I was reminded tonight of my first experience in one of the gay clubs in the greater DC area. An experience which usually arouses a few laughs.
Now there's the fireplace where you burn wood to keep warm.....and The Fireplace where it turns out....wood is also burned to keep warm.
The only difference is that one is a gay bar.
The origin of our business that night was at some chic-ass basement bar that's designed to look like an ice cave. I would've paid more attention but, with a special on beer and sake bombs, things got fuzzy real fast.
I decided it was time to leave after peeing on every part of their coffin-sized restroom...except the toilet.
After almost burning a girl's eyebrows off lighting her cigarette, I wondered how I had gotten so drunk.
I considered the fact that I had been drinking with the guys from the American-Samoa office...yeah.
After leaving and stumbling a few blocks I was quickly reminded that I was in the gay district when a transvestite the size of a Volkswagen walked past me.
That's when Jodi suggested hanging at a gay bar until witching hour. I agreed for the sake of my impending transportation home...
We walked in and I noted all the dudes....and chicks that might as well be dudes.
I was suprised....it was like any other bar. Just more gay I guess. Not to mention the bartender who looked like a Village People...person....dude. We chilled and I made sure to keep my ass against a wall for the most part. We had fun....until we went upstairs.
I guess I ruled out a dance floor before considering the fact that the bar had an upstairs.
As soon as I took the last step, my chinky eyes went big reacting to the sensory overload. I couldn't believe the freak-nasty ways those dudes were dancing. It was amazing and horrible all at once...................
Anyways, that was it. My miseducation in Dupont Circle where I hear they're filming the new Real World. You'll probably see what I mean when it airs. Til' then I'll continue experiencing the concrete jungle that is DC....never forgetting to write about it every once and a while.
Shoot
Thursday, August 20, 2009
To you...
So I asked my coworker Kevin how his Father's Day went and he just started on this rant about how it's a load of bullshit.
Something about how Moms get all the praise and credit on Mother's Day, and Dads just get stupid-ass gift cards to home improvement warehouses, forcing them to do more labor for their "Ol' Ladies" and ungrateful little shit kids.
Something about how Moms get all the praise and credit on Mother's Day, and Dads just get stupid-ass gift cards to home improvement warehouses, forcing them to do more labor for their "Ol' Ladies" and ungrateful little shit kids.
He went on about how his daughter bought him a grill on Father's Day only to have him grill his own fucken hamburger.
I admit. I was laughing like crazy...on the inside.
Then he pulled a fast one on me asking how mine went. I told him I hadn't suffered the life-threatening or bank-breaking condition known as "children".
He tells me I'm smart for that and recommends I stay single for the rest of my life and masturbate vigorously (His words) when I get lonely. Then he changes gears and asks me what I did for my dad...
I was reminded in a flash of how I'm a small part of the increasing statistic of bastard kids in this world. Simply a byproduct of love gone astray. Which is funny because I usually play the tiny violin for myself whenever I think about this stuff.
As to not make Kevin look like an asshole, I lied.
"I bought him a card that sings 'Who Let the Dogs Out?' and reads: Happy Father's Day to my number 1 dog...and a gift card for Home Depot" I replied.
He laughs, accomplishing my life mission of brightening peoples' days in the smallest of ways.
I assured him that I cooked all the fucken hamburgers this time. Though he'll never have to know that all I did was drive to Georgetown and get plastered with all the white kids...who probably all have fathers.
Probably.
There was no card or gift certificate to the Home Depot...or any fucken hamburgers.
Just drunk college kids, a sky bar, humongous black bouncers, an unusual amount of dudes wearing tight pants, and a few hookers walking the streets offering 50 dollar blowjobs among other things.
No Father, no dad, no pops....no worries.
So, this is to you dad. Thank you for teaching me how to enjoy and appreciate life by not teaching me anything at all.
I hope you're doing great.
Fucker.
As to not make Kevin look like an asshole, I lied.
"I bought him a card that sings 'Who Let the Dogs Out?' and reads: Happy Father's Day to my number 1 dog...and a gift card for Home Depot" I replied.
He laughs, accomplishing my life mission of brightening peoples' days in the smallest of ways.
I assured him that I cooked all the fucken hamburgers this time. Though he'll never have to know that all I did was drive to Georgetown and get plastered with all the white kids...who probably all have fathers.
Probably.
There was no card or gift certificate to the Home Depot...or any fucken hamburgers.
Just drunk college kids, a sky bar, humongous black bouncers, an unusual amount of dudes wearing tight pants, and a few hookers walking the streets offering 50 dollar blowjobs among other things.
No Father, no dad, no pops....no worries.
So, this is to you dad. Thank you for teaching me how to enjoy and appreciate life by not teaching me anything at all.
I hope you're doing great.
Fucker.
FLOETRY
Where Late Night Creatures Thrive
by Charles
Though it sets women’s rights back 100 years
We look the other way
All is fair in love and war
…and entertainment
Please leave your values at the door
Morality dies past the cigarette-lined threshold
Indulge in excess
Lose any and all inhibitions
Arm yourself with one dollar bills
Naked actions speak louder than words
Life stories are kicked to the curb
Drink specials for 10 dollars
All of them armed to the teeth
Their weapons of choice, the five senses
Touch bare skin
Smell high-end perfume
Hear the catchy ass-shaking tunes
Taste the body-flavored moisture in the air
See them all…beautiful
Slaves to money and creatures of habit
Sliding, gyrating, softly grunting
Silver tongues fixed on elegant figures
Stay aware
The road leading here is paved with bad intentions
Do not stray behind the curtain
or you will find yourself a much poorer man.
A lonely pole is the manifestation of general consensus fantasies
How much fun has been had on it?
How many bad nights?
How many broken dreams have streaked across it?
How many college tuitions has it paid?
Love as a state of mind
Pay no heart
Pay no mind
Cash and credit only
Love that lasts til’ closing time
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Vagina Monologue Discharge...
Recently, my sister and a couple of our mutual friends participated in the Vagina Monologues.
Imagine one of those cool-ass Poetry Jams where the whole crowd is in to it, and each reading is more moving and powerful than the last...
...Now, take the same Poetry Jam and replace every other word with 'vagina'...that's pretty much what it is.
Said to be empowering to women and tweens alike, the Monologue has grown in popularity throughout the years. No stone is left unturned. From cunt to cooch...vaj...vajay-jay. It even addresses the issue of the cold and crude metal stirrups at the OB/GYN.
The playbill boasts such colorful titles as 'My Angry Vagina'
It's an event filled with graphic content, and everyone is invited to attend...even men.
I was not one of those men.
Don't get me wrong, I cherish and truly appreciate the beauty of the spoken/written word...but listening to chicks talk about their vaginas for four hours is pushing it...and possibly breaking it.
I know, it sounds kind of cool when you think about it, but no. It's just like in 9th grade health class. You're teacher pops in the Live Birth video, and you and all your guy friends high-five and nod at eachother...seconds later you're all recoiling in horror at what you've just witnessed.
Compared to 'the stork'...the real thing is fuuuucked up. Just like that. Absolutely nothing like you expected it to be.
The best a man can do is try to level the playing field. So, after a few drinks we agree...The Vagina MAN-ologues.
For this, we head into DC. Welcome to the jungle where Saturday Night Fever is the number one killer of all party-goers. Dupont Circle...Adam's Morgan....Georgetown...The land-based Bermuda Triangle. Weird shit definitely happens here, and everywhere the ghostly sound of parties past resonates through the street...or you're just pissed drunk.
You know it's going to be a good night when you yell out "Show us your titties!" to a group of five girls, and see nine-and-a-half bouncing in the rearview mirror. Fast, Funny, Drunk... Follow the magical paved road from bar to bar to bar to bar to bar.
We ended up at Good Guys where we learned to appreciate the Vagina Monologues a whole lot more.
I left craving a roast beef sandwich...
It is an environment which breeds fun. Short bursts of happiness with no longevity in sight.
Have your kicks. Take your licks. Jump on the train to alcoholic Nirvana...add a few new songs to your ipod. Have your fix of instant-mix love and temporary-tattoo affection.
Get home and switch on the tv to Divorce Court. Lay back and realize that love of the Shakespearian variety, only struggles to survive in today's society.
My Vagina is Angry.
Imagine one of those cool-ass Poetry Jams where the whole crowd is in to it, and each reading is more moving and powerful than the last...
...Now, take the same Poetry Jam and replace every other word with 'vagina'...that's pretty much what it is.
Said to be empowering to women and tweens alike, the Monologue has grown in popularity throughout the years. No stone is left unturned. From cunt to cooch...vaj...vajay-jay. It even addresses the issue of the cold and crude metal stirrups at the OB/GYN.
The playbill boasts such colorful titles as 'My Angry Vagina'
It's an event filled with graphic content, and everyone is invited to attend...even men.
I was not one of those men.
Don't get me wrong, I cherish and truly appreciate the beauty of the spoken/written word...but listening to chicks talk about their vaginas for four hours is pushing it...and possibly breaking it.
I know, it sounds kind of cool when you think about it, but no. It's just like in 9th grade health class. You're teacher pops in the Live Birth video, and you and all your guy friends high-five and nod at eachother...seconds later you're all recoiling in horror at what you've just witnessed.
Compared to 'the stork'...the real thing is fuuuucked up. Just like that. Absolutely nothing like you expected it to be.
The best a man can do is try to level the playing field. So, after a few drinks we agree...The Vagina MAN-ologues.
For this, we head into DC. Welcome to the jungle where Saturday Night Fever is the number one killer of all party-goers. Dupont Circle...Adam's Morgan....Georgetown...The land-based Bermuda Triangle. Weird shit definitely happens here, and everywhere the ghostly sound of parties past resonates through the street...or you're just pissed drunk.
You know it's going to be a good night when you yell out "Show us your titties!" to a group of five girls, and see nine-and-a-half bouncing in the rearview mirror. Fast, Funny, Drunk... Follow the magical paved road from bar to bar to bar to bar to bar.
We ended up at Good Guys where we learned to appreciate the Vagina Monologues a whole lot more.
I left craving a roast beef sandwich...
It is an environment which breeds fun. Short bursts of happiness with no longevity in sight.
Have your kicks. Take your licks. Jump on the train to alcoholic Nirvana...add a few new songs to your ipod. Have your fix of instant-mix love and temporary-tattoo affection.
Get home and switch on the tv to Divorce Court. Lay back and realize that love of the Shakespearian variety, only struggles to survive in today's society.
My Vagina is Angry.
Sunday Mourning...
While down at the beach I got the chance to meet a family.
It was a group of my brother's coworkers who share a common bond through the rigors of restaurant-variety labor. A work family and a bar family.
All nice people. All unique in their own ways.
In this family there was a couple who had been dating for quite some time. They were great.
The girl, beautiful, kind, caring, and an all-round sweetheart.
The guy, calm, cool, and easy to talk to.It was a real pleasure to get to know the two of them. Not to mention, they could party their faces off.
Good people who seemed to enjoy equally good company.
This morning my brother called me. Hazy from a little party last night in which I ended up doing the Electric Slide next to Congresswoman Bordallo, I answered.
He went on with the usual until he switched beats when I asked him what he was doing.
He told me he was heading back from a funeral. He goes on...
It was the funeral of the male-half of that nice couple I had met. He was stabbed to death...by his sweetheart girlfriend. In self-defense of course.
It's funny, he didn't strike me as an abuser. Then again, she didn't strike me as a stabber.
I guess shit always happens. RIP
It was a group of my brother's coworkers who share a common bond through the rigors of restaurant-variety labor. A work family and a bar family.
All nice people. All unique in their own ways.
In this family there was a couple who had been dating for quite some time. They were great.
The girl, beautiful, kind, caring, and an all-round sweetheart.
The guy, calm, cool, and easy to talk to.It was a real pleasure to get to know the two of them. Not to mention, they could party their faces off.
Good people who seemed to enjoy equally good company.
This morning my brother called me. Hazy from a little party last night in which I ended up doing the Electric Slide next to Congresswoman Bordallo, I answered.
He went on with the usual until he switched beats when I asked him what he was doing.
He told me he was heading back from a funeral. He goes on...
It was the funeral of the male-half of that nice couple I had met. He was stabbed to death...by his sweetheart girlfriend. In self-defense of course.
It's funny, he didn't strike me as an abuser. Then again, she didn't strike me as a stabber.
I guess shit always happens. RIP
Oh Lord, let's go down...
Recently I attended a customary wake before a funeral.
It took place in Woodbridge where a majority of the populous sports hunting camo like its all the new rage in fashion. Wal-Marts and Chick-Fil-A's pop up every few miles thanks to city sprawl, and Southern drawls are heard in the background of casual conversation. Still somewhat Northern VA...but not really.
The setting was a proper funeral home, quiet and quaint in its little corner of a fresh asphalt parking lot.
Cars and SUVs all lined next to eachother, each one sporting a different version of the Guam seal on the back or side window.
It was a typical Chamorro service despite the geographical location. Rosary responses and religious Chamorro songs of old dripped from lips like honey, and I thought how proud my Grandma would be.
Afterwards, when the parade of amen-ing and handshaking had finished and the "gold plan" meal was being served...I met her.
A tall blonde standing at the entrance to the reception office, quietly eating her chalikilis (csp?) out of a garden-variety Dixie cup with a fancy floral design to boot.
True to form I made my greeting and struck up casual conversation. I wanted to know...even study.
She had been working there for two years and the subtle morbid undertone of the atmosphere never really fazed her. After all, its just business.
We found common ground in our age and a few interests. She never watched Six Feet Under when it ran its course through premium channel purgatory. I cracked a joke asking how business has been....steady, unless of course people stop dying. (That's right, laugh out loud bitches)
Her humor was anything but dry and she was more than happy to answer my questions...even the stupid boyish ones.
I just had to ask if she could squeeze in a chance to give me an official unofficial tour of the dead people room...no, I wasn't hitting on a chick at a funeral home...maybe a little. She got married last year but made it point to tell me it was on the rocks....insert sexy pick-up line here....(e.g. "Marriage is just a word.", "You gave it a shot at living up to a socially accepted standard...oh well, let me buy you a drink." hehe.)
She declined saying that the mortician was hard at work...pretty cool.After this and that, and all the "he said, she said" she said her piece.
She explained how amazed she was with the amount of mourners and supporters that have shown up.
That these kind of numbers are almost never seen nowadays. Sad.She said the day before, five people showed up to a wake. The day before that, none. Not even the person who set it up or paid the bills showed up...lawyer, friends, family...no one.
The night finished and we parted ways. I have to admit she left her mark. Honest in her opinion and truthful in her words...she got me thinking a bit.
This life is, or at least should be, more than just a read through.
You're alive....SMILE.
It took place in Woodbridge where a majority of the populous sports hunting camo like its all the new rage in fashion. Wal-Marts and Chick-Fil-A's pop up every few miles thanks to city sprawl, and Southern drawls are heard in the background of casual conversation. Still somewhat Northern VA...but not really.
The setting was a proper funeral home, quiet and quaint in its little corner of a fresh asphalt parking lot.
Cars and SUVs all lined next to eachother, each one sporting a different version of the Guam seal on the back or side window.
It was a typical Chamorro service despite the geographical location. Rosary responses and religious Chamorro songs of old dripped from lips like honey, and I thought how proud my Grandma would be.
Afterwards, when the parade of amen-ing and handshaking had finished and the "gold plan" meal was being served...I met her.
A tall blonde standing at the entrance to the reception office, quietly eating her chalikilis (csp?) out of a garden-variety Dixie cup with a fancy floral design to boot.
True to form I made my greeting and struck up casual conversation. I wanted to know...even study.
She had been working there for two years and the subtle morbid undertone of the atmosphere never really fazed her. After all, its just business.
We found common ground in our age and a few interests. She never watched Six Feet Under when it ran its course through premium channel purgatory. I cracked a joke asking how business has been....steady, unless of course people stop dying. (That's right, laugh out loud bitches)
Her humor was anything but dry and she was more than happy to answer my questions...even the stupid boyish ones.
I just had to ask if she could squeeze in a chance to give me an official unofficial tour of the dead people room...no, I wasn't hitting on a chick at a funeral home...maybe a little. She got married last year but made it point to tell me it was on the rocks....insert sexy pick-up line here....(e.g. "Marriage is just a word.", "You gave it a shot at living up to a socially accepted standard...oh well, let me buy you a drink." hehe.)
She declined saying that the mortician was hard at work...pretty cool.After this and that, and all the "he said, she said" she said her piece.
She explained how amazed she was with the amount of mourners and supporters that have shown up.
That these kind of numbers are almost never seen nowadays. Sad.She said the day before, five people showed up to a wake. The day before that, none. Not even the person who set it up or paid the bills showed up...lawyer, friends, family...no one.
The night finished and we parted ways. I have to admit she left her mark. Honest in her opinion and truthful in her words...she got me thinking a bit.
This life is, or at least should be, more than just a read through.
You're alive....SMILE.
Beach Junkie Tour de Force...
If Guam is my mother and Virginia is my wife, then South Carolina is the beautiful whore I pay a visit to when time and money allows for it.
At 80 mph you see nothing but open fields and lush greenery. At 120 mph everything blends into a quick blur of green, farmhouse, green, farmhouse, green. Hit the road at the right time, and you'll race the sun down foggy country roads.
Take note of the towns that punctuate the long stretches of asphalt...
...Fayetteville...Elizabethtown...Tar Heel...Whiteville... Chopping into the Bible Belt and straight through Carolina back-country. The land of Billy-Bob, sweet tea, pulled pork, and Southern drawls. Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomater...hehe.
Destination: Winter Beach-Town and lowered inhibitions... Roll into town and read one of the colorful signs boasting warm welcomes:
WELCOME GOLFERS!NEW GIRLS! ALL LIVE! NUDE!
....just about right for this time of the year. Just the place for daddy and his golf buddies to take a breather from super fine suburbia.
Meet with old friends, talk story. Good People.
Stories of times when days were measured in bong hits and slayed 12-packs. When this guy got into that fight, and that guy ate too many mushrooms, and this guy got knocked out, and she got wasted, and he went on a 3 day PCP binge, Xans,Oxy, Granny's pain meds, and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds...the good ol' days.
Supporting the fight against brain cells. No medals awarded there...
So what are you left with in a Beach Town with no beach? Bar, Strip Club, Bar, Strip Club, Bar, Seafood Joint, Bar, Golf Course, Strip Club, Restaurant....that becomes a bar after dark. Cold. Lame. Crazy. Choices...
Bar hopping commences...
5 o'Clock Somewhere....Hard Rock....Blarney Stones....Ron Jon's.....McGoo's....Smokehouse.... All beach bars, all fun in their own unique way.
Old drunks, whack chicks, fat chicks, assholes, crackheads, inebriated college kids, cool cats, tough guys, punk rockers, emo kids, lovers, fighters, love had, love lost, hating life, living life...wasting life. Fun.
Paying homage to all those who have partied before us. Living fast and dying young. All against your parents wishes. Some cause. Lost cause. No cause....because.
We run into our tattoo artist and I ask the question...he answers.Fond and disgusting memories of tattooing and piercing naughty parts. Pierced shaft, head, lips....yeah, pretty gross and somewhat interesting.
We wish him goodbye and good luck in his drunken journeys. Another soul crossing the alcohol-filled earthly version of the river Styx. Our journey has just begun.
Black and gold signing...good choice: PENTHOUSE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Strip Club Breakdown:
90% Social Experiment
9% Fun
1% Random
Great selection. Top-shelf at the bottom of the barrel. Powered by a million different insecurities. Fed by greenback scrip and cat calls. Pleasure before business. People...good people. A lot of bad stories, sob stories, life stories for those who care to listen to them. After the fifth girl passes through my lap I feel like cutting my own balls off. Men are bastards. A dollar for your troubles and a penny for your thoughts. Though I'll have to pass on that promotional lapdance....you're a nice girl. What name are you using tonight?
Break the seal in the men's restroom...The guy in the next urinal asks me if I can sell him some pills....it must be my hat, sorry buddy.Catch the eye of the tired floor host and start casual conversation. He takes a quick snort of party fuel and kindly offers me some... No thanks. Now you can get your hands on pretty much anything here at the beach, but you have to wade through a lot of trash. 2% pure and biproduct of everything. Chopped up, dumbed down and sold to the unsuspecting junkie tourist. Just say NO kids. Back to the night...
Continue drinking until unhappy hour hits and the ugly lights are turned on. Last call, go home, get a life....anywhere but here. Night continues through the morning. Proceed to exceed. Shameless indulgence.
Fall asleep, erase the memory, start anew. Breathe new life into old memories. Set your alarm clock for 1 p.m.....
Good day.
At 80 mph you see nothing but open fields and lush greenery. At 120 mph everything blends into a quick blur of green, farmhouse, green, farmhouse, green. Hit the road at the right time, and you'll race the sun down foggy country roads.
Take note of the towns that punctuate the long stretches of asphalt...
...Fayetteville...Elizabethtown...Tar Heel...Whiteville... Chopping into the Bible Belt and straight through Carolina back-country. The land of Billy-Bob, sweet tea, pulled pork, and Southern drawls. Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomater...hehe.
Destination: Winter Beach-Town and lowered inhibitions... Roll into town and read one of the colorful signs boasting warm welcomes:
WELCOME GOLFERS!NEW GIRLS! ALL LIVE! NUDE!
....just about right for this time of the year. Just the place for daddy and his golf buddies to take a breather from super fine suburbia.
Meet with old friends, talk story. Good People.
Stories of times when days were measured in bong hits and slayed 12-packs. When this guy got into that fight, and that guy ate too many mushrooms, and this guy got knocked out, and she got wasted, and he went on a 3 day PCP binge, Xans,Oxy, Granny's pain meds, and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds...the good ol' days.
Supporting the fight against brain cells. No medals awarded there...
So what are you left with in a Beach Town with no beach? Bar, Strip Club, Bar, Strip Club, Bar, Seafood Joint, Bar, Golf Course, Strip Club, Restaurant....that becomes a bar after dark. Cold. Lame. Crazy. Choices...
Bar hopping commences...
5 o'Clock Somewhere....Hard Rock....Blarney Stones....Ron Jon's.....McGoo's....Smokehouse.... All beach bars, all fun in their own unique way.
Old drunks, whack chicks, fat chicks, assholes, crackheads, inebriated college kids, cool cats, tough guys, punk rockers, emo kids, lovers, fighters, love had, love lost, hating life, living life...wasting life. Fun.
Paying homage to all those who have partied before us. Living fast and dying young. All against your parents wishes. Some cause. Lost cause. No cause....because.
We run into our tattoo artist and I ask the question...he answers.Fond and disgusting memories of tattooing and piercing naughty parts. Pierced shaft, head, lips....yeah, pretty gross and somewhat interesting.
We wish him goodbye and good luck in his drunken journeys. Another soul crossing the alcohol-filled earthly version of the river Styx. Our journey has just begun.
Black and gold signing...good choice: PENTHOUSE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Strip Club Breakdown:
90% Social Experiment
9% Fun
1% Random
Great selection. Top-shelf at the bottom of the barrel. Powered by a million different insecurities. Fed by greenback scrip and cat calls. Pleasure before business. People...good people. A lot of bad stories, sob stories, life stories for those who care to listen to them. After the fifth girl passes through my lap I feel like cutting my own balls off. Men are bastards. A dollar for your troubles and a penny for your thoughts. Though I'll have to pass on that promotional lapdance....you're a nice girl. What name are you using tonight?
Break the seal in the men's restroom...The guy in the next urinal asks me if I can sell him some pills....it must be my hat, sorry buddy.Catch the eye of the tired floor host and start casual conversation. He takes a quick snort of party fuel and kindly offers me some... No thanks. Now you can get your hands on pretty much anything here at the beach, but you have to wade through a lot of trash. 2% pure and biproduct of everything. Chopped up, dumbed down and sold to the unsuspecting junkie tourist. Just say NO kids. Back to the night...
Continue drinking until unhappy hour hits and the ugly lights are turned on. Last call, go home, get a life....anywhere but here. Night continues through the morning. Proceed to exceed. Shameless indulgence.
Fall asleep, erase the memory, start anew. Breathe new life into old memories. Set your alarm clock for 1 p.m.....
Good day.
Repulsed on impulse...
There's nothing better than an open septic tank to arouse the most innocent form of curiosity.
Lucky for me I've come across one being pumped and emptied which would otherwise overflow and horrify every buttoned-down Northern Virginian who would happen to pass by.
I walk over to the stinky glory hole to view what disgusting treasures of human filth it held.
"What do you think?" asks the driver from over my shoulder.
"Typical suburbanites shitting in these parts. You can tell by the lack of fiber. Too few corn fans. It looks like a big brown starless night." The driver laughs as I continue.
"...It also looks like no one took that whole 'poisoned peanuts' thing seriously."
"Spot on bro. These shitters ain't eating healthy. Trust me, I just pumped a tank at one of those vegeterian joints. That shit's the real deal. You could probably re-eat it if you wanted to."I gag and laugh simultaneously.
"A working man is a funny man. So, how you end up doing this for a living?" I ask.
"Well, believe it or not I used to be a psychiatrist. You know? Head shrink."
"No offense, but you're fucken crazy. Why would you go and do a thing like that?" pure curiosity on my part.
"You really wanna know?.....I got tired of dealing with other peoples' shit."
True story.
Lucky for me I've come across one being pumped and emptied which would otherwise overflow and horrify every buttoned-down Northern Virginian who would happen to pass by.
I walk over to the stinky glory hole to view what disgusting treasures of human filth it held.
"What do you think?" asks the driver from over my shoulder.
"Typical suburbanites shitting in these parts. You can tell by the lack of fiber. Too few corn fans. It looks like a big brown starless night." The driver laughs as I continue.
"...It also looks like no one took that whole 'poisoned peanuts' thing seriously."
"Spot on bro. These shitters ain't eating healthy. Trust me, I just pumped a tank at one of those vegeterian joints. That shit's the real deal. You could probably re-eat it if you wanted to."I gag and laugh simultaneously.
"A working man is a funny man. So, how you end up doing this for a living?" I ask.
"Well, believe it or not I used to be a psychiatrist. You know? Head shrink."
"No offense, but you're fucken crazy. Why would you go and do a thing like that?" pure curiosity on my part.
"You really wanna know?.....I got tired of dealing with other peoples' shit."
True story.
To deserve...
You observe, observe, observe....and write.
Wake up, take a shower, eat breakfast, go to school, do homework.Simple.
Wake up, take a shower, drink coffee, smoke a cigarette, go to work, come home, think about life, head out and get plastered.Fun...for now.
Wake up, wish her goodbye, head home, take a shower, drink coffee, go to work, come home, think about life, head back out into the night.Still fun.
Wake up, take a shower, down an energy drink, go to work, come home, drink a beer, think about life, spark one up, smoke a cigarette, think about life, hit the strong drink, pass out.Plateau.
Wake up, down an energy drink, pop a few, do a line, brush your teeth, head to work, make money, feel empty, come home, hit the bottle, contemplate life, black out.Indulge. Excess.
Wake up, headache, call out.Slowly but surely.Wake up, lust for life, work out, clean up, enjoy work, call her up, meet for dinner, think about a great life, dream into the night.Thrilled to fulfill.
Wake up, loving life, go to work, looking good, black and white, preist or rabbi, wild shindig, happy couple, slice of cake set aside.Level up.
Wake up, own a house, buy a car, have kids, live life, love.Rinse. Repeat.
Wake up...
Uplift...
Wake up, take a shower, eat breakfast, go to school, do homework.Simple.
Wake up, take a shower, drink coffee, smoke a cigarette, go to work, come home, think about life, head out and get plastered.Fun...for now.
Wake up, wish her goodbye, head home, take a shower, drink coffee, go to work, come home, think about life, head back out into the night.Still fun.
Wake up, take a shower, down an energy drink, go to work, come home, drink a beer, think about life, spark one up, smoke a cigarette, think about life, hit the strong drink, pass out.Plateau.
Wake up, down an energy drink, pop a few, do a line, brush your teeth, head to work, make money, feel empty, come home, hit the bottle, contemplate life, black out.Indulge. Excess.
Wake up, headache, call out.Slowly but surely.Wake up, lust for life, work out, clean up, enjoy work, call her up, meet for dinner, think about a great life, dream into the night.Thrilled to fulfill.
Wake up, loving life, go to work, looking good, black and white, preist or rabbi, wild shindig, happy couple, slice of cake set aside.Level up.
Wake up, own a house, buy a car, have kids, live life, love.Rinse. Repeat.
Wake up...
Uplift...
Misadventures in Mexico
A brisk walk around the pool quickly turns into a safari for the imaginitive mind.
You notice the sun-drenched elderly people strangely resemble leather coats with faces and bright-white hair.
Somewhere an underwear and bathing-suit catalogue has accidently blown open or fallen off a bathroom counter spilling tall model-like creatures into the pool. They come with water-proof mascara included and realistic Malibu-issued plastic surgery.
Paparazzi of the "60+ year old" variety take pictures with their high-tech camera's which I'm sure cost more than my car. Keep taking those pictures fellas. I'm sure that tall blonde has no soul for your camera lense to steal.
You're suddenly flushed from the bowl into the (cess)pool where many cum and go...and come and go. There you spend your day wasting away in a alcohol-induced stupor. This proves that you are definitely in it and not above it.
The day turns into a night that you most definitely will not go gently into. You can only pray that one of the girls dancing on the bar hasn't dripped loose-juice into your drinkdrinkdrinkdrink.
No fine details, but trust me. I was sure as hell I wouldn't see a robot shooting a flame-thower. Get to the next club however and what do you know... Poker players and loose women frequent this establishment.
You know you're in another country when the surgeon general's warning simply states: IF YOU SMOKE YOU WILL DIE. No bullshit...my kind of place. An all-inclusive, drink til' you die, beach-junkie town. Mecca for human machines laced with human disease. DON'T drink the water. DO drink the tequila...or any of the wide varieties of cheap liquor one would drink before commiting suicide.
Excuse me while I go to Wal-Mart and buy a brand-new stomach lining. I seemed to have misplaced mine in Cancun.
Yours Faithfullly,
Charles
You notice the sun-drenched elderly people strangely resemble leather coats with faces and bright-white hair.
Somewhere an underwear and bathing-suit catalogue has accidently blown open or fallen off a bathroom counter spilling tall model-like creatures into the pool. They come with water-proof mascara included and realistic Malibu-issued plastic surgery.
Paparazzi of the "60+ year old" variety take pictures with their high-tech camera's which I'm sure cost more than my car. Keep taking those pictures fellas. I'm sure that tall blonde has no soul for your camera lense to steal.
You're suddenly flushed from the bowl into the (cess)pool where many cum and go...and come and go. There you spend your day wasting away in a alcohol-induced stupor. This proves that you are definitely in it and not above it.
The day turns into a night that you most definitely will not go gently into. You can only pray that one of the girls dancing on the bar hasn't dripped loose-juice into your drinkdrinkdrinkdrink.
No fine details, but trust me. I was sure as hell I wouldn't see a robot shooting a flame-thower. Get to the next club however and what do you know... Poker players and loose women frequent this establishment.
You know you're in another country when the surgeon general's warning simply states: IF YOU SMOKE YOU WILL DIE. No bullshit...my kind of place. An all-inclusive, drink til' you die, beach-junkie town. Mecca for human machines laced with human disease. DON'T drink the water. DO drink the tequila...or any of the wide varieties of cheap liquor one would drink before commiting suicide.
Excuse me while I go to Wal-Mart and buy a brand-new stomach lining. I seemed to have misplaced mine in Cancun.
Yours Faithfullly,
Charles
Aminals
Since moving out here I always wondered if I'd get to see all the cool-ass stateside animals I had always seen in the movies.
Now I can say I've seen a lot of them, but probably not all of them. The only problem is......they're always dead. I'm talking straight road kill stylee.Dude I swear.
Squirrels...nice to have, nice to hold, but if you run them shits over...
I saw a huge deer one day. One half was in the lane on my left, and the other half was in the lane on my right....faces of death style. Not too sure what happened to the last half, hehe.
Skunks, part black and part white right? Not after they get run over by mom's SUV, straight up gray....and some red.
Beavers (the dam building kine you perv!) well, they already smell like they're dead so what the hell?
Possums, trust me, they look better after getting run the fuck over.
Chipmunks...I think I still have one jammed in my fender.
Raccoons, try tearing up the trash now!
Black bears, sorry cubs, mommy's not coming home. It's the truth.
Last but not least....humans. Maybe now you'll learn not to go jogging on the road at 5 in the morning! No really, saw my second one today. Dump truck stylee.
I feel like going to the zoo.
Now I can say I've seen a lot of them, but probably not all of them. The only problem is......they're always dead. I'm talking straight road kill stylee.Dude I swear.
Squirrels...nice to have, nice to hold, but if you run them shits over...
I saw a huge deer one day. One half was in the lane on my left, and the other half was in the lane on my right....faces of death style. Not too sure what happened to the last half, hehe.
Skunks, part black and part white right? Not after they get run over by mom's SUV, straight up gray....and some red.
Beavers (the dam building kine you perv!) well, they already smell like they're dead so what the hell?
Possums, trust me, they look better after getting run the fuck over.
Chipmunks...I think I still have one jammed in my fender.
Raccoons, try tearing up the trash now!
Black bears, sorry cubs, mommy's not coming home. It's the truth.
Last but not least....humans. Maybe now you'll learn not to go jogging on the road at 5 in the morning! No really, saw my second one today. Dump truck stylee.
I feel like going to the zoo.
Leche De Tigre
We were tired after a day of golf.
It's a sport which, thanks to my brother's broken heart...and the Scottish, I have recently taken interest in.
Though a beer and a burger are the usual orders of the day, we needed more.
We felt the need for strong drink and even stronger food to nourish the soul and revitalize the spirit.
We needed ceviche'....but our usual restaurant had been closed down for reasons unknown. One could only speculate: bad business, health violations, turning into a nightclub for the late-night Latino crowd, rat shit, cat vomit...who knows?
Mission status: Search and Destroy
SEARCH out a seedy looking, hole-in-the-wall, B-rating Spanish restaurant.
DESTROY a plate of ceviche', Coronas, and a few tequila shots. ayiyiyi!We get a hint from a friend about a spot in Arlington which claims to be the official unofficial Home of Ceviche'.
We hit the lights and shoot our way down 66 into the heart of Arlington...the micro-city which is home of the sundress, booty-short wearing, mid-day workout, summer interns.
We pull up the spot. If you laid down in the parking lot with your feet toward the building, your head would be crushed by oncoming traffic.
Really small.I look up to the window and see a neon sign which in English means: Crazy Chicken....we hope.Walk in and order a couple of Coronas from the no habla Ingles waitress. The back of her shirt proudly sports the words: Home of Ceviche’Order up.
The single variety of restaurant patrons was a good sign, all Spanish. A lunch couple next to us receives their order, immediately the smell of lime juice and raw fish punches me in the face. It's followed by some potent onion and cilantro. Silverware scrapes against porcelain...
Our order finally arrives and it's a thing of beauty. A heaping pile of raw fish and cooked squid in a cool lime juice bath. Onions, shrimp, cilantro, half of a sweet potato, and Peruvian corn (which looks like kernels that were stabbed with a straw and blown up, fucken giant corn!)
My plate goes from full to empty in five point fat seconds. All that's left is the lime juice which has turned to a milky white from it's chemical reaction with the fish.
This is LECHE DE TIGRE. Tiger's Milk, homes!I pick up my spoon and take a scoop. I throw it down the hatch...if this is what tiger's milk taste like, cubs be gettin' fuuuuuuucked up.
I hear some giggling from a few tables down and look to see what the commotion is all about. Two Spanish girls had witnessed me suckling the teat of the tiger.
"Te gusta, eh?" says one.
"Si, mija bonita." I say. They laugh.
My brother-in-law and all-purpose translator steps up to the plate and strikes up friendly conversation.The waitress comes back and we order up a of couple Pisco Sours...tequila, egg whites, and whatever else those crazy Peruvian put in it.
The same two girls start giggling. After murdering the Pisco Sour, our waitress makes a suggestion. A mixture of pure Pisco and Leche de Tigre.Now I know that Leche de Tigre was the ultimate hangover cure for Spanish people...but this was something else.
This was one for the books. You can't even find it in the menu.She told me it was a shot, but she brings a cup instead.I stare it down for a quick second. I take a sip. The Spanish girls say something, Jose laughs and translates. They said my girlfriend is in trouble tonight.
You see, while it is a hangover cure, Leche de Tigre is also an aphrodisiac.I count to three and pour it down my face-hole. If there was ever a thing as over-vitalized, I was definitely it. You feel like you could take on the world after that shit.
The Spanish girls clap and one of them says something...yes, in Spanish.Jose smiles and shakes his head.
"Their asking if you wanna come home."
If you are what you eat, then by Spanish standards I was horny. To be honest I felt more like a Life Tiger than a Sex Tiger.
We have a few more laughs and pay the tab. We thank the waitress and head out to the car. Before we pull out of the parking lot one of the Spanish girls emerges from the restaurant. They weren't joking, they wanted to party. She exchanges words with my translator for a bit and we pull away. They wanted to experience the more favorable effects of tiger's milk. As Jose told them, we're both married.
Not bad for a Sunday afternoon.
Life Tiger
It's a sport which, thanks to my brother's broken heart...and the Scottish, I have recently taken interest in.
Though a beer and a burger are the usual orders of the day, we needed more.
We felt the need for strong drink and even stronger food to nourish the soul and revitalize the spirit.
We needed ceviche'....but our usual restaurant had been closed down for reasons unknown. One could only speculate: bad business, health violations, turning into a nightclub for the late-night Latino crowd, rat shit, cat vomit...who knows?
Mission status: Search and Destroy
SEARCH out a seedy looking, hole-in-the-wall, B-rating Spanish restaurant.
DESTROY a plate of ceviche', Coronas, and a few tequila shots. ayiyiyi!We get a hint from a friend about a spot in Arlington which claims to be the official unofficial Home of Ceviche'.
We hit the lights and shoot our way down 66 into the heart of Arlington...the micro-city which is home of the sundress, booty-short wearing, mid-day workout, summer interns.
We pull up the spot. If you laid down in the parking lot with your feet toward the building, your head would be crushed by oncoming traffic.
Really small.I look up to the window and see a neon sign which in English means: Crazy Chicken....we hope.Walk in and order a couple of Coronas from the no habla Ingles waitress. The back of her shirt proudly sports the words: Home of Ceviche’Order up.
The single variety of restaurant patrons was a good sign, all Spanish. A lunch couple next to us receives their order, immediately the smell of lime juice and raw fish punches me in the face. It's followed by some potent onion and cilantro. Silverware scrapes against porcelain...
Our order finally arrives and it's a thing of beauty. A heaping pile of raw fish and cooked squid in a cool lime juice bath. Onions, shrimp, cilantro, half of a sweet potato, and Peruvian corn (which looks like kernels that were stabbed with a straw and blown up, fucken giant corn!)
My plate goes from full to empty in five point fat seconds. All that's left is the lime juice which has turned to a milky white from it's chemical reaction with the fish.
This is LECHE DE TIGRE. Tiger's Milk, homes!I pick up my spoon and take a scoop. I throw it down the hatch...if this is what tiger's milk taste like, cubs be gettin' fuuuuuuucked up.
I hear some giggling from a few tables down and look to see what the commotion is all about. Two Spanish girls had witnessed me suckling the teat of the tiger.
"Te gusta, eh?" says one.
"Si, mija bonita." I say. They laugh.
My brother-in-law and all-purpose translator steps up to the plate and strikes up friendly conversation.The waitress comes back and we order up a of couple Pisco Sours...tequila, egg whites, and whatever else those crazy Peruvian put in it.
The same two girls start giggling. After murdering the Pisco Sour, our waitress makes a suggestion. A mixture of pure Pisco and Leche de Tigre.Now I know that Leche de Tigre was the ultimate hangover cure for Spanish people...but this was something else.
This was one for the books. You can't even find it in the menu.She told me it was a shot, but she brings a cup instead.I stare it down for a quick second. I take a sip. The Spanish girls say something, Jose laughs and translates. They said my girlfriend is in trouble tonight.
You see, while it is a hangover cure, Leche de Tigre is also an aphrodisiac.I count to three and pour it down my face-hole. If there was ever a thing as over-vitalized, I was definitely it. You feel like you could take on the world after that shit.
The Spanish girls clap and one of them says something...yes, in Spanish.Jose smiles and shakes his head.
"Their asking if you wanna come home."
If you are what you eat, then by Spanish standards I was horny. To be honest I felt more like a Life Tiger than a Sex Tiger.
We have a few more laughs and pay the tab. We thank the waitress and head out to the car. Before we pull out of the parking lot one of the Spanish girls emerges from the restaurant. They weren't joking, they wanted to party. She exchanges words with my translator for a bit and we pull away. They wanted to experience the more favorable effects of tiger's milk. As Jose told them, we're both married.
Not bad for a Sunday afternoon.
Life Tiger
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