I just finished watching the movie “The Lovely Bones”. It is a very good movie that, as best as I can tell, is about how serial killers are God’s little helpers because they basically help little girls cut in the line to get to heaven, allowing them to completely skip most of the bullshit we’ve all got to deal with. Am I wrong?
God’s little helper, Mr. Harvey.
I was taking a nap the other day and I dreamed that my bald ass feline homie, Sam Cassell, had his own cell phone and was sending me text messages. And I was like, “Holy shit! You can text message, Sam Cassell?”
He agreed he could.
So I was like “Well then while we’re talking, could you quit watching me when I masturbate? That shit creeps me out.”
He says, “No problem, homie.”
Only it’s been a few days. And that was clearly a dream. Because he still watches sometimes and I am still creeped out.
It was Tuesday night, or, more accurately, early Wednesday morning. 12:10 am (central) to be specific. I live in a garage apartment. I was home. I was lying in bed in only a t-shirt and boxer briefs. Inside the Actor’s Studio was on my television. James Lipton was interviewing Betty White. Sam Cassell, my bald ass feline homie, was lying on my chest purring. Cleary, I was not anticipating any excitement.
Then I thought I heard the door to the garage open downstairs. I dismissed it. It was too late for my father or his girlfriend (who live in the house in front of my garage) to have come in. Thirty or forty seconds later I hear some banging around in the garage. Someone is down there.
Now, were I a quick thinker, I would have perhaps thrown on pants and shoes and grabbed my phone and a weapon of some sort. I am not a quick thinker. So, instead, I charged through the door and turned on the hallway light wearing nothing but my underwear and t-shirt – completely unarmed. I can see the door at the bottom of the stairs is wide open. It had been closed. I was sure of that. Someone is definitely down there.
From the top of the stairs I yell, “HELLOOO?!?!” No answer. I say it again, this in an even more irritated tone because for some reason I am not frightened. Surely it is just my father’s girlfriend down there. Again, there is no answer. Five or ten seconds go by when a lumbering oaf of a man emerges from the garage and stumbles out the door way with something large and dark tucked under one of his arms. He never even glanced at me. He must have been between 6’1 and 6’3. He was wide with a very large belly. He had to have weighed somewhere between 240-280 lbs (depending on what his actual height was).
Now, again, if I were a quick thinker I would have dialed 9-1-1 and went and thrown on some pants and grabbed my car keys so that I might follow him in my car while simultaneously informing the operator of the current location of the burglar. Again, I am not a quick thinker. So, instead, I opted to chase after him and yell, “You crazy fucking crack head!” to which he responds in slurred but perfect English, “Fuck you.”
Now, I want to talk about that for a moment because I find it bewildering. I have caught this guy red handed in the middle of burglarizing my garage. Now, were I in his shoes and somebody were to call me a crazy fucking crack head, I would be like “I am not a crack head, but considering the situation at hand I can certainly understand why you would come to that conclusion. Frankly, it’s embarrassing that I am not a crack head because at least addiction would be a somewhat justifiable excuse for my actions. So, in summary, fair enough!”. But he, undoubtedly aware that he was the one in the wrong, still responded, “Fuck you.” At least he had the decency to use a period rather than an exclamation point. His “Fuck you” definitely lacked conviction.
So I am chasing him down my drive-way. He’s swerving and stumbling. He is definitely under the influence of something. Despite being barefoot, I could have easily caught up with him. That is not my intent. I mean, what the hell would I do if I caught the big bastard? No. At first I just wanted to chase him out of my yard so he would think twice before returning. Only once I chased him out of my yard, I’m thinking “Fuck this guy! I want to know where he goes so I can tell the cops!”. So I continue chasing him down the street. Only, of course, a few seconds later I realize I have no phone with which to notify the police of his whereabouts. Luckily, my brother and sister-in-law lived four doors down and he is running in the direction of their house. So when I arrive at their yard, I run up the steps to his door and beat on it until I hear his dogs barking. Then I continue to pursue the fat bum. He gets to an alley a block away and runs out of breath. He begins walking down the alley. I turn around and run back to my brother’s house. I find my brother looking out the window of his door. He quickly opens the door upon seeing me. I shout “Call the cops! I just chased a crack head out of the garage! He’s in the alley around the corner!”
I run back to the alley. I can see his silhouette still walking and stumbling through the alley. He is nearly to the next block. I return to my brother. He is on the phone. I try to get him to grab his keys so we can follow the fat fuck from the safety of his truck, but my brother is disoriented because he was just awoken, his wife is yelling at him to find out what is going on and he is also trying to call the police. He is clearly being tugged in a few too many directions. So I run back to my apartment. I throw on pants and grab my keys and my phone. I drive back past my brother. He is on the patio with his wife. He is still on the phone. I roll down the window and tell them “I have my phone. I’m going to drive around and look for him. Call me when the cops get here.”
I drive around. The crack head has vanished. My brother calls me five minutes later. The cops are have arrived. He asks me where I am. I tell him “Three blocks away. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as I hang up, a cop pulls me over, jumps out and runs up and asks “Where did you last see him?” I didn’t even see him behind me! I told him the last location I saw the guy, gave him the description and returned home. In three blocks I saw three more cops cars and I saw they had the mother fucking ghetto bird out looking for this guy. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, our tax dollars being used on a helicopter to locate some big drunken bastard who stole something from my garage.
Upon returning, the cops ask me to show them where I found him and tell them the story step by step. They ask for the description and, aside from his height and weight, I tell them he had black shaggy hair, wore a white polo shirt and light colored jeans and he was either white or latino and definitely an American. The cop looked at me with a puzzled expression and asked, “How do you know he is an American?”
“I called him a crazy fucking crack head and he said ‘Fuck you’ in perfect English.”
“Oh.”
We inspected the garage. We found the freezer door ajar. He had been in it. My brother and my father keep that thing stocked with all manner of dead animals. Cows, Deer, Turkey, Quail, Doves, all sorts of shit. Apparently, the package I saw him running away with was meat. Yeah. I, a vegan, thwarted him in the middle of his meat heist.
After the officers checked to ensure that the windows and doors on the house were secure, we walked back out to the police car and she began the paperwork. They asked for his description again. They asked me how I knew he was down there. Then a question I didn’t expect.
“And what did you say to him again?”
“I said, “You crazy fucking crack head!”
She scribbled it down. “And what did he say in return?”
“He said, “Fuck you.””
Again, she scribbled it down.
That shit is in the official police report. Amazing.
Permalink →Tonight, I’m at a bar. And I’m talking to a guy I know when I receive a text message from a girl I know that read “That guy you’re talking to peed on me”. Then, later, I’m standing next to her when somebody texts her and says “Come over here. That guy you’re standing with has rape face.” So yeah. It was a funny enough night.
Permalink →Today, I arrived at the door to the gym at the exact same time as an older gentleman. I opened the door for him. He was AT LEAST in his sixties, but probably considerably older.
After warming up, I found myself one machine behind him on the circuit. So, every time I sat down to work out on a machine, I saw the weight he was working out with. Then I changed it to the weight I work out with. Yeah. He was at least twice my age and he was working out with between 100-120 lbs, depending on the machine. Me? I was working out with between 20-40 lbs. I feel pretty good about myself right about now.
I was fifteen years old and I was up at the mall with a whole gang of my boys. we were just fucking around, spending our money, flirting with girls, running crips out the place for the hell of it. This was not an unusual night for me. As the mall closed, though, we decided we would go catch a film. We never paid for the movies. We were hoodlums, and as such, all eight or so of us just stepped over the velvet rope and walked into the theater. We would not even attempt to be discreet about it. There was no need. Most of the people who worked there were teenagers who knew who we were and what we were capable of. They would never consider asking us to leave. And if they called the cops? Well, snitches get stitches! Now, all of this is going as planned except when we arrive we discover that the only movie we are in time to see is ‘My Girl’ starring Macaulay Culkin, Dan Akroyd and Jamie Lee Curtis. Yes. I know. I just described to you a gang of dangerous teenage hoodlums. Now we’re about to pile into a theater to see ‘My Girl’.
We took up an entire row and when I, sitting at the far left end, looked down that row it was like looking at a thug all-star team. To my immediate right was my best friend, Tracy, a kid who had 14 felony convictions before he was 17. To his right was Curtis, who is now serving 35 years on top of a life sentence for burglary, assault, arson and, eventually, stomping another man to death in prison. To Curtis’s right is Danny, who was quite possibly the most dangerous man I’ve ever known. I once had to talk him out of beating an old couple to death with a crow bar. He also is the only person I’ve ever heard of who, when he was “jumped in” as a gang initiation, won the fight. The last I heard of Danny he was in prison in Michigan for aggravated assault with intent on serious bodily harm. To the right of Danny was Lil’ Hector. He was the youngest of us - and it wasn’t long after he was convicted of attempted capitol murder and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. He was arrested the week after he turned fifteen years old. I never saw him again. Then there was Ricky. Ricky wasn’t exactly dangerous but he eventually went to prison after he apparently wrecked a stolen car and was then found in the car with a large quantity of ecstasy on him. Finally, there was the two Jeremiah’s, neither of whom were dangerous in the least bit, and as a matter of fact, it is a god damned shame they tainted this list with their softness. But, regardless of whether they were or were not a menace to society, they rolled with us and they were both with us on this particular night. I, of course, am who I am and had only the modest charges of auto-theft, a couple counts of burglary of an automobile and participation in gang-related activities under my belt at this time.
The movie dragged along and, then, completely unexpectedly, Macaulay Culkin dies. What the fuck? That’s fucked up shit! Bees? Are you kidding me? I say again, fuck a bee! Then his funeral comes, and the girl, the my girl girl, Vada, charges into that funeral and is crying and freaking out. And, to my great surprise, that scene is breaking my heart. As I sit there and watch Vada scream and cry, I begin to feel a tear drop forming in my right eye. Of course it is in my right eye. My boys, the vicious fucking pack of dogs that they are, are to my right. Now I am sitting there about to cry and scared to death that my boys are going to see. If they see I will get it for months. I know I will constantly be hearing about what a fag I am. They’ll ask me if I also cry when I suck cock. I’ll never hear the end of it. And what is worse, I know that I will have to go on a serious rampage to earn back their respect. So the tear drop keeps forming, and after a while, I feel it begin to roll down my cheek. I am paralyzed. I know I cannot wipe it away. Doing so would only draw attention to me. I want to turn and look to see if they see that I am crying but I am afraid that would also draw attention to me. Fuck! What do I do? Finally, after seconds that feel like hours, I think to myself “Fuck it!” and I boldly turn to face my friends. Every last one of them is either crying or very obviously holding back tears. I could not believe my eyes. I quickly turned my face back toward the screen. We sat there until the end of the film. We left. But never, and I mean never, did we ever acknowledge that we, some of the most feared gangsters and thugs in our town, all cried with Vada because a bunch of fucking bees killed the kid from Home Alone.
I’d guess - you would say - what can make thugs look really gay? My Girl. Talkin’ bout’ My Girl!
Permalink →So a few weeks ago I went out on a boring Wednesday night. I went to Dean’s on Main street in downtown Houston. Upon arriving I was notified that Robert Pattinson of Twilight fame was in the house. Now, I can’t lie. I’ve seen two of those movies. I saw them in the theaters no less. Yeah. I know.
Anyway, I have several observations to share with you. First, there is no justice in the world. Because I am considerably more attractive than that dude and yet millions upon millions of girls want to sleep with him. Meanwhile, the number of girls who want to sleep with me is probably in the single millions. Life is so much bullshit. Do you doubt me? I have proof! This is Robert Pattinson at Dean’s that night (with some girl who undoubtedly wants his cock):
Now, you think his sparkly ass is hot? Well I can sparkle too, bitches!
Eat shit, Pattinson! I am so much hotter. Anyhow, my favorite thing about that night was that the crowd was about half white and half black. And as Robert Pattinson walked through the place practically every white person in the building followed behind him like he was Moses or the Pied Piper or perhaps as though he had glamored them (do they do that in Twilight?). BUT! The black people? They didn’t care about Rpattz. Clearly black people do not give a shit about vampires. I’m with them.
On a side note, this black girl that had to weigh more than 250 lbs hit on me that night. I am so glad I don’t drink.
And I’ll leave you with a picture of Rpattz with Gilbert Alfaro of Blueprint/Spain Colored Orange fame
One of these guys has talent.
Permalink →I didn’t get around to making a new entry today. However, I don’t want to let down my six whole followers. So here is a story I wrote in 2002. Enjoy.
I must have been dreaming I was fat because, upon waking, I was convinced I had somehow become one fat son of a bitch over night. I climbed out of bed and examined my near naked body in the bathroom mirror. I wasn’t fat. I was glad about that but decided I would exercise anyway just to be safe. I remembered I bought some running shoes a while back that I had only bothered using twice. The first time I had went walking with my father one afternoon. The second time, I had decided at three o’clock in the morning that I wanted to go running, except I’m not a very fit person, so it was more like running for a half a block then walking a couple blocks, running another half a block and on and on. It was strange running around in the neighborhood at three in the morning. I didn’t see anybody at all except for a homeless man sleeping at this World War II monument. I almost ran over him. It scared the shit out of me, because he was black, or maybe not because he was black, but because I didn’t see him until the very last second. But he was indeed black. When I saw him I jumped back a few steps and I started to run on, but then I thought ‘Hey, that guy wasn’t dead was he?’ so I walked back to check and make sure he was breathing. He seemed to be breathing fine as best as I could tell from five or six feet away. So I went back to alternately running and walking through my neighborhood. Anyway, I have these running shoes and I decided I would put on this t-shirt and these jogging pants that aren’t really jogging pants. They’re actually pajama pants but they’re as close as I have to jogging pants. Then I would put on my running shoes and head out of the door and on my way to my parents house.
It didn’t take long to get to their house since it’s ten steps or so away from the garage my apartment sits upon. When I walked in I was surprised to find my father sitting on the couch, watching television with his dog.
“What ya doing home at noon, old man?”
“Oh I’m not feelin’ too well so I’ve got a doctor’s appointment at two.”
He didn’t look all that sick and that’s kind of strange, because that man will work through anything, but I didn’t question it further. I ran up stairs and found my way to this closet they have. It’s a gigantic closet and it has a treadmill inside it. I didn’t know how to work that contraption but my mother heard me making a racket in there and she came in and showed me how. She talked about the speeds and how she warms up at 3.5 miles an hour, then, once she is warmed up, she turns up the speed to an even 5 miles an hour. She said I wouldn’t want to start out on such a high setting, that I should start at 3 miles an hour, then once I am warmed up I can move up to 4ish miles an hour to start.
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
I began at 3 miles an hour. I had twenty minutes of this. That’s nothing. Maybe I’d work up to 5 miles an hour too.
“No wonder you warm up at 3.5 miles an hour! You walk faster than this when you go shopping!”
I was watching television as I walked. It was an old cartoon with Sylvester the cat I had not seen since I was a kid. I only vaguely recalled the plot but it did not take long to see where the story was going. There was a panther that had escaped from the zoo. The bulldog with the little terrier that followed him around ended up chasing Sylvester into an alley, and every time he would run into the stack of boxes and garbage in the alley, he’d get his ass handed to him by the Panther who was hidden there. After a bit, Sylvester gets to thinking he’s doing the ass kicking and he chases the bulldog back out of the alley where the bulldog is telling the terrier what a killer that cat is. The terrier looks at Sylvester completely baffled, grabs him by the tail and spins him around a few times and launches him back into the alley. The bulldog would then be baffled, regain his courage, stomp back into the alley and the entire process would repeat. Before I knew it five minutes had passed and I upped the speed to 3.5 miles an hour. It was faster than I thought it would be, but despite that, at the ten-minute mark I decided to move up to 4 miles an hour. Instantly, my calves started burning. I went back to 3.5 miles and managed to finish the 20 minutes. The bulldog was chasing the terrier around calling him a hero. I couldn’t believe I used to laugh at that crap. My calves felt really tight as I was stumbling back out into the hallway.
“Did you cool down?” my mother asked as I began stumbling down the stairs.
“You didn’t tell me I had to cool down, woman!”
“Oh, well you’re supposed to do at least a few minutes of walking at about 2 miles an hour to cool down. You better stretch.”
I stretched in a ridiculously exaggerated manner and left.
I think I had been awake all but maybe an hour and a half, but after eating a sandwich, I couldn’t think of much I wanted to do. I did not feel like leaving the house. I looked at a book I have been reading and I could not manage to make myself pick it up. Television seemed out of the question. My bed seemed the only logical solution. I turned my ceiling fan on high, crawled into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin and wrapped my limbs around a couple extra pillows and went to sleep.
My dream was strange. I cannot remember all of it - just assorted pieces. But as best as I can recollect, I was in love with Lis Silano. And she was here, or maybe I was in Pittsburgh, but regardless, we were together. I remember we had just fallen in love and we spent the night sharing a bed. Strangely, there was nothing sexual about it; we just held each other all night. The next day, when we awoke, I knew we were on the run. Lis had gotten herself into some trouble. She had stolen something from some sort of an organization. I knew I had to pay her debts. I was deeply in love with that girl of mine and I was going to resolve this issue regardless of the costs, regardless of the risk of my own personal safety! We could not live our lives together on the run after all! It must be done! So I went to see some woman. She began talking about how Lis had stolen ‘it’ from a child. Now I was not sure at first, but I began to think ‘it’ was some sort of model racecar she had stolen. This woman made this out to be a matter of great importance. She kept speaking about how they were a non-profit organization and these racecars were of dire importance to these children. She pointed to a little black girl who was crying and explained she was crying because Lis had stolen her racecar. I told her I was sure that it was a misunderstanding and that Lis would gladly return the racecar, but in the interest of an expedient resolution I would gladly pay for the stolen racecar. She told me the racecar was worth thirty-five dollars. Thirty-five dollars?!?! That’s all? I was a bit surprised. Surely we were not on the run over a thirty-five dollar racecar? I handed the woman a one hundred dollar bill and told her to consider the change a donation to her organization. She was grateful and said all was forgotten. I was really excited about returning to Lis and explaining to her that we no longer need worry. Her dept had been paid and it was I who had paid it. I was going to be her hero! Lis was going to fall even deeper in love with me. But when I got back to where we were hiding out, I found her in the racecar. The fucking thing was a bright red Lamborghini! She was in the street revving the engine beside a black Ferrari. There was another beautiful girl driving the black Ferrari. I got the idea they were together and about to leave. I explained to Lis that I had paid her debt, that we were not on the run anymore, and at first, she still insisted she go. She said she had to go to San Antonio. But I professed my love for her, and finally her friend told her “Oh Lis, look at you, you’re in love! You don’t have to come!”
And right then, Lis jumped from her Lamborghini and into my arms. I was her hero! I was overwhelmed by it all for a second. I had the girl and a Lamborghini, but right then, the goddamned thing drove off by itself. I still had Lis though, so fuck the Lamborghini. This is the dream as best I can remember. I am fairly certain that was the point at which I woke up.
And now that I was awake, I knew things were different. I had been in love with Lis Silano in my dream, but what about now? What was that feeling? Holy shit. I am still in love with Lis Silano. I was sure of it. I called her immediately but her answering machine picked up.
“Hey, you’ve reached Lis and Laura. Leave a message!”
“Lis, this is Jonathan Williamson, yeah, uh, you know, yeeeeeeaaah.”
I hung up.
My phone rang a few minutes later and I was hoping it would be Lis, because god damn it, I loved Lis Silano. I loved her like I was still in the dream. Hell, who knows the difference anyway?! It wasn’t Lis Silano. It was John Adams.
“Say playa, what’s up? Do you have plans for the night?”
“I don’t think so. It’s Tuesday right?”
“Yeah man, it’s Tuesday. Some of us are going up to Michael’s, you know, that strip club? You down, hustla? I know Jay, Ryan and Sean McManus are going.”
“It’s free?”
“Yeah. We’ve got passes.”
“Well shit, sure.”
“Ok, meet us in the lobby there at 7pm.”
Now I had never been to Michaels, or any other strip club for that matter, but what the hell right? These kids went there because they had free passes for Tuesdays and from six to eight in the evening all drinks were a quarter. They called it ‘Preferred Customer Appreciation’ but these fellows weren’t preferred customers, they were customers who knew girls who worked there and had gotten a gigantic stack of preferred customer passes off of them.
I showered and shaved, dressed and did the things a man does before going to a strip club; or at least the things I would assume a man would do before going to a strip club since I had never actually been to a strip club and was hardly an expert on such things. I thought about ringing Lis Silano again but it had only been maybe an hour since I last called. Oh Christ that Lis Silano, what a beautiful girl! How I love that Lis Silano! Never mind I had only spoken with her maybe once in the past month or two and she lived something like 1300 miles away from me. Never mind all of that! I love Lis Silano! Does she still have a boyfriend? That bastard! I bet his band sucks! Oh well, never mind him too! When she learns I love her, she’ll have little need for the worthless piece of shit!
At six twenty-five I grabbed my keys and ran down the stairs. I found my father’s Cadillac Escalade blocked in my car. I went inside the house and told my father
“Either you’re going to the titty bar with me or you’re giving me your keys old man! You’ve got me blocked in!”
With a laugh he asked “you really going to a titty bar?”
“Yeah! I am! My friends are drunks and I’m going to watch boobies while they drink!”
Again he laughed but this time he threw me his keys. I was going to the strip club in a brand new Cadillac Escalade. Oh these strippers would love me! Forgive me Lis Silano!
I left the house and headed on my way. It was not the best time of the day to head in the direction I had to go. The rush hour traffic had yet to die down, but I must persevere! There were my friends there and there were the topless women who were obviously dying to see me in their club for the first time. The freeways were not so bad. I even the managed my way through the parts of the freeways where I anticipated traffic jams would be the worst with very little trouble. But then I exited the freeway. It took me twenty minutes to get from the exit to the club, and the club was just a mile or so down the feeder road. That put me there at five after seven. I considered using the valet but then thought, ‘I don’t suppose that’s a very good idea when I only have three dollars.’ It was hell parking there but I eventually found parking in the very back. The place was huge. I was really surprised how long of a walk it was around the building. The place was just gigantic. That Michael did not fuck around when he built buildings for naked women to dance in.
Inside I was surprised to see a gift shop where they sold lingerie and such. I did not go in, but nonetheless, I found it to be strange. My friends were not in the lobby. They were not anywhere around. There was, however, a well dressed middle aged black man sitting in a chair, two young Hispanic men with lots of jewelry, and a fifty year old or so white man in a suit talking to a young black dancer. He even grabbed her hand and lifted it above her and apparently asked her to turn around. She slowly turned around and he nodded his approval. It was pretty fucking sleazy. There was also a woman behind the counter I paid little mind to and then a second woman, this one with black hair, short bangs and a black dress standing to the right of the counter. I supposed she was some sort of hostess. I seated myself on the couch and focused on the doors as I waited on my friends to arrive. I must have sat there for ten minutes or so before I turned and happened to make eye contact with the woman with the black hair and short bangs. I quickly broke the eye contact and turned away. I ordinarily do not mind making eye contact with women, but I think perhaps I was afraid I would make a target of myself if I made eye contact with any of these women. I only had three dollars after all and I intended leave with those three dollars, god damn it! Just a second later I heard her voice; she had closed in behind me.
“Excuse me sir.” She had a soft voice.
I turned to face her. “Yes?”
“Are you waiting on someone?” she smiled.
“Yes, I am.” I awkwardly returned the smile.
“Might I ask who, sir?”
“John Adams.”
“Oh. I thought perhaps you were with Jay Merrit’s party?”
“Him too!”, I smiled.
“This way then.”
She pulled a pass and handed it to the woman behind the counter and said “He’s with Jay Merrit.”
Wow Jay. They really know you here. Good god man, how many times have you been here? I was impressed.
I wandered inside and checked the bar first. I figured I’d find Jay there but he was nowhere to be found, so I made my way through the crowds until I heard my name and followed the voice. Jay was with a bunch of guys I had never met or seen before. They had names like ‘Big Time’ and ‘Diesel’. Big Time greatly resembled that old wrestling manager Mr. Fuji and Diesel stood six foot seven. There was another fellow, a white guy with slicked back brown hair, blue eyes and a white pin striped zoot suit. Good god Jay, what kind of double life do you lead?
The place was awful. It was purple and full of smoke, with gigantic television screens here and there that were tuned into baseball games. It also had a gigantic buffet and people throughout the place chewed on steaks and buffalo wings, including my new friend ‘Big Time’. I didn’t understand how people could eat food in such a place. It just seemed odd. I mean they are all suffocating in smoke with bare asses waving in their face and they are sucking on wings and t-bones with no concern for the grease and sauce running down their chin? I just could not fathom it. It was disgusting. And the décor of the place! It was horrendous! Everything was purple, maroon, black, gray or red. It was all in your face. The steps had these strips of lights, almost like Christmas lights, following their edge. I suppose these were intended to ensure the drunks see the stairs as they stumble about in the dark of the club, but they were horrible nonetheless. It was awful. Awful I tell you. Then without warning, a thought crept into my mind. “Wait, I’m surrounded by naked women and I’m occupying my thoughts with how awful the décor is. Am I gay?”. I decided I was not! I was just a refined gentleman of taste! And it did not hurt that my mother was an interior designer! I bet I had been in the room five minutes before I even got around to looking at the women. It was a pretty even mix of white, black, and Hispanic women. There were a few Asian women too. Most of them seemed kind of thick to me. They had wide hips, thick thighs, and slightly sagging bellies. And the tattoos these women had! They all had the most dreadful tattoos. These women all had tattoos in the same places. They were either on the lower back, the right ankle, or right above the bikini line, right there over their bush. And it went without saying that if they had the bikini line tattoo it was always on the left side! There was the occasional woman with one someplace like her ass or her bicep, but they mostly had them on their lower back, their ankle or over the bikini line. And the tattoos were almost all predictable and tasteless. Butterflies, faeries, the playboy bunny, tigers, tribal designs; they were each equally awful. And to think, this was considered a classy strip club.
Some of the women did not have very attractive faces either. I suppose I just was not very impressed in general, and I think I was glad. I watched these women rubbing their tits on the faces of these dirty bastards and I thought ‘Good lord! I don’t think I could ever date a dancer! How can they do that? Aren’t they sickened by these repulsive fucks?”. Never mind I had a newfound respect for their profession. It seemed like hard work to me. It was as though they were getting a physical from 50 dirty-minded doctors all day long. I had to have a camera shoved up my ass at the doctors once and it was one of the most awful experiences of my life. These dirty fucks all wanted to shove something of a substantial bit more girth up these women’s asses. Oh it was awful.
Then there was the music. Horrendous! It was music that left a person with less of a soul for having heard it. It was mostly from the 80’s. Occasionally there was some sort of techno or house, or a recent R&B hit that Timberland or P Diddy produced, but it was mostly all 80’s music. And that isn’t to say I think all 80’s music is bad, but this was bad. I do not know if anybody really thinks that Buster Poindexter’s ‘Hot Hot Hot’ is actually a hot song in which they would like to see naked women shake their money makers to, but I certainly don’t. I always imagined the dancers picked their own music, but it became evident these women did not. They danced in pairs though, and maybe they did not let them pick the music since only one could pick? Either way, I soon came to worry that were I to go to this club regularly, then through the process of conditioning and learned association I would eventually find myself horrified and rendered impotent in the presence of a naked woman. Because eventually, the sight alone would make me think of really awful music, and I can’t be expected to be aroused when ZZ Tops ‘Legs’ is playing in my head.
And I suppose my few hours at Michaels were like that; all smoke, awful music and bad tattoos. Some of the women really had beautiful bodies, and I liked the way some of them danced, but the whole setting was just so foul to me. It just did not excite me. Jay and I cracked a few jokes here and there and laughed some. There was one moment in which a stripper approached Jay and I to try and flirt her way into our wallets and ended up telling me off because she claimed I rolled my eyes at her. Maybe I did. I’m not sure. It was funny though. She told me I looked like one of the Beatles. Ray she said. I said “Oh yeah, Ray, I think he played the bass.”
Then the worst came. I had decided this one stripper was by far the most hideous of them all. Her eyes were sunken, her nose was crooked, her cheeks were caved and scarred from acne and her hair looked wet with hair products. When I felt a hand run through my hair and turned to find her looking me right in the eyes, I was terrified! I quickly turned my glance toward the empty chair in front of me, but then she sat down in it. So I turned to look at the stage behind me so as to keep my gaze averted from hers, but out of the corner of my right eye I could still see the silver of her little dress sitting there in that chair. I could feel her eyes on me. After a while she got up and started to walk past me in the direction I was facing, so I quickly darted my eyes back in the direction she had been sitting in. Jay, Big Time, Diesel and the rest of the boys got a good laugh out of that episode.
Shortly thereafter I left. The entire time I was there I had not thought about Lis Silano, because even the thought of her was too good for a place like that. I decided when I got home I would call her though, and I did that.
“Hello?”
“Hey Lis.”
“Two times in one day? Is this my lucky day?”
“Yeah it is Lis. You’ve got to talk to me tonight, because the thing is I had this dream and you were in it.”
“Was I naked?” she interrupted.
“No, you weren’t naked. I don’t think we had sex, but we did spoon all night in it.”
“Aww. That’s cute.” She was half way patronizing me and halfway serious. I kind of liked that about her.
“No but listen Lis, you’ve got to talk to me tonight because the thing is, I was in love with you in my dream. I mean completely and totally in love with you. And when I woke up, I realized I still was, and I still am! Hey! Stop laughing! This is serious! I am in love with you, Lis!”
“You’ve always loved me, Jonathan.” It was the same half patronizing half serious tone, but I could tell she was really enjoying this.
“Well, yes, I’ve loved you, girl, but I’ve never been IN love with you until today. Today I am in love with you.”
“Oh Jonathan, you’re cute but I’m cooking some food, hun. Can I call you when I’m done?”
“Yeah, sure, but seriously, you better call me because I probably won’t be in love with you tomorrow and you’ll want to milk this for all it is worth!”
“Soy milk?” she laughed. I am vegan.
So I went ahead and fed myself because I was starving as well. Then I checked my email. There was nothing of interest. I read a couple chapters of a book. Still, my phone was not ringing. So I called her back.
“You didn’t call me yet.”
“Yeah, I was going to but I have to do this thing for my class with Laura. Will you still be in love with me in an hour?”
“Yeah, I think.”
She laughed.
“Hey Jonathan, if you’re so in love with me, how come you’re not on your way to Pittsburgh? It would only take what? A day and a half?”
“Well you didn’t ask me to.”
“Come to Pittsburgh, Jonathan!”
“Well wait, let’s be logical about this! I’d have to sleep at some point, or even if I didn’t, I’d be exhausted when I got there and I’d have to sleep. Then when I woke up I might not be in love with you anymore.”
“Oh god boy, once you’re here with me you wouldn’t be able to stop being in love with me.”
“I don’t know about that, Lis! I don’t know!”
“Oh boy, I’ve got to go do this thing with Laura. I’ll call you in an hour.”
I sat there for a while. I looked at the book but I had no desire to read it. I looked at the television but I did not want to turn it on. I grabbed the cordless phone and turned off all of the lights in my apartment. I crawled into my bed again. I could not really sleep. I just lay there. I started to doze off at one point but then there was this insect buzzing at my ear. I kept swatting him away but the bastard was toying with me. I started having these ideas that the little fucker wanted to crawl into my ear and lay eggs and that really freaked me out. My phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey Jonathan, it’s Kathryn! I met a Texan the other day and he had the funniest accent ever and I wanted to tell you…”
“God damn it Kathryn, you’re not Lis! I thought you were going to be Lis but instead you’re just a lousy Canuck!”
“Who is Lis? What kind of white trash name is that?”
“It’s not white trash! It’s Italian! Her name is Lis Silano! Can Italians be white trash? I’m pretty sure they have to be wops or dagos, not white trash.”
“Lis? That means lily, that’s so white trash. And what’s with this Lis girl anyway?”
“I’m in love with her, Kathryn!”
“What? You’re breaking my heart Jonathan! Why must you hurt me?” that Kathryn is one facetious bitch.
“Girl, I don’t mean to hurt you, but today my heart belongs to another.” I played along.
“Today? What do you mean today?”
“I mean today, Kathryn! I love her today but I probably won’t love her tomorrow. See, I had this dream….”
She thought the dream was pretty funny. She said “You’re mad, Jonathan! You’re absolutely mad!” and then I saw the clock. It was three o’clock in the morning! Lis had told me she would return my call maybe four hours ago.
“I’ve got to go Kathryn, I’ll call you back.”
When Lis answered the phone I knew right away she was asleep. It might have been the raspy sleepy voice that tipped me off.
“Hello?”
“Lis! You said you’d call me back! You didn’t call me back, that shit is fucked up, girl!”
“I’ll call you tomorrow! I’ve got class at eight in the morning! I’ve got to wake up in three hours!”
“But you said you’d call me back and you didn’t, and tomorrow I won’t be in love with you!”
“How are you not going to be in love with me tomorrow?”
“Well I wasn’t in love with you yesterday, Lis!”
“I’ll call you tomorrow!” she said again, this time a bit annoyed.
I laughed a bit wildly and hung up on her. I dialed up Kathryn.
“Hello?”
“Hey Kathryn, that dumb bitch was asleep. She said she’d call me tomorrow.”
“What? But you’re not going to be in love with her tomorrow.”
“That’s what I said, but she said I would. I told her that it was fucked up she didn’t call me back and…”
“Oh Jonathan, you’re going to sound desperate!” she interrupted.
“But I WAS in love Kathryn! I was desperate!”
She laughed “Well I’m glad you’re over her now, Romeo.”
“Yeah, so she asked how I wouldn’t be in love with her tomorrow and I said ‘Well, I wasn’t in love with you yesterday!’ then I laughed at her and hung up on her.”
“You’re a maniac and a homo, Williamson, but I’ve got to go to sleep too.”
“Goodnight, Kathryn.”
“Goodnight, homo.”
Lis Silano, you missed out. I probably would have made all sorts of love sick and foolish statements. You could have quoted me for all of eternity. I would have written and recited ridiculously love sick poetry for you and I think you would have loved it all. You would have laughed hysterically and you would have loved me too. But you fucked up, girl, and I’m not in love with you anymore.
So, I met this cute girl on facebook one day and decided she was really funny after I read the following update:
“HELP! there was a girl [a while back at poison girl] selling these asian rice paper burrito wrap lookin things with veggies and shit inside and PEANUT sauce. what is that? i want one again they are good. idk what they are called or where to get them!”
I thought she was joking. Who doesn’t know what a spring roll is? So yeah, I start chatting with her about it. She really didn’t know. And she argued with me saying spring rolls are fried (and some are, but that was still what she was talking about). Now, obviously I should have written her off immediately. But I didn’t. Instead, I invited her to go eat some of these mysterious spring rolls. We met up at a Vietnamese joint a few days later. A brief synopsis of our lunch date; she asked how she was supposed to order when she didn’t know how to pronounce anything on the menu. I explained to her that was what the numbers were for. She asked me what vermicelli is. I explained they were thin rice noodles. She asked the difference between vermicelli and egg noodles. In trying to explain what the egg noodles are like I began to describe them as being fettucine like. Only I slipped and said “They’re like fettucine alfredo”. I immediately recanted the alfredo part as obviously we’re not in an Italian restaurant, but in that very brief millisecond in which she thought she could order Fettucine Alfredo her eyes lit up. She was so excited. I almost felt bad in telling her there would be no Fettucine Alfredo for lunch. Then I showed her she could order frogs, to which she said “But frogs are too small to eat”. Apparently, she was not aware there are many kinds of frogs. She eventually settled on ordering some sort of duck soup. When she ordered it the waitress asked her if she had had it before. She answered that she had eaten duck before. Now, I knew this was going to be a cluster fuck but at this point I’m just in awe of how dumb this girl is and I’m kind of enjoying the spectacle. So I say nothing and watch. Sure enough, they bring out the soup and it has basically half a fucking duck, bones and all, sitting in the gigantic bowl of soup. She has no idea how to eat it. I watch her looking at it with this horrified look of bewilderment. She asks me how she’s supposed to eat it. I tell her, “I’m vegan! How would I know?” She calls the waitress back over and asks for directions. The waitress is like “I asked if you had had it before!” She explains she had had duck before elsewhere and it was deboned. Hahahaha. So yeah, she gets some rudimentary directions and attempts to eat the soup with very little success. After lunch, we go our separate ways and I don’t talk to her for a while. A friend of mine happened to stop and have lunch with a coworker while we were there. He texted me later to say “Well done, sir”. I responded, “You didn’t have to talk to her.”
Now, one would think I would never speak to this girl again, because obviously it isn’t worth it. The problem with that is that I can be pretty retarded myself. And while, shortly thereafter, she got herself a boyfriend and I didn’t hear from her for months, but one day a few weeks ago I see her facebook status change from ‘in a relationship’ to ‘single’. Now, at this point I haven’t gotten laid in a while and I’m thinking I might even be desperate enough to tolerate her stupidity. So I start chatting with her online and, being the complete sleaze bag that I am, I promptly offer to be her rebound fling. Only she’s like “but I’ve only met you once!” and instead suggests that I meet up with her when she goes out that Wednesday as sort of an audition to be her rebound fling. I am okay with this. You see, she has big plans for Wednesday! There is to be a “BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST” at the Bronx Bar and the grand prize is 300 dollars (and I will only be referring to this event in all caps, because wtf! It’s a BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST!). She doesn’t have a job, so she’s thinking this would be a great way to make some money. Now, am I horrified? Yes. The Bronx Bar is an awful place I would not ordinarily go. It is the kind of place full of guys wearing True Religion jeans and button up shirts with lots of embroidery and rhinestones. And while there are approximately ten guys for every girl, the girls there are largely the kind of girls who like guys who wear True Religion jeans and sparkly ass shirts. And a BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST? Yeah. This just sounds like it’s going to be an absolute train wreck. So, obviously, I went.
I arrived at the Bronx Bar at about 11 pm. I had to wait around 20-30 minutes before she arrived. Not a good time. (And on an aside, some middle-aged dudebro approached me as I was texting her and asked if I got a signal. When I told him I did, he asked what my number was so he could call me and see if his phone was working. This seemed a very strange request to me and I still can’t decide if this dude was just weird or if he was hitting on me). Now, she was supposed to be coming with two of her friends - a guy and a girl - but the girl cut out early. So she shows up with some guy who soon discovers that I do not drink or use drugs and begins looking at me like I’m the last unicorn. They are already a bit drunk and they proceed to do another shot or two. Soon, the girl, who we will call Coocoo, wanders off to sign up for the BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST. Now, I’m not the type to chase a girl around a bar all night. And I’m damn sure not working too hard on this particular girl. So instead, I am sitting with her friend watching the sleazy guys running the contest buy her drinks. They introduce her to some Asian guy wearing a very tight shiny t-shirt (and True Religion jeans, of course). He is obviously macking hard. I nudge her friend and point it out. We are laughing. Only, after a while, I see his phone come out and he is obviously entering her number. Now I’m kind of confused. Maybe she’s into the dude. I don’t know. I barely know the girl and our “date” is certainly not formal. Now, I could split at this point, and in retrospect, I should have. But c’mon! I’ve gone this far - shouldn’t I at least stick around for the BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST? Of course I should. I do. Now, Coocoo barely acknowledges me as she awaits the contest. I am not offended. I assume she knows I will not be buying her drinks, and she’s working the crowd pretty hard. Politics are part of any contest, so I cannot begrudge her this. Now, the contest was supposed to start at 11:30 but it didn’t actually start until about 12:30 am. I have already been there an hour and a fucking half. Her buddy has literally been drifting in and out of sleep while sitting up. I am not having a good time.
When the BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST does eventually begin, I see her friend wander outside of the bar to apparently make a phone call. When he tries to return the doorman won’t let him back in as he is entirely too drunk. Now I am in a very odd situation. Coocoo is steadily downing free shots and she is so drunk she can hardly stand on her own. I barely know the girl, but she’s surrounded by sleaze bags, she’s drunk as fuck, she’s in her god damned underwear and her only friend is god knows where. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I did not go into this with noble intentions. Let us not pretend that I am some purely noble and heroic figure. No, I was hoping to take this girl home later. I assure you my intentions were nothing but sleazy. However, by the time the BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST had begun, I had resigned myself to the fact she was entirely too drunk for me to be able to take advantage of in good conscience. Only I can’t leave because she seems to be in a pretty vulnerable situation. But the situation is awkward and strange for me because I do barely know her. When sleaze bags are chatting her up and getting touchy, I can’t exactly intervene without looking like some sort of jealous creepster. So I am relegated to simply watching with the intention of intervening if something seems really obviously wrong. God, I hope nobody thinks I’m a decent human being because I don’t want to abandon this girl to get gang raped.
The BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST itself was an unorganized mess. I am still kind of in awe of it. There were a grand total of FIVE whole participants. And, after herding them all together and having them just stand around on the stage for like half an hour, they actually began to call the contestants out one by one to dance to booty rap in their panties while some dude poured a pitcher of water on each of their respective booties. Two of the contestants were not even in their panties. They had pants on. This I do not understand. Who the fuck enters a BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST but is like “but I am entirely too classy to take my pants off!!!”? WTF? After all five girls, including Coocoo, do their thing, I’m expecting that the judges will simply put their heads together, decide who won and make the announcements. Pretty simple, right? But of course they didn’t do that. Instead, they talk amongst themselves for about twenty minutes and THEN announce they will begin the semi-finals. SEMI-FINALS? THERE ARE FIVE GIRLS IN THIS SHIT, HOMIE! But yeah. They aren’t joking. They’re serious. There are going to be semi-finals. One of the girls in the jeans didn’t make the cut. The other had utilized the twenty minute break to go take her jeans off. She was now also in her panties. Also, somewhere around this point I see the sleaze bags running this show wave some friend of theirs over and hand Coocoo over to him. He walks her inside the bar (the contest is outside on the patio). I follow – because, for all I know, these dudes are some shady human traffickers and they’re going to lead her drunken ass out the backdoor into a van. They did not. Instead, the guy just helped her drunken ass walk to the women’s restroom and politely waited outside for her and then helped her walk back to the stage. She was so drunk she literally needed somebody to help her walk. Upon her return, Coocoo and co again shake their asses whilst water is poured upon them. After another break of approximately fifteen minutes, they announce the Finalists. Coocoo is not among them. She apparently placed fourth out of five. While the BOOTYLICIOUS WET PANTIES CONTEST was pretty fucking amusing, I am glad it’s over for us. It’s now after 1:30 in the morning and I’ve been ready to go for quite some time. Since her whole purpose in going to this bar was just to enter this contest, I figured she’d leave as soon as she discovered she wouldn’t be winning. She didn’t. She stayed and watched the final round. And, again, I feel like I can’t leave her there in good conscience. So as long as she’s there, I’m there. And I can’t even approach her because the patio is too crowded and she’s basically up on a stage.
After the winner was crowned, the sleazy Asian guy in the shiny t-shirt led her to the bar. I knew Coocoo had left her clothes with the bartenders. Now, I see them standing at the bar. I can’t even tell if they’re waiting to get the bartenders attention so she can get her clothes or if she’s content to stand there in her underwear and get even more wasted. Dude is kind of all over her. He’s really touchy. I even watch his hand slide down to her ass at one point. Now, seeing as she invited me to come and hang out with her, I’m kind of sickened by this, but as I said, what can I do? I barely know the girl. I’m not trying to look like I think I’m her boyfriend or something (or would even consider such a thing). As uncomfortable as I am with how sleazy this guy is getting, I don’t know what to do because the situation is so bizarre. Finally, I decide I will go stand on the other side of her at the bar. This guy she is standing with seems to have no idea she is even up there with “friends”. So I figure I can go stand there and if she is uncomfortable in the situation she can grab me and introduce me to him however she likes in order to get out of the situation. Of course, If she’s okay with what’s going on, she can ignore me. I don’t care. I just feel somewhat obligated to make sure this girl isn’t being taken advantage of. So, I stand beside her. After a while she turns and looks me right in the eyes. She says nothing. She turns back to him. I’m thinking, “Okay. Girl is actually into this dude. I’m out” and I turn around and leave. But the thing is, before I get to the exit I stop cold. I just don’t feel right about leaving her with that dude. I turn around. I walk back inside. They have vanished. I walk the length of the inside portion of the bar. They aren’t to be found. I walk outside and scope the patio. They aren’t there either. I walk back in the bar and go to the bathrooms. I do not see the guy waiting for her outside. I walk into the men’s restroom and take a piss. I find myself trying to listen inside the stall because I can’t help but wondering if she’s inside the stall with the guy. I finish my piss. I decide to open the stall door. It is locked. Then, all of the sudden, the door swings open. She is in the stall looking me dead in the eye as the sleazy Asian guy in the shiny shirt is pulling his pants up with his back to me. She runs out of the restroom.
I’m horrified. It’s this really strange feeling. I’m not into this girl, but still, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of rejection or betrayal. She invited me to come and hang out with her after all. But also, I don’t know what happened. I have no idea what happened, but whatever it was, could it even be considered consensual considering how trashed she is? As someone who has spent my entire life sober, I have a difficult time grasping these situations. Regardless, I knew there wasn’t much I could do about it. I mean, what would I do? Question the guy as he pulls up his pants? Assume the worst and assault him? That wouldn’t do much good anyway considering he was pretty buff and I am anything but. So yeah, I just decide I’ll go home. Only before I can get to my car I find Coocoo standing on the sidewalk 50 yards down the road. She looks lost and confused and, of course, she’s crying. I ask her what’s wrong and if she’s okay. She says she can’t find her friend and goes on to explain that that guy led her back there, she thought they were just going to do cocaine, when all of a sudden he whips his dick out and she claims she thought she was going to be raped. I have no idea if that’s what really happened or if she was so humiliated by me finding her in that situation she made that story up. I just don’t know what to believe. I ask her if she wanted to call the police. She didn’t. I was horrified by the possibility that something so horrible may have happened to her because I almost left her, but I’ll say this – I knew either way I had no real intention of spending more time with this girl. The girl was obviously one big hot mess. I walked her back to her car to see if her friend is waiting there for her. He was. He is passed out sitting on the curb. We wake him up and I explain to him that she was nearly raped (that’s the story I’m going with) and she’s really upset and drunk. I asked him if he was sober enough to drive her home. Now, I knew he hadn’t been in the bar for at least two hours but I still doubted it. He claims to be fine to drive. At this point, she asks him for her phone and money which she handed to him before she took the stage. He says she didn’t give it to him, but I saw the exchange take place earlier. She starts losing her mind – crying and screaming about her lost phone and money. He then puts his hands in his pocket and is amazed to find her phone in his pocket. He insists he doesn’t have her money though. Only the guy isn’t even checking for it. Now, Coocoo was temporarily relieved when she got her phone back, but she begins freaking out again about the money. She’s screaming about how it’s all of her money in the world! She then kicks off her heels and runs down the street. After about a half a block, she lays down in the middle of the street. Her friend and I are following after her, but before we can get to her this black guy (who is a lot more Carlton from Fresh Prince of Bellaire than he is Tupac) stops and asks her if she is okay. She starts yelling about how she saying “Just stab me or shoot me! I want to die!”. Now, I recall thinking to myself right about now “That guy is so gonna think she’s racist for assuming he has a knife or a gun on him”. When we catch up with her we begin attempting to coerce her into returning to her car so that her friend can take her home to sleep it off. She is still crying about the money. Her friend asks her how much money it was. Are you ready for the figure? SEVEN DOLLARS! I don’t even think your average crack head cries about losing seven dollars. WTF? Eventually we talk her into getting up and we walk her back to her car. I assured the black gentleman that she will be alright and that he needn’t shoot nor stab her. I recall him saying in a very confused voice “That girl is suicidal.” I did my best to convince him that she is just really drunk and having a very bad night and further assure him that her friend will get her home fine. Only the thing is, how can this guy even know we’re really her “friends”? He does not. I noticed he got into his car and watched us to be sure things were normal and that we weren’t human traffickers or serial rapists ourselves. Her friend got her into the car and they, FINALLY, drove away. Now, I know it wasn’t a date per say, but that did not prevent it from being the worst ‘date’ of my life. I went home feeling so sick at my stomach I couldn’t sleep. I still had those mixed feelings of horror and rejection. I tossed around the questions about what occurred in the bathroom stall – wondering if I was to blame for walking out. I just felt awful. I think it was well after daylight before I actually fell asleep. Needless to say, I had no intention of going out of my way to talk to Coocoo again and I assumed she would be far too ashamed to ever speak to me again.
The next day she messages me, “So that was embarrassing.”
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. DO YOU THINK?
P.S. 
This is Coocoo and friends.
