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Table of Contents

​ Act I
“Random”

Chapter 1: Heeeere We Goooo…
Chapter 2: Anger Much?
Chapter 3: Steve Wutabi
     Chapter 4: Staph amongst the Staff
     Chapter 5: Blogging A Workday
     Chapter 6: Let’s Get Weird
     Chapter 7: Laws of Nature


Act II
“Memoirs?  More like Memless.”

Chapter 8: Forrest Gump
Chapter 9: My First Halloween Party
Chapter 10: Satire


    

 

 


 

 

Act I
“Random”





 

 


Chapter 1:
Heeere we Goooo…


I’ve read a lot of quotes from a lot of writers that the blank page is the most intimidating part of the writing process.  On the contrary, I’ve always found the blank page to be the best part, enticing me in and supplying endless freedom to roam.  In my mind, I’m a lot taller than I am in real life, and I can stretch my mental legs endlessly from here.  Especially on a computer; I can remember the days when a pen and pad was used, and I would be running through trees wastefully, as I wrote a line, scribbled it out and then, rather than starting right underneath the mistake, I would toss the hideous sight into the trash.  Just start it off right, I reassured myself, and it’s all downhill from there; Or uphill, depending on the context.  Dammit, start over.  
When I was little, probably 5 or 6, I remember telling my granddad that I thought the U.S.A. looked just like a backwards Texas, only without a cowboy hat.  I wonder if the geographical map of a place can actually sum up the stereotypes of the people who call it home.  I can’t help but notice that the continent of Africa resembles a giant “Thumb’s Down” while the contiguous U.S.  looks like a giant “Thumb’s Up” taking a shit in the Atlantic Ocean.  I also can’t help but to believe that Italy looks like a Stiletto, and Louisiana looks like a work boot that has had the toe bitten off by an alligator. 
I love short bursts of information, and also comedy.  Don’t get me wrong, I still love the occasional “hang in there” joke if it’s really good, but for the most part I tend to lean towards the brief.  Mitch Hedberg was, is, and always will be one of the funniest men to walk the face of the Earth, in my opinion.  Mitch was famous for his one-liners, though he was far from the first to settle in that niche, he did, in my mind, perfect the art.  He died much too young, unfortunately, but one can argue that his legacy will last much longer than even Mitch himself could anticipate.  A few of my favorite Mitch Hedberg jokes are as follows:
I saw a commercial on late night TV that said, “Forget Everything You Know about Slip Covers…” so I did, and it was a load off my mind.  Then later, that company tried to sell me Slip Covers, but I didn’t know what the hell they were!
I find that ducks’ opinion of me is very heavily influenced by whether or not I have bread.  A duck loves bread but he does not have the capability to buy a loaf.  That is the biggest joke on the duck ever.  If I worked at a convenience store, and a duck walked in and grabbed a loaf of bread with his beak, I’d be like, “No problem!  Come back tomorrow, and bring your friends!”
I like to wear this pass because it lets me know when I’m upside down.
This shirt is dry clean only, which means it’s dirty.

I like Rice; Rice is great when you’re hungry and you want 2000 of something.
I think Pringles original intention was to make tennis balls, but on the day of the day that the rubber was supposed to show up a big truck full of potatoes arrived, and Pringles said, “Fuck it, Cut’em up!”
The best part about a Mitch Hedberg joke was trying to slip them into conversations in your everyday life.  They weren’t the long, drawn out types that, when trying to recite to friends, a lot of times we end up looking like complete idiots when attempting to gain a laugh or two.  No these are pure, solid, comedy gold in powder form.  You can ingest it, or shoot it in your veins, but I wouldn’t recommend the latter, for safety’s sake.  I remember one in particular that I was able to slip into a completely random conversation with a stranger, and I saw it was good. 
I was in New Orleans, a place I lived for only a few months before I fell victim to the lure of the city’s nightlife, as I naively though I wouldn’t, ended up out of work, searching for a job, and not having much luck.  So I did what any reasonable American 23 year old would do, and sold a few of the nicer button-up shirts I had at the time for a couple of twenty dollar bills, and headed down to the casino to start my million dollar net-worth, or at least that was the plan.  I arrived at Harrah’s, the famous one, in the French Quarter, and was admiring the pageantry and decadence of my surroundings while I was heading in.  I’d been in before, but New Orleans is truly one of those places that, unless you were born and raised there, it takes your breath away every moment you are there.
As I made my way out of the parking garage, into and back out of the elevators, and into the casino, I headed down the twisting corridors eventually leading up to the casino.  The last section was a zig zag of escalators, no more than 20 feet high each.  In front of me, a beautiful young brunette woman.  She smelled like lust, and looked liked she stank even better.  As we arrived at the start of the conveyor, a sign blocked our path reading, “Escalator Temporarily Out of Service” As soon as I saw it, although I immediately laughed on the inside, thinking of Mitch’s funny joke, I wasn’t itching to do anything but enjoy that simple pleasure and keep on track, but then something happened; she acknowledged the sign, verbally.  “Escalator Temporarily out of Service?” she said, out of obvious contempt.  Here was my chance.  I didn’t even think of the potential rewards or consequences of my action, but I had to say it:
“Escalators can never be ‘Temporarily Out Of Service’; They can only become stairs… Sorry for the convenience!”
Muhammad Ali probably wasn’t the greatest boxer of all time, but damn it all if you wouldn’t know it while watching him fight.  The man had something that couldn’t be earned in a sweaty, damp boxing gym during countless hours of training.  What Ali had that no one else did, was his personality.  Formed both in his conscious and unconscious since he was a baby, the swagger and grace that he exhibited during his exhibits was second to none in the pages of history.  He coined the “Rope-A-Dope”, in which he played tired, weak, and defenseless in order to lure his opponents themselves into vulnerable positions, when Ali would then seize the opportunity to display amazingly talented offensive fighting skills. 
It was those fighting abilities, the ones that he actually did earn through the sweat and long hours of work that showed to be the primary factor in whether or not he won the fight.  One could even go further and argue that the total of all of his careers fights, all these mini-stories, compiled together and placed against his peers, would be able to set him in stone as the greatest ever, but still that was not the case.  Numbers can always be debated and argued, ironically, in sports.  The definition in itself of a number is a finite and uniform idea.  My numbers are the same as a Chinese man’s numbers, although we call them different things, we still agree on the system of numbers as a whole.  First glance logic would tell you that should make judging who is best and who is not in sports very easy, just go to the stats, but we all know that is simply not the way it works.  Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player ever, and most people to this day agree.  But, if we are being honest, it’s not because of his championships or his records or any of that.  No, it’s the way he did it that, that all of us have seen on the television again and again, over, and over, and over… and it never gets old.  If anyone asks me if Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player ever, I will, at this moment, say yes definitively.  If you ask me If Muhammad Ali is the greatest boxer of all time, I’ll also tell you yes, but I won’t argue it, because after all, you just have to see it to know what I mean anyways. 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2:
Anger much?

45 Credit Hours, 6 years, and 4 universities later; all I’ve got to show for it is a shitty attitude and a lot of dildo jokes.  Twenty-three: Something about that age seemingly implies that you are no longer special.  You start to
realize that not only were your childhood dreams of becoming an archaeologist total bullshit, but your new adult dreams of being able to forget to take a check to the bank have all but vanished too.  If it’s not stack of student loan envelopes collecting on your dresser that weigh on you, it’s probably the shitty excuse for a job market. Whatever it is, I have come to find that it can be a total mind-fuck.

Over this past Christmas, it occurred to me that the “White Elephant Game” is really a tool designed by the Baby Boomers to keep us 23 year-olds in check.  “Are you coming to granddads this year...We’re doing White Elephant again, the limit is 10 dollars.” This year I got a topsy-turvy, just in case I decide to grow upside down tomatoes.  Last
year I got a Frank Sinatra album.  Twenty-three seems to bring about that boy-man awkwardness similar to what you experienced when you got your first boner the week before the big Y2K sleepover.  Do you buy everyone Christmas presents, or just your immediate family?  How much
do you spend?  Was the ounce of Northern Lights you bought for yourself perhaps a bit selfish?  Seriously…Nothing says I love you more than a 10 dollar gift card to
Academy Sports and Outdoors.  As far as getting your friends gifts, use the general rule of thumb that consumable gifts are never tacky. 
    Don’t be afraid to take risks, especially the really big ones.  I sent my resume and application to an upstart internet venture to sell advertising in my local market yesterday.  On the additional document upload page, the description asked if there were any other documents I felt necessary for the position.  I decided that clearly they were imploring that I create a document named “ihopethisgetsmehired.doc”
containing a picture of me absolutely inebriated during a best man toast in Destin this past summer with a caption reading, “40 time: 5.22”   I did not receive a callback. 

 

 

 

 


Chapter 3:
Steve Wutabi


Driving up in his 4 cylinder gas saver, Steve Wutabi pulls into a large retail business parking lot and parks at the far edge, strategically in a corner of the lot.  He gets out of his vehicle, reaches under the seat, and pulls out a small briefcase; hops back in the car and opens up the three digit combination…4-2-0.  Inside the case is a neatly organized variety of a few pipes, a couple bags of different types of weed, an aerosol air freshener, a couple bottles of Visine, a bottle of cologne, a stick of deodorant, a rap CD, several lighters, and few loose cigarettes, and his work schedule.  He opens up the work schedule and works his finger over the dates.

“7 to 7...” he states in anguish.  “Miss Maui Mist, it’s gonna be that kind of day”  He pulls out the smaller bag of weed, clearly a much better quality, and begins to break up a small portion in the bottom of the briefcase.  “Everybody works on Wednesday,” he tells himself assuredly.  Wutabi, now looking over a sufficient baby mountain of beautiful herb, puts away the remaining bud in the bag and stashes it away in the briefcase.  He then turns the attention to the pipe selection.

“Tony Dromo or Adrian Weederson…” He studies his options for a few minutes, and then blurts out, “How ‘bout them Cowboys baby!”
He pulls out the blue pipe (Dromo), and loads it with the pile of grass.  He looks at his finished product with bright eyes, and then diverts his attention quickly to the CD in his briefcase.  He takes it out and pops it in the CD player in his car and swaps it over to his favorite song.  Before the song begins, he quickly pulls the pipe up to his mouth, lighter in hand, and mutters softly but confidently, “Gonna be a good day.”
Smoking the bowl in his car, he begins to dance and recite his favorite lyrics, eyes getting lower and grin getting wider by the second.  
When the bowl is cashed out, he blows the ashes outside onto the ground, pops the CD out, and places everything back in the briefcase exactly as it was.  He pulls out the deodorant and applies it, and then reaches onto the seat next to him where his work shirt rests neatly folded.  He puts his shirt on, sprays some cologne, and then applies the air freshener to his car.  With a quick snap, the briefcase is placed back under the seat, and Steve Wutabi pops out of his car.  With his keys in his pocket, he glances at his watch; “6:58!”  He heads off towards the huge entrance at the front of the building, ready to start his work day.







Chapter 4:
Staph Amongst the Staff


The Staph virus has broken out at work. Since I'm a lowly desk-jockey, I haven't been filled in on all the details. I did catch wind of this on Wednesday via a phone call from a patron whose doctor told her she had contracted it from our pool. Call me crazy, but I thought this announcement to merit an immediate relay of information to my supervisor Big Daddy D (Yes, that is what we will call him.) Big Daddy D is a cool cat. He is a fun boss to work for. The only other cool boss I've had in my short span of bullshit jobs was ironically the most credible job I have had to this point: The video coordinator for Baylor Football. We'll call him Jumbo. (We actually did call him Jumbo, look that shit up, naysayers.) I have digressed from my point. So I immediately go seek out Big Daddy D to tell him the information I have just received. He is on a treadmill running his daily 3 miles, which is his 2nd of 3 daily workouts. (The name Big Daddy D isn't meant to be misleading. He is a big man, but I'll be damned if he doesn't have the lungs of a Kenyan.) I proceed to recite the phone conversation to him. Never breaking stride, or a sweat for that matter, he looks at me when I'm finished and says, "...And?"


This throws me for a loop. I walk back to my desk like a dumbass. Apparently there is something I don't know. But if he's not worried about it when it's his ass on the line if it gets out of control, then I'm sure as hell not gonna lose sleep over it.


That brings me to today. I get to work early, get a little workout in, get my scrub on in the shower, and head to my desk to check my sportsbook account, Facebook, Myspace, and of course My very Own personal Monster. But something is different. Big Daddy D wasn't the same. He was in a mood. I can't say what kind, and I could spend 5,000 words on why. To save time, let's just say that when he's unusually happy and dishing out compliments like Oprah on mother's day, something big is brewing.

I was right. A few hours into work, I saw some people (who thought they were) dressed very business like, (who thought they were) carrying themselves very businesslike, and (thought that they) spoke very sophisticated rolled into the Fitness Center. One even had a briefcase and though he was the shit because of this. A briefcase does not make you cool or powerful, especially not in the Butthole of East Texas. It makes you a dick.) Eventually, all gathered in Big Daddy D's office to discuss something. 2 things I noticed raised red flags for me that this was no ordinary tea party. 1) There were 6 people in the office including the Daddy himself. I have never seen more than 4 people in the office (which is very small) and even then it looked like a strange sex act was taking place. The second thing was that the door was closed, and the blinds were down in order to ensure privacy that no one would read their lips. Oh this must be good. It was then that I realized that they must be related to the school, because they had left the blinds up that was in my direct line of sight.

After the meetings, I didn't have much time to get information about what was said because I had a class to attend. I did manage to get this information out of my other manager, James. (We will call him James): "You need to make sure you are constantly sanitizing your hands as well as the counter for your sake and for the safety of our patrons. We have Staph infections being reported linked to our gym." I reply, "I know, I think I may have gotten the first call Wednesday." He looked at me like a dumbass, (yet again) and said, "Yeah...I doubt it. Trust me."

Fuck me, Right?

The last bit of information I gathered was the last thing I heard walking out of the building to go to class: James to Big Daddy D, "Did you get all of that?" Big Daddy D's voice responding, "I took notes." To which James replied, "Let's go."

Even though they are at the same school notorious for dumbass, unqualified employees, these two managers of mine are not in this group. They are the new breed. A monster so rare it can only be tamed by the likes of a beast-master such as Myself. I know how to handle them, what to say, and most importantly, how to interpret the riddles of their intercommunication with one another. Knowing all of this now, just understand that I do not feel safe at work anymore. Yes, I, the perennial cynic, am officially scared of Staph infection. At least for the weekend…

 

 

 

 


Chapter 5:
Blogging a Workday

5:13 - I arrive to work late, probably smelling of cigarettes and cologne. I'm sleepy.

6:31 - I have just now woken up. My brain is still not on a functioning level right now. I can't really channel my most thought provoking ideas. To be continued...

7:46- I am now ready to begin my day. I love this job. I only really zoned out for a couple and a half hours, but I did manage to recover a couple thoughts:

I work Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 8-11am. Tuesdays and Thursdays (and some MWF's) I work 5-11am. Naturally, you would assume I like MWF best, however this is not the case. My favorite days go in order:

Sunday, Saturday, Payday, Tuesday, Friday, Monday, Thursday, Wednesday.
Some good things about being at work in a Gym at 5am? Well how about the regular customers. I love seeing people I know and see every day. Another good thing is that for some reason the ladies teats tend to nip more in the early hours... I think it has something to do with the moon

Finally, I love Tuesdays and Thursdays most of all because of TEG. TEG is an acronym for Tasty Eliptical Girl. Every Tuesday and Thursday at 7:45 this smoking hot, yet down to earth girl comes in to start working out for her Body Mechanics blow off class. We small talk every time, but some days more so than others. You know how there’s always that person who you are immediately attracted to, not only on a physical basis but just the aurora around them? This is her. I've actually NEVER ASKED HER NAME....which is Ironic because I've wanted to marry this girl from the first moment I saw her.

Today is the day. I will ask of her name. Hopefully I can spit a little bit of game too, maybe pull a number. Gotta take baby steps though...I will build confidence by asking small yes/no questions...
Do you have a name?
Do you like having a name?
Do you believe in planets?


I'll work on it.
I'm going to read the Time.

7:59 - So TEG just left to go get some food. My kind of girl, going to get some McDonald's during her Body Mechanics fitness class. She was with a friend though, hard to spit game with a game-killer directly in my radar. It didn't go well though... something like this:

TEG-"Hey if coach asks if I'm here tell him I went to go get some McDonalds."

ME-"What? Ok." (Even though I don't really know your name...ask her name, it's a perfect opp...)

TEG-"Wait... where are all the PowerAde’s?"(Referring to the empty display)

ME- "I drank them all."
TEG-"What? What a fat ass!"
ME- "Yah, sorry about that."
TEG-"Did you really drink all of them?"
ME-"Yeah. I was thirsty."

Jesus Cristo what is wrong with me.

8:10 - What the fuck are catafalques?

9:31 - Catafalques is the framework that coffins rest on at funerals. Now that our collective minds are at ease, let's get back to my mission of actually growing stones enough to ask out TEG.

About an hour ago I was called in to the Chief of Campus police's office, which I think is equivalent to a peon deputy at a small town precinct. I had to I.D. a suspect in a theft up at work yesterday, and I got her. You can run, but you can't hide bad guys. The Resident is on the job.

This did however screw my plans with TEG. Her class ended before I got back from my crime-solving adventure. I talked to my Nigerian friend Victor Oslov about it, and he told me I needed to make a move. I agree, however I...well I just agree. I have to quit making excuses. I can't let my investigatory instincts lead me away from my priorities. I must get laid. Period.

9:44 - I answer a call from a lady inquiring about prices for memberships. She was the kind of customer that makes my day. Cheery mood, good humor, and quick witted. We talked about nothing for approximately 6 minutes and 15 seconds according to the phone timer.
"Like I said I used to be a life-guard... do y'all have any requirements as far as use of the pool goes?"...."You have to be able to swim." - Excerpt from above mentioned phone conversation

10:06 - The countdown begins. 54 minutes... 53 now. The workday is winding down. I usually don't have any thought-provoking ideas in-between 10:00 and 11:00. I do notice that around 10:30 I abandon all websites and being to pace around anxiously awaiting my break for freedom, for I have no classes afterwards.

I do have to go back to Steve's for the night though. Apparently when you wake up late for work in someone else's house there are tendencies of forgetting vital things such as cell phones and hats.

10:12 - I'm going to call it a day. I like to think of my work as The Office, and I found that today it helps move the hours along.

 

 



Chapter 6:
Let’s Get Weird


I’m not sure if it’s God telling me to write this book, or if it’s my subconscious’s way of telling me that this is the only way I’ll every repay all this debt I’ve accrued chasing the American Dream, but either way I feel a strong motivation that whatever fucked up words and sentences that come from my mind to your eyes via these pages are of some importance.  To what extent, who is to say?   But we are all influenced in the strangest of ways, and that is a fundamental truth for everyone. 
    I just stopped at a gas station to get a can of snuff, (which by the way is a terrible, nasty habit), when I noticed a beautiful, gothic looking girl slaving away in the soapy buckets by the pumps, cleaning them, no doubt.  I took the opportunity to pull what I call a McKanna, dubbed after a good friend of mine who’s swagger knew no bounds, and approach her, unprepared to ask for her phone number.  It went a little something like this:
“Excuse me dear, sorry for the randomness of this, but do you have a phone number I can borrow so I can text you sometime?”
She Smiles, taken aback.  “Really?
“Yeah,” I say, followed with an awkward laugh derisive from years of forming stoning.
“Thanks, but I have a boyfriend… and he…”
I interrupted immediately,” That’s okay… I bet I just made your day though, didn’t I?”
She smiles again, even bigger.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, you did just make my day!”
A little more chit chat and then I head inside the store to pay for my snuff, and on the way out I notice her still working on those damn buckets. 
“Last chance, darling,” I yell in her direction.
She smiled again: Even bigger than the one before.

Now I’m a balding, overweight, sexy piece of man beast, but I am admittedly no Don Juan Demarco.  However, something that I learned a very long time ago when dealing with women: They don’t forget those types of things. 
Will I end up dating this girl?  Highly Doubtful.
Will I ever see her again?  Less Doubtful, but Doubtful.
Will there from this point on be an invisible thorn in the side of that relationship with her “boyfriend”, if in fact he does exist?
Fuckin’ A.




Chapter 7:
The Laws of Nature


The same things that make a man do good can be the very same reasons that make him do evil, and this is no secret.  What people argue over is what it is that makes the person snap.  In that one instance, whom or what is to blame.  We always look to put blame on things, so that we feel better about the fear of not knowing about whatever the hell it was that happened that one time… Could you imagine our ancient ancestors’ lives?  They say you learn something new every day, these days, but I bet a real Caveman would tell you you’re full of shit.
    It’s no secret that this whole world revolves around pussy, and ladies, excuse my French.  I’m 25, and that’s how you guys let Hollywood raise us, but I digress.  It’s a shame that vagina rules the world, for when I really think about the greatest sexual experiences I’ve ever had, they were immediately followed by shame, regret, and a sense of flight.  A lot of my friends are the same.  We sit around campfires, talking about whose snooze smells like what, and who shaves where, and all that good shit.  But the one thing we don’t really talk about is that fact that we all have HPV from the slut we are all bragging about our conquests with.  The Irony smells like Irony.
   I have a friend I call Big Cat.  Big Cat is big, and looks like a cat; hence forth the ladies can’t get enough of him.  He’s not a player made type guy, but he’s great in social situations, and he’s got that winning, all American type demeanor.  Still, I had to call bullshit. 
I Said, “Big Cat, how you pulling all these fine women?  Everybody knows you’re the ugly one in your family.”
Big Cat said something to me in reply that is the truest thing ever said by a man about how have successes with females:
“It’s all about the Absence of Presence.” 
I’m really, really bad at this.  I mean, I can’t really explain to you how bad I am at this 1 simple thing.  It IS literally ALL you have to do; avoid don’t give in to temptation, resist.  But no, I always, eventually, FAIL. 
Unless I’m on drugs...
When I’m on drugs I can go one of two ways… depending on the drug usually, but hey, let’s not blame the drugs for my fuck-ups here; 
1)  I am a love machine, but I will work for anyone and everyone for free.

2) I am an asshole.  I will talk shit to the guy behind me, quietly eavesdropping in his conversations and then muttering under my breath…

With every beer or spirit the muttering turns to audible shit-talk, and this rarely ends well at this point.

• Note to self: Maybe this is why you don’t have a good success rate with meeting women in bars.
I’m sure there those out there that think I’m strange for having no desire for a relationship, much less to get married for that fact, and why blame me?
I think is crazy for someone raised in the generation that I was; the one that saw 50+ percent divorce rates as a fact of life, to think it’s still a great idea to get married. 
Actually, I take that back, I have several good friends who I believe God found for each other, but I just don’t think God has plans for me to marry… That hole in my heart has been filled with some weird, unknown substance for a while now.

                









Act 2
“Memoirs?  More like Memless.”



 

 


Chapter 8:
Forrest Gump


Forrest Gump is, IMO, the single greatest film of all time, however I feel like a lot of people miss the whole message behind the story. It's not about taking the hand you are dealt, and making the best out of it, although that is an inspiring message in itself.
To me, the beauty of the fictitious life of Forrest Gump is in the character's selflessness. Forrest Gump was "too stupid" to lust after the things that we all lust after in life: Power, Fame, Fortune. Even when he walked backwards into all of these things, he only saw them as tools to further enhance his personal relationships that were his whole life.
We should all live our lives with the simplistic mindset displayed by the low IQ man from Green Bow, AL. Forrest lived to love, while the rest of the world around him marveled in disbelief...







 

Chapter 9:
My First College Halloween Party


It was the fall of 2005, and I remember it as vividly as the time I discovered masturbation.  The backdrop was one of irony in itself; The place was a beautiful, budding private University in the heart of Texas, however just outside of the campus’ “bubble” lay utter, Texas-ghetto wasteland.  Just as inside the bubble, all races were represented well in number outside the bubble, even though they bear little resemblance to their pigmented counterparts otherwise. 
When I say that these were a different class of people, I’m saying that the hardest Thug from Detroit or the Wildest Wildman from West Virginia would say “Fuck That” when confronted by some of the choice representatives of that district in which I speak of that I have seen for my very own eyes.  With faces that haunt you in your dreams, while at the same time making you scoff at those who are appalled at those they see on the internet via places such as “facesofwalmar.com” (Sic).
I give you this information for you to understand that this, the biggest party of the year for a freshman in college, was being thrown at a large venue outside of the bubble. 
Let me backtrack yet again and tell you that my Freshman year at said University (and by year I mean semester) was not your typical freshman experience.  I had a very nice, brand new dorm room, where I shared a 4/2 room with 6 dudes, all upper-class tech geeks.  It is safe to say that even if this book becomes a best seller, that two of them will be considered bigger successes in my eyes.  Problem is, I didn’t hang out with those retards because I liked to have fun. 

I had about 4 hometown friends who lived together at the edge of campus in a big 4/4 apartment, all going to school at University together.  We are all, to this day, as close as brothers, and although I never lived there with them, anyone of them would tell you I lived there that fall semester. 
OK.  So Halloween Night rolls around.
I packed really light for college, because, honestly, I don’t own many possessions.  I don’t like to shop for clothes, and I spend most my money on, let’s say, perishable items at this point in my life.  Also, I’ve never been good at planning; in fact I’m damn terrible at it.  I’m so spur of the moment that 9 out of 10 of my bowel movements hit Threat Level Orange before I get to the bathroom.  By the way, don’t trust ANY grown man who says he’s never shit himself as an adult.  He is a fucking LIAR.
Anyways, being a man who doesn’t have hardly any money, doesn’t plan ahead, and doesn’t own many clothes and or possessions, come up with what could potentially be his Introduction into the world of College Tang…
   But how the fuck was I to pull this off?  I had to be creative.
I found three key items that I used to form what I thought to be the appropriate lady-attention-grabbing costume I was shooting for:
1) An authentic, 100% alpaca (or some shit, it was UNCOMFORTABLE as fuck) poncho type garment I had gotten on a trip to Mexico, which is actually a great story in itself. (Aren’t all Mexico trips’?) (Don’t I use Parenthesis’ a lot)
2) A beanie, skull cap, toboggan, whatever you want to call it, that I got from who knows where.  It was black and had in big yellow lettering across the front, “CORONA”.
3) One Black Permanent Sharpie
The sharpie was one of the roommates ideas, as while testing out the costume just minutes after putting it together, we came up with an alter ego I could put on for the night, as we both danced inside the liquor store to buy a big ass bottle of Whiskey for him and I to split.

*Note. I have like a 32nd Choctaw Indian in me, but that is not an excuse for my pitiful excuse of an alcohol tolerance.  A baby could drink me under the table.*

So the whiskey is out, the pre-party apartment is in full swing back at the apartment, and “Dirty Sanchez” is a HUGE hit.  The upstairs neighbors (4 chicks) had even come down, and were digging them some Sanchez.  The problem here was, the Sanchez was digging some Sanchez a little too much too fast…
I remember leaving for the party in several vehicles, and for the sake of the children, each had a DD.  I remember one of the upstairs chicks, dressed as a pirate, telling me how cute I was and trying to make out with me in the back of the SUV I was riding in, but I was too drunk to do anything, though I desperately wanted to. 
Once to the venue, we had to walk a ways…
We were now in the jungle, outside my precious Bubble I had just started becoming accustomed to, and to make matters worse, a half gallon of jack is starting to settle in my virgin liver.  I don’t know how I made it to the line outside the door, and I REALLY  don’t know how I made it from our initial place in line to the front of the line, but I DO remember how I got past the bouncer; leaning on a friend with 70 percent of my weight or so, and incoherently handing him my driver’s license to show I was 18.  Luckily for my it was a frat thrown party, and they don’t really care about shit like that.
I remember a few things after that:
1) I found a bar on the right hand side of the huge dance club (which was packed with scantily clad pussy that, without the ability to walk, talk, or not drool on myself, I could not touch, smell, nor taste) and I sat my ass down and pretended I was praying.
2) I remember being able to get from there to the bathroom to throw up at one point.  I also remember while there not being able to get up off the ground and being mocked by several dudes in Halloween outfits, a really weird feeling.  I remember a guy asking for a cigarette, and then taking my whole pack, as I could do nothing to stop him. 
3) Eventually, I remember my friend, Big Cat, came to my rescue, as surprised as I was to find me in the corner of what had to be one of the filthiest places on earth at that moment. 

Once rescued by Big Cat, I was dropped back off at my stool on the counter to pass back out until closing time, which I did, almost too perfectly.
With no sight of my friends, the immediate inability to explain my whereabouts or operate my phone, I stumbled outside the club and around the side of the building to hide out from the police that were surely going to be showing up for me soon.  
Eventually, a cop showed up.  I knew the drill, I’d seen the videos.  I wanted no part of a sobriety test. 
My plan was to let him know just how sober I was without talking… So what did I do?  I reached into my pocket, pulled out a snuff can and, while staring the deputy dead in the eye, put in the fattest fucking hog-leg of a dip you’ve ever seen in your life. 
Funny thing was, it worked.  He asked what I was doing, and I managed to tell him I was waiting on a ride without sounding like a drunk.  After that short exchange, he was on his way, my friends magically showed
up asking where I had been, and I proceeded back to the apartment, pussy-less, and vomiting my ass off from liquor and chewing tobacco. 
And that… Was my first College Halloween party.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10:
Satire

Why do we discriminate whether or not a terrorist is ...

Domestic or Foreign?

Answer: Who the fuck cares? He's a fucking TERRORIST. Go get him.

Patriot Act;

Remember? I do.

Like it was yesterday; I gave up my right to make a phone call without being listened in on secretly, recorded, and archived. I even let you take away my right to be outside without my image being snapped by satellites, so long as I don't have to live like those weird, poor people on the TV.

But it happened again.


What else can I give? I have only a little money, this fools gold, my tattered family, my rifle, an my dog.

Take my rifle first, for I know you will feed me.

If that is not enough to defeat this unrelenting, yet faceless enemy, then take my money and my gold next. For country!! And bonds. I know you are good for it.

If we still have any doubt that an attack like this will ever happen again, even just ONE more time, take what's left of my family. I don't need them anyhow; I practically am family with all these beautiful people on my television.

The same beautiful people who bring us these scary videos an stories from time to time. I know them, they will help me.

As for my dog, I respectfully refuse to bequeath him unto you...

Unless, of course, you have another story to tell me. I've got my Tv on, I'm ready to watch.

Scary, Horrific stories.

Take my dog. Here, take him. Take it all.

Just leave me my skin!!!

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