Home Alone. When Macaulay Culkin’s Kevin spills soda, he is harshly rebuked by his Uncle Frank, who gets in his face and sneers, “Look what’cha did, you little jerk!”. One night I amused myself for hours by repeating this phrase to Little Jerk over and over, and the name stuck.

**Paleozoic is not to be confused with Paleosaur, a freshman who, after an episode to be detailed at another time, came to be known as Handjobs.

Monday, January 29, 2007

The Eggman Wants You

I need some help. I'd like to upgrade this site and make it real cool and flashy looking. I'm considering purchasing a domain name so I can host videos and do other cool kinds of shit. Unfortunately, I'm a retard with computers. If anyone is involved in web design or knows someone in web design, please drop me a line, it'd be much appreciated. Also, if you enjoy reading this site, if it brings you a small bit of enjoyment while you're sitting at your desk at work, then please spread the word. The more interest I see in the site, the more time I can devote to it. Thanks for your continued readership.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Raynok's Reasoning: STDs

STDs. For a good 4 or 5 years, they were the only health risk I cared about. At the same time, I never cared enough to take the one precaution which could actually decrease my chances of contracting STDs, which of course is condom use. I didn't use condoms for one simple reason: they don't feel good. Condoms can brutally disrupt an otherwise intimate moment, and they rob you of the heat, wetness and texture of a woman's vagina.

Once again, it seems that we are trying to solve the problem backwards instead of taking it head on. The problem isn't that people are having unprotected sex. Unprotected sex is real sex; that's the way it's meant to be done. The problem is that the people who have STDs don't know they have them, and the ones that do know are not being honest about having them. That is the problem that needs to be addressed. I believe that if we are able to identify most of the infected people and permanently mark them (in a very discreet fashion, of course), we can easily wash our hands of this whole STD business within 5 or 10 years.

Now don't jump to conclusions here. Remember that your friend Raynok is 100% committed to personal privacy and civil rights. But the government is allowed to infringe on our rights on a whole mess of different issues, like the 'war on drugs' for example, so why not allow them to infringe in one of the few areas where it really matters.

The most efficient method would be for the government to conduct nationwide blood tests, cure everyone with curable diseases (the clap, the drippings, syphilis, etc.), and discreetly mark every individual with AIDS or Herpes. The problem there is that the government can't just mandate a nationwide blood test like that. Because we allow our citizens to choose between two anemic, bootlicking, stuffed-shirt white males for President every 4 years, we are considered a democracy. So instead of making the blood test compulsory, we could simply tack it onto something that most people choose to obtain: a drivers' license.

A blood test is mandatory for marriage, why not do the same for driving? Everybody who already has a license could have a year in which to renew it and switch to the new blood test-required document. Nowhere on the license would the results of the blood test be posted. It could be completely confidential. The only place where the results would be listed would be directly on the person's genitals, with a small, government issued tattoo. It could be tiny and painless (laser-applied) with cool holograms just like on the licenses. This would give the person complete confidentially about their disease. The only people that would find out you had the hiv or the herp are your sexual partners and your doctor. This would force the infected people to either keep their genitals covered up or just be honest. The only problem I foresee is that 85% of the chicks on Girls Gone Wild would probably stop showing their pussies, but I think I'd be willing to make that trade-off for an AIDS and herpes-free America*.

Of course, this doesn't cover every potential disease carrying person- what about people who don't drive or are too young to drive, and foreigners? Well, the same blood-test could be required for State IDs, which would cover those who don't drive. If we experienced success with the blood-test plan in our country, it is reasonable to assume that other civilized countries would follow suit. This way you would just have to be a little more careful when you bang people from the countries that lack the same policy. And as for kids that are too young to drive, they'd most likely get a disease from somebody older; that possibility would be eliminated by the tattoo.

The costs of these blood tests might be a little expensive, but after a few years the cost of health-care should decrease to even things out. Again, this plan wouldn't eliminate all possibility of contracting a disease, but that's when we have to police ourselves and take just a small bit of responsibility. Feel free to rawdog the 21 year old white-jetta-driving sorority girl that you met in the bar, but consider using a condom with the thick-accented Slovakian whom you met in the parking lot of 7-11. We have let the government fuck with our rights for the futile, misguided war on drugs and we let them encroach on our privacy for the false hope of the abortive war on terror- why not bear a small bit of inconvenience for a plan that will actually work and truly better the country that we live in?


*Have you ever noticed that 99% percent of the girls on Girls Gone Wild are from Georgia, Kentucky, Indiana and other such crappy southern or midwestern states? I think this is a product of religion. All those stupid red state religious idiots are so strict and ignorant in the upbringing of their children, that as soon the kids are allowed to drink and let loose, they'll gladly show their tits or spread their pussies for a flimsy tanktop or a mesh hat. I love Girls Gone Wild, and it could be argued that it is therefore a positive result of religion. But to that, I'd argue that if it weren't for religion, we'd never have this crappy modesty, guilt and shame about our own sexuality in the first place. Just take a look at the Egyptian, Greek, and Roman civilizations before dumb christianity ruined everything.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

NJ Nihilism: Pouring Liquids

I'm not sure how it started, but I remember the first time it happened (at least in the NJ era). Gohnny and I had gone out to New Bruns, but we were bored with our usual hangout, the illustrious Knightclub. The formerly grand Olde Queens, once the hangout of golden age dirtbags like Peter Palmer and Louie Duchessi, had descended into an abyss of oversize white t-shirts, flat-brimmed sideways-cocked hats, and girls who wear jeans that are too tight, forcing small waves of fat from the love handles and lower abdomen region to cascade over the waistband unobscured by their midriff-exposing tops.

We decided to try the Scarlet Pub, a dark, rectangular shitbox which was also known as 'Pete's' for some reason. Gohn and I went in and gorged on our usual combo- Jager bombs chased by gin & tonic. Last call was quickly approaching and we hadn't spoken to a single woman. A couple of portlies had been eyeing us for a while so I approached the worse one and danced with her for 15 seconds before licking the inside of her mouth like a thirsty dog. Naturally, Gohn and the other one got together, and soon we all went back to their house. I remember it was extremely cold out and Gohn and I hadn't worn jackets. We never did because they became cumbersome while at the bar. So we braved the cold and walked back to their lair expecting to get some action, but they were having some after hours and a bunch of other crappy looking people had come over.

We fixed ourselves huge drinks, and sat across from each other near the pantry getting ever more wasted and laughing at everyone around us. But soon, boredom set in, so Gohn looked around the pantry and found some liquid which he began to liberally pour onto the carpet and over other items in the pantry. I can't remember what kind of liquid it was, it might've been apple juice. So we did this for a while, laughing harder as each pour became bigger, riskier and more damaging. Finally, the party dwindled down, and the girls brought us into their respective rooms. Mine turned out to be a worthless prude who wouldn't let me get past over-the-shirt 2nd base. I woke up angry and freezing, wanting to get the hell out of there. Gohn had a completely different scenario. His girl had a space heater right next to bed. He banged her and then woke up covered in warm liquid of curious origin. He didn't know if it was sweat, urine or some kind of liquid this strange girl had secreted, but he got the hell out of there too, and we made our escape around 8 or 9 AM. This was a unique exit for us, as most other nights ended with us sprinting away laughing.

The next two incidents occurred with a nefarious character named Nahlaise. Nahlaise is an actual demon and actual rapist with vertically pierced, dark Peruvian nipples. Usually Nahlaise was strictly a summertime companion, but he had returned to New Brunswick for a final semester.

We were hanging out with him at the bar, and after last call he brought us back to some Indian girl's house. The details on this one are a bit foggy, but I remember being in the girl's room with Nahlaise and Gohn. Nahlaise was trying to do the girl, so Gohn and I made our way out to the living room. Gohn began setting up an elaborate domino-effect apparatus to deliver the liquid pouring, and I was urinating into a vase of flowers. All of a sudden, the girl emerged from her room and caught us in the act. I was slowly walking backwards while trying to finish up with my piss, picking up the pace as the girl realized what was happening and began to angrily yell and chase us. Gohn knocked over a few bottles and booked it. I stuffed my dick back into my pants, threw the vase into the bushes and joined Gohn in a full sprint, stopping periodically for short bursts of cackling.

A few weeks later, or maybe before, Nahlaise was at the bar with a very muscular man whom I dubbed 'Muscles'. Muscles wasn't that talkative of a guy and he didn't seem to like me very much. Gohn and Muscles hit it off with two girls who were roommates, so all of us went back to their place. Gohn went upstairs with his girl, and Nahlaise, Muscles and I hung out in the living room drinking and getting high. Muscles' girl had gone to get pizza, as she and her roommate were very hungry- they had mentioned this many times. Muscles' girl came back with the pizza about an hour later and went upstairs to tell the girl. She had thoughtlessly left that hot steaming pizza on the table in front of us, and naturally, Nahlaise, Muscles and I converged on it like wild hyenas. We consumed the whole thing in minutes. The girls came back down and I sensed they were angry, but at the time I wasn't really clear on why. They soon disappeared back upstairs with Muscles and Nahlaise, and Gohn came down. "She's the hungriest girl alive," he angrily proclaimed. He explained that he had only gotten to feel boobies for the last hour as this girl kept taking breaks to talk about eating and how hungry she was. There was a nearby bottle of baby oil which he grabbed and flipped open, pouring oil all over the place. I was clutching my chest struggling to breathe, trying to mute my fervent laughter when Nahlaise walked back into the room. He caught only a momentary glimpse of Gohn with the upside-down bottle, lavishly oiling the living room couch, before Gohn and I sprinted out the door again like bats into the blackness of night.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Raynok's Reasoning: Airport Security

Going to the airport is a wet blast of diarrhea in the face. It's uncomfortable, time-consuming, and totally inefficient. Obviously there are alot of things in play here, and finding a comfortable balance between passenger safety and civil rights is no easy task. However, I feel that with a bit of creative thinking and some good old fashioned reason and logic, a suitable system of airport security could be established.

First we need to address the problem specifically, and that problem is of course, Muslims trying to suicide bomb our airplanes. Clearly, not all Muslims are terrorists, but so far, all terrorists have been Muslim (at least in this airport-related discussion). The reason they like to kill as many people as they can is because of a book called the Koran. I guess these guys think that a god called Muhammed will be super happy if they kill a bunch of innocent Americans. They believe they'll go to heaven and get to bang 75 virgins, or something to that effect.

And that very idea is the root of the problem. These guys will stop at nothing to blow people up, because they think that blowing people up will get them into this awesome magical fairy-land. So instead of trying to regulate every tiny amount of liquid that people are carrying or conducting worthless random searches, why not attack that ideology directly? Let me explain.

We can downgrade airport security back to the pre-9/11 regulations- just looking for guns, knives and explosives to protect ourselves from run of the mill maniacs, but we add one quick extra step: religion declaration.

We could have four major lines: Muslim, Christian, Jewish, and No Religion. Before entering the gate, each person would have to declare their religion.

If the guy says he's Muslim, in order to pass through to the gate, he must put his hand on the Koran (or however they do it when they swear or pray) and swear to Muhammed that he will not explode the plane. Furthermore, he must tell Muhammed not to allow him entry into that awesome heaven-land if he does blow up the plane. I know- it seems too easy. But think about it- these guys REALLY, TRULY BELIEVE with all their hearts that Muhammed is watching their every move and wants them to kill Americans. These guys actually take this shit seriously. If a guy is extreme enough to believe this, it's a good bet that there are certain things he will refuse to say or do in an effort to save his relationship with Muhammed. We could even have one of the sane Muslims help to develop a quick and easy ritual that an extremist Muslim would refuse to complete if he was indeed planning on doing some terror.

Same thing would apply for the other two religion lines- they would just put their hands on the bible and do a quick swear. It'd really only be for show since Christians and Jews don't engage in completely random acts of terror.

The last line, the 'No Religion' line, is there as a safety net to catch any of the real crafty terrorists. If some cocksure Muslim thinks he can just waltz through the No Religion line, he will be in for a big surprise. In order to pass, you have to spit on the Koran, throw it into a pile of rotten dogshit and rub your face in some titties- basically anything that would drive Muhammed insane with rage.

It's unorthodox, and it's unprecedented, but I believe that it makes logical sense. It addresses the problem, rather than playing catch-up with weapons and explosion detection. Technology is growing by leaps and bounds, and the exhaustive searching methods we currently employ are invasive as it is. Simple searching will never be able to keep up with the technology of war. At the same time, any reasonable person should have no problem swearing to their respective deity that they won't blow up the plane.

But sadly, this solution would be damn near impossible to orchestrate because we live in a democracy that is largely populated by idiots, who are, in turn, informed by an only slightly-smarter, sensationalist media.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Tony Dungy is Black?

In the sports media recently, much has been made of the fact that Lovie Smith and Tony Dungy are the first black head coaches to ever reach the Super Bowl. This was quite a shock to me, because I had no idea that Tony Dungy was black. I had never thought about it before, but I guess I figured he was half Puerto-Rican or something. This kind of reminds me of the time I saw Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson on the cover of Black Man magazine; his blackness was a complete surprise to me as well. I realize this doesn't constitute a real post, and it won't affect the number of entries I post this week, but I was just curious if anyone else felt the same way.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Danger! High Voltage

Fire in the disco!
Fire in the Taco Bell!
Fire in the disco!
Fire in the gates of hell!
Don't you wanna know how we keep starting fires?
It's my desire! It's my desire!
Danger! Danger!
High Voltage!
When we touch!
When we Kiss!

- From Danger! High Voltage by Electric Six

During the late winter/early Spring of my first post-Miami year in New Jersey, these simple lyrics formed a rallying cry, model of behavior, and life philosophy for Gohn and me. Look closer into the words for deeper meaning, and you will find none. And that was the point. On the heels of a promising Summer and Autumn gone horribly wrong, Gohnny and I became full-on nihilists. We cared about nothing, not even our own lives, and like the song, our belief system was that of nonsense, danger, and most of all, screaming*.

I had been accustomed to the self-inflicted financial desert of Miami and so upon joining the mortgage company and receiving a guaranteed income I had lived it up accordingly. In the Fall, I'd been traveling to NYC every weekend, crashing at Qz, Ramon & Noomin's. But this became exhausting both personally and for my wallet, and a young, pugnacious Noomin was becoming fed up with my endlessly childish antics.

Winter marked the end of my guaranteed draw- I became a 100% commission employee which meant I was going to have to become a real salesman. Depression set in, and like I used to describe to Quaze, I had a recurring fantasy that I would wake to find myself face to face with a double-barrel shotgun which would immediately paint the walls with my brain. Things seemed to get worse by the day with the regularity of the rapidly dropping temperature, and the memories of my late November trip back to Miami were still fresh in my mind and on my face**.

Both Gohnny and I were completely clueless as to what we wanted to do with our lives and saw no light at the end of the tunnel. As far as we were concerned, our best days had passed us by. I spent my days in a shirt and tie driving around to various real estate offices, winter wind whipping against my cleanly shaven face. I had to try to make conversation with mid-forties realtors, whom I had nothing in common with, about mortgages, which I cared nothing about. I would hear them talk about stupid network TV shows or complain about their spouses- it all seemed so bleak and horrible. If this was post-college life, I wanted no part of it. That's not to say there were no laughs- just no sober ones.

The winter isolated Gohn and me in NJ from the rest of our friends, and confined by the cold, we took to the bars of old New Brunswick. On a typical weeknight, I'd drive us to the cleverly-named Knightclub where we'd sit at the bar and gorge ourselves on $3 gin and tonics, refusing to move until we were adequately smashed. Though individually we both had considerable skill with women, as a two-man team we were remarkably terrible. We really didn't have anything to say to women, and so we didn't say anything. Most of the nights would end with my driving us home at excessive speeds, laughing, screaming, and singing along to the ridiculous song mentioned above***.

It all came together on one night in the Winter. We had gone to Hoboken to party with a friend of mine from college, but all her friends were garbage. We had boozed like animals on the way there and had a bunch of drinks in the bar, so when we decided to try our luck in New Brunswick we were already annihilated. Danger! High Voltage came up on the shuffle and we had such a great time going nuts to it that we played it a good 6 or 7 more times at an extremely loud volume, until we finally reached our destination: a shitbox called the Buda Bar.

It was about 40 feet from our pot-dealer's house (where Gohnny used to live), and as per usual, all the guys from the house were in there. These guys were really cool. A bunch of them were musicians and were in a pretty good band. They also got high on continuous basis which Gohnny and I found favorable. Having smoked the last of our pot in the car while getting in a last listen to our new favorite song, we went back to these guys' place to buy some more pot. I was still so charged up that I continued to dance and shout lyrics to the song, even as we were hitting the bong at our dealer, Vic's place. To our surprise, these guys knew the song and picked up their instruments. With guitar and bongo accompaniment, we began a slowed-down, super-stoned monster 30 minute jam session, all 7 or so of us laughing and howling the inane lyrics.

I had such a good time, that for the rest of the night, I spoke only in the language of the song. Every statement I made and every question I answered was made using the short list of phrases listed above the body of this post. Besides being uncommonly fun, this is also an interesting social experiment because it demonstrates how much you can communicate using only your tone of voice and body language****.

This particular night, like most, ended with us careening home drunk with nothing to show for our time and money spent. But the reckless mindset remained with us for many more adventures which will be chronicled in the forthcoming series: NJ Nihilism.

*This will probably make more sense if you listen to the song first.

**As if it weren't heartbreaking enough to leave Miami the first time, my November visit proved to be even more crushing. Striker and Mac had been hanging out with a hot, slutty group of UM freshman girls and lived in a nicer and better house than we had during my days there. A few days down there in that hot steamy weather with those sexy girls and their tan legs provided a stark contrast to the craggly Rutgers monsters that New Brunswick had to offer. I was sick over the opportunities I was missing out on. To make matters worse, Mac and I were (play)fighting after leaving a club one night and I sustained a bad injury. I had pushed him to the ground, scraping his hands and knees. He got up and punched me in the neck, which enraged me. I charged him at full speed, and he moved away at the last second, leaving me to collide face first with a concrete pillar. A huge gash opened up over my right eyebrow and I began gushing blood. Though both Mac and Striker told me I needed stitches, I declined, fiercely declaring that, "hospitals are for pussies". The next morning when I woke up, I was still bleeding. I had lain on my back and the blood had run down my forehead on both sides, filling my ears with large pools of blood. By the time I woke up, the blood in my ears had dried. It was pretty gross. I was still destroyed from the night before, but Striker took me to the hospital and I actually had a great time. I had to get 13 stitches, but all the nurses and doctors were hot babes and I kept throwing game while wearing a hospital gown. By the time I left the hospital, the skin around my eye had swelled up huge and had an eye-catching bright purple hue. This wasn't that much of a problem for my remaining days in Miami. I convinced Striker and Mac to dress like pirates with me so that I could wear an eye-patch, and we got a bottle at BED. My disguise was such a success that I even got to do some frenching with a pretty hot brunette freshman. However, back in NJ, it was no laughing matter. My eye stayed bruised for well over a month, and explaining it to my colleagues in the real estate offices was rather disagreeable. On a side note, on the second to last day of my trip, my 1st baby was being vacuumed out of Dolphin-face, hundreds of miles away in the doodytown of Boston.

***Other favorite songs of ours for driving while dangerously drunk were "Seventeen Years" by Ratatat and "la guitaristic house organization" by rinocerose.

****This was the 2nd of 3 times in which I only used a small set of phrases to communicate. The first was many summer agos, when we were about 20, at Gohn's house in LBI. Gohn had been hooking up with a very hot girl named Ashley. Ashley's best friend, Barf, wanted me very badly. Barf was so-named because she looked John Candy's character, Barf, that huge dog-man in Spaceballs. As you can guess, she wasn't attractive. I had tried to be diplomatic in rebuffing her advances for the sake of Gohn and his budding relationship with Ashley, but one night I finally reached my breaking point. Barf had pushed it too far, and so I decided that while she and Ashley were over, I would only communicate using one phrase: "Don't bain the dizzies". You might remember this phrase from the ridiculous 2001 movie Pootie Tang. I have no idea what it means, but I said it over and over for hours until finally Barf got angry and left. The third and most recent time I did this, I used only the word "Bo!", while at the Birthright MegaEvent in Israel this past summer.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Sunday

Sunday nights are my favorite night of the week to work. It's never busy, we have the chillest manager working, and I can DVR the few remaining worthwhile cartoons on adult swim. Usually, I show up super blazed and for the first hour or two, I stand in a corner watching the tail end of the football game.
We have sort of a Sunday night club- a tight-knit group of employees who are all weed-heads. After our individual buzzes have worn off, we take turns going back by the dumpster to get high. Usually, fellow bouncer Mitch, line cook Baron and I take turns bringing the herb. Getting burnt makes the night pass more slowly, but it's a pleasantly languid affair. We all end up sitting down in various places in the bar, which is kind of frowned upon, but we never really get reprimanded cause the bar is so empty. I'll scribble down some notes or ideas on a napkin, space out watching the cool music videos, or just stare at the down and out losers who are getting smashed.
As you can see, my Sunday nights are very special to me because, basically, I do the same thing I'd be doing if I was at home, except I get paid (a little). So it was to my great consternation that the bar was actually crowded last Sunday. We had a couple more employees staffed than usual, but the bar saw so much more volume than that we still kinda had to do stuff anyway. Mitch and I kept hoping that the crowd would fizzle out, but it never did, in fact growing stronger as the night pressed on.
Our Sunday was pretty much ruined, since we had to watch over this excessively drunk crowd, cleaning up their spills and keeping the peace. Mitch and I were becoming angrier and angrier as the patrons became drunker, and right around 1 AM, we decided we would fight the power and get stoned anyway.
I packed a hearty bowl in Mitch's handy one-hitter and took 5 powerful lung-blasting shots, trying to hold them in for maximum effect. By the time I had put away the paraphernalia and stamped out my decoy cigarette, I realized that I may have overdone it. I did my best to hide the goofy perma-smile that was beginning to cross my face, passed the shit to Mitch, and went back inside.
When Mitch returned, we soon realized that we were utterly worthless as bouncers. All we could do was hope that the night would end smoothly. There were 2 other bouncers who were sober, so if anything did happen we'd let them lead the charge.
But the bar did not seem to be calming down. In fact, more people kept coming and everyone kept drinking. It was becoming a mad house.
Some band that had played at a bar down the street came in after their set. These guys were a real bunch of weirdos. One man was wearing nothing but a silk vest and aviator goggles in the sub-30 degree weather. There was another man with thick disgusting dreadlocks and brown, broken teeth. He was making alot of noise and charging around the bar playing 'Duck, Duck, Goose'. This man was frightening me. His actions seemed wild and unpredictable, and he had a large group of friends, all of whom looked like serious dusty road warriors.
I was high as shit trying to keep an eye on this maniac, and followed him out to the front patio, where I really saw his face for the first time, illuminated by the street lights.
I actually thought he was dead. His face was pale white with a dry, caked finish. It appeared as if he died a few days ago and one of his buddies had dug him and performed a voodoo ritual on him.
I ran inside to grab Mitch and told him about how we had a member of the un-dead among us. I showed him this man's bloodless pallor, and he was fearful also. We needed this man to calm down, but neither of us wanted to speak to him; we didn't want him to eat our souls or put a spell on us. We came to the conclusion that our best course of action was to hide in the back and let Larry or Mike deal with it.
Soon came last call, and we began to come down from our high, eventually realizing that the weirdo was merely wearing make-up. The night ended without incident, and our Sunday was saved, thanks to our bold and reckless decision to get high.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Times I (Almost) Got My Ass Kicked

I'm sorry to disappoint you, Bob, but I have never received a ruthless beating. I have never received a beating at all- in fact, I have never been in a real fight. How is this possible? I really don't know. Clearly, I have offended hundreds of people, and as I've seen from my experience at work, fights can arise quite easily. I believe that my track record of zero beatings can be attributed to three things: my appearance, my demeanor, and my innate fight-avoiding abilities. Let me explain.

My Appearance:
I assume we have not met, Bob, but if we had, you'd know that I have a somewhat unconventional appearance. Although my girlfriend denies this, I look pretty scary. I stand about 6'1, and I'm fairly well-built with a large gorilla chest. But the real power lies in my face- or rather, on it. I have extremely large, thick black eyebrows that I can easily arch downward for a very sinister, frightening effect.
In fact, a few nights ago at the bar, a patron mistook me for a Rage in the Cage fighter named Kyle Kingsbury (http://www.kylekingsbury.com/). He approached me with a flyer for Rage in the Cage that had several pictures of shirtless men in various fighting poses. One of them had a short, trimmed beard. The man actually did not believe me when I told him it wasn't me and insisted I sign his flyer anyway, which I finally did, with this Kyle guy's name. This is actually the 2nd time that I've been mistaken for one of those cage fighting lunatics. I can't explain it, I guess I just look mean.

My Demeanor:
This is pretty tough to put into words, but basically whenever I'm behaving in a manner which would merit an ass-kicking, I am not only being offensive, I am also acting insane. I act like a total maniac, bouncing off the walls, shouting, dancing, singing, etc. Imagine a combination of Bebop and Rocksteady with the Tasmanian Devil. I have to assume that from an outsider's perspective, kicking my ass would seem like more trouble than it's worth.

Innate Fight-avoiding Abilities:
This is something that I have inadvertently developed over the years. Basically, I am able to easily sense when I have pissed a man off to the point where he wants to hurt me. Whenever that I occurs, I am able to quickly diffuse the situation. I put my arm around the guy, I apologize, and I tell him he's a great guy. "This guy's number 1," I'll slur as I point at him. And believe it or not, this works 9 out of 10 times. When it doesn't work, it tends to make the man even angrier, at which point I quickly get the hell away from him.
Lastly, I have a natural tendency to befriend the largest man in any given location. Something in my drunk mind compels me to find the largest man in the bar, at which point I'll usually walk or dance up to him and clearly state my objective, that of course being to obtain and slide in and out of pussy. I'll spend the rest of the night stepping to groups of women with this beast. Or sometimes I'll strike out on my own and bring him offerings of women, which is always greatly appreciated by giants. Clearly, this is some sort of evolutionary remnant from our jungle days, a social behavior which is key to survival in hostile environments. Incidentally, this behavior is how I met my good friend Lunatic Jim.

Despite my best efforts to avoid getting trounced, I did have 3 close calls (and probably several more that I don't remember), bookended by incidents where I received a single punch to the face.

8th Grade- Ian Deet
Ian Deet was a loser. He had a blonde haired version of the Lloyd Christmas haircut and a pretty bad speech impediment. I was riding the bus to school one morning, sitting next to Johnny. Ian was in the seat in front of me. I can't remember the details, but basically I was making fun of this kid pretty bad. I had my head turned towards Johnny and was enjoying a good laugh at this kid's expense when he turned around and smashed me in the cheek with his fist. I was completely stunned- it was probably the last thing in the world I expected. There was a huge commotion. I threw an awkward, wild haymaker that didn't connect and then was told to sit at the front of the bus. But the experience did change me. It taught me that if I pissed someone off enough, they would try to injure me.

Throughout the next years of high school I was still a complete asshole but getting beaten up was never a concern because I always had friends who were bigger, stronger, and more athletic. But then senior year came around. I realized that in college I would no longer have this automatic protection. Knowing that my sharp tongue would likely get me into trouble, I took to lifting weights. It was basically the only thing I worked hard at in college. Over those 3 years, I managed to pack 40 pounds of muscle onto my lanky Ehtiopian frame*. I felt that if I looked pretty big, people would be afraid to fuck with me. I guess I was right- no one ever laid a hand on me. Until senior year of college, when I started fucking some guy's girlfriend.

Senior Year of College: Sean
At the tail end of my senior year, I began fucking a girl named Lisa. I knew she had a serious boyfriend (all four years of college), but I didn't know him, so I didn't give a shit. I had a girlfriend myself, but we had an open relationship, so it wasn't cheating per se, although it was behind her back. Lisa and I used very little discretion with regards to our philandering. Lisa's boyfriend, a short Indian man named Sean, apparently had not been laying the cock down properly. The first night that I conjugated Lisa, it was in Lolly's roommate's bed. I stuck an index finger in her asshole and she went crazy (in a good way). From that point on, Lisa's favorite thing to do (besides actually getting fucked) was to talk about how I fucked her. I fucked her in public places. I fucked her in the ass. I fucked her for three hours, using weird techniques and somehow incorporating ice water (so she claims; I blacked out). And she would brag about this to whoever was willing to listen.

Eventually, Sean, who was ring shopping and planning on proposing to Lisa, got wind of this. He had heard some of the rumors that were going around. So he confronted me one night at Famous. I denied it in a very rude manner, openly mocking this small Indian man. But he accepted my denial, things were fine.

Until my filthy, backstabbing roommate (also Indian) called Sean and told him that the rumors were true; that he could prove it. So Sean stayed on the line while my roommate called Lisa on three-way, and he tricked her into talking about every disgusting, salacious thing I had done to her body. Needless to say, Sean was more than a little pissed off.

From that point on, every time I went out, Sean would be out looking for me with a posse of 10 or 12 men. It just became natural for me to expect that guys were going to try to kill me on any given night I went out. Most of the time I stayed away from places I knew they hung out at, but there were a few times when I did run into them at Maggie's or Famous. The weird thing was they wouldn't start fighting me- they would always tell me to step outside. I guess these guys had a tremendous amount of respect for the bar. But anyway, I would always decline. They would keep trying to get me to come outside, and I'd keep saying no. I had no interest in going outside to get jumped by 10 guys. I didn't have the mindset to fight this guy- I still found the whole thing kinda funny. You have to be a focused, fierce demon to fight a man with as much unbridled rage as Sean- I pretty much ruined his life in a rather public fashion.

Finally, one night it all came to a head, but oddly enough, neither Sean nor I was not involved. A friend (not even a good one) simply got tired of these kids harrassing me so he got in one of their faces. Sean's redneck buddy smashed a bottle on the back of my friend's bald, black head, and the whole thing was broken up in about 2 seconds. That was on one of the last nights of school. We all graduated, and that was pretty much it.

Miami:
It was one of my first nights in Miami and we were going to the Delano on South Beach. I wanted to dress for the scene, so I wore white jeans and skin-tight light pink polo. I looked like a real asshole. This was a law school outing- those little fucks had planned the whole thing, and I had just come along for the ride. I was swilling bourbon and speaking freely, using many curses and explicit, descriptive language. Basically, I was just being myself. A law student named Sloren had brought her boyfriend who was in town. He was a major league pussy, and didn't like the way I was speaking in front of his lady. Rather than confront me, he convinced a slow-witted crony of his to walk up to me and punch me in the face. I was extremely drunk at the time, and this man cracked me in the side of the head and ran off into the night. The weak blow did not even affect my balance, and mostly left me confused. I had never seen a man behave this way.


*Unfortunately, all that muscle was confined to my torso. I still have legs like Lara Flynn Boyle.

Sunday, January 14, 2007

Marginally Famous People in My Bar

On Friday night, we were graced by the presence of 'Wes' and 'Joanna' from MTV's Real World: Austin. They were with the non-black, non-homo guy from the current Denver season as well. The first thing that struck me was the size of these people. Wes and Joanna had been at the bar on one previous occasion, and I noticed that Wes was small, but on Friday I got a good long look at him as he stumbled past me and out the door. This man is tiny. He couldn't have been more than 5'7, 140 pounds.

They weren't kicked out of the bar exactly, but I believe Wes was warned by a member of our staff, which had caused him to storm out. He appeared to be very drunk as he whisked past, with sexy Joanna fighting to keep pace. On her way out, she mouthed 'Thank you,' to me. "What for," I belatedly blurted, but she was already gone. Behind her, the Denver guy followed as they all left the bar. I wasn't sure who the Denver guy was, but I knew I recognized his face. He was dressed like a west-coast skater idiot: baggy shorts and t-shirt with socks pulled up to his knees. He looked like a 3rd grader.

As soon as they left, some dumpy college asshole who was also small (but way bigger than Wes) came up and explained who the Denver guy was, and continually expressed his wild-eyed incredulity at Wes' meager frame. He motioned his buddy over and they decided to take a break from the bar to "go fuck with Wes". I hope they rolled him, but I have to assume that anytime this tiny man goes anywhere with his hot girlfriend, drunken morons try to smack him around. He probably carries a knife or something.

A few weeks prior (and much more exciting for me, personally) an amateur porn whore showed up. Small, hot and blonde, this girl looked very familiar. Again, it was some random college asshole who clued me in. Obviously, I did some research as soon as I got home. This particular whore was a former ASU student and cheerleader, who actually grew up Mormon. Like most girls, she soon realized that she could trade sex for money, and a star was born. She is relatively famous locally, because she caused a big uproar when she was photographed being fucked in many different ways while wearing her cheerleading uniform. At the bar, she was with a seedy looking entourage and seemed to be attached to a greasy bald man in a glossy button-down shirt. Please enjoy these links:
http://michiganzone.blogspot.com/2006/01/when-cheerleaders-go-bad.html
http://www.uselessjunk.com/article_full.php?id=13141

Thursday, January 11, 2007

The Clap, Act III: THE CURE

I was a mess of a man. Striker and I went out hard on our first night in Orlando, but I just didn't have the drive to do any quality work. My confidence was shot, and I was still upset about fucking things up with Bianca. I didn't feel like starting over with a new girl, talking all that bullshit and working the charm. I wanted to bang my nice little innocent 18 year old. But since this innocent 18 year old was worldly enough to cut all ties with a man who readily admits he has a disease, I didn't have much of a choice. I was starting to wish that I had just allowed her to drink down my poisonous sperm solution. I was starting to become angry. Angry at Clownface, angry at Bianca, angry at all women. Damn them all to hell for allowing me to contract this abominable infection!

Worse yet, the infection was becoming prominent. It was one thing when it stayed under the cover of my pants, but when I woke up on the morning of the Strokes show, one of my eyes was pinkish and crusty. I had not been diligent about washing my hands after touching my dick, and now I had a goddamn case of pink eye (often occurs comorbidly with chlamydia). We were staying at Lolly's house and I was the first one awake. I told Striker that this condition neaded to be dealt with immediately- I could not take it anymore.

He helped me to locate a walk-in clinic and, ever the good friend, accompanied me to the place. I thought that maybe I could get some super strong antibiotic that would quickly and cleanly destroy the bacteria, boosting me back to health for the concert. It was early enough in the morning that we wouldn't be missed, so maybe I could even accomplish this before the whole city figured out I had the Clap.

The clinic was a small brick structure a few miles outside of town with a large red cross on the dirty white sign. I had to fill out some paperwork describing my illness and the symptoms. The girl behind the desk was actually pretty cute, and, still buzzed from the night before, I haphazardly threw some game at her even as I marked down the word "Gonnorhea"* on the paper right in front of her. This made her laugh.

I sat back down next to Striker, looking around the clinic. It was all adults, elderly people and little kids. We were the only tired, stinking boozebags in the place. After about 15 minutes or so, I was called in to see the doctor.

I sat on that chair/table thing that they have in doctors' offices as the doctor looked over the sheet I had filled out. He was tall and imposing with deep brown skin, dark hair and thick eyeglasses. He didn't look like that nice of a guy. I couldn't pinpoint his race, but he had to be either indian (dot) or arab. When he spoke, his voice was deep and authoritative, his accent thick and murky.

"You have gonnorhea?" he said, "what are symptoms?". I told him about the burning and the crusting and the pink eye, and he shot back with, "what about drippings? You have drippings?". I assumed he meant dick drippings, and I told him that, no, I was not experiencing any 'drippings'. "You have chlamydia," he concluded. I told him the medicine I had been taking and this made him very angry. Apparently it was the wrong medication and he wanted to know who gave it to me. After I diffused his anger by telling him I had already had the medicine, he went over to a drawer and pulled out a huge, colorful, hardcover book.

It was one of those books of STDs. This man stood real close to me, nearly shouting in my face as he showed me page after page of pussing, oozing, bleeding and sore-covered genitals. "I understand," I told him. "I learned my lesson". But this was not good enough for the 'doctor'. "How do you make sure you not get this again?," he snapped. "I'll use condoms from now on," I said. "NO!!!!," he thundered. "NO SEX!!!!". "Sex is for one man and one woman in marriage, you understand??!".
Yes, yes, I understood! I just wanted to get the hell out of there. This man was beginning to frighten me. After 10 more minutes of his unethical attempt to indoctrinate me with his beliefs, the horror show was finally over. He wrote me two scripts, one for Zithromax and one for a single large pill.

Striker and I immediately went to the CVS and filled the script, but obviously I was not in the best mood after having been ear-raped by that over-zealous charlatan.
It was early afternoon, and no doubt most of the guys in the house were awake at this point. I gave them a tossed-off explanation about getting my pink eye taken care of, and they seemed to buy it**. The Strokes show was at 7 or 8, which meant that we had to start drinking at 4 pm the latest. The booze went down like nails, but after fighting through the first 3 or 4 cocktails, I was home free. I could piss without pain, and I started to forget about the whole horrible ordeal. I could finally relax and focus on the concert, the crown jewel of our historic bender.

The Strokes put on a great show, and rocked harder and livelier than I had expected. I was putting the booze away like a true demon, really feeling the music and dancing my troubles away. I was full throttle, rip-roaring smashed.
The music stopped, the lights came on and I moved toward the first living thing I saw and started kissing it. It turned out to be a woman in her upper 20's with prominent, luscious breasts and an awful, hook-nosed witch-face. Striker followed my lead and began frenching her friend, who looked like Patty from the Peanuts comic with a gut like John Belushi. These girls were ugly.

We squeezed these two animals in the car with us and all of our friends, gleefully molesting them the whole way. Our friends dropped us off at the girls' place, stranding us there, and they went back to their own place. It turned out to be the house of my demon, and we went straight into her bedroom. I was obliterated drunk and very horny, wanting to punctuate the whole sordid debacle with a nice release of fluid. Witch-face was decidedly less anxious and frazzled about the whole affair, wanting to take her time and enjoy it like a normal human being. This pissed me off. Didn't this unholy beast realize that I was doing her a favor by even being there?
After trying to mount her several times, she made it clear that sex was not going to happen. Adding to my temper, I could hear the wet shuffling, pounding and squishy noises from Striker annihilating her friend on the carpet floor, only a few feet away. "Why can't you be more like your friend," I whined. Finally we came to an agreement- I would lick her box and she would blow me. I half-heartedly went down on this slob, hating every moment, flickering my tongue upon her undeserving vagina, the thick black hairs of her poorly shaved mons pubis scraping my nose. After a minute or two of this I insisted it was her turn, and I laid on my back and wordlessly let her put my infected dick inside and swirl it around her mouth. I did not feel bad about it, I did not feel good; I felt nothing at all as I wantonly released my pestilent seed into her unsuspecting mouth.
Striker finished up with his marmaduke around the same time. We met in the living room, debriefed eachother, and got the hell out of there, but not before stealing a bra and a stone carved frog that said "Welcome". I have no idea how we got home.

A few days after returning to Miami, the symptoms subsided and I was finally cured. But the overall experience continued to affect me. It renewed my hatred of women and sucked the fun out of the one thing in life which had always brought me joy. This point of view stuck with me and informed my behavior for the final months of my tenure in that locale, but luckily***, it was the last time I had to deal with that terrible trio of letters, S T D.


*I had now begun to think that I had Gonnorhea as the symptoms were similar and my Clap medication did not seem to be working.

**Despite their supposed ignorance, all of my friends (and their friends) in Orlando knew about the Clap a mere week or two after I had finally rid myself of it.

***It truly was luck, since, although the experience affected my mental state, my penchant for rawdogging was unaffected and I continued to bang strangers without protection.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

The Clap, Act II: INFECTION/IDENTIFICATION

Clownface and I did not speak again following that bone-dry bone, both of us content to ignore one another from that point on.

I was a very happy man in those days; Striker and I seemed to improve on our game with each passing week. My drug dealing business was hitting its stride, and we were becoming well known characters in the Grove. We were pulling more and more numbers with better looking girls. However, for all of my success and happiness, my lifestyle- my day to day activities, did not improve. I had spent nearly all of the money I had saved. It had been a handsome sum, composed of pet store earnings, bar mitzvah and graduation money. But now there was only enough left for another few months- and that would be stretching it. After rent, most of that money was devoted to alcohol/going out costs. I had to be very frugal with all other expenses. My routine was as follows: I would wake up and immediately sneak into the UM gym. After working out on an empty stomach, I would scrounge up 6 quarters and purchase a Hershey's Milkshake at the Circle K. This would last me most of the day; usually I'd spend the remainder of the daylight hours getting high, laying out or playing video games. Sometimes I'd workout with Striker and we'd MILF hunter around the campus until my sister bought me food. On days that I did not eat, I would make sure to drink plenty of water. Around 8 or 9 PM I'd head to McDonald's or various other fast food joints and feast like a demon upon the dollar menu, maximizing my fat and calorie intake by taking it all down at once. After allowing an hour for digestion, it was time to begin drinking. Striker and I would drink until midnight, at which point we'd go out to the Grove and drink some more. The drinking would continue until I was drunk enough to blackout, waking up to start all over again. Sometimes, I'd wake up to discover I'd done ridiculous damage to my house- like the hot sauce stains on the ceiling. Sometimes I'd wake up to discover mysterious damage to my body- like the severely sprained ankle I had senior year of college which healed, months later, as miraculously as it had appeared.

And so it's no wonder, with a lifestyle like this, that I didn't notice a certain nagging health problem. But I was starting to notice a strange pinching sensation inside my dick. It didn't worrry me at first, as the pain was fairly mild and very short lasting, like quick lightning strikes.

As the days went on, the pain became worse. Now, the pinches would come more often and last longer. When I urinated, the piss burned the whole way out. It could no longer be ignored. I went to the computer and did a bit of research on WebMD. It didn't take long for me to pinpoint my condition: I had Chlamydia. In case you don't know, Chlamydia is a bacterial infection of the genitals, an STD.

This was a pretty low moment for me. I had been warned about STDs since the days of middle school but it always seemed like it couldn't happen to me. At the same time, I was well known for refusing to wear condoms. It was no secret why- they simply don't feel good. For years I would spout off statistics- like even if you rawdog a girl who has AIDS, as a man, your chances of contracting the disease are less than 10%. Well, all the statistics went to shit when it felt like I had razorblades skidding down my urethra with every dreaded drop of piss I released.

Luckily, Chlamydia is a curable STD, so I didn't have much to worry about. But I had no health insurance and no doctor- I was not a civilized man. I called a couple friends up north who had fathers that were doctors. One of them was kind enough to call in a prescription for me. I picked up the pills, and followed the directions, and that was that.

Or so I thought. I had been taking the pills for over a week, and the burning had not subsided. In fact, it was becoming more painful. A thin film would form over the pee-hole, like the one that forms after you blow your load and don't pee for a while. To push the pee through that crusty film, you had to give the piss a decent push, which meant I felt a real harsh bursting burn to start off the piss.

This was absolutely the worst time it could have happened. I may have been unemployed, but I had a very serious social calendar. Unfortunately for me, I identified the infection in the early, promising days of my legendary 21 day bender. This bender had been planned for months, and it spanned multiple venues and cities across the state of Florida. It included a trip back to Tampa for the 2nd Gasparilla and two trips to Orlando. It all culminated in a Strokes concert in Orlando on a Saturday night. I had been long anticipating this bender, and didn't want to be slowed down by a pesky STD. A more immediate problem was that Bianca had just arrived in town.

Bianca was a very hot, very young girl that I met in Orlando. She was an 18 year old freshman at Rollins- petite, blonde and tan with full, pert breasts and a Southern Country-Club attitude. I had met her a week or two earlier, and we spoke on the phone a couple times. She was planning a trip to Miami with a few of her friends, and we had planned to meet up. I could tell she dug me, I was as good as in- but of course there was the issue of the virulent bacteria slowly eating away at my genitals. I knew the pills weren't working, but I really didn't have any options. Bianca was in town, and I wasn't about to let this opportunity pass me by.

As it happened, Bianca and her friends were at one of the worst clubs on the entire beach- Club Deep. This is not surprising, as they were all under-age, and had to go where ever they were let in. She looked super hot when I first walked in- she was wearing a little turquoise dress, beautifully contrasting her smooth, tan skin. We were drinking and dancing, and she was giving me the doe-eyes. I went in for a kiss, but she denied me. I backed off some, and she later told me she wasn't into PDA. After a brief talk, we decided to go back to my place. I drove her back, playing soothing Jack Johnson to ease her young nerves.

Back at my place we went to my room and watched a little TV on the couch. I had to play it smooth since she was not like the common sluts I was used to (not yet, at least). But soon we were on my bed, with her dress pulled up at the waist and down at the tits. I went down on her, which I almost never did (I just never had a desire to do so with common whores) but this girl was so young and pure.
I made her come, which, judging from her reaction, was among the first times a man had ever done this for her. She got up and turned around to return the favor by knobbing my throbbing boner, but I stopped her. "Wait," I said. "Why don't I just go get a condom". She protested, saying something about only having been with one guy, and again attempted to my put my disease stick in her hot little mouth.

I stopped her again. This time I had to give an explanation. In the heat of the moment, wrestling against my conscience, I blurted out a ridiculous hybrid of the truth. I told her that I had a bacterial infection. "Of the eye," I said, "like pink eye". I explained that we were ok with saliva contact, but that it could easily be transferred from my genitals. As long as she didn't lick my cock or eyeballs, she'd be safe. After this ridiculous clarification (which I explained while nude, with a fearsome boner) I actually tried again with the condom thing. Predictably, she rebuffed my advances.

But I cuddled with her and made nice, and told her I was getting the pills to cure it the next morning. I assured her it'd be completely out of my system when I saw her next week in Orlando. We had a long deep kiss goodnight when I dropped her off. I was happy that I had done the right thing, and I really thought that I'd get a second chance to nail Bianca when I visited Orlando, my 2nd home.

But a day or two after she had been in town, Bianca stopped answering my calls. Meanwhile, I was still taking the pills (it was 30 days worth) and the pain was still getting worse. I was trying my best to stick it out and wait for the healing to start happening, but I was growing suspicious that I was not taking the correct, or perhaps most efficient, course of action.

I had ceased working out, as I took to drinking earlier and earlier in the day- the only tonic which eased my pain. As drinking began to supplant a bigger and bigger part of my normal daily activities, it also began to supplant a bigger and bigger portion of my caloric intake. But I didn't have too much time to worry about it- I had partying to do. It was time to head back to Orlando.

It was in Orlando that the now-haggard bender, along with my gruesome ailment, finally came to an end in an ugly, limping finish.

Friday, January 05, 2007

The Clap, Act I: TRANSMISSION

Late-Period Miami

After nearly a year and a half of suffering at the hands of that gilded sweat-stain of a city, Striker and I finally had it working for us. This was truly our golden age. Violet and I had been broken up since the summer, but I had spent the autumn months in a period of decreased productivity. Striker had begun dating Patsy, a 1st year law student, soon after the semester started. They quickly became inseparable, which left the Eggman without his trusty wingman. Lucky for me, Patsy's sanity was waning with each passing day. Soon after Winter Break, Striker called it quits with her- or at least he tried to. What followed was the most shocking display of insanity that I'd seen in the context of adult relationships. Patsy simply would not let the breakup happen. She took to calling his phone and leaving so many messages that his mailbox would fill up every couple of days. He was unable to turn it on for even a second. She would show up at the house. She would ambush him at bars. It was actually frightening since her behavior was so unpredictable.
Striker began the breakup process while we were at Gasparilla (a Mardi Gras style Pirate festival in Tampa which will be chronicled at another time) in mid-January. He wasn't completely rid of her until mid-February; we actually had to get the police involved. At this point, Patsy was rechristened Lunatic 2.0. This is significant because Striker was so incredibly relieved to get this demon off his back, that the severing of their ties ushered in the most absurd and opulent period in the history of both our lives. For one thing, Striker went on a tear that can't even be accurately described with words. I have never seen a (non-famous/non-athlete) man put up numbers like that in such a short period of time. I had my wingman back, and we became unstoppable. Nearly unstoppable, that is. For, I engaged in an ill-advised tryst with a young girl during the first days that Striker and I were reunited. This lapse in judgment would sideline me for a couple weeks and open my eyes to the dangers of our lifestyle.

It was mid-February, and my sister had invited us to her sorority's Valentine's Day crush party. She was a member of the hottest/bitchiest sorority on campus. Getting access to the party was a major coup on our part. The party was in the Grove at one of the lesser known clubs. Striker and I also invited Vic Scrottone, who couldn't have stood out more if he was a flying elephant or a circus bear. We were the only people there that were not in college- Striker was 24 and Scrottone was 27. We knew alot of the girls there- either through my sister, our upstairs neighbors, or just from being out all the time. There were scores of hot and sexy college girls there for the taking. Neither Striker or I could count any members of this sorority as lovers, but we were most desperate to do so. We were yayed up and drunk, we were looking good and we had a positive attitude. It was a magical night. Unfortunately, a wily individual named Clownface had other plans for me.

Clownface wasn't horrible looking, but she certainly wasn't hot. She was 15 pounds overweight in all the wrong places with a round, freckled face. Clownface compensated for her inferior looks by being an an irrepressibly fervent slut. I was told that a few weeks prior to the crush party she jacked off Jeremy Piven in Pearl, which may seem impressive now, but you have to remember that this was just before Entourage came on the air, so to the general public, Piven was merely that balding asshole from PCU.
Striker, Scrottone and I were just getting used to our surroundings and plotting our moves when Clownface approached and glued herself to me. I have to give Clownface credit- she was certainly tenacious. She left little to the imagination when she incessantly whispered things like "you're hot" and "I want you" while rubbing my thigh. I may have been wasted, but I was not ready to give up my golden ticket just yet. Going home with Clownface at this early point in the night would be like going to a Victoria's Secret party and going home with pig-faced Drew Barrymore before even taking a swing at Heidi Klum or Adriana Lima.
But sadly, 'wasted' soon gave way to 'smashed', and Clownface's propositions were becoming harder to resist. At first I told her I couldn't hook up with her because she was friends with my sister. Clownface, ever the wise bargainer, wasted no time in marching right up to my sister and asking her if it was ok, which she of course said it was* (thanks, Kiddo). She came back up to me and informed me of this and stared me down like a puppy expecting a treat. It was becoming more and more difficult to weasle away from her. During one of the times that Clownface left to get another drink, take a crap, snort more coke or whatever the hell she did, I met an actual pretty girl named Courtney, who would come into play later in the year. Just as I was getting into a conversation with this new girl, Clownface returned with a vengeance, dashing my chances with Courtney (at least for that particular night).

The final straw was Striker's whispered encouragements. I had Clownface writhing on my leg like a wild dog, and he kept coming up to me and hissing, "Just do it, man. Get some blood in the water**." Finally, laziness, horniness and drunkeness combined to form a dangerous synergy. I looked at Clownface and said, "Alright- let's go". Striker tossed me the keys and I piloted his custom-made booze-wagon*** back home with Clownface in tow.
The sex was not notable, aside from the minor detail that I played Air's excellent Talkie Walkie album which had recently been released. I did not use a condom, as was my custom, and I deposited a lazy cumshot inside her, but only because she asked so nicely.

The morning after was unpleasant. The bright Miami sun was not kind to her, highlighting her flaws as she stuffed her swollen body into the sausage casing of her nighttime attire. The drive back to her dorm was straight torture. I had to take the booze-wagon, which had no AC and no stereo (my car had been smashed in an accident), which meant that when we weren't speaking, we sat in awkward silence. The distance from my house to her dorm was literally less than a mile and a half, but the conversation was very strained since all I knew about her was that she was a freshman and that she had desperately wanted me to paint her insides with translucent white goo.

"Take it easy," I told her as she exited the car, neglecting to ask for a phone number. I was relieved to be rid of her. During the following week, I saw her once or twice in the Grove. She was visibly angry and ignored me, apparently because I had not called her. I found this puzzling. Did guys usually call her after this type of behavior? Nevertheless, we had a second sexual encounter, again thanks to Striker's comical meddling.

I had come home before him and was enjoying some leisurely bong rips in my bedroom, considering whether or not to make a run for some Taco Bell. Before I could decide, Striker called me and cryptically warned me not to go anywhere- he had a present for me. "Gift-wrapped and everything," he said, as I heard girls giggling in the background. About 5 minutes later, Clownface stumbled into my room and began pawing my chest. She indicated that she had spent some time with the white devil, but she didn't have any left, which pissed me off. I licked the inside of the empty bag for a decent numb-er, and grudgingly laid the cock down on her, this time being more notable in that she felt very dry. 'This is not a healthy girl,' I remember thinking...


*For the first few months of this year, my sister made a point of disallowing Striker or I from getting with any of her friends, sometimes going to great lengths to maintain this moratorium. As such, I was rather surprised that she whole-heartedly granted her permission in this singular instance.

**We had lived below 4 hot babes from this sorority for a year and a half, and Striker and I held the belief that in order to make the jump from friendly neighbors to sexual candidates, we needed to demonstrate ourselves as sexual beings, and in order to do so, we had to fuck some of their sorority sisters. This theory proved true.

***The booze wagon started out as your average Ford Taurus. It was an older model, with blue cloth interior and sensible white body. It became the booze-wagon when it was broken into one night in the grove. The passenger side window was smashed open and the stereo was taken. We returned to the car after a night of hard partying to find the stereo gone and the interior littered with broken glass. Did we call the cops? Nah. We went to Taco Bell. I had to sit in the back seat so as not to cut my ass cheeks on the glass, but that was pretty much the only difference. The car became the perfect drunk-driving machine because it was so crappy. It seemed to get a little bit worse with each passing day. You could move the wheel 8 inches in either direction without actually changing the trajectory of the vehicle, and the lack of distracting music allowed you to focus on the exclusive goal of procuring fast food and subsequently returning home. Although the window was eventually replaced, by the end of its time in Miami, the passenger side door ceased to open or close. It was eventually sold for 2 or 3 hundred dollars.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

I'm Not Dead-

But I am on hiatus for a bit. I apologize for my lack of posts recently, but the holiday season/New Years fucked me up pretty well. I was awarded a responsibility promotion at my job, which puts me at the front door, checking IDs and regulating the line. I don't get any more money, of course, but there is alot more action and the night goes by much quicker. My hours were recently upped, not only from the holidays, but also because Tempe/Glendale is hosting 3 Bowl games, including the Championship game. Due to the unusually cold winter (it's actually been colder here than in NY) and the large amount of time spent outside, I've developed some flu-like symptoms; unfortunately my girlfriend is also sick.
As I write this now, my body has already conquered the illness*, but my girlfriend has not healed up as quickly, so I'm doing my best to care for her. However- all that being said, the main reason I have not posted in a couple weeks is because I have been trying to complete a script for a TV show pilot.
I have literally grown sick and tired of sleeping on floors and couches, eating lonely fast food meals, never seeing friends, and putting a strain on my relationship- all of which is a result of working nights for $8/an hour. Ramon tells me that if I can complete this script, I will have the 3 writing samples necessary to try to get an agent, which would be a sort of light at the end of a tunnel for me. I've been working on that in my free time, and I expect to be done with a first draft by early next week. Once I have completed the first draft I can resume my normal posting schedule. I am sorry to disappoint those of you who enjoy this site, but I promise, my return post is going to be a fucking beast. You know how when you stop jacking off for a few days, when you finally release, your cumshot is a heaping, voluminous eruption? It's gonna be like that. In the meantime, though, I invite some of my pals to do me (and the readers) a favor by throwing a few guest blogs my way. Quazar, Terry, Striker, Z-man, King, Billy, Noise, Digger or any of you assholes out there- a contribution would be much appreciated. Send it to me at RAYNOKEGGMAN@gmail.com and I'll gladly post it up. It'd be much appreciated. I know alot of you don't do shit at work anyway. So again, my sincere apologies for this recent dead air, but keep checking back, I'll make it worth the wait. I also want to thank everyone for their encouragement, without which I'd probably have a much more severe drug or alcohol problem.


*This is only a theory, but I believe that all my years of living in filth, eating garbage, and abusing my body (all while keeping up a semi-rigorous fitness routine) have made me pretty resistant to illness. I almost never get sick, and when I do it is generally milder and of shorter duration than the norm.