Being the part time blogger that I am, I at times feel compelled to exercise a little reconnaissance and check out the trends of other blogs, or just randomly find an interesting one. The returns thus far have been disappointing and I’m left to wonder what a stranger would think of my blog should they suffer the distinct misfortune of stumbling upon it. Most of the other sites I’ve seen on blogspot by clicking the “next blog” icon appear to me as hopelessly uninteresting, disturbingly weird, and just plain sad.
I would hope that initial impressions of my own work do not come off so negatively, but that might be asking too much. I am aware that only a very specific demographic is likely to be amused by the politically, socially, and spiritually incorrect writing that fills my posts. Let’s just assume that some 45 year old conservative mom will probably not find humor in intermittent comedy.
On the other hand, there seems to be a lot of middle aged moms delighting themselves by creating posts of their “angel” children. Excuse me if I’m wrong, but this trend seems to me a bit out of place. When I by chance fall upon a blog covered with photos of young children being thrown together like it’s some kind of twisted shrine I can’t help but ask myself who the fuck else besides this misguided mother would spend time on this. The only conclusion I came to was sick and deranged pedophilic creatures scrounging the internet for anything they can get their hands on. Maybe it’s an initial reaction that finds its origins in paying too much attention to Fox 5 News, but either way I can’t understand why these people would just carelessly throw photographs of their most loved ones up on some public site. Make a photo album or something, because believe me no on cares that little Johnny has finally started third grade and that dear Jennifer said her first words today.
Perhaps, if the emphasis were placed on the funny missteps of childhood I would be more interested, but until I start seeing some tales of 5 year old Pete accidentally pouring the fishbowl and accompanying fish into the pool because he saw Free Willy, I doubt any of these attention craving mothers will rouse my interest. Every mother thinks her child is an angel. Keep it to yourself and family because only one mother was right about that, and that’s mine.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Flighted Frustration
I was bailing. I was scared. I was unprepared. I was on the nonstop flight to South America in seat 26 B next to the bearded welter weight with thick rimmed glasses and greasy curly hair surrounding a shiny bald top. To the other side of me was a portly woman with a disposition of feigned nobility and importance. The energetic and exaggerated hand gestures along with her tendency to laugh at her own amusements assured me of this. Her stiff brown hair seemed sprayed in place much like the orange tan of her face. I had been sober for nearly 14 hours and trapped between these two characters of America I knew it had been a mistake to stop drinking. How long would it take the stewardess or flight attendant or which ever was the correct terminology to reach me? I needed one of those petite bottles of liquor they served; actually better make that a double. This was a long flight, but if I chugged two of them I might get myself just fucked up enough to harmlessly pass out without the horrific thoughts of my dear friends on either side of me.
I panicked imagining their backgrounds and lives fretting to a nervous degree about the fact that these were people that might have actually reproduced or worse, had people that validated and encouraged them. Who were these insolent strangers anyways? Why were they on my plane, interfering with my trip of spiritual freedom and existential pursuit. Their negative auras were sure to affect my own in such close proximity and I was already aware of the volatile nature of my current state. I was lodged between an untimely graduation from college and a looming full time job so near on the horizon I might as well have been on the edge of the earth myself. Graduation had beckoned way too early and I dreaded the loss of my lifestyle.
Now I was here stuck between insurance agent Lionel and housewife extraordinaire Claire. Between them was Hades and I was firmly slouched in my seat there. I uncomfortably shifted in my position and unwittingly made physical contact with dear Claire when I recklessly threw my arm towards the arm rest dividing our space. When it felt the soft pudginess of her cholesterol deposits I immediately realized I had strayed too far. I ripped my arm back in uncontrolled shock. Thank god she was too absorbed in the god forsaken aerial presentation of Garfield to notice my horrified reaction. How the fuck could anyone with a fully functional brain born before the year 2000 find anything remotely entertaining in this frighteningly appalling trash parading as cinema?
Bored, sober, and out of options I resigned myself to perusing the Continental airlines magazine expecting nothing more then a couple of mildly interesting photographs. Despite the abhorrent movie selection, Continental did surprise me with a most likely unheralded gem. As I thumbed through the Continental magazine placed in the sleeve in front of every seat I settled on a small piece about Cancun drinking hubs, as much a product of itching alcoholism as my former time visiting that foreign city. I’ve never imagined some marketing fueled magazine mass-produced for tired travelers looking for something to put them asleep as a source for fine-tuned and highly entertaining writing. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself entranced by the delectable piece by Chris Barnett (name confirmation pending) about Yucatan drink specialties.
After streaking through this I imagined it to be a rare fortune of a good writer in a shoddy magazine. To put my theory to the test I flipped back to a previous article and to my now overwhelming surprise found it as engaging as my first discovery. Thus, I must tip my metaphorical cap to these underappreciated literary engineers capable of turning a magazine long advertisement into an unexpected pleasurable experience. Now if only the irritated flight attendant with an inability to communicate with speakers of espanol would lighten her mood.
By some unheeded miracle I reached nearly the fifth hour of flight alive and breathing. The long haired infant continued to laugh playfully every time I smile at him. His brown eyes lit up as he giggled on his mother’s lap. This little kid thankfully distracted my attention from the brutal stench fuming off good ol’ Lionel. My guess is it was a mixture of some odious cologne and untamed body odor. Either way, it was at times hard to breath.
Thankfully I felt the plane descending and that warm, crackly voice on the overhead in fluid Spanish and broken English told me we were approaching our destination, Lima. I could hardly wait to escape from this stale air and lamentable company. Myself, still a snob entrenched in bitter judgments and pretension just looking for some Spanish conversation and Peruvian Pisco.
I panicked imagining their backgrounds and lives fretting to a nervous degree about the fact that these were people that might have actually reproduced or worse, had people that validated and encouraged them. Who were these insolent strangers anyways? Why were they on my plane, interfering with my trip of spiritual freedom and existential pursuit. Their negative auras were sure to affect my own in such close proximity and I was already aware of the volatile nature of my current state. I was lodged between an untimely graduation from college and a looming full time job so near on the horizon I might as well have been on the edge of the earth myself. Graduation had beckoned way too early and I dreaded the loss of my lifestyle.
Now I was here stuck between insurance agent Lionel and housewife extraordinaire Claire. Between them was Hades and I was firmly slouched in my seat there. I uncomfortably shifted in my position and unwittingly made physical contact with dear Claire when I recklessly threw my arm towards the arm rest dividing our space. When it felt the soft pudginess of her cholesterol deposits I immediately realized I had strayed too far. I ripped my arm back in uncontrolled shock. Thank god she was too absorbed in the god forsaken aerial presentation of Garfield to notice my horrified reaction. How the fuck could anyone with a fully functional brain born before the year 2000 find anything remotely entertaining in this frighteningly appalling trash parading as cinema?
Bored, sober, and out of options I resigned myself to perusing the Continental airlines magazine expecting nothing more then a couple of mildly interesting photographs. Despite the abhorrent movie selection, Continental did surprise me with a most likely unheralded gem. As I thumbed through the Continental magazine placed in the sleeve in front of every seat I settled on a small piece about Cancun drinking hubs, as much a product of itching alcoholism as my former time visiting that foreign city. I’ve never imagined some marketing fueled magazine mass-produced for tired travelers looking for something to put them asleep as a source for fine-tuned and highly entertaining writing. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself entranced by the delectable piece by Chris Barnett (name confirmation pending) about Yucatan drink specialties.
After streaking through this I imagined it to be a rare fortune of a good writer in a shoddy magazine. To put my theory to the test I flipped back to a previous article and to my now overwhelming surprise found it as engaging as my first discovery. Thus, I must tip my metaphorical cap to these underappreciated literary engineers capable of turning a magazine long advertisement into an unexpected pleasurable experience. Now if only the irritated flight attendant with an inability to communicate with speakers of espanol would lighten her mood.
By some unheeded miracle I reached nearly the fifth hour of flight alive and breathing. The long haired infant continued to laugh playfully every time I smile at him. His brown eyes lit up as he giggled on his mother’s lap. This little kid thankfully distracted my attention from the brutal stench fuming off good ol’ Lionel. My guess is it was a mixture of some odious cologne and untamed body odor. Either way, it was at times hard to breath.
Thankfully I felt the plane descending and that warm, crackly voice on the overhead in fluid Spanish and broken English told me we were approaching our destination, Lima. I could hardly wait to escape from this stale air and lamentable company. Myself, still a snob entrenched in bitter judgments and pretension just looking for some Spanish conversation and Peruvian Pisco.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Tales of College III: Lofted Excitement
The possibility of renting out a two story loft for the sole purpose of throwing a kickass party had never occurred to me when I arrived in late February my freshman year with stern instructions not to bring anything other then girls and $15 in cash. Fuck if I cared; I was gonna have unlimited booze and an entire New York City loft to enjoy it with the company of dozens of thrill seekers like myself.
Inside was teeming with people, some I knew, some I wanted to know, and others I would be avoiding whether I knew them or not. There was a full table entirely dedicated to an assortment of liquors and mixed drinks next to which rested two glorious kegs. NYU isn’t renowned for keggers and this was the first keg I had seen at a party there. Being the uninhibited beer drinker I was I turned my attention straight for them. Pumping the tap, I downed my first cup in a voracious chug and filled it up again.
Thank god most of the lights were out I thought, these people are going to look infinitely more attractive in the dark. With that, I chugged my second cup and was now on to number 3.
There were two girls at this party I had hooked up with before. One, named Christy, I refused to call by her name for the entirety of the night and instead, after devolving myself with drink, relentlessly called her Erika (I was insistent that she looked like an Erika). The other girl I had recently stopped hooking up with because of questionable acts which I felt risked both health and safety and my inability to keep pace with her insatiable lust.
An important note in this story, though I’m tempted to omit it, refers to my participation in a zealous, spiritual trial for lent. On my own accord and with complete disregard to health and sanity I decided to give up all types of sexual behavior both with partners and self arranged. The pent up sexual energy was overwhelming after the effects of alcohol reverted me to carnal instincts. Without my roommate’s help it is quite possible I could’ve made a multitude of ungodly mistakes in the name of desperation. Luckily for me, the only mistakes I made were minor and amusing. Just as I was seriously beginning to feel the loosening effects of the natty ice keg I was confronted by my first test.
She blindsided me as I carelessly turned to one of my friends, and instead was treated to her standing right there. “Heyyy Matt.” My immediate, alcohol driven instinct was to pull her into the bathroom and implore her to replay the countless acts of fellatio I had been privileged with previously.
Thankfully I only responded in kind, “Heyy there, haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“Well that was your choice” she reminded me as I had told her I couldn’t commit myself to her lustful desires with the same unabashed passion and complete disregard for other scholarly commitments as she had.
But I was drunk and in a flirtatious mood as orgasms were now only a fleeting memory and I was desperate for one. “Well I never said I made the right choice.” As I smiled at her I’m sure I personified that ubiquitous drunk asshole look.
“Haha, oh matt you know the reason I was obsessed with you right?” Where was she going with this?
“Um…cause I’m really funny?” That was honestly my best guess, I’ve never thought of myself as someone a girl could actually obsess over, let alone readily admit to it.
“Haha, well no. Honestly you were just the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. And I’ve kissed over like 40 guys.” Stop. What? A self respecting man would’ve been appalled that he had engaged in any form of physical interaction with a woman that unhesitatingly was able account for at least 40 guys she had previously hooked up with. However, a drunk bastard like myself would’ve celebrated enthusiastically at his triumph in the sacred art of lip linked tongue swapping.
Accordingly my first reaction in response confirmed my placement in the latter option as I bellowed out, “You’re damn right I’m the best kisser you’ve ever kissed! I’ll out kiss any guy at this whole fucking party!” The few questioning stares I got from this did not deter me in any way. She laughed at this then turned to walk away, probably to find number 50.
People had started dancing and jumping in the largest room of the loft as the music blared loudly. After stopping by to refill yet another cup of beer (I had stopped counting by that point) I went to find my roommates. They were cooped up by the bathroom area while my roommate’s ex complained about something and repeatedly asked to leave. I miscalled her friend Erika a couple more times and then my attention swung back to the large room.
Some guy had grabbed a microphone and started demanding that everyone shut up because the stripper had just arrived. Alright, I thought this will be some good ol’ fashion excitement. I jumped back into the fray, refilled my beer, and looked on waiting for the unclothed performer to step on stage. The guy with the mike kept blabbering something about everyone having to pay money if we wanted to see the stripper perform. I was almost up for it until I saw the wreck that emerged. This gothic looking fright was dressed in black leather and her pudgy stomach emerged from under her tight shirt. Her makeup job looked like it was performed by a seizuring pre-schooler, a tattered mess of light blotches and dark blotches. Even in my drunk stupor it was a scary sight. They wanted me to pay for this ragged hag?
There was an increasing murmur that soon developed into angry shouts demanding a hotter stripper and a refusal to pay. Then the damned fool with the microphone gave the crowd an ultimatum: either we pay or the stripper will not perform. It was at that moment I heard the funniest line at a party I’ve ever heard. As the crowd silenced thinking over his proposition one my good friends from our floor screamed out, “Then tell her to leave! She’s fucking ugly anyways!” After a split second of shock over the finely timed outburst everyone started hysterically laughing and yelling in agreement. It was wicked and cruel for the stripper that night. She left in a cloud of shame amid insolent and drunk college kids. Think Can’t Hardly Wait, when the big jock gets called a fag when everyone is watching and silent. It was something along those lines, but much much better. The only tarnish to this outrageous exclamation was the surely damaged self-esteem and feelings of the stripper, as if the removing your clothes for crowds of plastered college kids part wasn’t degrading enough.
After that, the mood of the party shifted and it was clear it had surpassed its climax. I downed a couple more cups of lukewarm beer and told myself it was time to leave before I had any more encounters with that girl Erika who kept insisting to me that her name was Christy. I also had a religious commitment to honor and my chances of completing this only waned as the night wore on. My friends and I left, staggering half-hazardly all the way back to our dorm; our first loft party was a resounding success in entertainment.
Inside was teeming with people, some I knew, some I wanted to know, and others I would be avoiding whether I knew them or not. There was a full table entirely dedicated to an assortment of liquors and mixed drinks next to which rested two glorious kegs. NYU isn’t renowned for keggers and this was the first keg I had seen at a party there. Being the uninhibited beer drinker I was I turned my attention straight for them. Pumping the tap, I downed my first cup in a voracious chug and filled it up again.
Thank god most of the lights were out I thought, these people are going to look infinitely more attractive in the dark. With that, I chugged my second cup and was now on to number 3.
There were two girls at this party I had hooked up with before. One, named Christy, I refused to call by her name for the entirety of the night and instead, after devolving myself with drink, relentlessly called her Erika (I was insistent that she looked like an Erika). The other girl I had recently stopped hooking up with because of questionable acts which I felt risked both health and safety and my inability to keep pace with her insatiable lust.
An important note in this story, though I’m tempted to omit it, refers to my participation in a zealous, spiritual trial for lent. On my own accord and with complete disregard to health and sanity I decided to give up all types of sexual behavior both with partners and self arranged. The pent up sexual energy was overwhelming after the effects of alcohol reverted me to carnal instincts. Without my roommate’s help it is quite possible I could’ve made a multitude of ungodly mistakes in the name of desperation. Luckily for me, the only mistakes I made were minor and amusing. Just as I was seriously beginning to feel the loosening effects of the natty ice keg I was confronted by my first test.
She blindsided me as I carelessly turned to one of my friends, and instead was treated to her standing right there. “Heyyy Matt.” My immediate, alcohol driven instinct was to pull her into the bathroom and implore her to replay the countless acts of fellatio I had been privileged with previously.
Thankfully I only responded in kind, “Heyy there, haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“Well that was your choice” she reminded me as I had told her I couldn’t commit myself to her lustful desires with the same unabashed passion and complete disregard for other scholarly commitments as she had.
But I was drunk and in a flirtatious mood as orgasms were now only a fleeting memory and I was desperate for one. “Well I never said I made the right choice.” As I smiled at her I’m sure I personified that ubiquitous drunk asshole look.
“Haha, oh matt you know the reason I was obsessed with you right?” Where was she going with this?
“Um…cause I’m really funny?” That was honestly my best guess, I’ve never thought of myself as someone a girl could actually obsess over, let alone readily admit to it.
“Haha, well no. Honestly you were just the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. And I’ve kissed over like 40 guys.” Stop. What? A self respecting man would’ve been appalled that he had engaged in any form of physical interaction with a woman that unhesitatingly was able account for at least 40 guys she had previously hooked up with. However, a drunk bastard like myself would’ve celebrated enthusiastically at his triumph in the sacred art of lip linked tongue swapping.
Accordingly my first reaction in response confirmed my placement in the latter option as I bellowed out, “You’re damn right I’m the best kisser you’ve ever kissed! I’ll out kiss any guy at this whole fucking party!” The few questioning stares I got from this did not deter me in any way. She laughed at this then turned to walk away, probably to find number 50.
People had started dancing and jumping in the largest room of the loft as the music blared loudly. After stopping by to refill yet another cup of beer (I had stopped counting by that point) I went to find my roommates. They were cooped up by the bathroom area while my roommate’s ex complained about something and repeatedly asked to leave. I miscalled her friend Erika a couple more times and then my attention swung back to the large room.
Some guy had grabbed a microphone and started demanding that everyone shut up because the stripper had just arrived. Alright, I thought this will be some good ol’ fashion excitement. I jumped back into the fray, refilled my beer, and looked on waiting for the unclothed performer to step on stage. The guy with the mike kept blabbering something about everyone having to pay money if we wanted to see the stripper perform. I was almost up for it until I saw the wreck that emerged. This gothic looking fright was dressed in black leather and her pudgy stomach emerged from under her tight shirt. Her makeup job looked like it was performed by a seizuring pre-schooler, a tattered mess of light blotches and dark blotches. Even in my drunk stupor it was a scary sight. They wanted me to pay for this ragged hag?
There was an increasing murmur that soon developed into angry shouts demanding a hotter stripper and a refusal to pay. Then the damned fool with the microphone gave the crowd an ultimatum: either we pay or the stripper will not perform. It was at that moment I heard the funniest line at a party I’ve ever heard. As the crowd silenced thinking over his proposition one my good friends from our floor screamed out, “Then tell her to leave! She’s fucking ugly anyways!” After a split second of shock over the finely timed outburst everyone started hysterically laughing and yelling in agreement. It was wicked and cruel for the stripper that night. She left in a cloud of shame amid insolent and drunk college kids. Think Can’t Hardly Wait, when the big jock gets called a fag when everyone is watching and silent. It was something along those lines, but much much better. The only tarnish to this outrageous exclamation was the surely damaged self-esteem and feelings of the stripper, as if the removing your clothes for crowds of plastered college kids part wasn’t degrading enough.
After that, the mood of the party shifted and it was clear it had surpassed its climax. I downed a couple more cups of lukewarm beer and told myself it was time to leave before I had any more encounters with that girl Erika who kept insisting to me that her name was Christy. I also had a religious commitment to honor and my chances of completing this only waned as the night wore on. My friends and I left, staggering half-hazardly all the way back to our dorm; our first loft party was a resounding success in entertainment.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
College Compilation Part II A Grand Excursion
On a typical Thursday night, in the midst of a heated poker game, I was employing my usual strategy of playing it safe until I was sufficiently drunk to throw it all away when I received a special visit from my friend, “Sam”. Apparently there was this “crazy” party materializing at some place called the Tribeca Grand that I “had to go to.” Being an ignorant freshman, I had no conception of what he was jabbering about and foolishly told him we should just go to San Marcos and get wasted.
He left the room disgusted with my lack of adventure and enthusiasm but I was almost two forties in and couldn’t have cared less. After expectedly losing my last chip I joined up with the usual bar crew and departed for the freshman oasis, San Marcos. The place would’ve let in a ten year old boy with a 40 year old women’s id as long as it said he was over 21. (Apparently they were desperate for service because they would close down later that year.)
Upon arriving I was surprised to see Sam already there alongside a few other familiar faces as well as some unknown women. I asked him if he had “come to his senses and realized San Marcos was the way to go.”
“Hell no you fuckin moron” was his quaint reply. I ignored that response for the moment and poured myself a brimming glass of bud light from the recently purchased pitcher. In my dumb, alcohol given confidence I walked up to some blonde chick my friend was talking to and proceeded to dance, make out with, and allegedly attempt to finger minutes after introducing myself. I have only heard second hand reports of the last act and although I have no recollection of this, nor do I hope it happened, based on previous encounters it is sadly not outside the realm of possibility or even expectation.
Thankfully I was dragged away by one of the friends I had arrived with. He told me that we were after all, going to this “hot spot” Tribeca Grand place. Whatever I thought to myself, this crazy girl had stopped talking to me anyways (probably on account of me sliding my fingers into inappropriate places) and we had four other girls with us already.
We hailed down two cabs and gave the driver the address. When we arrived I almost turned around and walked right back into the cab. I was not 21, and my i.d. looked like a seventh grade arts and crafts project. The bouncer I saw was a massive, imposing monster dressed in a suit with an ear piece. This was uncharted territory for me; Jesus an ear piece. Who in God’s name could he be talking to? The police? I’d be arrested on the spot. Before I could dissuade anyone from entering they had already presented their ids. Sam had given us a name to recite at the entrance. Apparently that had some sway because after carelessly glancing at our ids while I nervously shifted in my stance he let us right in. I couldn’t believe it; I even gave that damned gatekeeper a knowing nod as if I had been there countless times.
We walked in hesitantly heading toward the origin of the vibrant noise and swanky music. There was another bouncer in front of a velvet rope separating a private party and half the bar. The furniture was sleek, clean, and had an air of sophistication that went with the dim lighting and dress code…most of the men wore suits or at least business casual. I had on jeans, sneakers, and an old Texas shirt. Perhaps because I was dressed like absolute shit they thought I was so important that this self imposed dress code didn’t apply to me. More realistically though it’s likely that the bouncers were just too high on cocaine to notice that night. Amazingly, our party was in the VIP area or we luckily walked in when the bouncer wasn’t looking. Either way we arrived and ordered a round of nine dollar bud lights and proceeded to relax in the lounges and sip the most expensive beer I had ever purchased. It tasted better too, to be around all of these fine, rich, classy metropolitans; the decadence of it all was a bit overwhelming. Then one of these upstanding gentlemen came up and insisted to the girls we were with to join him in a line of coke (not coca cola). I had just become comfortable around weed, but now having this “hard” drug staring me right in the face dressed up like an upscale business man threw me into a storm of cognitive dissonance. After pleading with our eyes for the girl, Erika, not to accompany him she relented to his persistence and agreed to take a seat in our view.
Then I looked up and saw the majestic lights floating above us as the rim around each floor was lighted with neon green that presented an eerie glow. From that central bar area you could see clear to the top of the building and each floor moved closer and closer to the center creating a glowing bull’s eye of sorts in green luminance and darkness.
When my gaze returned to our level I saw our dear friend sitting uncomfortably at the lounge while the elder gentlemen, eager for her company, seemed to be shifting his head on the counter behind her. What an odd position I thought to myself only later to learn that he had in fact been doing lines behind her head (I guess it wasn’t flakes that I saw in her hair after all).
I couldn’t stop staring at all of the whorishly dressed women escorted by men capable of providing for their extravagant tastes. These girls were beautiful and then I had to piss. As I walked by the guy guarding the entrance to the select party I confidently assured him of my impending return. I knew he’d remember my face. The bathroom was decked out with more goodies than a seven eleven complete with a strapping young cashier exuberantly handing out warm towels and paper sheets. My three dollar tip is still the most expensive piss I’ve ever taken which in terms on the Manhattan elite is laughingly low, but I’ve always been low class. I caught myself staring at the assortment of products lining the bathroom and forced myself to leave before I ended up getting charged for standing there.
The bouncer immediately opened the velvet rope when he saw me coming. What a sucker I thought, I had no idea what the fuck this party was or even where I was. I stepped back into the aura of pretentiousness and put on my best I’m rich but don’t dress like it face. As I was walking innocently back to our seated area with a self imposed air of superfluous grandeur I was stopped by a stunning dark haired temptress. She wore a red dress in just enough places to leave some things to the imagination and had dazzling green eyes that seemed to stare right through me and I thought she must’ve been staring right through me…until she spoke directly at me. My immediate reaction was of course to turn around to see who she was really speaking to. However, much to my disbelief there was no one there. Was this model so fucked up on drugs she had mistaken me for a man of wealth with something to offer her aside from a chance to be signed into my dorm bedroom that I shared with two other people. Christ she was just a bit shorter than me with those heels on and then she repeated her question.
“And who are you here with tonight?” Thank God I was drunk which helped alleviate the incredible awkwardness with which I usually confront these situations. After convincing myself this was real I went right with it. I told her I was with “Sebastian’s party over near the circular red booths and lounges.” She nodded as if she understood.
I put myself on the line as I dared continue the conversation risking being found out for the imposter that I was any moment and asked her “Who might you be here with tonight?”
Her answer was fluid and completely beyond me; it was in a language and with references that I had no hope of understanding. She said, “Ugh, I’m with Saul’s party but the fucking dick will not stop ordering the same fucking shots of patron and my girl friend Briana is just totally wasted like already thrown up twice, but don’t tell anybody and now I’m so tired of their same old partying. You know, they’re probably going out to Marquee after this, as if I haven’t been there every fucking night. So now I’m just on my way to get another drink.”
I just stared at her, she could’ve been speaking some extinct Nordic language for all I knew but damn was she beautiful and that sparkling pearl that rested deep within her cleavage kept flashing at me beckoning me to stare deeper. When she had finished that line I realized, late, that it was my cue to offer her a drink. It was at this point I had the option of going for a totally baller move and spending the last 50 bucks in my account on an obscenely expensive drink for her in the vain hope that she’d ask me back to her place (there was no way I would be able to explain away the procedures of signing into a freshman dorm with any hope of her maintaining a conversation let alone eye contact with me) or I could just be me. Sadly, I chose the latter.
“Nice, well I recommend the sex on the beach it’s addictive and like Pringles once you pop you just can’t stop.” Jesus could that joke have been any more corny and just completely misplaced for this situation. Her disappointed reaction told me no. I tried one last time to salvage a lost cause when I said as she was already walking by, “By the way my name’s Matt and you should come by our party if you wanna try meeting some other people.” She didn’t even turn to look and see me pointing in the direction of where we were sitting. “Damn, that was brutal” I thought. Probably for the best, she didn’t deserve me anyways. I walked past the creepy coke man to get to our lounges as he stood, powder nose and all, staring hungrily at Erika. It was a stare that told me I never wanted to do cocaine…or be friends with that guy.
As we were all running low on funds to fuel a drinking habit that was blatantly unaffordable here and the alluring novelty of the Tribeca Grand was waning we decided to set off before any more illicit substances made their way into our night. It was nearly four in the morning as I gave my last overdone head nod to that bouncer with a clipboard.
“Have a good night buddy,” I said and as he looked up he gave me an expression of immediate shock sort of like, “what the fuck were you doing in there and I hope I wasn’t the bastard that let you in.” Needless to say, we were pretty tight.
He left the room disgusted with my lack of adventure and enthusiasm but I was almost two forties in and couldn’t have cared less. After expectedly losing my last chip I joined up with the usual bar crew and departed for the freshman oasis, San Marcos. The place would’ve let in a ten year old boy with a 40 year old women’s id as long as it said he was over 21. (Apparently they were desperate for service because they would close down later that year.)
Upon arriving I was surprised to see Sam already there alongside a few other familiar faces as well as some unknown women. I asked him if he had “come to his senses and realized San Marcos was the way to go.”
“Hell no you fuckin moron” was his quaint reply. I ignored that response for the moment and poured myself a brimming glass of bud light from the recently purchased pitcher. In my dumb, alcohol given confidence I walked up to some blonde chick my friend was talking to and proceeded to dance, make out with, and allegedly attempt to finger minutes after introducing myself. I have only heard second hand reports of the last act and although I have no recollection of this, nor do I hope it happened, based on previous encounters it is sadly not outside the realm of possibility or even expectation.
Thankfully I was dragged away by one of the friends I had arrived with. He told me that we were after all, going to this “hot spot” Tribeca Grand place. Whatever I thought to myself, this crazy girl had stopped talking to me anyways (probably on account of me sliding my fingers into inappropriate places) and we had four other girls with us already.
We hailed down two cabs and gave the driver the address. When we arrived I almost turned around and walked right back into the cab. I was not 21, and my i.d. looked like a seventh grade arts and crafts project. The bouncer I saw was a massive, imposing monster dressed in a suit with an ear piece. This was uncharted territory for me; Jesus an ear piece. Who in God’s name could he be talking to? The police? I’d be arrested on the spot. Before I could dissuade anyone from entering they had already presented their ids. Sam had given us a name to recite at the entrance. Apparently that had some sway because after carelessly glancing at our ids while I nervously shifted in my stance he let us right in. I couldn’t believe it; I even gave that damned gatekeeper a knowing nod as if I had been there countless times.
We walked in hesitantly heading toward the origin of the vibrant noise and swanky music. There was another bouncer in front of a velvet rope separating a private party and half the bar. The furniture was sleek, clean, and had an air of sophistication that went with the dim lighting and dress code…most of the men wore suits or at least business casual. I had on jeans, sneakers, and an old Texas shirt. Perhaps because I was dressed like absolute shit they thought I was so important that this self imposed dress code didn’t apply to me. More realistically though it’s likely that the bouncers were just too high on cocaine to notice that night. Amazingly, our party was in the VIP area or we luckily walked in when the bouncer wasn’t looking. Either way we arrived and ordered a round of nine dollar bud lights and proceeded to relax in the lounges and sip the most expensive beer I had ever purchased. It tasted better too, to be around all of these fine, rich, classy metropolitans; the decadence of it all was a bit overwhelming. Then one of these upstanding gentlemen came up and insisted to the girls we were with to join him in a line of coke (not coca cola). I had just become comfortable around weed, but now having this “hard” drug staring me right in the face dressed up like an upscale business man threw me into a storm of cognitive dissonance. After pleading with our eyes for the girl, Erika, not to accompany him she relented to his persistence and agreed to take a seat in our view.
Then I looked up and saw the majestic lights floating above us as the rim around each floor was lighted with neon green that presented an eerie glow. From that central bar area you could see clear to the top of the building and each floor moved closer and closer to the center creating a glowing bull’s eye of sorts in green luminance and darkness.
When my gaze returned to our level I saw our dear friend sitting uncomfortably at the lounge while the elder gentlemen, eager for her company, seemed to be shifting his head on the counter behind her. What an odd position I thought to myself only later to learn that he had in fact been doing lines behind her head (I guess it wasn’t flakes that I saw in her hair after all).
I couldn’t stop staring at all of the whorishly dressed women escorted by men capable of providing for their extravagant tastes. These girls were beautiful and then I had to piss. As I walked by the guy guarding the entrance to the select party I confidently assured him of my impending return. I knew he’d remember my face. The bathroom was decked out with more goodies than a seven eleven complete with a strapping young cashier exuberantly handing out warm towels and paper sheets. My three dollar tip is still the most expensive piss I’ve ever taken which in terms on the Manhattan elite is laughingly low, but I’ve always been low class. I caught myself staring at the assortment of products lining the bathroom and forced myself to leave before I ended up getting charged for standing there.
The bouncer immediately opened the velvet rope when he saw me coming. What a sucker I thought, I had no idea what the fuck this party was or even where I was. I stepped back into the aura of pretentiousness and put on my best I’m rich but don’t dress like it face. As I was walking innocently back to our seated area with a self imposed air of superfluous grandeur I was stopped by a stunning dark haired temptress. She wore a red dress in just enough places to leave some things to the imagination and had dazzling green eyes that seemed to stare right through me and I thought she must’ve been staring right through me…until she spoke directly at me. My immediate reaction was of course to turn around to see who she was really speaking to. However, much to my disbelief there was no one there. Was this model so fucked up on drugs she had mistaken me for a man of wealth with something to offer her aside from a chance to be signed into my dorm bedroom that I shared with two other people. Christ she was just a bit shorter than me with those heels on and then she repeated her question.
“And who are you here with tonight?” Thank God I was drunk which helped alleviate the incredible awkwardness with which I usually confront these situations. After convincing myself this was real I went right with it. I told her I was with “Sebastian’s party over near the circular red booths and lounges.” She nodded as if she understood.
I put myself on the line as I dared continue the conversation risking being found out for the imposter that I was any moment and asked her “Who might you be here with tonight?”
Her answer was fluid and completely beyond me; it was in a language and with references that I had no hope of understanding. She said, “Ugh, I’m with Saul’s party but the fucking dick will not stop ordering the same fucking shots of patron and my girl friend Briana is just totally wasted like already thrown up twice, but don’t tell anybody and now I’m so tired of their same old partying. You know, they’re probably going out to Marquee after this, as if I haven’t been there every fucking night. So now I’m just on my way to get another drink.”
I just stared at her, she could’ve been speaking some extinct Nordic language for all I knew but damn was she beautiful and that sparkling pearl that rested deep within her cleavage kept flashing at me beckoning me to stare deeper. When she had finished that line I realized, late, that it was my cue to offer her a drink. It was at this point I had the option of going for a totally baller move and spending the last 50 bucks in my account on an obscenely expensive drink for her in the vain hope that she’d ask me back to her place (there was no way I would be able to explain away the procedures of signing into a freshman dorm with any hope of her maintaining a conversation let alone eye contact with me) or I could just be me. Sadly, I chose the latter.
“Nice, well I recommend the sex on the beach it’s addictive and like Pringles once you pop you just can’t stop.” Jesus could that joke have been any more corny and just completely misplaced for this situation. Her disappointed reaction told me no. I tried one last time to salvage a lost cause when I said as she was already walking by, “By the way my name’s Matt and you should come by our party if you wanna try meeting some other people.” She didn’t even turn to look and see me pointing in the direction of where we were sitting. “Damn, that was brutal” I thought. Probably for the best, she didn’t deserve me anyways. I walked past the creepy coke man to get to our lounges as he stood, powder nose and all, staring hungrily at Erika. It was a stare that told me I never wanted to do cocaine…or be friends with that guy.
As we were all running low on funds to fuel a drinking habit that was blatantly unaffordable here and the alluring novelty of the Tribeca Grand was waning we decided to set off before any more illicit substances made their way into our night. It was nearly four in the morning as I gave my last overdone head nod to that bouncer with a clipboard.
“Have a good night buddy,” I said and as he looked up he gave me an expression of immediate shock sort of like, “what the fuck were you doing in there and I hope I wasn’t the bastard that let you in.” Needless to say, we were pretty tight.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
A look back, College
I am now sadly a few short days away from completing my college career and venturing out into a world that I doubt will condone the particular lifestyle that was a trademark of my time here. That lifestyle in brief consisted of senseless, excessive, and unhealthy amounts of drinking that were not restricted by conventional means such as days of the week or classes the next day. Another feature of the time spent here has to be my precocious aptitude for putting myself into the most ridiculous of situations only to barely escape with stories that border on surreal and disgusting. Alcohol was inevitably linked with almost each of these unconventional encounters and as the hours dwindle and I see my end here fast approaching I have compiled a short list or homage to the most interesting and entertaining college moments in my life. This will be part of a recurring series so you will have to stay tuned for the next entry.
The Fabled Beer Pong Championship
Entering freshman year my senses were overloaded with a constant stream of new experience and information. However, one high school classic remained and served to bring it all together. Beer pong, or Beirut (I’ve never had two people tell me the exact same difference between the two) is a game of hand eye coordination, alcohol tolerance, and focus. I have never possessed any of these qualities, but on a warm September Thursday night back in 2004 none of that mattered.
The noise from the party easily reached the elevators and the stench of weed was unmistakable; the fact that RAs didn’t crash the party and bust us all was a minor miracle in itself. I walked into a dimly lit room with the three beds thrown against the walls to create space in the center for the arena of attraction. It rested there like a deck of champions residing insecurely above two rocking chairs. The table was a closet door that had been unhinged and laid out over two of the desk chairs kindly provided by NYU. In college when it comes to drinking games everyone is Mcguyver.
I have a history of streaky beer pong play, easily going from 3 cups in a row to 3 nights in a row without hitting a cup. I stepped up amid a crowd of boozed out freshman to begin filling the ten red party cups with the forty of Coors Light purchased from the deli around the corner. My opponent would be my current roommate and former teammate from the soccer team, a cocky asshole whos confidence in beer pong and other feats of coordination and drinking would border on ludicrous if he didn’t back them up almost 99% of the time. We were each partnered by girls that would only prove to be insignificant bystanders in the greatest game ever played.
As the music blared in the background I watched as my opponent made his first three shots in a row and then his ex girlfriend also lucked out in making one forcing us to send the balls back. Swiftly he drained yet another. They made five before we made one. The crowd was growing restless and nearing booing us off the table calling the game a blowout and asking for the next round to start.
I was tense. The last thing I wanted to do was look like some sort of inexperienced loser in front of these new classmates. I was starting to feel a little buzzed after downing four out of the five cups and a chugging a forty before the game had begun. I scooped the ping pong ball out of the water cup threw it up in the air, spinning the excess water from the ball. Without thinking I caught the ball and mindlessly threw it up and succeeded in making our first cup. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then amazingly my partner equaled my feat and the balls were sent back. I repeated the previous ritual, too buzzed to focus on any one cup. The quick splash brought the crowd back into it and we had a game on our hands.
It was at this point I started yelling obscenities and nonsensical insults. After they missed their shots I again made mine and suddenly we were only one behind. After another few rounds we were behind again, one cup to three. And I watched helplessly as my roommate made the last cup. To stay in the game we now had to make all three of their last cups. My teammate inevitably missed her shot and so it was left to me. The next two players were already pushing their way through the crowd getting ready to take our place. By this point I was categorically drunk and with the ball wedged between my thumb, index, and middle finger I lofted it toward the triangle of red. IN. Without thinking, I took the other ball and repeated. IN. Now everyone in the party was as engaged in the match as a room full of drunk college students could be. The music was turned down and people were screaming their predictions. One cup and I would bring this game to over time. I steadied myself a bit, repeated my by now sacred ritual, and tossed reflexively toward the last remaining red plastic cup. It grazed the rim, slid around and dropped gently into the warm bud light.
“I am the greatest beer pong player ever! I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss!” I had never achieved such a feat in my life. Now my confidence bordered on inebriated delirium and I couldn’t stop screaming my own praises. This also boosted me to grab my partner and deliver a most likely awkward and inappropriate kiss. I couldn’t have cared less though. This baby was going to over time and as a new freshman at NYU I was the king of the moment.
One cup sudden death. The table was set, the girls were irrelevant and I made my first shot. For those of you counting that was now four cups in a row (including two glorious one cup finishes). My insane ranting was now at an all time high but not even the uncomfortable stares of those around me could quiet my euphoria. My roommate with a slight smile on his face looked straight at me and equalized. This fucker was good I thought, but I was drunk and invincible. Sober Matt he would’ve crushed a thousand times over but the processes of my mind and beer pong ability had transcended my normal state. After seeing my partner miss her cup yet again I took the ball threw it up in the air a couple of times, gathered myself and incredibly made my third one cup in a row.
“I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss! I am a beer pong God!” I threw my arms in the air like some self aggrandizing freak beckoning all to worship my divinity. People were now chanting in disbelief at the epic battle that had enveloped the party. I was incredibly on the verge of completing the greatest of comebacks until my bastard opponent still with all the confidence in the world threw in another perfect shot. If my form mirrored that of Jackie Chan’s legend of the drunken master, always on cusp of falling apart in an unbalanced mess, my adversary’s technique was impeccable and textbook. It was now a clash of drunk expressionism and engineered functionality.
I was beginning to believe he might’ve been a robot the way he kept dropping in shots like he could’ve done it for hours while I seemed always on the verge of missing, but I didn’t. I made my sixth cup in a row and in the midst of my overzealous celebrating dared him to answer. I had made six cups in a row, including three one cups, and had no idea how lady luck had lifted me to such heights. I could tell how surprised he was that I had made yet another shot, putting him under enough pressure that I’m sure even a robot felt. And he did, and he crumbled. I knew he would miss when that damn smirk had left his face and sure enough to ball sailed through the air bouncing just wide.
I jumped up and down like a mad man giving high fives to anyone that would lift their hands and some that didn’t. I had come back from three cups down in the final hour and had prevailed. I went on to win two more games in a row that night and continued that streak of six cups in a row that game to my first five cups in the next game. But none compared to the drama and excitement in my greatest game ever played. I used stories of that fantastic match as a pick up line for the next three months until people inevitably told me to “shut the hell up about that already.” Well here I am four years later still talking about it, beat that assholes!
As a side note, my opponent that game and current roommate would go on to beat me approx 143 times in a row afterwards, until I beat him again in a one v one match on his 21st bday which eerily mirrored that very game played so long ago.
The Fabled Beer Pong Championship
Entering freshman year my senses were overloaded with a constant stream of new experience and information. However, one high school classic remained and served to bring it all together. Beer pong, or Beirut (I’ve never had two people tell me the exact same difference between the two) is a game of hand eye coordination, alcohol tolerance, and focus. I have never possessed any of these qualities, but on a warm September Thursday night back in 2004 none of that mattered.
The noise from the party easily reached the elevators and the stench of weed was unmistakable; the fact that RAs didn’t crash the party and bust us all was a minor miracle in itself. I walked into a dimly lit room with the three beds thrown against the walls to create space in the center for the arena of attraction. It rested there like a deck of champions residing insecurely above two rocking chairs. The table was a closet door that had been unhinged and laid out over two of the desk chairs kindly provided by NYU. In college when it comes to drinking games everyone is Mcguyver.
I have a history of streaky beer pong play, easily going from 3 cups in a row to 3 nights in a row without hitting a cup. I stepped up amid a crowd of boozed out freshman to begin filling the ten red party cups with the forty of Coors Light purchased from the deli around the corner. My opponent would be my current roommate and former teammate from the soccer team, a cocky asshole whos confidence in beer pong and other feats of coordination and drinking would border on ludicrous if he didn’t back them up almost 99% of the time. We were each partnered by girls that would only prove to be insignificant bystanders in the greatest game ever played.
As the music blared in the background I watched as my opponent made his first three shots in a row and then his ex girlfriend also lucked out in making one forcing us to send the balls back. Swiftly he drained yet another. They made five before we made one. The crowd was growing restless and nearing booing us off the table calling the game a blowout and asking for the next round to start.
I was tense. The last thing I wanted to do was look like some sort of inexperienced loser in front of these new classmates. I was starting to feel a little buzzed after downing four out of the five cups and a chugging a forty before the game had begun. I scooped the ping pong ball out of the water cup threw it up in the air, spinning the excess water from the ball. Without thinking I caught the ball and mindlessly threw it up and succeeded in making our first cup. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then amazingly my partner equaled my feat and the balls were sent back. I repeated the previous ritual, too buzzed to focus on any one cup. The quick splash brought the crowd back into it and we had a game on our hands.
It was at this point I started yelling obscenities and nonsensical insults. After they missed their shots I again made mine and suddenly we were only one behind. After another few rounds we were behind again, one cup to three. And I watched helplessly as my roommate made the last cup. To stay in the game we now had to make all three of their last cups. My teammate inevitably missed her shot and so it was left to me. The next two players were already pushing their way through the crowd getting ready to take our place. By this point I was categorically drunk and with the ball wedged between my thumb, index, and middle finger I lofted it toward the triangle of red. IN. Without thinking, I took the other ball and repeated. IN. Now everyone in the party was as engaged in the match as a room full of drunk college students could be. The music was turned down and people were screaming their predictions. One cup and I would bring this game to over time. I steadied myself a bit, repeated my by now sacred ritual, and tossed reflexively toward the last remaining red plastic cup. It grazed the rim, slid around and dropped gently into the warm bud light.
“I am the greatest beer pong player ever! I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss!” I had never achieved such a feat in my life. Now my confidence bordered on inebriated delirium and I couldn’t stop screaming my own praises. This also boosted me to grab my partner and deliver a most likely awkward and inappropriate kiss. I couldn’t have cared less though. This baby was going to over time and as a new freshman at NYU I was the king of the moment.
One cup sudden death. The table was set, the girls were irrelevant and I made my first shot. For those of you counting that was now four cups in a row (including two glorious one cup finishes). My insane ranting was now at an all time high but not even the uncomfortable stares of those around me could quiet my euphoria. My roommate with a slight smile on his face looked straight at me and equalized. This fucker was good I thought, but I was drunk and invincible. Sober Matt he would’ve crushed a thousand times over but the processes of my mind and beer pong ability had transcended my normal state. After seeing my partner miss her cup yet again I took the ball threw it up in the air a couple of times, gathered myself and incredibly made my third one cup in a row.
“I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss! I am a beer pong God!” I threw my arms in the air like some self aggrandizing freak beckoning all to worship my divinity. People were now chanting in disbelief at the epic battle that had enveloped the party. I was incredibly on the verge of completing the greatest of comebacks until my bastard opponent still with all the confidence in the world threw in another perfect shot. If my form mirrored that of Jackie Chan’s legend of the drunken master, always on cusp of falling apart in an unbalanced mess, my adversary’s technique was impeccable and textbook. It was now a clash of drunk expressionism and engineered functionality.
I was beginning to believe he might’ve been a robot the way he kept dropping in shots like he could’ve done it for hours while I seemed always on the verge of missing, but I didn’t. I made my sixth cup in a row and in the midst of my overzealous celebrating dared him to answer. I had made six cups in a row, including three one cups, and had no idea how lady luck had lifted me to such heights. I could tell how surprised he was that I had made yet another shot, putting him under enough pressure that I’m sure even a robot felt. And he did, and he crumbled. I knew he would miss when that damn smirk had left his face and sure enough to ball sailed through the air bouncing just wide.
I jumped up and down like a mad man giving high fives to anyone that would lift their hands and some that didn’t. I had come back from three cups down in the final hour and had prevailed. I went on to win two more games in a row that night and continued that streak of six cups in a row that game to my first five cups in the next game. But none compared to the drama and excitement in my greatest game ever played. I used stories of that fantastic match as a pick up line for the next three months until people inevitably told me to “shut the hell up about that already.” Well here I am four years later still talking about it, beat that assholes!
As a side note, my opponent that game and current roommate would go on to beat me approx 143 times in a row afterwards, until I beat him again in a one v one match on his 21st bday which eerily mirrored that very game played so long ago.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Campaign Slogans that will never be used
1) Vote or Die lets bring the White Party to the White House, P. Diddy for 2008 with his running mate Diddy, and a cabinet composed of Puffy, P.D., Sean Combs, and Crystal.
2) We have no redeeming qualities of our own but we can sure as hell trash the shit out of our opponents. Politicians Conglomerate 2008, this time we'll confound even ourselves with senseless arguments.
3) Either you're with us or you're a terrorist and I will shoot you in the face while hunting. Cheney 2008...coincidentally he will also be his own vice president.
4) American needs a stronger man in the white house, and that man is a woman. Hillary Clinton 2008.
5) Rudi Giuliani 2008, you'll never know when 9/11 will happen again and he'll never stop reminding you.
6) John Edwards 2008 because well, he's just a lot better looking than you.
7) America has real problems, maybe its time we start looking for imaginary solutions. Jack Bauer 2008.
8) He beat cancer now he's going to beat Iraq. Lance Armstrong 2008.
9) OPEC 2008, they already run our country anyways we might as well start giving them credit for it.
10) If you're a Mexican get the fuck out...(unless you mowe my lawn) Mitt Romney 2008 running mate Iam Intolerant.
2) We have no redeeming qualities of our own but we can sure as hell trash the shit out of our opponents. Politicians Conglomerate 2008, this time we'll confound even ourselves with senseless arguments.
3) Either you're with us or you're a terrorist and I will shoot you in the face while hunting. Cheney 2008...coincidentally he will also be his own vice president.
4) American needs a stronger man in the white house, and that man is a woman. Hillary Clinton 2008.
5) Rudi Giuliani 2008, you'll never know when 9/11 will happen again and he'll never stop reminding you.
6) John Edwards 2008 because well, he's just a lot better looking than you.
7) America has real problems, maybe its time we start looking for imaginary solutions. Jack Bauer 2008.
8) He beat cancer now he's going to beat Iraq. Lance Armstrong 2008.
9) OPEC 2008, they already run our country anyways we might as well start giving them credit for it.
10) If you're a Mexican get the fuck out...(unless you mowe my lawn) Mitt Romney 2008 running mate Iam Intolerant.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Brownagraphy
I like women of all color, except for green and blue, because I mean if a girl is green or blue there is definitely something medically wrong with her. But onward forth to the brownies, you know the south Asians, the Indians, Bengalis, and whatever the hell else resides in that realm of the world or in our backyards. This post may seem a bit off key probably because it is dedicated solely to one person who I promised I would write an entry after. I doubt she’ll be impressed or amused with the content of this page but she said she’d laughed before, what a sweet girl she is. In a comedy blog though, I am obligated to discover and procure the humorous to display for you the beloved reader. Pornography is the drug of the internet. That might seem random except to explain that this particular blog dedication is directed towards a vixen of insatiable lust and an unhealthy obsession with the adult filmography. What amuses me most about her vivid and entertaining tales of pornographic escapades on the internet while regaling me with the value of the porntube or some shit that mirrors youtube but with sex was how in control she was. This was no desperate, sad, lonely broad looking for a kick up and some fingers in. No, she was just a girl that knew what she wanted and was aware enough and unabashed to go for it. If anything I’d call her descent into the pornographic underbelly of online obsession heroic and courageous. She spits out famous porn star names like I recite the most known soccer players. She delves into her favorite porn films of all time quicker than I can gather a top list of movies or television shows (aside from californication of course), and she is naturally comfortable with all of this. As much as I would like to bash her and the crude humor which she “gets off to” I have to say I respect the self confidence and comfort with which she explores herself, her sexuality, and Debbie does Dallas. Either way, only one thing’s for certain. A pornographic exploration better come equipped with the most advanced anti virus software available because it will give your computer Chlamydia and it will die from it. She ends our conversation on her fascinating, sexual online journey with the warnings of viruses, computational crashes, and obscenely angry parents. Right now she is actually in the midst of a lap top search as her previous computer succumbed to the gonorrhea contracted in the midst of Backdoor sluts 9. So, as intriguing as this dimension of a devout brown muslim is she makes it clear that it can come at a profound cost. Regardless, I’m proud to say I’ve known this person and the conversations we’ve engaged in I am not legally allowed to share with anybody.
breakfast has gone to shit
This morning I came home to a telling sight of beer cans, wine bottles, champagne bottles, and a sighting of bourbon. As filthy as it might have been it was not unexpected or strange. What was strange was walking into the bathroom to see half a bowl of cheerios in the toilet. Being 6 days hung over and 7 days drunk I of course had to make a double take on the sight which I almost passed over. Seeing a sea of cheerios floating in the shitter is just not something you can be prepared for. After I realized that I was in fact not delusional (at least not in that moment) I began pondering how they had come to reside in my bathroom bowl. Had someone run out of milk and decided it just made more sense to poor the cheerios into the jon and eat them out of that? An appalling image, but I was in no position to rule out possibilities. Perhaps someone had thrown them up. In all honesty that was my first thought, but then when I inspected closer (this was something I couldn’t take a chance on being uncertain of) I clearly saw that the cheerios were all fully shaped and most definitely unregurgitated. Well damn, had someone just senselessly decided to pour away these bronze honey nuts into a drain of defecation? That just didn’t register in my mind. I decided the best thing to do would be to grab a beer and gather my thoughts. A beer at 11 in the morning is no simple task, that is unless your fridge is stocked full of them in which case it is a childishly simple task. The cold beer tasted just like the 10 I had imbibed only hours before. I’ve recently become enthralled with the beauty of drinking through the hang over but that’s another story altogether and its dismissing the central issue: cheerios in my toilet. These little bastards were screwing with me. Maybe they had gotten there themselves. Dancing out of the box and jumping along the wood floor into my bathroom. Maybe they just wanted a swim. I imagine a toilet bowl would present itself as an enticing swimming pool to these little fuckers. They were playing mind games with me, I knew it. Still though, I couldn’t force myself to just flush them away. That’s exactly what they wanted. No I wouldn’t destroy the evidence or grant them asylum in the sewers of Manhattan. I’d scoop them up with my own hands if I had to. What was I saying? Jesus these were just cheerios; I ate them damned near every day. If anything they were friends. Christ, maybe they were in trouble. Could they swim? What if they were drowning? Ok, I had definitely had too much to drink the last week; and when had I slept? I couldn’t remember. I didn’t even remember the last time I had spent a night in my bed; not to say that I was out sleeping around mainly because I wasn’t sleeping wherever I ended up either. I had to check again, were they still there? Just then I heard the toilet bowl flushing. “Noooooooo” I screamed as I sprinted to the bathroom. But it was too late, they were gone, that is if they were even there in first place. Just cheerios in the toilet.
This entry is dedicated to alcohol and sleep deprivation without which I would not have been insane enough to concoct this piece.
This entry is dedicated to alcohol and sleep deprivation without which I would not have been insane enough to concoct this piece.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Sex and Mirrors
The funny thing about mirrors is that when they’re broken up into tiny little pieces and plastered against the wall directly adjacent to your bed they also double as razor blades. I learned this very important lesson while engaging in sexually lewd acts with a crazy person. Who knew that while dry humping some tisch student I’d be endanger of not only some awful overacting on her part but of also slicing up inch wide gashes on my arm that made me look like a suicide attempt or at the least someone that got in a fight with a crazed squirrel. The only thing worse than having all of your friends think you’re cutting is them thinking you missed and cut your fucking elbow. Trust me, it’s embarrassing. It didn’t help that she had a bunk bed and usually I was so drunk I just tumbled off the 5 foot drop and hoped to land on my side. At least the bruises were covered by my shirt. This small experience is just one of many that have made my time in New York all the more interesting. Despite all the blood…and emotional damage, I don’t regret any of it aside from the scarring, I could totally live without the scarring but I mean chicks dig scars. However, this did always make me wonder about the weird things people do just to make something their own. I once had a girl repeatedly bite me in the midst of what I thought was kissing only for her to explain this “loving” action as something she only did with me. Yea…listen if I wanted a swollen, cut up mouth I’d go out and start a fight with the nearest drunk bro I could find. Otherwise I’m not interested in suffering physical injury in the hope for sex, especially when everyone knows that open wounds make you like a million times more susceptible to AIDS, yea still definitely not interested. What ever happened to the person you were with being enough excitement. Granted, I’m probably not a good example as I’m about as thrilling as a snail race on tv in a hook up but regardless I had the distinct feeling that I wasn’t the only man these women had treated to such “unconventional” acts of affection. Call me old fashioned, call me boring, call me a pussy, but I like the action to be between two consenting partners sans deadly objects and infection concerns….that’s suppose to be what the condom is for. Basically I’m just trying to say that being kinky and sending me to a doctor’s office for hepatitis shots are two very different things and I just hope that I won’t have to start shaking from fear next time I hook up with a girl. Until then, this is Matt signing off.
Note: No mirrors were hurt during the research for this piece…Tisch students yes, and many of them.
Note: No mirrors were hurt during the research for this piece…Tisch students yes, and many of them.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Classless Act
Amid a random bout of wallowing in my own very deep lake of self pity I accidentally came across an article that lifted me out of my depressing malaise with a rocket of anger and disgust. This was an article in the Wall Street Journal (yes I read it from time to time; no it’s not my subscription) entitled “The Right to Dry: A Green Movement Is Roiling America.” I don’t know what it was about this title that led me to stumble upon the article’s words as I usually just pass over the titles looking for anything that might catch my eye. However, I soon learned that some rogue resident of an upstanding, wealthy neighborhood decided on a whim (or perhaps with a demon whispering in her ear) to dry her clothes outside…on a close line! I still vividly remember gasping in shock and horror at the ugliness this must have presented in this innocent community. For those of you that have failed to grasp the obvious significance of this intolerable display of penury I implore you to image this scenario. What if some unsuspecting potential home owner passing by were to catch a glimpse of such a monstrosity as a close line? I tell you that they would revert in horror at the undeniable sign that these million dollar estates were in fact slums reeking of ghetto trash and danger. How could anyone have missed such an obvious consequence of this rash act? Apparently Susan Taylor failed to consider this as she selfishly began to hang her wet clothes upon that ominous line tied to the tall oak in her yard. Additionally, when pushed to explain her seemingly harmless action the owner of the audacious close line calmly explained how it saved power and electricity and in that way was reducing some of the waste that has led to global warming. But what about the millionaires I ask this clearly misguided woman? Well, the esteemed Journal was able to elicit some responses from the victims in this “crime.” Interior Designer and Matt-proclaimed douche bag, Joan Grundeman states that, “this bombards the senses. It can’t possibly increase property values and make people think this is a nice neighborhood.” My God, what if this spreads? Pretty soon people will be confusing the dirty, dangerous, destitute homes of the diseased poverty stricken poor with the multi millionaire fashion enthusiasts and golf club pros. When the clear line between poverty and safety, poor and healthy, ghetto and clean break down then what are we left with? It is these divisions, these class partitions that form the base of what America stands for. Without these we might as well be in Iraq. So for those of you foot soldiers like our dear Joan Grundeman fighting for all of us out there who desperately want the property value of our third home to stay up and want to keep that inner city trash culture out of our neighborhoods and away from our overindulged kids I pray you keep up your noble pursuit. And for those of you shameless enough to actually put up a device that not only saves power, but requires additional labor that you don’t even let your maid do…please take it back if only for freedom. Because we are a free people, but if people are free to dry clothes in this way, then what’s next, will we let our neighbors be seen mowing their own lawns? Please join the good fight by registering against this and similar heinous acts at www.iamadouchebag.com Until then I wish you all the best.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Top 10 Bar Songs
You know the kind, the ones that wake you up from your drunken daze and make you grab the nearest girl and start screaming the lyrics of some classic rock song right in her glazed over face. The ones that make the entire bar start jumping and dancing…and the one that’ll most likely get you laid. If you’ve got a move to make, these songs are your chance to do it.
10. Fix You by Coldplay. Seemingly an odd choice, but if you’ve ever seen You, Me, and Dupree you know why.
9. Paradise City, by Guns N’ Roses. Ever since that scene in Can’t Hardly Wait this song has been getting hot ass for any guy that knows the childishly simple lyrics.
8. You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC. Need I say more, if you can’t get ass to this song that girl’s not drunk enough or you’re just plain hopeless.
7. Stronger by Kanye West. There’s no way you can’t dance to this. It’s the hottest song of the moment.
6. More Than a Feeling by Boston. I’m more of a fan of Foreplay/Longtime but this one is almost as good and a lot shorter which for a bar environment filled with attention handicapped drunks is a definite plus.
5. Hips Don’t Lie by Shakira. Your hips don’t lie and that new stiffness in my jeans is straight up honest lets take it back to my place
4. American Girl by Tom Petty. The opening riff is enough to excite even the coldest of women and open even the most closed of legs.
3. Sweet Child of Mine by Guns N’ Roses. Quite possibly the greatest air guitar song ever made, ever.
2. Living on a Prayer by Bon Jovi. Jersey’s finest, take my hand we'll make it I swear if you do me I'll be living on a prayer.
1. Don’t Stop Believing by Journey. Vintage Journey takes the top spot. It's loud, discernable lyrics and high energy noise are perfect for bringing the party to the next level. It's the ultimate bar classic.
10. Fix You by Coldplay. Seemingly an odd choice, but if you’ve ever seen You, Me, and Dupree you know why.
9. Paradise City, by Guns N’ Roses. Ever since that scene in Can’t Hardly Wait this song has been getting hot ass for any guy that knows the childishly simple lyrics.
8. You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC. Need I say more, if you can’t get ass to this song that girl’s not drunk enough or you’re just plain hopeless.
7. Stronger by Kanye West. There’s no way you can’t dance to this. It’s the hottest song of the moment.
6. More Than a Feeling by Boston. I’m more of a fan of Foreplay/Longtime but this one is almost as good and a lot shorter which for a bar environment filled with attention handicapped drunks is a definite plus.
5. Hips Don’t Lie by Shakira. Your hips don’t lie and that new stiffness in my jeans is straight up honest lets take it back to my place
4. American Girl by Tom Petty. The opening riff is enough to excite even the coldest of women and open even the most closed of legs.
3. Sweet Child of Mine by Guns N’ Roses. Quite possibly the greatest air guitar song ever made, ever.
2. Living on a Prayer by Bon Jovi. Jersey’s finest, take my hand we'll make it I swear if you do me I'll be living on a prayer.
1. Don’t Stop Believing by Journey. Vintage Journey takes the top spot. It's loud, discernable lyrics and high energy noise are perfect for bringing the party to the next level. It's the ultimate bar classic.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
A last time for firsts
In a most likely fruitless attempt to add some consistency to my increasingly hectic life I will try to begin “blogging” a bit more regularly. I’m sure all of you readers out there are thrilled to hear this orgasmic news however I ask you to refrain from pleasuring yourself to my titillating diction for the simple fact that it would freak the shit out of me. However, if you are a woman who fancies herself an attractive and low expecting human being feel free to meet me in person and I can allow you to have your way with me -- my writing I mean -- in person- …with protection, but no tasers or mace please. Anyways, now that the administrative side has been taken care of I am free to tackle the issues of the day once again. Well as some of you may know I am a senior now, and not only that, a senior with only one semester left. Today was a bit of a tough pill to swallow as it was my last first day of classes in my tumultuous academic career. A career that has spanned 15 dissapointing years for my parents. You may not believe it from reading this fragmented and ungrammatical trash but I was once a student that showed much promise only to lose my direction along the way. My time has spanned from the highs of getting all A’s (once in like 6th grade when they put me in remedial classes because they thought I was retarded) to lows of getting suspended for a week ( in fifth grade I put dog shit in a kids lunch box and then lied about it…repeatedly, then got ratted out by that bastard jacobo). I’ve plied my trade in places as foreign and dirty as Mexico City to places as southern and white as Texas, back up to the haven of boredom that is the suburbs of New Jersey and finally into the vibrant and temptation filled New York City. Each stop has been a valuable addition to my shaping as a person and despite having problems with each of these places (some more than others) I have no doubt learned from my time in each of them. If I had to go back, I’d do it all over again…and over again and over again because for the love of God I am not ready for the real world. Not even fuckin close I mean I’m graduating and I gotta tell you I don’t have a fuckin clue. Not that I’m worried about it; I mean I’m cool I’ll be fine. I’m not crying, you’re crying. Pussy. By the way, Brian if you’re reading this I am sorry about that shit in the lunch box prank, I was young and stupid; you can totally take me off that people to kill list…but leave Jacobo on I heard he fucked your sister.
Peace bitches
Peace bitches
Saturday, September 01, 2007
A Comedy of Dunces
Yet another senator, republican at that, has been caught how shall I say, with his pants down in an embarrassing sex act. Yes, Senator Craig I am referring to your little mishap with airport security. Not to approve whatever his lewd bathroom acts might have been but I am a bit surprised they are operating sex sting operations amid all of the terror scares in our country. Now I’m sure our dear old Christian fanatics would argue that the evils of sodomizers and all homosexual perversions are on an equal par with those godless Muslim jihadists dedicated to destroying our way of life for a much more boring, joyless one that they seem thrilled to live. However, I highly doubt a couple of old men with more stuff hidden in their closets than Paris Hilton has shoes in hers pose as much of a threat to us innocents riding in a highly crashable plane that terrorists do. Again, that’s not to say that I’d enjoy walking into an airport bathroom only to interrupt one man fellating another…then I’d probably have two reasons to be in the bathroom with the other to regurgitate my previous meal. Who knows, maybe terrorism isn’t the impending threat that it once was, maybe the war in Iraq is working, maybe Al Qaeda is disappearing, maybe who knows. I’ve never liked the idea of living in constant fear anyways. One thing’s for sure though, I can’t help but smirk thinking of how pissed those Republicans must be that there is yet another one of them involved in a homosexual sex scandal, those conservatives just can’t seem to get their Christian values right. Hell, they’re probably begging for a heterosexual Clintonesque sex scandal by now, but alas it seems only those liberal, abortion, gay loving democrats do the dirty with those of the opposite sex. Either way it’s an interesting time we live in when I hear on the news that this sex scandal, involving a senator that nobody had ever heard of could affect a presidential election when it’s not clear how any of the candidates (Republican or Democrat) had an ounce to do with this sexually confused senator. I can only imagine the conflict some voters must feel going into the polls now. Little old lady thinking about it, “Well Republicans hold more of my Christian values but…Republicans have also been caught in homosexual sex scandals. Lord please don’t send me to hell if I vote democrat.” Honestly with a nation in the midst of a costly (economic and more importantly in lives) war, floundering economy amid those pesky sub prime mortgages, health care that forgets the poor, and education that apparently forgets everybody I feel like there are plenty more issues to ponder when examining your candidates then whether one from his or her party has been involved in an airport bathroom sex sting. The only thing that is, is funny and I’m laughing already.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Californiawesome
As a writer of sorts (self proclaimed of course) I’ve hit what some might call a hurdle or road block. For any of you that still remember that this little piece of heaven even exists you’ve by now realized it has been quite some time since I’ve left my self destructive thoughts to your amusement. This return to writing is probably inspired by another piece of work that also centers around a failure to produce. The new Showtime show Californication, starring the always entertaining David Duchovny, is a brilliantly engaging show that is neither politically correct nor socially acceptable. In its constant barrage of gorgeous models, their breasts, and the fast paced, filthy dialogue it has completely earned my praise. Duchovny’s character is an unapologetic, honest to a raunchy fault, pussy magnet that is still hopelessly in love with his ex and endearing around his daughter. He plays a writer that achieved fame when one of his books was made into a movie and he is repulsed by the rape that his work suffered in its transformation. One of the funniest scenes revolves around his merciless rant against the writer that destroyed his piece. Without wanting to reveal any of the intriguing plot lines or just flat out hilarious surprises I can assure anyone with a stomach strong enough to hold a conversation about pussy lips, cunnilingus, and pubic hair will be enthralled and pleased with what this show has to offer. It has real substance without sacrificing any entertainment value as I’m just as anxious to find out what direction he will try to go with his life as I am with what his next insult will be to his ex’s fiancé. Thus, I’d just like to conclude that Californication has earned the coveted Matt’s Seal of Approval and may now be watched by the tens of you that have read this blog and hang on every word I write. You are my disciples and I thank you for your courage and strength. Bonus points: It’s not regular HBO, it’s Showtime and as Duchovny so lovingly puts it, I’d say Showtime has totally “dickpunched” HBO with this sure hit.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Newsworthy?
Unlike what seems like a large percentage of the population, I am tragically aware of the motives and driving forces behind the news and what makes the final cut on such respectable programs as “Fox Five News at 9.” However, the line, “the People determine what is Newsworthy” certainly has to have its limits. I know the News is driven the same way any entertainment or media production is, by what people are willing to give their attention to, but certainly there must be a line drawn. The reason I say this, what has led me to this realization, is that yesterday as I was innocently flipping through the channels, and then again as I perused some online news sources there was one incredibly meaningless and miniscule story that seemed to be grabbing all the “headlines.” PARIS HILTON BACK IN CUSTODY, PARIS HILTON BREAKS DOWN WANTS MOMMY, PARIS HILTON NEEDS PSYCHOLOGICAL HELP. Here’s some news for you, I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT PARIS HILTON, especially when compared to the much more pertinent and important news and events that are currently transpiring on our FUBAR planet. Now I know this is only adding more attention to this media hungry publicity whore who apparently can’t afford to take a DUI class or stop drinking and driving, however I feel there comes a time where the news stations have to take the power away from the people to an extent and make conscious decisions on what we need to be worrying about as Americans and as citizens of our increasingly ravaged planet. I mean this is the same public that elected George W. Bush not once but twice to the most powerful and formerly most respectable position on Earth. Is it really wise to think they have the collective mental capacity to decide what’s newsworthy, especially when they’re picking some rich socialite incarceration breakdown over wars in Iraq, floods in China, starvation in Africa, and a plethora of other extremely concerning stories. Maybe it’s that the American Public wants to ignore these stories, they’re far off, depressing, real. America seems to be consumed by Hollywood; its fantasy on and off the screen is a constant soap opera documented by paparazzi and soulless celebrity magazines. This is not the public’s fault alone that they are entranced by these flashing lights, they’re focus has been robbed from them. However in that same manner I feel the focus needs another shift. A shift to issues that may not be easy to have on our minds and may weigh us down a little more, but they are issues that, unlike Paris Hilton’s jail time, are grave in consequence and short on resolution. A knowledgeable public would make a more intelligent and savvy America and as a world leader it should be our responsibility to know about the happenings of the world, and not just our own fantasy land of celebrities and gossip.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Girls You Could Hook Up With on a Drunken Night
I've hooked up with a lot of different types of girls in my time in New York and through these experiences I'd like to enlighten the rest of you on some very likely outcomes from a drunken night of debauchery and your insistence on hooking up with the first girl possible...or at least my insistence. So without further ado here are my 7 types:
1. The Free Spirit- This lively girl with an untamed passion for excitement is always looking for a good time, but don’t be fooled, despite the tender kisses on the forehead she’s not into you and will be long gone come morning time. Don’t expect a phone number either, shes not looking to get attached.
2. The Virgin – She’ll laugh at all your jokes especially the ones that aren’t funny, she’ll also talk about how much fun you’re having. Be aware though, as soon as you go in for that first kiss she’ll grab your balls and tell you she’s never been with a man that way. If you’re not looking for commitment I suggest you run home and rub one out instead of risking the very messy relationship issues she’s bound to bring up. Bonus Points- Questions like: “What are we?” on the first night are a dead giveaway.
3. The Tease – Those lustful eyes are deceptive, they may scream sex but all she’s willing to do is have a 7th grade style make out session. Watch out for lines like, “I just don’t think it’s the right time,” or even better, “If I have sex with you then I have to have sex with everybody.” My suggestion is go find a whore on the side, also watch out there’s probably a reason she won’t go all the way…notably a venereal disease…or worse a cock.
4. The Clinger – You have one random hook up at an open bar while you’re out of your mind drunk, next thing you know she’s facebook friended you, sent you a message, looked up your screen name, and asked you to meet her family. It’s a hard fall from grace…and her family won’t like you, especially when you can’t even remember her name.
5. The Older Woman – So you’re out with your college buddies at some local bar and then some lady offers to buy YOU a drink. Hell yea you think. Fuck your pride take the free drink. Next thing you know this woman is dominating you in ways you didn’t know you were vulnerable to, at least until her hip gives out. She’ll call you sweet and adorable and probably says that you remind her of her grandchildren. She’ll also give you the best head you’ve ever had, those removable teeth are key. Watch out though, these aging vixens are insatiable and don’t understand your need for freedom…or classes (although they may offer to bring you to school the next morning). Just a tip: Look out for the engagement or wedding ring to know how deep in shit you are.
6. The Younger Girl – So you’re out with your college buddies at some local bar getting shitfaced. Next thing you know you see 3 really cute girls walk in, I mean they look young but they got into a bar so legally they should at least be 21. You avoid asking them just so you don’t have to be conscious of the fact that you’re hitting on 16 year olds. If the girl can’t stop talking about how cool it is to be in a bar…or her 5th period algebra class you’ve bagged yourself an underage chick. Be careful with this situation because lawsuits and psycho clingy high schoolers are a definite drain on your future.
7. The Relative – Yea you think she looks familiar but in your inebriated haze you go for it anyways. So you have the same last name and she reminds you a lot of your younger sister, lots of people have the same last name and look like your sister…Oh God, Oh God what have you done…who have you done? Just don’t tell Dad. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “Coming into your own.”
Disclaimer: This post is entirely fiction and not based on any actual person or event. Any similarities to any real persons or events is purely coincidence...that is unless I know you and have hooked up with you while drunk in which case it's probably based on you.
1. The Free Spirit- This lively girl with an untamed passion for excitement is always looking for a good time, but don’t be fooled, despite the tender kisses on the forehead she’s not into you and will be long gone come morning time. Don’t expect a phone number either, shes not looking to get attached.
2. The Virgin – She’ll laugh at all your jokes especially the ones that aren’t funny, she’ll also talk about how much fun you’re having. Be aware though, as soon as you go in for that first kiss she’ll grab your balls and tell you she’s never been with a man that way. If you’re not looking for commitment I suggest you run home and rub one out instead of risking the very messy relationship issues she’s bound to bring up. Bonus Points- Questions like: “What are we?” on the first night are a dead giveaway.
3. The Tease – Those lustful eyes are deceptive, they may scream sex but all she’s willing to do is have a 7th grade style make out session. Watch out for lines like, “I just don’t think it’s the right time,” or even better, “If I have sex with you then I have to have sex with everybody.” My suggestion is go find a whore on the side, also watch out there’s probably a reason she won’t go all the way…notably a venereal disease…or worse a cock.
4. The Clinger – You have one random hook up at an open bar while you’re out of your mind drunk, next thing you know she’s facebook friended you, sent you a message, looked up your screen name, and asked you to meet her family. It’s a hard fall from grace…and her family won’t like you, especially when you can’t even remember her name.
5. The Older Woman – So you’re out with your college buddies at some local bar and then some lady offers to buy YOU a drink. Hell yea you think. Fuck your pride take the free drink. Next thing you know this woman is dominating you in ways you didn’t know you were vulnerable to, at least until her hip gives out. She’ll call you sweet and adorable and probably says that you remind her of her grandchildren. She’ll also give you the best head you’ve ever had, those removable teeth are key. Watch out though, these aging vixens are insatiable and don’t understand your need for freedom…or classes (although they may offer to bring you to school the next morning). Just a tip: Look out for the engagement or wedding ring to know how deep in shit you are.
6. The Younger Girl – So you’re out with your college buddies at some local bar getting shitfaced. Next thing you know you see 3 really cute girls walk in, I mean they look young but they got into a bar so legally they should at least be 21. You avoid asking them just so you don’t have to be conscious of the fact that you’re hitting on 16 year olds. If the girl can’t stop talking about how cool it is to be in a bar…or her 5th period algebra class you’ve bagged yourself an underage chick. Be careful with this situation because lawsuits and psycho clingy high schoolers are a definite drain on your future.
7. The Relative – Yea you think she looks familiar but in your inebriated haze you go for it anyways. So you have the same last name and she reminds you a lot of your younger sister, lots of people have the same last name and look like your sister…Oh God, Oh God what have you done…who have you done? Just don’t tell Dad. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “Coming into your own.”
Disclaimer: This post is entirely fiction and not based on any actual person or event. Any similarities to any real persons or events is purely coincidence...that is unless I know you and have hooked up with you while drunk in which case it's probably based on you.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
This Trip was Awesome Until You and Your Bros Decided to "Bro Out"
"Bro did you see when that girl laughed after I whiffed the volleyball, I totally wanted to punch her in the fucking face bro."
In between their high fives, binge drinking, and latent homosexual behavior bro culture has begun infecting foreign nations with their obnoxious, testosterone fueled stupidity. Relaxing on a gorgeous beach in the Dominican Republic serenely enjoying the sound fo the ocean and the refreshing breeze was thrown to hell after a group of six "bros" decided to start yelling at each other about how "totally drunk they were" pausing only to comment on "that fucking bitch that walked off." I can only stipulate that after this girl walked out they released their pent up sexual frustration through some homosexual frat ritual.
Listen "Bro" I don't care way you do deep down in the soggy, vomit filled layers of your frat house but when I leave America to go and absorb the culture and environment of a new and DIFFERENT country I'd appreciate you not imposing your unbearably annoying and forced macho attitude on my relaxing beach sessions. Having to deal with your "bro outs" in America is one thing but I find it completely intolerable to be subjected to them in a place that I thought was untainted by your ridiculous acts. So take off those lame ass shades that you and all your "bros" insist on wearing, stop constantly flexing, and for the love of God stop having incredibly inappropriate and intentionally loud conversations because despite what you may think no one believes you're cool from hearing them and probably wants to punch you and your bros in "the fucking face."
In between their high fives, binge drinking, and latent homosexual behavior bro culture has begun infecting foreign nations with their obnoxious, testosterone fueled stupidity. Relaxing on a gorgeous beach in the Dominican Republic serenely enjoying the sound fo the ocean and the refreshing breeze was thrown to hell after a group of six "bros" decided to start yelling at each other about how "totally drunk they were" pausing only to comment on "that fucking bitch that walked off." I can only stipulate that after this girl walked out they released their pent up sexual frustration through some homosexual frat ritual.
Listen "Bro" I don't care way you do deep down in the soggy, vomit filled layers of your frat house but when I leave America to go and absorb the culture and environment of a new and DIFFERENT country I'd appreciate you not imposing your unbearably annoying and forced macho attitude on my relaxing beach sessions. Having to deal with your "bro outs" in America is one thing but I find it completely intolerable to be subjected to them in a place that I thought was untainted by your ridiculous acts. So take off those lame ass shades that you and all your "bros" insist on wearing, stop constantly flexing, and for the love of God stop having incredibly inappropriate and intentionally loud conversations because despite what you may think no one believes you're cool from hearing them and probably wants to punch you and your bros in "the fucking face."
Monday, February 12, 2007
The dreaded Job Search
There may not be a more degrading or stressful experience than the job search. Men and woman will shamelessly throw themselves at potential employers like drunk girls at Mardi Gras and that interviewer has plenty of beads. I'm at a point of my life where I'm beginning my first real job search. You know the kind, the ones with the resumes, the cover letters, the suits, the interviewers with the tough questions, and you with all the wrong answers. I've come to the conclusion that in these job searches it stops being acceptable to be yourself. Sure they tell you to show your "better qualities" and "express yourself" but what you're really suppose to do is be like everyone else. I swear to God I do not believe that 95% of the people looking for jobs believe that their greatest " weakness" is that they "work too hard" or are "too competetive." This type of meaningless bullshit makes me want to throw up all over the suit that I'm wearing for only the second time in my life. Unfortunately it seems as though the most high profile jobs require a soulless ability to bullshit your way into and out of anything. It's too bad our own president wasn't well versed on this skill. Imagine the difference if he could back up his policies in Iraq with lines like "I'm a tireless worker that pays attention to detail and have no doubt I can resovle this conflict as soon as physically possible" instead of stuttering around a microphone looking for the slightest hint of a friendly face and hesitantly asking people for support of yet anouther influx of troops into the political black hole that is Iraq. But, alas, I've digressed from my point the godlessness of a job search. The stress inflicted upon an individual having to dance around like a circus act trying to impress anyone he can persuade to listen is only less than the stress sufferred by someone who puts himself through these disgraceful dances and returns empty handed knowing that he sold his soul for nothing in return. As I write this I am packing up my own soul into a delightful gift basket and preparing to send it out along with my resume and cover letters. If anyone reading this has available summer internships in New York please hire me. I'm a motivated, dedicated, hard working, positive, dependable, responsible, smart, confident, driven, excited, and high pressure performer who will serve you well. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Matt
ps. I'm serious about that hiring shit, I need a job...you can visit my website at www.mattneedsajob.org
Sincerely,
Matt
ps. I'm serious about that hiring shit, I need a job...you can visit my website at www.mattneedsajob.org
Thursday, February 08, 2007
The Worst Valentine’s Day Ever
That’s right it’s February and you know what that means, Valentine’s Day! All those cute couples will be planning their dates as girls look forward to bragging to their friends about how completely romantic “Todd,” or whatever the hell his name might be, is. Guys will be looking to find the ultimate gift or create the most ideal date for their significant others in yet another attempt at getting as much sex as possible. Men usually don’t care too much about the “spirit” of Valentine’s Day, but they do care about not pissing off their girlfriend/ wife/ girl on the side/ hopeful sex partner. So here are a few tips on what NOT to get for that special someone.
Top 12 Worst Valentine’s Gifts
1. Gym Membership, I don’t think they’ll “get it”
2. Treadmill, they definitely won’t “get it”
3. The NFL channel (or any sports channel), so obviously for you
4. Animal Porn…or really any sort of porn
5. Electric Razor, there are more subtle ways of telling her she needs to shave
6. Plastic surgery, ok that’s just mean
7. Breast Implants, valiant effort but I don’t think she’ll see where you’re coming from.
8. The Right to Vote, once they have a say it’ll all be downhill
9. Syphilis, if she knows you have it she might break up with you
10. A reason to live, you can’t have her hanging around you any longer than necessary
11. A homemade necklace, you’re not 7 years old anymore get her the real thing.
12. A break up note, seriously you can’t just wait one more day?
Good Luck with your women and I hope you all have a wonderful Valentine's Day
Top 12 Worst Valentine’s Gifts
1. Gym Membership, I don’t think they’ll “get it”
2. Treadmill, they definitely won’t “get it”
3. The NFL channel (or any sports channel), so obviously for you
4. Animal Porn…or really any sort of porn
5. Electric Razor, there are more subtle ways of telling her she needs to shave
6. Plastic surgery, ok that’s just mean
7. Breast Implants, valiant effort but I don’t think she’ll see where you’re coming from.
8. The Right to Vote, once they have a say it’ll all be downhill
9. Syphilis, if she knows you have it she might break up with you
10. A reason to live, you can’t have her hanging around you any longer than necessary
11. A homemade necklace, you’re not 7 years old anymore get her the real thing.
12. A break up note, seriously you can’t just wait one more day?
Good Luck with your women and I hope you all have a wonderful Valentine's Day
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Yes Mr. Hemingway I would love to have a drink with you.
I recently finished reading the splendid Ernest Hemingway novel, The Sun Also Rises. It is a great narrative that transports you into a cloudy, inebriated wonderland without responsibility and purpose. I was instantly reminded of my own time in Spain. The short, quick paced sentences blurred by me as I felt more like I was living the book than reading it. This Hemingway character would impress even a frat keg-stand champion with his incessant drinking at all hours of the day and night. I wonder if sobriety is something any of the characters in the book are even familiar with. Each scene revolves around ordering drink after drink and then moving to another place where they will order more drinks and get, “tight” as it is called in the book. Now I don’t know much about American literature or famous writers but I’ll tell you one thing: I wanna party with this guy. I’d actually like to see a bar menu containing every drink served in The Sun Also Rises. I have no doubt it could fill several pages. Of course there would the “Hemingway Special” a dangerous concoction of whiskey, soda, and the blood of a Spanish Bull. The great thing about the book was that it always put me in the mood to just go out and get shitfaced for no apparent reason other than to be cultured in some dark bar and engage in pretentious conversation with other socialites that haven’t a care in the world. I can do that because this is America, and in America we don’t care about your problems. A homeless man once told me how this country, and perhaps even this world operates. He said, “every person lives by one code: I got mine, now go fuck yourself.” I haven’t seen him since, but I believe he may be one of the must underrated thinkers of our time. But back to the Hemingway fellow. The reason I started reading the book was a selfish purpose as I had been told it was this novel that made the festival of San Fermines in Pamplona famous. For those of you that don’t know shit about Spain, or that festival, it is the place where they have the “Running with the bulls.” Now I know what you’re asking yourself. Did you, oh daring and courageous Matt, run with the bulls during your time in Spain? And my immediate response is: Youre goddamn right I ran with the bulls! I’m a man of principle, and one of the most important principles I have is: Thou Shalt Run With the Bulls while in Pamplona. Count it. Thus, in summary 1)Hemingway is a delightful read if you have any capacity to appreciate a different culture, 2) Drinking all the time might be expensive but damnit it seems like a lot of fun, and 3) I ran with the bulls. If you can come away with those three things, I’ll feel I’ve done my job.
Legal Notice: I am not responsible for anyone that is inspired to run with the bulls due to the influence of this piece, nor can I be held liable for any injury incurred during said event.
Legal Notice: I am not responsible for anyone that is inspired to run with the bulls due to the influence of this piece, nor can I be held liable for any injury incurred during said event.
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