The Manhole & The Vietnam Vet in the Club

I am like a fucking human smuggler when it comes to getting alcohol inside a concert. Seriously, it doesnt matter how big the bottle is, I can either fit it into my pants or shirt. A flask is the preferable size of course, because depending on how tight my jeans are, it usually fits right in front if you know what i'm sayin! However, I often resort to the flask taped to the leg measure, if the situation calls for it.

We all decided we didn't want to pay ridiculous amounts for drinks inside the Boil (or the Crawfish Boil, as we Birminghamians so lovingly refer to it), so we made a stop at the liqour store. I went in. I had been pregaming...pretty hard. My mission was to get a bottle of vodka. I got a bottle of .. clear stuff. I remember looking at it, and saying, Yep, this looks like vodka. Lets roll.

I get in the car. The plan was to take shots on the way there and pour the rest in a flask. I had gotten Gin on accident (hey.. both clear). This should have been an omen that everything was going to go wrong that night, but we manned up and consumed it anyway. It is FUCKING DISGUSTING to shoot gin. If you asked me to shoot a whole bottle in under ten minutes with three other people today, I would laugh in your face. But we did it. And we were HOUSED. For the reason, I can't tell you anything significant happened, because most of the time, we were propped up against each other drooling and yelling what sounded like Korean.

DF's military boyfriend was the worst of us all and we decided he had.to.go. We're walking along the streets of Birmingham to the car. I have a video camera. There is a guy walking in front of us, who, I thought, was worse off. Later, as in, seconds later, I would find out this was not the case. I am taping him, not watching my feet, because I am looking through the viewfinder.

Me: Look at that drunk bastard!

The camera pans to blackness. All you can hear, if you watch the tape today, are voices. Voices that sound a lot like voices laughing. Why? Because the camera has fallen into a manhole. So have I. I fell in tit-deep to this manhole (where was the fucking cover!) with one leg up, cheerleader style. I am not fucking limber. People are stopping. It takes 5 guys to hoist me from this manhole. Meanwhile, i'm losing blood at an alarming rate.

I'm yelling, "Moving along, people! Nothing to see here, you fucking fucks!"

Incredibly, we make it back to the car. I'm sure it was a sight to see. I'm hobbling along leaving a trail of blood like a fucking goonie from the Hills Have Eyes. It's awesome.

We get DFs BF back to the hotel. We wait until he is passed out to leave. For some reason, we thought a commando style crawl, on our elbows and knees, was the only way to escape the hotel room. Looking back, we could have just, i dont know, walked out... but, I digress.

So we're all three drunkenly crawling towards the door, once we reach the threshold, we actually roll out of it, Mission Impossible style. They have rolled into my blood. We are now all three bloody. It doesn't stop us.

(You didn't think we cut into our party time by showering, did you?)

An old couple is walking towards their room. The lady sees me and backs against her husband, mouth agape.
I do a loud screech and skip kind of thing in her direction. We continue walking. There is a good possibility that the lady shit in her linen pants.

We make it to Tiki Bobs. We went there so often, we knew the owner, never paid for a drink, and never waited in line. We pulled the car up to the curb and got out. The owner is standing outside surveying the crowd when he sees us.

Owner: OH MY SHIT! What happened to you girls?
me: We got mugged, man.

I had deduced that instead of owning up to being owned by a fucking manhole, I would go the "hero" route.
The owner stares in stunned silence.
me: Yeah, I dove on top of them when we got shot at, hence, the leg wound.

He doesnt suggest a hospital, which was probably a good idea. Instead, he says, "Come on in, I'll fix you right up." He hands me a plethera of pills and tapes my leg up. But not with first aid supplies, mind you. He makes some gauze out of some prison ply toilet paper and tapes it on with BLUE PAINTERS TAPE. The wound goes from my calf to the top of my leg. I am wearing a mini skirt. Dried blood is all over me, DF, and Firecrotch. I look down at my battle dressing. "Yes, this will do."

I walk out into the crowd. Here are a few things I heard.

"She got bit by a fucking lion or something!"
"I heard she saved her friends lives!"
"Did she get off the plane from Vietnam and come straight here, or what?"

None of this bothers me. I am a drunk, high, hot-mess and I want to get more of that, immediately. The pills he gave me are making me feel all warm and lovey. A guy starts dancing with me. He is oblivious to my wound, I came to find out, but I thought he was just being nice. He's cute. We decide to leave together.

Once we are back at his house, we are both passing out while making out. We decide to go to sleep. (by "decide" I mean, we both passed out simultaneously)

When I wake up in the morning, I feel a warm sensation on my leg. "Oh fuck," I think. "We have a cuddler." As i'm pondering how to get out of this situation without having to chew my arm off, I look down. It is not a cuddler. It's this guys huge bull mastiff dog. Licking my wound!

The toilet paper has disintegrated into these little blood balls, all over his nice, soft, white sheets. There is a ball of blue tape with dried blood on it. I try to manuever my stiff leg away from the dog. He growls and sinks his teeth in a little.

SHIT.
This dog is all about my wound. He is eating that shit out. Do I let the dog keep licking it? What if dude wakes up, and thinks I like it? I figure my only option is to wake him up.

me: Hey. Dude. Wake up. Your dog...

him: himmm (he starts poking me with the ever familar morning boner)

me: GET.YOUR.DOG.OFF.MY.LEG.

him: What's Lucky doing to your le-----

I watch his face register the carnage. The bloody toilet paper balls. The blue tape. The dog, straight up fellating my leg.

him: WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED????? DID MY DOG DO THAT?

He looks terrified. I realize he probably didnt even notice my battle wound last night. I decide to fuck with him.

me: We got mugged.

him: Who?? WE DID?? As in you & me? WHEN?!?!?!

He is checking his wallet now. Pockets, etc.

me: Yep. I dove on top of you when they started shooting at us. That's why my leg is so fucked up.

Needless to say, we do not get it on. He takes me to my house. We sit in awkward silence for a minute.

Him: So, um. Thanks for saving my life.
Me: Anytime. Anytime, really.

I'm a hero.

Gutter Slut and the Stud, a la Beauty & The Beast

So its common knowledge, if you read my blog, that my friend Shine & I joined a website for the sole reason of dating the craziest, narliest guys off the site. So far, i've suceeded. I wanted to share a msg that I just got.



Let me start this off by saying that I’m not looking for my soul mate or the “one”, because that shit doesn’t exist.





The whole “pure truth” and “blinding realization” crap is a myth. It does not exist. Many people search for it and die trying. You will have a better chance at proving Oprah actually stays on a diet plan.

A little about myself…. I’m 27, good looking, in shape, and fun as hell to be around. But, I have a problem. I attract the most psychotic women on the planet. After many trial and error runs I have decided to stick with what I know. Why stray away from what I have already proven? Though, I have been put through the ringer, stepped on, chewed up, spit out, set on fire, and pissed on my ashes, thus damaging my soul and ability to care for someone eternally beyond repair. I have not totally given up hope.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a good person, but bad things happen to good people and I am ok with that. So, I decided that I will do someone a favor and give that lucky down and out gutter slut with bad credit an opportunity to trade up.



I believe that I was put on this planet to give someone a second chance at having a good guy in their life. I know that I will never be happy so I will suck it up and settle for someone going through a midlife crisis and has no direction in life.

Lets just say I’ve had a few rough go arounds with the female species, and maybe just maybe the psychotic spells were partially onset by my actions. So I feel that Karma has placed me on the sh*tend of it’s to-do list.
The person I am looking for must be a true basket case. A real nut job. You must be a few fries short of a happy meal and your carpet cannot run wall to wall, or this will obviously not work out. To get the chance at having a real stud in your life you must meet and are not limited to the following criteria.
You must be able to: Complain a lot, Scare off my friends, harass me at work, brick my car or bleach my clothes because u think I cheat on you, have violent outbursts and have no thought of the consequences, threaten my ex girlfriends, fart in public and blame it on someone else, beat yourself up and tell others that I did it, leave 15 voicemails in 15 minutes on my phone, cause a scene because you are unhappy with how your steak is cooked on the third try, put nair in conditioner bottle, pull a gun on someone, be unpredictable-not like a damn nun’s menstrual cycle, lack rational thought, use the words “the Fuck" in almost every sentence. Example- Where the fuck are you- or - get the fuck off me, you know what the fuck I mean?

First, I want to make this clear. Psychotic tendencies must be out in the open up front. I DO NOT want any surprises three months down the road while we are shopping at the market and you punch me in the face for making a sex comment about a stuffed turkey. Face punching must be taken advantage of from the get go. If you choose to face punch. You also must have a job of some sort. Even if you scrape dollar bills off the floor after the “boots with the fur” song or are lead shopping cart technician at wal-mart.

I don’t care as long as you have something. I’m no sugar daddy.

Next, If you have fucked up kids that get horrible grades and refuse to take their a.d.d. meds that’s cool. I’m no one to judge. I would make a terrible parent, so you just keep on keeping on with the destruction of you kid’s life. Lets have the sex talk. You are going to be in control of when and where it goes down. I’m all for being spontaneous and naughty in public, or even getting it on at your grandmother’s house in the closet during thanksgiving dinner. As far as kinky stuff goes, you’re the crazy one, so I will leave that up to you, but If we are getting it on and I’m banging you an inch from your life and you want me to give you a choker, NOOOO WAY. I do not need an accident to happen and catch a case having a dead hooker on my hands. They are hard to get rid of.

Lastly. Since I’m willingly giving up any chance of happiness and satisfaction in life you must be hot. A pleasant face and a nice body will suffice. You must also carry emotional baggage with your superficial beauty. In that, I mean you must need constant reassuring compliments about your hair/make up/ass/titts/face/shoes and clothes. Also, you must compare yourself to every little hussy that walks by and catches a glimpse by me. You know all the hot ones are crazy anyway.

YES! A guy that calls me a gutter slut, in the first MeSsaGe.. gold.

Second, is he, or is he NOT giving me an open invitation to act batshit crazy? Hmm. There is potential here, but.. ive made the decision to politely (yeah, right) decline this fucking douche canoe.

And finally.. he is NOT good looking. Oh, you're offering me a chance to "tradeup"? I need a real "stud" in my life? If you have to call yourself a STUD, no. No, man!

You are not a fucking stud. Who fucking says that anyway? A stud is an animal used for breeding, a Jackie Collins novel, a poker game, an earring in some cases, but you my friend, YOU.. are most definitely, in NO sense of the word a stud.

In your picture, you're holding a bud light (redneck). Not only that, but its like, the 2004 style bottle. And you have a beanie on, with your lucious locks hanging out. Long hair is for chicks, man.

You know what I wanted to do when I saw your gross face? Punch my computer screen, and THEN take a shit on it.
Alright. I'm off to do guttery, slutty things.

An Open Letter to McDonalds Monopoly

Open Letter to McDonalds Monopoly Game Inventor

Dear Sir or Madam:

Alright, I'll give it to you. You're a fucking marketing genius. Give us, the hardworking American middle class, the chance to win by doing something that is essential to survival (purchasing food) and we turn into some real suckers. I say we pretty liberally here. I mean me, in general.


Before this little game started (on October 2nd, not that I marked my calander), I wasn't really a connoisseur of Mcdonalds. Sure, I'll chow down on it after leaving Marty's and blame the shits on a hangover, but not so much during the day.



I was really on a toasted Italian sub kick for a while there. But you sucked me in.


From collecting little green game pieces that force me into buying shit (that gives me the shits) off of your menu that I'd never EVER buy (Hey, the fucking green shit burger with grease leaking out the sides has a monopoly piece on it! Give me that meal, and make it a fucking biggie size!), to getting to work and entering your little codes on the website, cursing my puny existence when I land on "income tax", or "Park Place" for the 80th time, all the way to the painful trips to the bathroom afterwards..


Yeah, I read the official rules of the game. I know my chances of winning are not too great --1 in 1,345,455,334…a girl can dream right? I mean my fucking Mcdonald's cup has a picture of a fatty on it saying, "Even small town girls can win big—what the fuck is that McDonalds?? But, I digress.


Everyday, I go there for breakfast & lunch thinking: "Today's gonna be the day I get to take a stroll on the fucking boardwalk."


WRONG.


I've even enlisted the help of a friend at work. Krank. She gives me her codes, like a loyal little puppy, makes the daily lunch run to the big golden arches, with my promise of splitting the winnings with her should I—pardon—WHEN I hit it big. So see what you've done, you've made me such a firm believer that I have someone else WHOLEHEARTEDLY believing I'm going to win.


You're fucking up my health Mcdonalds Monopoly. You're fucking up my work (how many shit breaks can you really take during the day on company time before someone starts thinking you've got a coke habit?), but mainly, you're fucking up my life, because I sure as hell can't buy that new bag until I get a Ventor Avenue.


Respectfully Yours,

SLT—Just another Small Town girl

Followup Letter to The Inventor of the McDonalds Monopoly Game:
(The End of an Era)

Dear Sir/Madam:

It's me again, motherfucker!

Yesterday, your stupid little game ended declaring winners all across the United States, hell--the world for that matter.

Unfortunately, I was not included in that group of people, and you know what, that's fine with me McDonalds.


I was like the faithful girlfriend, coming to see you everyday, cutting time out of my busy schedule to make time for YOU, always remaining loyal to you and your nutritious menu.. and what fucking thanks do I get.




It's gonna take weeks for my bowels to return to normal, and I'm sure Krank will attest to that. The other day, you made my butt bleed! Yeah, that's right, Mcdonalds! You bastard! I've had a Bic Pen shoved in there, but you made me BLEED! I sacrificed my health to try to win, even at best, a $250 gift card from Amex, and what do you give me.. a free McFlurry? $1.00 off my purchase from Foot Locker? (Lord knows I need some new Air Jordans, I'm a REGULAR at Foot Locker, and that dollar is really going to help make Christmas this year, you bastard shit)




Good riddance, Monopoly. I hope they don't bring you back next year, because I have no self control, and I REALLY can't afford to do this again.

Mangled Hand & The Sensitive Gamer

Side note: Not going to blog about last night because, honestly, he was such a nice guy. He was cute, and sweet. So, there’s that. However, in keeping with the tradition of updating my blog weekly… ENJOY.

When: Halloween.
Who: Me, Shine, Marktard, Kramer, and Unk.
Where: Some random warehouse party in Birmingham.

I am dressed as kind of like, a dark angel sort of thing. My costume is your gold standard of girl costumes. A slutty black dress, fishnets, hooker boots, and of course, the accessory (otherwise I would have just been a slut): The black halo and wings.

I am pretty lit. Off alcohol and other unnamed substances.

The party is seriously pretty uneventful, except for mangled hand guy.

I’m walking past this guy, and he grabs my arm. Strong-arms me, if you will. And he’s actually really hot! But then I feel his fingers, or lack thereof, on my hand. I am so drunk/high that I say, “What the fuck dude!” And jerk away.

My utter disgust does not deter him.
“Accident when I was a kid.”
Me: “Man, it’s like a little midget hand! You could fist me with that tiny hand!

Mangled hand is clearly taken aback, as most are when I say off the wall shit like this, and proceeds to call me shady.
Me: Shady? I’m not shady.
Mangled Hand: If you aren’t shady, then give me your number.
Me: I’m going to be honest here. Your hand is kind of freaking me out. Is it a costume?MH: NO! No, it’s real, see…” He touches me with it again.I jump back about ten feet. But I give this guy my number.
MH: I’m going to save you as “Sketch.”
Me: Awesome. I’m saving you as Roy Munson.MH: Like the Kingpin dude?
Me: EXACTLY LIKE THAT.
I start laughing out loud because he gets my joke.

If you look in my phone to this day, Roy Munson is listed right there, under the M’s. Nestled between Matos and No! (Still don’t know whose number that is, but for safety reasons keep it programmed in my phone. I was obviously sending a message to my future self at the time I programmed it. Saying, Future self, when this number comes up on the caller ID, should you answer it? No!)

Anyway, after I straight up Ernie McCracken’d all over Munson’s parade, we dipped out. We left with Kramer and Unk and went to Unks apartment. Ole’ Sketch here started feeling like maybe she wanted a little action.

So I started doing the cursory cell phone scan. I found one that I had hung out with a few times at the bar I used to go to after work. I text him, “Heyyyyyyy.” (3 a.m.)

I realize I’ve just given away my drunken texting habits. So, that being said…if you know me, and receive this text from me any time after 12 a.m. CST, IGNORE IT, unless you want to end up on my blog. Because I will definitely make fun of you.

Anyway. Moving along. I’m calling this guy Gay Pac-Man. I walk into his apartment. And it’s worse than the apartment in the 40-Year-Old Virgin. Toys, some kind of futuristic chair that looks like Dr. Evil’s chair mixed with a dentists chair…only gayer (I come to find out this is a gamer chair). It’s bad.

But this doesn’t stop me. I came here for one thing buddy. And that was to drink your beer, and get some.
But no. Gay Pac-Man does not want to get it on (right away). He turns on (what I thought was) his TV. Not a TV, boys and girls. It was a fucking 50 inch COMPUTER SCREEN. He starts playing Warlock or Warcraft, whatever the hell that game is. Meanwhile I’m sitting there in my slutty costume, high as a mutha, wondering if I am hallucinating this or if it is really happening. IT WAS.

After an hour of watching this douche-nozzle play video games, he gets up from his royal throne of douchery and comes and sits next to me. He starts making out with me, hardcore. And I kind of liked it, because I don’t know where this Alpha Male came from, because he sure as hell wasn’t playing games a minute ago. I tell myself maybe I did hallucinate the gamer, and that yes, this will do.

He asks me if I want to take it to the bedroom. Guess what my answer was?

(FF to 3 minutes later)

He is curled up in a ball next to me.

GPM: I haven’t done that in a while.
(This seems to be the standard excuse for “early ecstasy.” Regardless, it doesn’t change the fact that you just wasted my time. You knew I was coming over. You should have prepared yourself.)
Me: mm-hmm.
GPM: That was nice though. Do you like to cuddle?
Me: NO. I roll over.

He literally rolls me back over. We are now face to face.

GPM: Will you hold me?

I am shocked. Because not only do I NOT like cuddling, I most definitely do not want to cuddle YOU. But, I did. Because it was a weird situation, I did not know how to handle it. He flipped over so his ass was towards me, and I was SPOONING HIM. I’m a CHICK, and I was SPOONING HIM.

I wait till he falls asleep. I’m having trouble getting my arm out from under his head. Every time I move it he makes a weird moaning sound. I finally go with the band-aid approach and just yank it out of there. His neck rolls, he does not wake up. (Gaming and premature ejaculation really take it out of you.) I drive back to Unk’s apartment and pick up Shine.

We are both still drunk. We order $40 worth of Krystal’s and pass out in a sea of cardboard boxes.

Did you just FART, and the bitch-u-crazy theory

So, my date. Let's call him Smelly.


First off, I met this guy for the sake of the experiment.

I only saw one picture of him before we went out. In the photo he was wearing sunglasses. In the online world, this is a BAD SIGN, especially if it's your only picture. If you had like, three or four, then one with sunglasses, I could judge you properly.

Sunglasses leave you guessing. And come on. I fucked a cross eyed guy. I should require an ophthalmic exam before even considering dates. It should be a prerequisite. Unfortunately the Lagoon Creature did not come to mind. (Does lightning really ever strike twice? Hope I never find out!)


So anyway, it's his only picture, and it's kind of from the side, but not really. He has a pretty sweet beard (I love beards I don't know why). I decide, why the fuck not?

We met at a sushi restaurant (my favorite, if you haven't noticed). Smelly was pretty skeptical about it because he'd never tried sushi before. I had to explain to him that there were other things on the menu. (granted, one of them was called, "Fish Mixture")

Right off the bat, I order a glass of wine and multiple sake shots. If i'm going to date losers, i'm going to have to drink EXCESSIVELY.


This guy is having a problem talking to my face. He is actually doing most of the conversating with my two chest pals. Which is just, amazing to me, because those motherfuckers don't talk! And they can't hear! I tell him this. It does not deter him. (note to self: Turtlenecks aren't so bad. Dress appropriately in the future.)


It's pretty awkward during dinner. I actually love awkwardness. It makes for great stories. I start telling him about all my horrible relationships. I am also talking really bad about my exes. I'm testing the bitch-u-crazy theory. (this will be explained later)

me: he probably didn't like me driving by his house, 4, 5 times a day but in order to feel sane I needed to know where he was AT ALL TIMES. Wouldn't want to have to fuck a bitch up you know??? YOU KNOW?

I lean forward excitedly and he is just sitting there in stunned silence, taking it all in.

me: come on, you've never done a little, harmless stalking?

him: I don;t think any stalking is harmless.

me: Well, if you really love the person it's not stalking. It's love. Just like if a guy hits you, it means he really loves you. When I'm with a guy and he isn't hitting me, I'm going to assume hes cheating and its time to have a bitch beat down. It's all part of the game, you know?

him: I guess that kind of makes sense.

dude...SERIOUSLY!?

Towards the end of our lame ass dinner, I talk him into trying some of my sushi. Spicy tuna rolls. Not anything to crazy. He picks one up. Pops it in his cockhole (haha sorry I had to) and chews. Then, to my horror (and the horror of everyone in our section) he starts regurgitating it back up, kind of baby bird style. He was moving his neck back and forth and making the loud gag sound. He then spits this nasty pink shit on his plate. I start gagging because of the sight and smell of it. We are both gagging like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xr9BYDUKkmY
(ff to 24 seconds in. that's how we looked, and that's how loud we were)


So we're both gagging. LOUD. At one point I was pretty sure I wasn't going to make it to the bathroom to throw up. It resided though, which is fortunate, because that guy would have wasted a lot of money on alcohol had I thrown it up.

Everyone is staring at us; meanwhile, he is poking the pink shit with his fork.



After about 4 sake shots, and 5 glasses of wine, it's time for the movie.
We're going to see I Love You, Man.
I'm thinking, okay, it can't be that terrible because i've heard the movie is hilarious.

I make Smelly make a stop. I make Smelly purchase some wine minis... (six of them).
I'm already pretty lit up, but this oughta do the trick.


When we get in the theater, we're the ONLY ones in there. Which would be awesome if I was interested in the guy. We go to the very top and sit down. I'm enjoying the movie. I finish my first mini. I throw the little tiny top down the rows of chairs. I hear it quietly find a new home somewhere towards the bottom of the theater.
'Not enough,' I childishly think. I chunk the empty bottle. It explodes. Violently. I raise my fists up in victory.

me: YES!
Completely baffled, he hesitates, but finally asks, “What made you do that??”
At this point I’m trying really hard not to lose it and just burst out laughing, “I've just been really angry lately!”


I continue to do this throughout the movie. He says nothing. With all six of my bottles. Everyone of them shattered near the stairs. On the sixth one, I turn to Smelly and say, "watch this."

I stand up and with a Nolan Ryan esq like windup, I pitch that motherfucker as hard as I can. I was hoping for the screen, but, I'm no Kenny fuckin' Powers. It didnt work. But it busted, just as beautifully loud and crazy as the others.

I turn to him. "I don't know about you, but I feel a lot better now. Keeping it all bottled up like that makes ya crazy! Sometimes you have to just bust those bottles! Or that's what my therapist tells me!"
him: he might not have meant that literally.
me: No, I asked him. I said, do you mean that literally? And he said, Yes...literally...go out and bust bottles.
him: oh, well if you asked him..

(WTF? Who would believe that? What kind of doctor does he think I see?)


He is still flirting/being gross. I am pretty sure he is farting, but the only thing I have for proof is something stinky. No solid evidence, if you will. Finally after about 30 minutes of it, I KNOW, without a doubt, that what I am smelling is a fart. And it infuriates me. Seriously?! You think you can just fart in my air and shit? There is no one around for him to blame it on.


me: Did you just fart?
him: YES! I thought it would be silent! You heard it?
me: No, motherfucker, I SMELLED it!


He starts laughing. I get up and move 5 seats away. I can feel him staring at me for the duration of the movie.


Him: Come on, come on back. I won't poot again *he used the word poot.*
me: I'm not coming to sit in your little toot cloud, buddy. Think again.
him: I'll move down there, then.

He moves. We finish the movie. I drunk dial on the way home.

Now, allow me to explain the bitch-u-crazy theory.

The uglier the guy is, the more fucked up you can act.

Hell, you can do any fucking thing you want and get away with it! This date has just helped add credence to my "bitch-u-crazy" theory.

I SHATTERED SIX WINE BOTTLES IN A PUBLIC MOVIE THEATER LAST NIGHT. I TOLD HIM I WAS OKAY WITH DOMESTIC VIOLENCE. I TOLD HIM I WAS A STALKER. Did he ask me out again?

HELL YES, he did.

*Spicy Tuna and me are taking a much-needed break.
*No more guys with sunglasses.

Krankenstein & The Saw Bathroom

In this post, i'm going to introduce you to my friend, Shine. You've heard of her before. It was in her apartment that I fornicated with the lagoon creature. It was her who shamelessly made fun of me about it. (she still does, do you blame her?) But, I digress.

We were, once again, at the infamous Baileys (the scene of most of my crimes). Me, Shine, and Krank are drinking it up. This guy comes up behind me and whispers this in my ear:



"So you're the girl i'm going home with tonight?"

I whirl around and am faced with a problem. See, I have a rule. Well, not so much a rule.. its more like a fact. I don't hook up with asian dudes. Why? I'm not racist (depending on who you ask of course). I have NEVER, not one time met an asian i've been attracted to. I'm not saying I wouldn't ever, but so far I havent seen one i'm attracted to.

But this guy, was the exception to every asian rule. He was tan, tall, and good looking.

me: are you asian?
him: my mom is, but my dad is from cullman.
me: so, you're a yellowneck!


He laughs at my off color joke and I begin to appreciate his beauty more and more. Not only his beauty but this guy was fucking confident. And most girls I know will tell you that is a huge turn on. We start calling him "gaysian" because he dresses so well, was in a feminine profession (can't tell you here, in fear of "outing" him), and I kind of think he was wearing eyeliner (this would be confirmed later). Nonetheless, I was feeling him.

We proceed to make out in the bathroom at Baileys (where my friend snapped a pic of us) before getting kicked out for "inappropriate behavior".




Both my friends (the very same ones who told me the Lagoon Creature was hot) assured me, he was, indeed, hot, and that they would go to his house with me to "party" as he called it. We make the trek to his house that he apparently shares with like, 6 other dudes. Who are all art fags.

Aren't art fags supposed to be like, artsy and clean?
My friends are NOT impressed. They come up to the room with me and gaysian. Gaysian is at this point trying to talk me out of my pants. I did not want to give them up for the following reasons:

1. I still wasn't sure if he was gay, or bi or what.
2. Because I didnt know the answer to number 1, I didn't want to risk getting a case of the aids.
3. his room was straight up STANKA-DOCIOUS.


However, none of the above reasons detered me from making out with him, which is what I was doing when my friends walk in. We somehow get involved in an anatomical discussion about womens velvety love folds, and how they are set up. Krank draws a picture to illustrate but it looks like a fucking shark.

(she had it designed where the uh.. "love button" would actually be in th sharks mouth. Look at it sideways. It still won't make sense, but hey.. when in rome?)

The gaysian at this point, thinks its okay for him to just disrobe completely. So he gets naked. With my friends in the room. He already had his shirt off from our lackluster makeout session. He was showing me his tats. Guess what they were. Asian words. Yep.

He has now dropped trou, to reveal a tiny little gaysian pecker. I try to see if I can see aids on it. (apparently aids is invisible to the naked eye.. crazy) Krank and Shine exit the room, but not before Krank goes in to have a closer inspection of said tinydick, and tells him what she thinks of it. "thats a really little weenie, man."
Krank dates black guys. This hog was not up to standards, for her at least.

Me & gaysian resume making out when I hear Krank & Shine hysterically laughing in the next room, followed by something breaking, and then I hear Shine say, "EEEEEEEEEeeeEeeeEW!"


I decide i'm not into this. After seeing the tiny pehn-is, not knowing if he likes it in the bum, and being straight up disgusted by his house, I tell Gaysian we should hang out another time (lie). I tromp downstairs, feeling somewhat defeated because I wasted like, 6 hours of my life on this guy.

As soon as we get outside, they tell me about his bathroom. The way they describe it was too unbelievable.


me: No way it was that gross.
SK: Yes, it was, you had to see it to believe it. Here, we took a picture.

They pull out a cell phone picture of something comparable to this:


Shine sat down while Krank actually pissed in the toilet full of black plague and shit. They said it smelled like hammered shit logs, cooked rice, and old mayonaise in there.
Shine decided she couldn't even piss on top of it, or hover, so she uses a chair to climb up and piss on the sink (keeping it classy). She breaks the chair. This was the loud noise I heard in mid-make out session. Krank also reveals to me that she stole some of the gaysians make up. Yep. HIS makeup.

Shine and I are caught up in the humor of the whole situation and laughing as we walk past that cop station back behind the Baileys, kind of across from that ATT building. We turn around and realize Krank is a lot more fucked up than we thought she was. She is carrying her shoes and walking with her arms out in front of her. (in front of the cop station)

me: Holy shit! Why the fuck are you walking like Frankenstein!
Shine: Krankenstein! It's Krankenstein! (name starts with a K)

We take off running.

To this day, when I think of a va-jean, I think of a shark.

"Take a look in the mirror, ma'am."

*all names have been changed to protect the parties involved.



It's 2002. Im 19 years old. In my "partying prime", if you will.


My friend df and I meet some guys at a bar in Birmingham and actually become friends with them. There are 8 of them.

Many nights, we find ourselves meeting up with them, drinking, partying, but never humping, which at this point in my life, was kind of unheard of.


One night in June, they invite us to Destin, Fl. We kindly oblige. Whats not to like about the offer? 8 guys who we trust. A suite that is paid for. One of the arguments that really pushed me over the edge was, "you won't have to spend a penny."

I was sold.


We leave Friday morning. DF drives, and i'm in the front, along with 2 of our guy friends (jay and clint) in the back. The rest are behind us. About halfway into the drive, I notice one of the guys, "jay" in the back, acting a little.. "off."


me: whats wrong with you. and why are you wearing those sunglasses? (it was raining).
jay: i'm rolling. im rolling balls.
clint: we ate, like, 6 rolls each.


at this point, he pulls out a flintstones vitamin bottle (like THAT wont be suspicious to the cops) and opens it. It literally has, over 100 rolls in it. I realize this trip could either be really GOOD, or REALLY bad.


We finally arrive in Destin after a one hour delay at the rest stop. (everyone was puking.) I had never rolled before. Everyone else was. I felt I had NO choice. I pop two. We go to a bar, i use my awesome (and by awesome I mean, it only worked if there was a male bouncer and I popped a nip out or something) i.d. and get in as 21.


After about ten minutes i'm getting pretty antsy because I dont feel anything. I go to the bathroom to pee. The lights are fucking BRIGHT. I turn to the girl next to me.


"ARE THESE LIGHTS REALLY BRIGHT TO YOU OR IS IT JUST ME? IT MIGHT JUST BE ME BUT MAN THESE LIGHTS. ARE BRIGHT. WOOOOO!"


She looks at me like i'm an insane person. Maybe because I yelled it. After I realized I was yelling I clapped my hand over my mouth like i'd just blasphemied God. I turn back around. I realize I need to hurl. BAD. and IMMEDIATELY. I am slinging people out of the way like i'm pushing for the end zone. I dont make it to the stall. I puke on some girls shoes. I yell "date rape" because I think its safer than yelling i'm on drugs. I dont even wash my face. I wipe it on my shirt. I'm definitely feeling those 2 pills now.

I am on the dancefloor after this, and in my head i'm groovin better than anyone out there.



In hindsight, that was not the case at all. I did the Carlton and tried to make it look sexy. I was dancing to some crazy techno that was only going in my head, because the bar was playing Buffet.

A few minutes later, the manager comes up behind me and starts escorting me out. He is whispering to me that date rape is a huge problem and that if I know who did it, to please let him know and not get the cops involved. I have no idea what he is talking about until the next day.


My friends are out ten minutes later. I tell them I feel like there are fire ants crawling on my face. I am swatting at it.
Back in the hotel room, Clint tries to hook up with me. I puke on him.


The next day, we all sleep until at least 5p.m. We wake up, ready to go. We all eat Flintstones and start drinking. Jay pulls out a huge box of whippets (sp) and I am fascinated at the way my voice is all the sudden deep.




I walk around saying, "I am the ding a ling king."


Jay is pelting the guys who are sleeping with empty whippets. HARD. Its one of the clearest memories I have of the trip. I couldnt even try to convey to you how hard he was throwing them. But he was winding up before each toss. So... it was traumatic.


DF and I decide our friends are lame and we go walking on the beach. We find a guy with a briefcase. It doesnt strike us as strange at the time. Usually, when someone opens a briefcase like that it is filled with green.. CASH. This was one was filled with green WEED. He is our new best friend.

I tell him that I want his shirt because I am cold.

Hours later, DF and I are passed out on those wooden chairs they come and put the cushions on during the day and rent out to you for an insane price.

The hotel staff is trying to wake DF & I up. They tell us to get up, but instead we are gripping the wood for dear life. He picks up the unit we're sleeping on, to literally, EJECT us off of them but we hold on. It is standing up completely. Our toes are hanging 3 inches from the ground. We finally take the hint and head towards the hotel we are in front of.

DF crashes on a chair by the pool. I want to lay on something, cushioney. I pick a car in the parking lot, and crawl in the back seat.



I am awoken about 20 minutes later to a cop pulling me out. A family with small children is standing behind him.



cop: what are you doing??
me: just wanted to sleep.
cop: is this your car?
me: i thought it was.


The cop mutters something to the family and is strongarming me back to the hotel (that i'm not staying in.)


cop: how old are you?
me: 25 *lie*
cop stares at me for a long time. He is disgusted. His eyes come to rest on my shirt.
cop: 25? You need to take a loooooong look in the mirror ma'am.



at this point I look down. I am wearing a spider man t shirt. The guy with the briefcase gave me a fucking spiderman shirt. I am fugged out of my mind, its 9 a.m. and I am being led to my "room" by a cop.

I start sobering up a little.

Cop: Where is your room?
me: 12th floor. (please let there be a 12th floor)

at this point, I see DF by the pool. She looks ROUGH. She spots me. Then the cop.

me: HEY LOOK THERES MY FRIEND!
cop: THAT girl?
I run to her with open arms. The cop is looking at us like we are two homeless people trespassing. At this point, we were.

cop: You girls need to just get out of here. I'm going to turn around. In ten seconds you need to be gone. I don't even want to START to deal with this.

DF & I catch a cab back to our ORIGINAL hotel. I still have the shirt.

Lagoon Creature

2007.

The place? The dearly departed Baileys.
The culprits? 2 of my "friends." and one other, who will be called "Lagoon Creature"

Factors involved that led to this heinous oversight: alcohol and a sticky icky green substance

Friends, this night I had on what you might call a pair of goggles. Really, really thick, smoke-beer filled goggles. Everyone at Baileys was lookin alllllllriiiight to me. And come on. Half the dudes in Baileys, more times than not, are a bit questionable. Do they shower? How long has he had those pants on? Is that DOODOO on the back of his shirt? Did he sit in something? And are those dreads on purpose, or did they just happen? Baileys is DARK anyway. The odds were stacked up against me.

I'm rocking out to Earthbound. Probably dancing like a fool. This guy comes up behind me. I turn around, and might as well be staring at Fabio! I'm thinking, WOW! The hottest guy in Baileys is definitely talking to me right now! We take a seat at a side table and start talking about everything. We're really spilling guts to each other.

Creature: I like your chacos.
me: I like your shirt.
me: and your hair. how its all messy.
Creature: yeah, your eyes are, this amazing green color.
me: (swooning) Your eyes are, are...

He stops me at this point with a kiss. Kids, I dont make out in public. I dont condone public displays of affection. They make me sick. Sometimes, even hand holding bothers me. So the fact that i'm making out with this guy should tell you, I was INTO him. People were disgusted. Later, I would find out why. But not soon enough.

I go to the bathroom with my friends.

Me: Did you guys see Creature? Is he not awesome!
friends: staring blankly at me.

I see the corners of their mouths twitching. At the time, I could not see this was restrained laughter.

me: Be happy for me! Say something! I'm taking this guy home. For sure.
friends: oh, yeah.. (pause). You TOTALLY should.

Jealous bitches! I thought. Just mad that i'm hooking up with the hottest guy here. Whatever. I totally ditch my friends and continue my drunk making out. Pretty soon, everyone is ready to leave and we all pile in friend#1's car and head back to her apartment. I bring the Lagoon Creature with me. We make out in the back seat the whole way home. There is also major gropeage going on. My friends are laughing. I dont put it together that they are laughing at me. At the time, I thought they were telling funny jokes. Really, really, hilariously fucking funny jokes.

We reach friend#1's apartment and he & I immediately go into the extra bedroom with the twin bed. Just the right size for GETTING.IT.ON. And thats what happens. We get it on. I would like to give you more detail, but my mind has blocked it out. Kind of like trauma victims, you know? Sometimes things are so painful to remember your body just says, fuck it, get out of here, bad memory.

The next morning, my sneaky bitch friend comes in the room.

"GOOD MORNING LOVEBIRDS~!"
me: ufhhhmmmmmmmmm (unintelligible, still drunk grunt)
friend: I have to go to work! You coming? (we worked together at the time.)
me: tell them ill be there later. I gotta take creature back to his car.

As soon as she leaves, I hop up and get in her bed. Its big and comfy and I was feeling a little shameful. I sleep for 30 more minutes. I go to wake him up.

"Hey, creature! Its time to go. Come on. Get up."
He rolls over. Opens his eyes. But something strange is happening here. I turn away. I couldn't process it while looking at him. I'm also hoping maybe since he had JUST opened his eyes, maybe they had to adjust or something.

creature: Come get back in bed for a minute.

I slowly look over at him. His eyes are open. And those motherfuckers are CROSSED.

I start panicking. I start thinking about all the people I saw last night. All the people that saw ME. and this crosseyed motherfucker. MAKING OUT. A memory of me telling friends how i'd met this great guy. A memory of me trying to compliment his eyes but getting cut off by his tongue down my throat. That sneaky bastard. He probably thought he was the luckiest fucker alive!

me: no. no. come on. we gotta go. NOW.

I'm talking in a really high pitched voice. It was involuntary. And I was talking really fast. I couldnt look at him. I seriously did not look at him ONE time, from Alabaster to Homewood. Except when we pulled into his complex. I looked over just one more time, to make sure he had googly eyes. YEP, still crossed.
At this point he had probably gotten that I had sobered up and the ruse was up! He didnt make it weird. He got the hell out of my car and slammed the door, and I peeled out of there.

At work, said friends were sitting there WAITING for me to walk in. As soon as I walked in, they lost all composure.

friends: did you drop loverboy off? Whens the wedding! Your kids will be so fucking cute!
me: eat a dick. no, eat lots of dicks.
friends: did you eat some dick last night? Cross eyed dick?

I walk away. We laugh about it later. They got me. I got GOT. I thought this was the last I would see of the creature. I was wrong.

FF to Oct 2008. It's the night of the Phil Lesh & Friends/Allman Bros concert. THere are a few of us going and we have a hotel room to party in. After the show, we decide we want to get our minds a little more twisted. One friend suggests a substance that shall remain nameless. None of us have any. Another guy says, "I know this guy. Hes cool. Hell bring it here."

30 minutes later there is a knock on the door. I beebop over, excited.
Guess who is on the other side.

THE FUCKING LAGOON CREATURE.

creature: hey, I know you from somewhere!
me: MM.. nope. Dont think weve ever met.
creature: No, I KNOW i know you from somewhere. Ill figure it out.

shit, shit, shit, i'm thinking. I'm actually with a guy I like this night. And of all fucking nights. The lagoon creature moonlights as a drug dealer. Guess his modeling day job doesnt pay him enough. A couple of hours later he comes up to me, as i'm sitting next to the guy I actually DO like on the bed.

creature: I figured out how i know you.
me: Oh (i get highpitched and fast here) really? hmm. Wow I have a terrible memory. Thats cool though good to see you again okay bye.
creature: I havent even told you.
FUCK.
me: oh, wow, geez (nervous laughter.) Where.
creature: WINKS and walks away.

guy that I like: What was that about?

There was a long silence as I was trying to concoct some elaborate, shitfilled story to throw him off, but for some reason while I was still debating, I just word vomited the truth.
me: oh i fucked him last year.
guy that I like: Hahahah. Thats why I like you! You have a wild sense of humor.


Yes.. yes I do. :)

Why I don't use Bic Pens

Scene: Tiki Bobs. circa 2002.

cast: me, df, and 3 members of the esteemed "Birmingham Vulcans Rugby team"

(other variables include, but are not limited to: A small amount of dankity dank, a few anxiety pills, and lots and lots of crisp, refreshing beer.)

DF & I are sitting at the bar when approached by these three strapping young gentlemen. We all somehow start dancing? And the guy that is pressing his denim boner in my ass to the beat of the music (I'm calling him Bic) whispers (romantically) in my ear:

"Do you want a hit of X?"
me: No, dude. No.
Him: Your friend took one.
Me: Irregardless, no. I'm flyin' high as it is.

Satisfied that I am messed up enough to leave with them, he quits asking me about the x. I don't know what clued him in to my willingness to leave with him. My sitting in his lap, maybe actually publicly groping his denim boner a few times, or me saying, "So, are you driving?"

My friend is into his friend. DOn't really know about the other guy, but who cares, right?
We all leave at about 4 a.m.
We're headed to Gardendale.

We arrive at our destination, a house that smelled like an open grave on the inside, by the way. Me and Bic head up to his room. Somewhere in the course of trying to get each others clothes off as fast as possible and waking up the next morning, I definitely blacked out. I remember him saying something like, everyone is rolling downstairs, come down. I was confused. DId this literally mean, people are rolling their bodies down flights of stairs, or did it mean people were experiencing X, together, downstairs?
You, reader, know the logical answer to that. I, unfortunately, did not. Thats how fugged up I was.
Anyway, I declined.
He said, I'll be back. I have a vague memory of saying something terminator related here, but thats it. Next thing I know, theres sun shining through the curtains.
I still hear techno music playing downstairs. I look at my phone. 8 am. Damn.

At this time, I realize I am naked.
(years later, "waking up naked and lost" will be the numbero uno reason I DO NOT take other peoples prescription medicine)

Okay. I can only surmise one thing at this point. I hooked up with the guy. Not my best moment, I know, but I just want to get out of there. The walk of shame is on deck. Only.. something is wrong when I move. SOMETHING IS BAD WRONG.

Yeah. Theres something in my butt.
It moved with me when I rolled. I feel around. Something familar. I pick up the phone. Call my friend, hoping to GOD shes still there. She answers.

DF: you must be ready to go.
me: Get up here.
DF: we're still partying!
me: GET.UP.HERE.

I hear footsteps and my breathless friend bursts through the door, Kramer style. She looks rough. But she doesnt have anything wedged in her ass, so shes doing a lot better than me.

DF: WHAT!
me: Theres something in my butt!
DF: (loses all self control and starts laughing hysterically) WHAT!
I show her the culprit. It's a motherfuckin' bic pen.

DF: YOu had an INK PEN, in your ASS?
me: Yep.
DF: Like, cap deep?
me: no, but definitely to this point (halfway in, people) I want to get out of here. Call a cab, walk downstairs, and dont say SHIT to anyone.

DF is fascinated. How did it get in there? Did he put it there? Did I roll onto it? We quickly eliminate the last option because physics wouldnt allow it.
Someone came up, after I was blacked out and put this in my butt, yo.

We sit for about 10 minutes and wait for the cab. Once we see that golden yellow savior pull up to the house, i'm literally, "rolling down the stairs" trying to get out of there, but also praying DF doesnt say shit. The Lord was not with me that day.

As we're walking out, here are DF's parting words.
DF: AND DONT THINK WE DONT KNOW YOU STUCK A PEN IN MY FRIENDS ASS!