How I spent my Sunday

This weekend consisted of me writing yet another paper.

So, this morning, I’m up early, reading on my backyard porch when these annoying ass carpenter bees start buzzing by my shit.

This is a problem for several obvious reasons, most significantly: I’m absurdly allergic to bees.

Well, disregarding personal safety for my reading comfort, I decide it’s a good idea to take down the bee colony one by one with a badminton racquet. Okay, I know a lot of you are like, “What are you? Six years old...” Well, you know what, shut up assface, it’s fun.

So I roll up to the nest hanging from my garage, talking MAD shit. I’m like, “Oh, bees, you wanna go? It’s on! Lets do this fuckers!” The bees didn’t seem to care. So, to get things started, I threw a rock at the nest. (Then abruptly ran away, hands covering my head.) When I ventured back, racquet ready for swatting, like ten bees have rolled out, sleeves up, ready for a brawl in my driveway.

So I started swatting like a mofo. I’m sending bees ricocheting off my garage, off the concrete, off other bees. I’m dodging stings. I’m out of control.

At this point, a small body count is building up, and I’m feeling AWESOME about myself. I’m taunting them, doing a little touchdown dance.

Then my neighbor walks out of his house, looking flabbergasted. Here’s what you have to know about my neighbor: he’s like a hundred and thirty years old. He stares at me, repulsed, as I take several more swings. I’m distracted so the swings are straight up air balls.

Finally he asks, bluntly, “What are you? Drunk?”

This is a sad commentary on what my neighbor thinks of me. Keep in mind, this whole charade is occurring at around 10a.m. on a Sunday morning. So, by asking if I’m drunk, he’s implying I:

a.) drink by myself

b.) started drinking at like 7 in the morning

c.) got drunk and decided it was a good idea to swing a badminton racquet for no apparent reason

Immediately, I had to set to record straight. “Actually,” I said, not even giving him the decency of casual eye contact, “I’m killing bees, thank you very much.”

He continued to stare at me for a couple more minutes, then concluded, “You’re sick, fella” and walked back into his house.

Well, can my neighbor claim he killed these bees with his own bare hands?

Postin’ Up

TGI fucking F. This was the longest week EVER. (Put your seatbelt on for some of my unmitigated whining.) First, after last weekend’s stellar 3-day bender, 9 a.m. Monday felt like I had just walked into a de-tox program. That feeling continued through Friday. Everyday I felt hung over, shaky, uneasy, headachey, and sleepy. (Being my job is to read all day, sleepy is probably the worst feeling I can get at work.) The only cool part of the week came when, after having a horde of awful manuscripts to proof, I was assigned to proof a biography about Jimi Hendrix. But, even that led to shittyness, when, as I was filling out the memo to route to the editor, I wrote under comments “This book ROCKS”, my boss rolled up behind me and blasted me for “not being professional.” I tried to defend myself, claiming I wasn’t making a joke; that this book literally rocks, hard. She took the pen out of my hand, crossed out my rocking reference, shook her head in disgust, and, as she pirouetted away, informed me to “grow up”. Awesome. I love my job. Well, tonight I feel on verge of passing out so I’m going to finish reading Germinal and post this absurd story I wrote for some fucker who was supposed to pay me for it but never did. It’s a fake story I made up about a tight-ass guy going on a date with a fucking-idiot girl (the “fucking” is definitely needed in the adjective, as “idiot girl” would not aptly describe this girl correctly.) The sad part is, while the part about meeting on the internet is fiction, the girl is sorta like this girl I dated in high school and the guy is sorta like me. So, in a way, it’s sorta not completely fiction. Well…YOU MAKE THE CALL…

We were to meet at 7 PM and she was late. We were to meet at the Silk Road Palace on the West Side and it was already 7:45.

I found her on Craig’s List.

She seemed normal enough. All the buzzwords I yearned for in an internet woman were there: fun, intelligent, young.

Later I would learn that by fun she meant it’s fun to listen to her incessant chatter, and by intelligent she meant possessing an inordinate knowledge of pop culture icons and celebrity personalities. But by young, she did mean young. And young is what I was looking for. The 19-24 preference was preferable.

I sit, intent on studying my chopsticks, to keep from again attracting the waitress’s attention.

It doesn’t work.

“Sir,” the waitress addresses me for the third time, “is date arriving soon? It Thursday and Thursday very busy.” She refills my wine glass, again and repeats, “Very busy.”

“Yes,” I defend her. Again. “She’s probably just running late. I know she’ll be here very soon.”

But I do not know this.

All I actually know is:

“Robert – Letz meet @ this plce called The Palace…me and my girlz love goin

there…free wine! and they arent strct w/ ids…its on Amsterdam between btw 81

and 82…i’ll be wearing fendi sunglasses. See u, ~N”

What she knows of me is:

“Dear Nicole,

I anticipate enjoying a splendid evening in your company. I am a bit unfamiliar with the West Side, so I will arrive early and secure us a table. Please look for me, I will be wearing a rather conspicuous yellow tie; also, I have blonde highlighted hair, somewhat angular features, stand about 5’11 (although hopefully that is a superlative detail, being I will be sitting by the time you arrive!) and weigh 153 pounds. From what I have gathered from searching the Silk Road Palace on the internet, it’s a small, but intimate bistro, so it should not be a problem for you to spot me. Also, on a side note, I have been craving Chinese, so fabulous choice!! I am excited for tonight. Ciao, Robert.”

“Okay,” the waitress says with an exhale. This time she says it with a hint of sympathy. “How bout you tell me what she look like so I look for her.”

Ka-boom.

At the office, coworkers often criticize me for talking too fast. What they don’t know is I think even faster. When I become nervous, or blank on questions I wish I had an answer to, I panic. I panic hardcore. My brain is like one of those stock tickers sped up to a thousand miles an hour. Thoughts blur past me in strings of haphazard words like a passing subway.

I try remembering the description in her listing.

“Athletic build,” I exasperate. “Um…five foot four. Err…” the phrase “mad hottttt” comes to mind. I load the phrase, as if a torpedo, onto my lips. My tongue begins to shape the alien phrase.

I am about to tell the waitress to look for the “mad hot” date.

Abort! Abort!

I catch myself.

“…and she’s 19, very good looking. You can’t miss her,” I exclaim. “Really very, very good looking.”

Embarrassment temporarily aborted, I reassure myself.

The waitress’s sympathy evaporates as she grumbles: “I keep eye for her,” then pirouettes to the next table.

I feel like a cancer in this restaurant. Across from me is a mirror reflecting my scrunched up face. It looks like an equal mix of frustration and sadness. My mouth and cheeks are tense and drawing angry creases across my wrinkle-free face. My eyes are squinty like they’re gathering tears (even though they aren’t) as my eyebrows arch upward like twin tilde marks.

My face is the cyst that is ruining other couples’ Night Out.

In an attempt to relax, I take a long swig of wine; a swig so powerful I forget what I’m doing here, and when I return the glass to table there she is, sitting.

I know it’s her immediately.

She has long brunette hair that glimmers streaks of blonde highlights and constellations of cosmetic sparkles. The sparkles continue over her long eyelashes, inky long eyelashes that fall over big brown eyes when she blinks, which is often. Her face is full, but certainly not overweight or even chubby. I would have guessed she was 120 pounds: not anorexic looking yet not sloppy, which were the two extremes I was accustomed to after four recent years of college.

Her hand rests on the table; on the index finger of that hand is a shinny, red Ringpop. I hadn’t seen a Ringpop since I could recite the names and ranks of entire G.I. Joe platoons.

I had to admit she was beautiful and worth the waiting, worth the embarrassment.

“Hi,” she says perfunctory, without looking at me. Her hand is hailing the waitress who beelines to our table.

“You like appetizer,” the waitress asks.

“Actually Audrey,” Nicole says with notable confidence, “You can start by bringing me some wine like usual. Oh, and say hi to The Mister for me, will ya?”

“ID,” the waitress, whom I’m apprehensive to refer to as Audrey, says flippantly with her palm extended.

Nicole looks at the waitress, then looks at me, holding my glance and snickering as if the waitress has said something that only her and I could possibly be sophisticated enough to find funny.

I feel both awkward and privileged.

“Yeah,” Nicole mutters, “I’ll get you my damn ID”

When a laminated New Jersey driver’s license materializes from the depths of a black handbag with a big silver “N” on the front, she mumbles: “Here you go. Again.”

The waitress takes the ID, scampers off and disappears behind the kitchen’s swinging doors.

“God,” she says. “They’re such tight asses here with IDs after they get pinched. It was probably those stupid NYU kids last Friday actin’ a fool and shit.”

“Yeah,” I concur to appease. “They asked for two forms of picture ID from me, too.”

“Have you drunk a lot yet? Do I have some catching to do?”

She emits a forced cackle when she says this. I don’t like the idea of time measured in consumed drinks but I play along telling her I had a few.

“Isn’t this place off the hook? God, me and my girls have gotten to the point where the owner comes out is totally like WTF, girls. And we’re all like WTF yourself.”

“Like what?”

“Like WTF, as in What The Fuck. You don’t talk on AIM?”

“Oh. Yeah, I mean I do, but I never heard anyone use these terms in, you know, conversation.”

“That reminds me, I’ll BRB, I gotta go hit up the bathroom.”

While Nicole is gone, the waitress comes back and sets onto the table a water glass brimming with wine and next to it Nicole’s ID. Her ID claims she’s Karla McDouggal and I wonder if her name is really even Nicole. Plenty of people list fake names on internet dating services, especially free ones.

“Orders,” the waitress demands abruptly.

Moo Shu Pork, Eight Delicious Diced Chicken, Sweet & Sour Shrimps, comes to me in a flash. Chicken, Rice, Noodles, But what does she want? Soup, Eggroll, but she’s in the bathroom. Sweet and sour, sour and sweet, the waitress is angry and she wants a fucking order. Now. With snow peers, just, with ginsing, order, with lemon, two goddamn, with cashew nuts, entrées.

“The General Chow,” I yell way too loud. “General Chow chicken for us both.”

The waitress whisks our menus away from the table and vanishes.

When Nicole returns from the bathroom, I tell her what I ordered for us. I once read in Maxim that you can turn women on by ordering for them.

“Well that is fucking fabulous,” Nicole contends, “because the General Chow chicken might be the only dish on the menu I can’t eat. That I would never eat. So fantastic Robert, way to pick a winner.”

“I’m – I’m really sorry. I just – ”

“Whatevs, I guess I’ll just have to take advantage of the free wine, which reminds me,” she leans across the table as if what she’s going to tell me is very important and secretive. “I brought my emergency flask with me and I hit it in the bathroom. You want a taste.”

“Oh. No thanks. Really, I’m fine with just drinking wine ever since – ”

“Shut up,” she says and claws for my empty glass across the table. “I’m doing this for you anyway. I specifically said in that classified that I was going to show you a good time. My shrink said it’s good for me to help people.”

The way she said it was convincing enough. We all need a little help, right? She slides the glass, filled even higher than her water glass full of wine, back to me. She bends over to put the ID and flask back into her handbag.

She holds her wine glass up and offers Cheers.

My glass is too full to lift without spilling so, to save myself from looking like an idiot, I lean over and slurp the alcohol off the lip of the glass. The potency of the drink hits me. Hard. It’s like burning Novocain.

I raise my glass allowing her glass to peck mine with a clank.

“You know who you look like,” she says, tilting her head as if admiring an abstract painting. “You look like Chad from the boy band Together.”

“Who?”

“Umm…Together. Like who hasn’t heard of Together? The quintet pioneered by an MTV spoof combining boyish good looks with bubble gum charm. The venture was originally launched as a made-for-TV movie, winning great success with fans both young and old, the boy band parody eventually went on to release a soundtrack that spawned the heart-throb franchise formally known as Together.”

I stared at her with befuddled disbelief.

“And you,” she continued. “You would be Chad, the shy one in the group. While not as cute as Jason or rebellious as Mickey, Chad is like my third favorite. So that’s, like, super good for you. LOL”

And so it went.

It could have went for hours, or it could have went for minutes. I don’t know. I don’t know because after I was told I looked like Chad from Together the rest of the night’s details become hazy. The rest of the night’s details become hazy because at this point in the night the rohypnol she had me drink were circulating in my bloodstream and narcotizing my neurons.

I know this because the next day, after I passed out on the table and she took out my wallet, found my driver’s license, saw my address, sent me home in a yellow taxi, and may or may not have stolen 15 dollars (I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt), she wrote me.

She wrote me an E-Mail, which I printed out several times and taped to my mirror to remind me everyday that:

Chad,

We were a madz cutie ;) I had a good time!!11 letzz do it again, k? sorry i put a roofie in ur drink…me and ma girlz do it to each all the time…itz mad funny!! call me whenev,

~N

Coming Soon: The Booty Buster

I lied in my last post when I said I hadn’t been writing anything for this blog. The truth is, I have been working on a memoir-like story, but I don’t want to post it until I feel it’s ready. You see, this story is no ordinary blog story. This is a scared story my atrocious friends and I consider canonical. The story involves a friend of mine I can’t even mention by name. Just know him as “The Booty Buster” because that’s what the story is about: busting booties. When I refer to his real identity, his non-busting persona, I’ll call him “Zeke McTitty”. Obviously a pseudonym, because, if you knew his real name, you’d know the true identity of the Booty Buster.

In the meantime, I wanted to post a little “prequel” to that story on here tonight. As I was trying to garner inspiration for the Booty Buster chronicle, I found this on my computer from my freshman year of college. This “essay” actually got me in big trouble, dudes. Well, to prequel a prequel, I was taking that required “alcohol and abuse awareness” course all freshmen have to take. As you can imagine, I took this “course” less than seriously, as there was talk of me showing up to the last class rip-roaring drunk in an ironic finale to the afternoons I wasted getting the “straight facts” on alcohol and abuse. Well, that day never came. The reason my ingenious plan never came to fruition is I got kicked out of the course when I handed in my essay on sexual harassment. The assignment was “Write about a time you were sexually harassed”. Immediately I thought back to the Booty Buster and the rest is self-explanatory…

The Day That Will Live In Infamy: My Experience with Sexual Harassment

Well, sexual harassment is no new concept to me. Attending an all-boys school for four years of my adolescent life, I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with sexual harassers. I’ve witnessed young men brought to tears by such phrases as “queer-ass”, “butt pirate”, “anal chomper”, and the like. I guess I dodged the bullet of being on the wrong end of the harassment stick until the October of my senior year. Word had been going around school about this character named Zeke McTitty. He was a muscular stud, who seemed to keep to himself most of the time, but rumor had it that he referred to himself as “the booty buster”. One day after gym practice, I was in the locker room washing up. When I stepped out of the shower the only person in the locker room was “the booty buster”. I felt a little uneasy with this, but I kept my composure and went about my routine of changing. That’s when it happened. I was harassed. I heard his cold voice on my back say “Hey boner phone, show me what you’re working with over there.” At first I was confused by this cryptic taunting, but it didn’t take me long to figure out I was being patronized. I felt violated and angry. This is my experience with sexual harassment and “the booty buster”.

God blog it! This is blogging embarrassing...

Okay. So I’ve been writing a lot lately but haven’t come up with anything particularly suitable for this blog. I sorta feel like everything on this blog has to “funny”. The “funny” thing about that is the whole reason I started blogging in the first place was to help with my thesis. My adviser suggested I start a blog to make sure I write every day. What this blog has basically become is the resting place for my old “humor” essays, which, don’t get me wrong, is fine. But I sorta feel like the editor of a mass of material I’m not even sure people still want to read. In any case, to try to bring this blog back to its “creative writing roots”, I’m going to post the beginning of a short story I wrote for a fiction workshop. I suppose it’s not really funny unless I tell you the Daniel from the story, the person I refer to in the third person, is actually me! Yeah! Desperation never sounded so fictitious! Go me! Sit on that street corner feeling sorry for yourself! So, yeah, get a laugh at my expense:

This time: He was only pretty sure he’d forgive her. Sitting, hands on the curb, tiny stones gnaw at his palms. He’s dizzy. Cars keep floating by. Headlights cast wilting shadows on the concrete and asphalt, on parked cars and empty buildings. His breath comes. Cloudy gasps evaporating into darkness, into the night. Must be pretty damn cold, he figures. But he hardly notices.

Okay, get this. If you were passing in your car, you’d be like, what is that pretentious little jerk whining about? And it’s understandable why you’d think that. It is. Come on, he’s wearing that argyle sweater vest with those black-rim glasses – the kind you’d expect from the asshole at Starbucks pontificating in contrived “-ism”s and enunciating words like dialectic. So you understand why he’s a Daniel. Maybe (maybe!) you posses an active imagination and see glimmers of a Danny. But he’s no Dan. No way José! Dan would’ve been back in that bar spiking empty shot glasses, pounding his chest, prancing and yelping around like a neglected hound dog. Nope. No chance he’s a Dan.

The door swings open, resonates its slap of oak on brick. Music rushes onto the street like a wild animal. His body, anxiously, twists to watch three husky men, all wearing a variation on the same flannel shirt, stumble with arms tangled over each other’s shoulders. They sway. They chatter. They’re as if a single person. He doesn’t even have the curiosity to listen when they pass.

Turning back to the street, he checks his watch because it’s something to do. Realizes, he could cry. He really could. But, no, he won’t. Of course he won’t because, God, what if she came out and saw him.

Realize, if this were a movie, credits would be rolling by now. Yup, cue that melodramatic pop-culture dirge that’s supposed to leave you transfixed, transformed, transported on the Hollywood emotional roller coaster. Here’s how they want you to feel. They want you to sit there, fingers clenching that plastic beverage holder on your seat as you stare up at those illuminated names rolling into heavenly oblivion, and you’re totally supposed to be like, wow, I mean, wow. But this ain’t no movie. Therefore, we’ll forget the credits, keep the song, and begin. He once thought, and he would tell you his grandfather (1922-2001) would have agreed, that the “Alabama Song” by The Doors held the meaning of life. And, in a lot of ways, it did.

* * * * *

Apply Within

Man, sometimes the articles I write have a glimmer of my true sentiments in them. For example, the last Collegehumor article I wrote about the 7^th grade party…I sorta want someone to throw one. Seriously. As for this article, this is an old one I wrote when me, Timps, and the Harm were looking for lackeys. Even though I’m not in college anymore, I still sorta want a lackey like a sorta want a puppy. In any case, pass this article on to a high school senior…

Take the Lack Out of Lackey

This post goes out to a special group of college students. A collegiate ilk dealing with more shit than your grandfather’s Depends. This post is for the faceless throng that is perennially pissed on (voluntarily). For the class producing those nameless hussies that put the ‘Pussy’ in your friend Chuck’s moniker: ‘Chuck the Pussy Smasher.’ Yup, that’s right freshmen; this one goes out to you!

Whoa! that obnoxious Paperclip from Word just pointed out a typo in the above paragraph. First year students aren’t freshmen…You’re fresh fish! And no, I’m not referring to quirky singing fish like in Disney’s Little Mermaid. No, you’re like the fish that live in maximum security prisons. Similar to life in the slammer there’s a limit set on the number of rights you have. That number is, of course, set at zero.

I know the past few days must have been a monster reality check for you fish. How :'( were you when finding the fallaciousness in movies like Slackers and Van Wilder? Much to your chagrin college is not in an around the clock outlandish bender. Sadly, getting laid is not a bihourly occurrence. And geeks are not really ostracized. Well, ok, geeks DO get strung up by their underwear and shoved in lockers, but the other stuff alas doesn’t happen.

Unfortunately, a lot of the provisions you thought you’d rely so heavily upon now seem superlative. An example for the guys would be condoms; for the girls this would be underwear. Posters you thought were going to be cool aren’t. Regrettably, you’re relying more on the IUPAC periodic table of the elements than your “Table of Mixology” poster. But before you curse the day that the atomic weight of Beryllium has superceded the ingredients to a “Blushin’ Russian,” hear me out.

There is a certain “provision” you can make to have your bad luck vanish like sketchy frat guys with passed out chicks. The secret to fish survival is to become an upperclassmen’s lackey. The bad news is “lackey” is a euphemism for “bitch”. The good news is you’ll start fitting in like Britney Spears at a chubby convention.

Admittedly some fish are more genetically predisposed to being lackeys than others. For instance, Asian fish can automatically be dubbed “Data” and can use hilarious one-liners like, “No time for love Dr. Jones!” to deter their inebriated upperclassman mentor when he’s considering slummin’ with a plus-size battle cow.

For the ladies, I’m not totally sure what being a female lackey entails. I would assume that you’ll be referred to a lot as “you little bitch” and told to do really degrading things like make out with hideously ugly guys; which isn’t much different than what you’re doing anyway.

In conclusion, consider being someone’s lackey. True, it probably won’t be worth the price of your dignity. And true, it might ruin your life. But think about this: if you don’t, who’s going to drop their pants in the quad for my sadistic enjoyment?

I came; I saw; I blacked out and wrote about it in my blog

That was a weekend for the record books.

I just got in from SPRING! WEEKEND! at my old COLLEGE!!1 (all words in caps should read like an outburst from an overweight frat-dawg) and it was not only awesome, but ‘most awesome*’. First, it was great catching up with my dichotomy of friends: Res Life friends and party animal friends. On a side note to my Res Life friends, I hope no one took that last post as a ‘literal truth’. I was obviously being satirical as I was an RA; just like I was a baby and don’t (gasp!) really believe babies should be boycotted.

*Please see Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure and/or Bogus Journey

Anyway, another confession I have to make: when I actually was in college, I never got to fully exploit Spring Weekend festivities to their fullest, drunkest potential. As a science major, I was living proof to the conspiracy amongst science professors to shunt their students’ fun during Spring Weekend (i.e. mandatory Biology fieldtrip freshmen year, huge orgo test sophomore year, endocrinology lab practical junior year, and a biochem presentation senior year!) This year I promised myself I wasn’t going to let minor details like a full time job get in the way of Spring Weekend. So taking the day off on Friday and leaving immediately after work on Thursday, I came to my former alma mater with a pillow and bad intentions.

Everything unfolded according to plan as my level drunkenness over the three-day weekend took the shape of a bell curve. Thursday and Saturday were drunk days, while Friday was an utterly inebriated day. (My boss would be so proud I put my day off from work to such good use.) In fact, Friday night got so out of hand, I woke up Saturday morning feeling like a DSI: Drunk Scene Investigator. For starters, I had a humongous bruise on my left thigh that was starting to turn a greenish color (gangrene?). Next, when I checked my phone, there were a plethora of mysterious numbers both incoming and outgoing. When I checked the times of these calls, they all matched the suspected time of when I blacked out (which also coincided with a horrible shot of dry gin I took). Investigation is still ongoing…

My only regret is I really would have loved to play Monopoly this weekend. Seriously! I haven’t played Monop since like 1986 and I’ve really been craving it. Also, I came up with a GREAT way to cheat in Monopoly. Read below:

A great way to cheat in Monopoly is by bringing Monopoly money from other games with you when you know you’re going to be playing. For instance, if someone says: “Monopoly party! Tonight! I’m the little pansy thimble piece!” You plan in advance and bring a few green backs, or in Monopoly money’s case orange, gold, and yellow backs. If you’re a hard-core monopoly player, like myself, you carry monopoly money with you at all times to ensure Monopoly victory whenever.

A-latazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Update - A great IM from an onlooker:
I see drunk people 808 (12:51:36 PM): you were beyond drunk by the time i saw you on fri
Bobberous (12:51:54 PM): hahahahahaahahhaa
Bobberous (12:51:56 PM): YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Bobberous (12:52:02 PM): dude i was out of control

An Awkward Retelling

This is a miniature golf scorecard, only five holes scored. It came from a course around here, in June perhaps – the season couples couple in double date pairs, laughing overtly loud, always arms snaking around one another’s waists with each unguarded moment. Missy had brought me here because it was romantic.

Most of the holes we’d played were not particularly agonizing, enjoyable almost. Missy tilted her chin slightly heavenward when leaning in for a putt. Her sunflower colored polo shirt hinting at her perked tits, her fingers fitting together like puzzle pieces over the club’s grip.

Oh, memories.

When I’d finally gathered The Heartbreakers into one place – the local McDonalds – I felt I could finally approach the situation. The situation they had caused. So I peered out at their McDonalds-satiated faces and said, “Unbelievable,” though as I said this, I recalled how these hyenas, this herd of perpetual laughers, acted, in fact, completely believable. There were, of course, details that were suspect, perhaps unbelievable, but on the whole, the situation in question, the pulling down of Gerald’s pants was not only believable, but routine, standard. Eddie’s gaze was fixed coldly on me, his jaw looking stressed and boxy.

I continued to prod, not letting this deter me. “Un-fucking-believable,” I repeated, allowing my voice to snowball with agitation. “You’re sitting there with your little wangs safely stashed away in the tidy-whiteys your moms buy for you.”

They laughed. And they squirmed a little. Precisely.

I said, “You never thought for one second, one goddamn second, how this would reflect on me. Did you?”

They never did.

But there was still Tammy. Tammy had a plump, ruddy face that was pimpled, but not particularly noticeable. Her hair was short and chestnut colored, which fluffed out in the back like a knot of feathers. Sometimes she wore a ribbon in the bangs. She didn’t completely fit the description of a geek or misfit, not like the ones I’d seen in the halls or the gym bleachers – leaning forward, chins resting on palms, staring out into the crowd, hopeful and sad.

And Eddie had always felt an awkwardness with Tammy, and had been a bit too overjoyed when he no longer had an obligation to her as such. His new girlfriend, Sonya, painfully gorgeous, a sapphire eyed, silk-haired bilingual girl from St. Petersburg he’d met at an epic keg party in Deer Park, where she’d just become single and he had been rip-roaring drunk with much too much to say to everyone. Eddie and Sonya were dating only a couple days – long enough to keep Tammy at an unapproachable distance. I really wasn’t entirely sure what had gone wrong, except Sonya had a penchant for making out in public places and Tammy was shy and embarrassed easily.

All these tragically melodramatic details converged on a single point: my revenge.

I’d remembered a story Tammy had written in an English class. She spoke of herself in the third person like this:

Friday afternoon he drove them down the boulevard. After explaining the rules over Mozart’s Requiem, he parked in front of the pub; the one he’d said was white trash. The pub he’d chosen was decorated in Christmas lights even though it wasn’t Christmas. Hanging from the roof was a sign, Tony’s, and in the window a placard read, Bathrooms for customer use ONLY. His idea was to yell “white trash” into the pub and run. Tammy, who was a nervous girl with a pudgy face, listened without saying anything when he said she would be the one driving the getaway. The other boys, a set of paternal twins, rolled with curious laughter in the backseat. Their seatbelts pressed against their abdomens, slackening and then tightening. He slid a gum stick into his mouth and opened the car door. He kept his head down and walked toward the pub. He let an old man pass him on the sidewalk. He’d just come to make friends laugh and was in no particular rush.

He swung the door open and yelled it, white trash, and then ran. Tammy put the car in gear, just as the patrons appeared at the door, in plenty of time to stage a getaway. Tammy did not find this funny. There was not a high five between them, just the minimum exchange of driving directions, the necessary information. While he slapped the dashboard with elation, Tammy slowed for a traffic light and wondered why these sorts of things were so funny to him. She was a senior and sixteen years old, and it seemed to her other seniors, especially ones in AP classes – like him, a boy who’d gotten into Dartmouth – must grow up and forget these silly things. They will share that, someday, she thought. But he enjoyed being the clown – not being mean, just a clown. She gave up trying to make him stop laughing. She looked into the rearview mirror and could see the main turnpike with a distant, illuminated McDonalds arch peering from the distance of another town. Behind the arch was a sky without clouds. There was a line of traffic behind them. A song by Jethro Tull began playing.

The boy finished laughing, and then so did the twins. He looked at her and said, “Stop the car.” He thanked her, switched seats, and drove her back to her house.

Well. After I remembered this juicy slice of information, I asked Tammy to meet me after school, in her car. Once we were both in the car – with windows rolled up – I ran a hand over my nonexistent hairline. Before explaining exactly what I had in mind I swooped the can of diet cola out of her hand and took a mighty swig. The air felt light and airy yet still a bit cool. It must have been April. Her car was a dim color and falling apart except for a shinny icon on the dashboard. I swished the soda and cringed; it was flat and bitter. Her eyes were tiny, red and perennially tear laden. It reminded me of a bulldog.

I stepped out of the car, out of earshot of Tammy, and called him. On the second ring, Eddie answered, and immediately I felt strangely like the first time I’d called Missy.

“What are you saying?” Eddie said, after I’d explained myself. “Listen to yourself. You sound like an ass.”

“Regardless,” I went on. “I…”

He put me on hold to take another call.

“Now what were you saying?” he said when he came back on the line.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

The silence over the phone was its own statement, and when Eddie coughed a phlegm-cackling cough, it was obvious this was to be the last thing we’d share.

“How did it go?” she asked as I opened the door.

“Wonderful,” I said.

We drove a bit and she followed me into McDonalds, her shoes squeaking on the freshly mopped floor, a satchel bouncing at her side.

“You can’t imagine what he’s really like,” I said, waiting in line. “He never really liked you.”

“He didn’t?” she said, looking indifferent. “Well, I tried.”

“He needed a car and a driver to chauffer him around but he didn’t find you attractive,” I said. “I disagreed, I told him you were – I mean you are – you are attractive.”

“You did?” she said.

“And he believed me,” I said.

The cashier took my order.

“Just a diet soda for me,” she added.

I balanced everything on a tray, and we sat down in a booth.

After a while I said, “We’re going to that bar today if you haven’t already figured that out yet.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “That’s fine.”

“And do you know why?”

“Do I have to say?” she began, nervously.

That Friday, Tammy and I met as planned, and every nerve ending in my body seared with hatred. I had only felt like this once before, when I’d screamed SLUT at Missy’s father. I’d forgotten how one’s mistakes rise from the feeling.

Five Stages of the College Breakup

With Your Anniversary Day quickly approaching now is a great time for all you cheapskates to dump that significant other anticipating a crappy gift. And breaking up is what I intend to address with this article. You see, breaking up with someone is sort of like putting a pet to sleep, in that everyone finds it funny but you.

Let’s make believe I recently broke up with “Samantha”. Now, let’s pretend one of my friends (we’ll call him “Stupid Jim Hansen”) found me riding the red eye express with a box of Kleenex in one hand and the pink mini iPod I gave “Samantha” in the other. And let’s pretend that pink mini iPod was playing a Kelly Clarkson song (this is purely theoretical). Maybe “Stupid Jim Hansen” would say something like, “Dude, you’re totally going through the five stages of loss: Anger, Denial, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance.” Thanks, asshat. Your Psych101 wisdom is just so goddamn comforting.

Well, with Dump Day, I mean Your Anniversary Day coming up, I intend to write the five stages of loss for us college students.

AIMger – In a flagrant showing of maturity, you decide to confront your problems on AIM.com. You sit, waiting like Charley in a trench for that away message to come down so you can bombard that formally special someone with a barrage of “wtf”s and “no 143”s. Fingers will fly as if you’re translating a Kanye West/Twister rap song into sign language.

Destyle –In a dismal attempt to be cool, you hit the town flapping money and talking game like you’re a P-I-M-P. If someone asks about the ex, you might nonchalantly sip your beer and respond, “Oh, that person I used to hook up?” Newsflash: You’re not cool. You’re the lowest loser on the loser pecking order (known as a leaper loser). Listen up braggadocio; wipe that stupid grin off your face. Yeah, you know the one, the one that looks like you just ingested a McFecal Deluxe. No one is buying your cool guy routine. Go back to your computer, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars.

Bar-Goggling – This is the pitiable stage where you realize that person is not coming back. You and that someone will never spawn children to send to Michael Jackson’s (or subsequent sex offender’s) private ranch home. In your lament, you enter their name into a Goggle search with the intents of learning secrets pertaining to their lives. For instance, say I Goggled “Samantha’s” name; maybe I’d learn she was a runner up for Miss Teen Massachusetts while simultaneously finding out that I’m a huge stalker.

Beeression – It’s time to drink that person away, and you’re not stopping until consciousness is lost or pants are peed. In a fit of Beeression you may slip back into a stage of being AIMgry and under the auspices of a drunken stupor you may come up with some stellar ideas. Example being: maybe in a weak attempt to get your ex’s attention you’ll claim to have contracted a rare disease which leaves you only days to live. Ironically, though, a venereal disease got you dumped in the first place. Go team Desperate!

Sexceptance – Bumming at a party, someone might find your needy disposition “sexy.” For guys, these girls are usually either fat beasts or sluts. For girls, these guys are me. So perhaps you’ll find her at the bottom of a pudding-wrestling pit or simply eating the pudding-wrestling pit. Regardless, take the Family Double Dare Physical Challenge and let her put some chocolate stains in your underwear that aren’t skid marks. Or simply suck the face off a random battle cow. If you’re lucky, the ex will witness your sordid soirée and exclaim, “Hey, hey, hey, WHAT is going on here?” That is, if your ex is Mr. Belding.

Let’s do an MC Hammer breakdown and review the aforementioned five stages: you’re a loser, you’re a loser, you’re loser, you’re loser, you got an STD and/or you have an obese stalker. Nice. I love dating in college! Thus, in the end, all you’re left with is an iPod that’s like a pink mini bastard child and so little dignity that you would write a blog article about your miserable love life. Well, at least I can brag to “Stupid Jim Hansen” that I made out with a Miss Teen Massachusetts runner up. Unhappy Anniversary!

Then Missy found out

Missy once loved my haircuts. Especially the ones from Bruno’s Barbershop. Afternoons, Missy got through third-period biology running her hand over the back of my freshly stubbled neck until her fingertips felt like sandpaper. Then the bell would ring, and she’d disappear into the viscous crowd of bodies so quickly I’d question if she was ever there to begin with. One spring, I got a crew cut, and Missy’s touch flanked my cranium, palms rubbed scalp like a flint, her hands smelled of Pert Plus, having chided my neck so violently she left rashes I later tried to pass off as hickies.

Oh, well.

The afternoon the descriptive details got back to Missy about what had happened to Gerald, her jaw dropped in utter shock. The Heartbreakers had been implicated with Eddie happily claiming responsibility. This presented quite a situation for me. I sat at the lunch table. I watched her put down a sesame seed bagel. With both hands free, she swatted at my face.

As her limbs flailed wildly, I knew there was no future for us. Cupid had drawn his taut bow, steadied his aim, and decided it wasn’t worth wasting a perfectly good arrow on people like us. At least I realized that. Realized Missy and I were of a kind too jaded for anything more than bad luck.

If I were a better person, this story – the story of my awful life – would end here. But, there’s an addendum where Tammy enters. She fit into our joint destiny like a criss through a cross, and I never stopped feeling guilty about it.

A Draft of my Childhood...?

I suppose I destined myself for all that didn’t happen when I rang-and-ran Missy’s house. In retrospect, it was moronic and selfish; but that’s only in retrospect. My best friend at the time, Eddie, had taken me along for related shenanigans, variations on a ring-and-run theme, never minding that I was more of a laugher – this was way before Missy came along, of course.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I began to crave the adrenaline that came with smashing pumpkins in autumn, which came with mooning unsuspecting middle-aged men during rush hour. So the week we had off for Christmas break (when Missy dissed me, letting Robby fucking Johnson walk her home), I had a heart more shattered than my pride, and devised The Plot one cold and sleepless night.

Now, it was clear to me that Missy, once sweet smelling and perky, no longer had any further allure as such and could be put to better, more hilarious uses. So I convinced Eddie her father was a carnivorous red-faced type with perfunctory riffles hanging over the fireplace.

By sundown, Eddie and I were crouched behind shrubbery in front of Missy’s house. I stared up at her window. My eyes followed the galaxy of white Christmas lights and there it was. There was the small, circular doorbell, lit brightly and inviting. I rose. I jogged up her stoop. I pressed the bell.

From the stoop, I darted, not turning around until I was safe behind the shrubbery. I saw nothing but the glass front door, still closed. Sans red-faced father. I’d brought Eddie to this house but hadn’t stirred up any shit. So I walked back to the stoop and bellowed into the night, “You, Missy’s dad. Ya daughter’s a sl-sl-sl-sl-slut!”

Eddie’s head jutted from the shrubbery, smiling no doubt. And we were off. Eddie fumbled with an egg carton as I ran a giddy, nervous beeline into the street. That’s when Missy’s neighbor showed. He materialized out of the night in plaid golf pants. His head nod was disapproving. He looked like a Mr. of sorts, the kind of guy who would curse us out, but add, “And excuse my French.” In a word, this guy was a complete pussy.

“Gentlemen!” he barked. Our hands dropped suspiciously to our sides. Since we’d turned all our attention to Neighbor, neither of us noticed Missy’s little brother Gerald, now on the scene.

I knew the boy to be timid and soft-spoken, but, when Gerald and his anger came up behind Eddie with a two-handed push, Eddie exploded in grandstand play of movie machoness, shouting “What! What!” Gerald’s terror was immediate. With the boy, I exchanged a sympathetic glance – he believed it, the naïve little shit, he believed I’d save him from the consequence of Eddie. Of course, Eddie and I ran down Missy’s block, chased by Neighbor’s hollow shouts.

Eddie’s demeanor changed after that. In the following minutes, hours, days he planned Gerald’s public humiliation. His lackeys, a malicious mix of a singular personality, loved it. They loved the thought of anyone’s humiliation other than their own. “Boys,” was all Eddie had to say, “How do you want to get this shit stain?” It was all Eddie could do to keep from loosing it – ask this, from a consensus of clowns who’d once shared a collective hobby of trying to induce a heart attack in a senior citizen. They called themselves The Heartbreakers.

Well, if you must know, it was on Valentines Day when Eddie’s plot haplessly transpired. And I’d been “officially dating” Missy for three solid weeks. There is something to be said about this day, something to be said about Eddie’s plot, something to be said about the moments in which you find yourself spectator to the foul, vileness of others. When limbs sag and inactiveness begs the question: Why did I let this happen? There are things to be said, but I am not at liberty to say anything except that Gerald got his pants pulled down. In public. During fifth period. In front of a packed cafeteria. And, of course, The Heartbreakers were behind the caper.

I remember feeling embarrassed for Gerald, as I stood witness to one more of Eddie’s great plans, one more public humiliation with much to feel sorry about later. I was thirteen years old – which is something to feel sorry about in itself. I’m sixteen now and not much has changed.

In any case, anyone can imagine Gerald’s struggle. Limbs flaying and streaming. His voice pleading: Please, please guys don’t. Stop. Guys. Stop. Seriously, no. Don’t. Someone made a sloppy grab for the drawstring of his basketball shorts. The white of his thighs showed, hipbone jutting, squirming, moving under The Heartbreakers’ collective grasp, and then, all too easily, he collapsed with defeat. Suddenly, he was exposed completely. Exposed always seemed a word too seeped in perverse connotation. But it was how administration labeled the situation: A student was exposed by an unidentified mob. All those responsible will be held accountable and punished accordingly. Administration never once caught The Heartbreakers for so much as a tardy violation.

Fat Chicks: A lot like Computers

After spending my weekend hurling half-full beer cans at herds of fat chicks from my friend Danny’s second-floor window, I had an epiphany. It came at the precise moment a Silver Bullet slapped some Chubby Checker in her fat, flabbergasted face. That’s when I realized the similarities between computers and fat chicks.

Woah…let’s get something straight right away: I don’t condone violence on women. I know upon reading those opening lines, I probably incited some buzzed-cut broad to add my name to the “Men to Mutilate” list, posted on a Virginia Woolf message board. Well cool your jets Ballistic Betty, I don’t find levity in beating up babes. I specifically said FAT chicks; hence,

Knock-knock…

Who’s there?

Fat chicks!

Fat chicks who…

Who the fuck cares…they’re fat!

(“Btw”, if you’re planning to use that joke, please cite me in Chicago style format)

Hence II, battle-cows are bereft of their basic rights as sentient beings. Hence III, both computers and fat chicks:

…are the last resort on a drunken night: You know the “last resort nights”. The nights where, after no luck with the little ladies, you go home horny and drunk. Enter the resort: Suddenly, a dismal AIM attempt at ass becomes the last stop before a masturbation/pass out finale. Sometimes, sadly, animals attack and you, in a stupor, stumble upon (or more appropriately bounce off of) a behemoth broad. Thus, proving my theory: drinking leads to lust, lust leads to computer use, computer use leads to embarrassing hefty hook ups, hungry hungry hook ups leads to ridicule which leads to more drinking (This is also known as the Circle of Miller High Life).

…will take whatever they can get: My computer, being the little slut it is, would download anything with a file. The same holds true for fat chicks. They will hook up with anything, and I mean ANYTHING.

…operate in megabytes: Regardless if it’s RAM memory or simply ramming a subway sandwich down an esophagus, both b(i/y)te and those b(i/y)tes are MEGA. But don’t take my word for it (Burton, 1989, “Reading Rainbow”), talk to your last friend that hooked up with the town tugboat ask him about the “mega-work” Jumbo Jaws did on his member.

…sit in one place all-the-goddamn time. Actually, I will renege that point by combining two sweet jokes from 3^rd grade: my computer is running whereas when fat chicks sit around the house, they REALLY sit around the house. Also, Tommy Holster is a total penis-face, vote for me for class treasurer and I’ll put vending machine in the cafeteria, I swear.

OK, well that’s all I can think of. I know only coming up with four similarities sort of sucks, and I’m sure there will be curmudgeons who will point out that computers can’t play softball or can’t get an eating disorder. So true, there are obviously differences between computers and fat chicks; one flagrant example being I actually spent money on my computer.

The Agreement

Josh made a valid point concerning the sappyness of my made-for-Lifetime TV post about marriage. To be fair, that was an essay I wrote in a creative writing class for a profess who wasn’t down with misogyny. I’m not really down with misogyny either, but I feel like whenever it comes to relationships, guys either have to slay women with their penises or act like whimpering wankstas that sniff girls butts and cry (known more formally as “being emo”). Well, to counterbalance my pseudo-sapdom, I’m going to post an idea I had for an agreement all couples should sign before going away to college. If anyone actually has his/her boyfriend/girlfriend/genital receptacle sign this, scan it and send it and I’ll post on my blog.com.

If this article was a TV sitcom, and I said “long distance relationships work”, a guffaw of canned laugher would erupt. Long distance relationships, like kids with ADD, are destined to fail. The long distance dialectic is particularly relevant as summer winds down and college students gear up for another year of loose and inconsequential sexual liaisons.

Maybe I was a bit harsh in that opening paragraph. I admit, staying with the person you’re with now has its pros, and breaking up definitely involves condoms; therefore, I plan to outline how you can have your cake and eat hypothetical genitals, too!

First, let me make it clear that I’m not going to give you crappy “Granny advice” like, “Thwart your partner’s hormones by sending them off with a surprise gift!” Take it from a guy who’s tried surprising his girlfriend with everything from flowers to positive pregnancy tests*; it doesn’t work.

If it came as a shock to you that I have a girlfriend, just imagine how the babes I hooked up with at college felt! Nevertheless, it’s true; I’ve had the same girlfriend (holla Nicole!) for the past 4 years. That pretty much means I have a proverbial PhD in “How to Make a Long Distance Relationship Work”; or as I like to call it, “Sorta Cheat on your Significant Other without Feeling Guilty”; or as you will like to call it, “The Agreement”.

It’s simple**! Follow carefully the directions below and you’ll have the permission slip that puts the AID in GETTIN’ LAID. Ow! Essentially, this is the college student’s Magna Carta for getting ass.

Directions:

1.) Cut out along dotted lines

2.) Fill in blanks like you used to do with Mad Lips

3.) Have soon-to-be estranged partner sign at bottom

4.) Sex, sex, sexy sex!

THE AGREEMENT

I, (significant other’s name), hereby grant permission to (your name, or what significant other thinks is your name***) to embark upon whatever sexual exploits he/she deems appropriate during the 2005-06 academic school year. Due to the distance between our respective universities, I understand that celibacy is futile and sexual mores will erode to slutdom; therefore, by openly consenting to a mutual hiatus for sex-capades, I hope to eliminate any pangs of guilt either party may experience after a night of Dionysian ecstasy. I further agree that by referencing a Greek god in the last sentence, the author was making an obvious ploy to appear smarter than he really is in a dismal attempt to cash in on some single babes that this agreement aims to emancipate. In the event (your name again) should hook up with a monster and/or beast matching a description found in any R.L. Stein Goosebumps young adult novel omitting (write in favorite Goosebumps characters; author’s suggestions: Carly Beth in The Haunted Mask and everyone in Monster Blood II) this contract will be voided, and the right to claim he/she has a small/smelly private part will be reserved. Failure to conform to all the tenets of this contract will result in me sitting by the phone Friday nights as my partner cheats on me, regardless.

Signed,

.

** WARNING: Administering The Agreement to significant other may lead to fits of crying and hysterics in girls and certain effeminate dudes. If this should happen, it is recommended you make like mascara and run.

*** Note to Nicole: This article was really written by Abraham Rosenblatt, but only you and I know that.

Now that I think about it....

Upon reflection, I guess you could say my childhood was rife with avoiding visits from the “Swat team”. Contrary to the name, the “Swat team” was not a team at all, rather it was one person: my dad. He dubbed himself the illustrious title, which was self-explanatory: get out of line and your exterior gots a-swattin'.

As you can imagine, growing up was like living in a maximum-security prison where my ass was in constant jeopardy; stuffing my underpants with Nintendo cartridges to cushion the impact of an open palmed heiny assault was as commonplace as fiddling with my little whopper.

When I wasn’t attending “Swat team” functions (which usually met over my old mans’ knee at caught-you-with-a-Penthouse o’clock), I found solace in the ultimate escape from reality: cartoons. The late 80s had the best friggin’ cartoons this planet has ever witnessed. I mean what do kids these days have? Eye sores like that little yellow abomination from Pokemon and Sponge Bob Square Pants, a hobo who looks like he rapes Goldfish. They don’t hold a candle to G.I. Joe, Ducktales, Transformers and the myriad other animated paradigms my generation grew up venerating.

Entertainment value aside, I believe cartoons may have contributed to the desecration of my character. I remember watching Peter Pan religiously as a child, oblivious to the radiating pedophilia innuendos. How Disney ever got away with creating a character like the prepubescent penis pulling pedophile Captain Hook blows my mind. Think about it: Captain Hook lives in Never-never land, a place where little boys never grow up. He parades around with Smee, a dude who looks like he just logged out of the “Big Bird Chat room”. And that hook on his hand? Come on…that was no work of a Crocodile, that’s the punishment for grabbing kids butts in Never-never land.

Remember when...

Who remembers the summer of 2004?!?!?! Man, that summer was awesome. I found an article I wrote during that summer, when temperatures were hot, this perv was on the prowl, Bill Cosby was the mouthpiece of social criticism, and objective journalism was obviously at an all-time high.
Do you think this sick fuck will be back this summer???


Over the past few days accusations have been raised against Six Flags theme park that they have employed a pedophile to head their national advertising campaign.

The recent Six Flags commercials, which feature a dancing old man known simply as “That Old Dancing Kid Toucher,” have brought the theme park under the scrutiny of Meghan’s Law.

The controversial commercials depict “That Old Dancing Kid Toucher” picking up children and abducting them in his van after performing an enigmatic mating dance to the Vegaboys’ mid-90s hit single “We Like to Party.”

“It’s not even a good song,” said myself in reference to the music selection of the alleged child molester, “Kids respond to something more contemporary like ‘Freak-a-Leak’.”

Six Flags has attempted to make “That Old Dancing Kid Toucher” the poster child of carefree summer fun attributing him the slogan, “It’s playtime.”

“More like ‘It’s jail time,’” said myself in a vehement criticism I launched against the ad campaign.

Children have been abducted by “That Old Dancing Kid Toucher” anywhere from golf courses to their own front lawn. In his most recent exploit, “That Old Dancing Kid Toucher” fired a jet of water on two unsuspecting adolescents.

“The anemia was just going too far,” said myself condemning “That Old Dancing Kid Toucher’s” techniques.

Despite the harangues launched against him, “That Old Dancing Kid Toucher” is finding support amongst the public.

“I respect the guys work,” said Daniel “Esquire” McGruff, an expert on child molestation.

Comedian Bill Cosby went on to further support “That Old Dancing Kid Toucher” in a statement: “Let me tell you something, your dirty laundry gets out of school at 2:30 every day, it's cursing and calling each other n------ as they're walking up and down the street.”

Parents are encouraged to keep an eye out for an enormous alizarin crimson bus with white racing strips sporting the Six-Flags logo on both sides. Parents are also advised to immediately blame Michael Jackson if their children are molested.

Mr. Cosby went on to conclude the recent caveat: “They think they're hip. They can't read; they can't write. They're laughing and giggling, and they're going nowhere!"

Marriage is for Losers: The Blog Entry with the Romantic Comedy Ending

“Shuddup, Bob,” she tells me without looking up from her book.

“Nicole, let’s get go,” I plead, as an angry gust of wind tattoos my spine with a fleet of sand. “This sucks.”

I know she can hear me as she turns a page. I stare at the grey horizon frown of the ocean. Waves babble with acrimony, like an old man shooing children off his property; and if I give my folded towel a ruffled pocket of opportunity it will join in, flapping like his miserable wife.

“Nicole, I hate it here. Let’s leave,” I start again moving my fingers over her wrist. She draws back her hand as if my touch were seething. Seething like the grains of sand burning my skin like hot ash.

She makes a point of putting on her sunglasses. Particularly, a pair of sunglasses she knows I hate. They give her the look of a horse fly.

“You’re absurd, you know that?” I tell her, but I unfold my beach chair and sit back down. “Absolutely absurd,” I repeat, realizing that Late August Beach day is a stormy souvenir she can’t live without.

“What’s your sick fascination with the beach?” I ask perfunctory, knowing the beach is the only thing in the world she loves more than clam pasta with white wine.

Sometimes, I like to think I’m a close third.

Sitting there that day, in the midst of horrendous weather and a mute girlfriend, I found a sanctuary. Not that Nicole would have known that, being I complained the entire time.

But at least she knew how I truly felt.

I lie to girls. Or girls get me to lie to them. It’s a sick cycle. One I have found myself caught in since I first realized that teacher imposed “boy-girl” order was a good thing. My lying began in that grammar school alternating congregation of the sexes. As we’d scamper down hallways I would assert, in a hushed voice to the girl in front of me, I had pet alligators; I was building a hovercraft; I was whatever I thought would impress. Now my lies have become more refined, more abstract. The lies I tell are no longer one-liners; they’re personas.

Example 1: A few Saturdays ago, I found myself talking to this girl Katie, whom I had a class with in freshman year. We sat next to each other, and as she remembered that I was a science major I remembered the huge crush I had on her. As we talked I noticed she kept asking about medical school.

-Was I applying?

-How hard is it to get into?

-What kind of doctor did I want to be?

My responses were answered with smiles. Despite never wanting to go to med school, and even going as far as to loath many of the pompous pricks of the biology department who can’t stop talking about med school, I completely bullshitted this girl. I invented every minor detail from the hours of my MCAT review class to my plastic surgeon epiphany.

As we conversed, a song by The Outfield blared from the speakers. “Josie is on vacation far away,” they sang to me. Subjectively I substituted “Josie” for “Nicole.” The chorus to that song goes, “I just want to use your love tonight.” Again, I changed the proverbial “your” to “Katie” which effectively tailored the song to relate to my life at that moment.

Which brings me to my next vice: yes, I cheat on my girlfriend. And she cheats on me. So it’s cool. We both know about it. We don’t care. I’m in New York when she goes to school in Ohio. Being faithful to one another is just not worth the effort, so we don’t make it.

Therefore, Nicole wasn’t a consideration when I left with Katie. We ran to her Townhouse, intoxicated off alcohol and the prospect of each other. We left the wintry night like a set of newly weds off to our honeymoon, as we escaped the cold like it were a shower of dried rice. We crashed onto her doorstep, propelled by the momentum of our insecurities.

She looked at me. I knew I should have done something. Kiss her? Ask for a phone number? Instead I walked away. I left that stoop because I was unsure as to how a medical school applicant would have handed the situation.

Example 2: Weeks later I would meet Tara in a Graphic Design class. She had olive skin that could trick my fickle tongue into all kinds of falsities. Her interest in art made me interested in being an artist. So it goes. I’d hand her sketch books from a junior year drawing class. She’d thumb through them with squinting eyes, cuing me to supplement comments like: “I feel confined by the monochromatic of charcoal.” Her adoring stare was all the positive reinforcement I needed.

Our liaison ended in a train wreck the night we tried watching a Fritz Lang movie together. As we watched the movie, I was constantly reminding myself to refer to it as a “film.” I found it necessary to interject, “Lang’s cinematography is rather provocative.”

“Oh yeah?” she broke in. “What’s the significance of that shot?” she asked.

“Oh, that one?” I mumbled, pointing to the screen, hoping it would flip to a different angle and she’d go back to watching the movie.

“Yeah, this one,” she repeated as the camera zeroed in on a close up of the shot. “I’m really interested in hearing what you think,” she said hitting the pause button.

Fuck, I thought to myself. “Well, the aesthetic elements coalesce constituting a social commentary on…um…society,” I muttered tentatively.

“Let me call Felix and ask him,” she said. Felix, being her ex-boyfriend at NYU (not studying, but) “perusing” a degree in directing.

The black and white glow of the television kissed the outline of her face as she smiled into the phone: “Uh huh…yeah?...Yeah, I know….hahaha…Oh, Felix!...uh huh, yeah, I agree…” The silence of the film patronized me to no end.

She hung up and left; leaving the film in my VCR like an unrewound bastard child.

I cited those two pathetic occurrences partly for my own amusement. And like writing about it, cheating on Nicole is also fun. But the enjoyment lies in the acting. It lies in an innate human fascination with being someone I’m not. For a few hours I like creating character details for a pretentious doctor or inventing dialogue for a bohemian asshole. Though, at midnight things do turn back to pumpkins, and the Fritz Lang tape left behind never fits like a glass slipper.

Therefore, cheating on Nicole is carpe diem. It’s for the moment; not for a lifetime. Marrying Katie or Tara would sentence me eternally to Example 1 or Example 2. I would forever be stuck changing the lyrics of Outfield songs to suit my life, because I would never have a wife that I could just say: This song describes how I really feel about her.

I realized for Nicole that song was “Here, There and Everywhere” by The Beatles. I told her one night as the line “But to love her is to need her everywhere/Knowing that love is to share” drifted over the radio.

Then I felt sappy, so I added I tell that to all the girls I date at school.

Even though I was lying (obviously), she still screamed at me in her native Italian tongue. It’s a habit she has when she gets so angry she can’t convert the way she thinks, (in Italian) to the way she talks (in English). As I got berated in what sounded like a witch’s hex, I was comforted knowing exactly what she was thinking was what she was speaking.

When she got out of the car that night, I followed her chanting “I’m sorry” as if it were the sound of her shadow. Following someone like that and knowing, somewhere between fifteen and twenty apologies, that person was going to turn around and kiss you frames my ideas of marriage. Marriage is letting a person see you for what you are. It is allowing them to see you naked with the lights on. Letting their eyes see your flaws, your unhappiness and your shortcomings.

But that is letting them see you. Therefore, I don’t know for certain if I’ll marry Nicole. But I do know that when we’re home together, simply Bobby is good enough for Nicole. Bobby may be a loser; and he may make idiotic comments; and he may even write essays about Hulk Hogan for his blog, but Nicole is allowed to see that.

One day I could end up making Nicole so angry she’ll never be able to speak English again. Or I could end up marrying her on a beach somewhere. Or possibly my complaints about the weather at our wedding on a beach somewhere might make her so angry I will be forever bound to a Italian speaking wife. In any scenario, it reflects the true nature of who we are, together.

Enjoy My Whine: Aged 20 Years to Bitterness

The title says it all! I officially wrote this 3 years ago. Before I could even buy a legal beer! In any case, here’s an article rant I put together, which, if you don’t like or find offensive, don’t blame me! I was 20 when I wrote it!

Enjoy My Whine: Aged 20 Years to Bitterness

Some college kids major in embarrassing themselves. Actions and attitudes deemed uncool by me have spread like the legs of a Kobe rape victim. As people attempt to fit in, I desolately watch them make hilarious exhibitions of themselves, and now I intend to write about it, vehemently. For instance, as I meandered through the bar scene last Saturday, I observed freshmen guys displaying women’s underwear! Ok, maybe guys aren’t doing that to fit in. Ok, and maybe I didn’t really see a freshmen showing off women’s underwear. Ok, and maybe it was actually me, sporting a leopard print thong. Regardless, I now intend to make fun of you at my leisure.

For starters, lets address attire that makes me want to ram a ballpoint pen into my eye sockets. Case and point: girls making a spectacle of themselves with shirts that are blatant false advertising. Tube tops proclaiming: “HOTTIE!” and “PRINCESS” or my personal favorite “PRINCESS HOTTIE” worn by beast masters which are none of the above. In fact the only thing most of these broads are above is their dorm elevator weight limit. I’m not discriminating against heifers though, chicks of all sizes qualified to live on “Beat Street” based on their deficiency in the looks department flaunt these apparel abominations.

Oh, stop laughing Bruno, because I’m getting to the guys next. While maybe your little tit hugger number doesn’t come right out and say it, I’m picking up what your putting down. When I see you or one of your fellow alpha-males strutting around in “club gear” it screams to me: “Hello, my name is sleazoid at the bar. I use KFC grease to style my stupid hair follicles. If you have a vagina and drink too much, I will grind my grimy body all over you until you allow me to penetrate my sordid tongue into your mouth.”

If that wasn’t bad enough, the other male fashion extreme consists of Abercrombie shirt repugnancies boasting numbers on the back, as if wearing upper middle class clothing is some sort of sporting event. The wearers of these fashion abortions are the same dudes who will go out and play “Piano Man” forty-eight times on the jute box at your favorite dive. So, number twenty-five and the rest of the Abercrombie football team, track team, and beach patrol join hands and “sing us a song”. And by singing I mean blowing their nauseating halitosis all over the bar, as they scream like they should be wearing helmets and escorted in minibuses.

This brings me to the next major malfunction concerning college life: intoxicated demeanor. You know what, if you and your friends are going to get wasted, why don’t you take it all the way to the hospital. I say this not only because the “drunk tank” is awesome but also because you won’t be able to bother me when you get back from the bar. Now I could write a ten thousand-page manifesto that would only begin to address the grievances I have with hammered cool guys and the atrocities they commit, but for space considerations I’ll cite my most recent encounter with drunken banter.

On this particular occasion, I was chatting it up via America Online Instant Messenger (A.I.M.) around midnight on a Friday; because let’s face it: you have to be quiet a hipster to be on the Internet on a Friday night. When suddenly my “lol”s were interrupted by a message announcing, “I waszqted mannnnnnnnn. lETR ge3t pizzjqa11!” Now, do I need this in my life? Is this what I’m pursuing a diploma in higher education for? So, angrily I responded, “Dad, that’s the last time you drunk message me. You’re going on block (Followed by the face that looks really mad).”

If you don’t want my next post opening your tear ducts, heed my words, heathens. Ladies wearing ridiculous tee shirts, to keep me from slapping your face and running away like a little girl, I’d suggest burning the aforementioned clothing choices. Abercrombie wanksters: the dreams over, you’re not on the team, shop at Salvation Army. Finally, guys wearing airtight clothing, you’re hopeless; my advice for you is to get behind the wheel of a racecar, floor it, and then have a seizure.

Fuck this post

Today, after witnessing a screaming match between a cabbie and a chubby punk rock (rawk?) princess, I realized the word ‘fuck’ doesn’t enjoy the same insulting impact it once did.

Well, from what I could gather, apparently chubby either walked in front of the cab, or cabbie drove into the chubby. Regardless, details are irrelevant. What concerns our journey of etymology is, upon dismissing the chubby with a (sweet) peel out, the cabbie screamed,

“…and FUCK ya’self!”

To understand the way he said this, picture the final punch in Rocky II, when Rocky puts Apollo down for the count, but translate that blow into language. Akin to a nerd screaming ‘Checkmate!’ during a chess game or a circle jerk, except, in this case, the implications were for solitary sexual satisfaction (stemmed in sarcasm).

After the cloud of rubber cleared, and I went walking on my merry way, I realized, “Man, that cabbie could’ve made that chubby girl feel way worse about herself!”

Then, later at work, a coworker recalled to me an instance of getting “fucked over.”

Being the stickler of syntax that I am, I stood, coffee in head, mouth agape, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

Uneasily, the coworker repeated, “So…I got fucked over,” as if imploring a magic trick with a second, more frantic ‘abracadabra’.

Still I stared, then, after the upwards of 30 seconds of awkward silence, I finally asked, “Fucked over what?”

“What do you mean fucked over what? I was fucked over, man. As in fucked over.”

“Dude,” I began, wishing I could use copyeditor marks in conversation, “You can’t end a sentence with a preposition. You’re gonna have to figure out what you were fucked over. Was it a barrel? Was it another dude’s dick? Perhaps over a three-day weekend? Come on, give me something.”

This is probably why people at work don’t talk to me.

Anyhoo, this brings me to my final point. Curse words are like currency, in that they’re subject to the same pressures of inflation. Think about it. What once cost a nickel now costs a small child. Since my dad was my age, prices have soared. Along the same vein, what my dad once could have expressed with a simple ‘fuck you’, now requires a ‘fuck you in your dad’s poop hole by a two-cent whore who’s a guy that used to be girl but now is a guy again and he’s gonna fuck your dad’s poop hole till your dad is singing the Portuguese national anthem and it’s the year of the dog in the Chinese calendar year, ect., fucking ect.” The price of profanity has risen, dramatically. So I guess I’ll leave you to consider semantics to add to your antics, so the next time you have to insult some chubby, punky princess you won’t sound like a coin-begging bum.