I don't think I have ever put this little story in print, ever. I guess I was fearing retribution, but now, screw it!!! It has been like 12 years and I don't care!!!! This took place the first semester of my freshman year.
Chris, my dorm roommate at the time, was taking some strong, prescription acne medicine for his pimple face. He had a smell you could not forget, so I wanted to leave him a memory he could never forget. He was a total prick. Always had to have things his way and no one liked him. I took some pills out of his acne medicine bottle and walked up to the local campus drugstore for a match and after minutes of searching, I found that the look of these pills matched perfectly with some ex-lax type pills.
To execute my scheme properly, I waited three days before our Thanksgiving leave from college and filled the bottle half way with ex-lax pills making sure the ex-lax pills were on top. Within one day he was already in the restroom for hours at a time.
This early success, enticed me into going down to the fireworks shop and purchasing some smoke bombs. For the next couple of days, when Chris would go into the bathroom, I would gently open the door and roll a smoke bomb into the stalls next to him. He was trapped (lest he get up and risk crapping himself) and, therefore, could not get out of the stall to see who was messing with him. His response was typically to scream and gasp, "I am going to kill you!" He would come out of the bathroom and walk down the hall, reeking of the smoke. This only lasted two days and then we were off for Thanksgiving leave.
When Chris came back to the room after the Thanksgiving break I asked him how his Thanksgiving was and he had some stories to tell me. He said he never crapped so much in his life!
Bastard deserved it!!
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Monday, March 5, 2007
HABANERO SEX --WARNING!!!!
Mexico June 2000
While I was living in Mexico, I started sleeping with this one girl who was smoking hot!!! Problem was she was a little immature and could be annoying. Still, the sex was good and we agreed that it was physical, nothing more.
One night, we had gone to a party at a friends house. Both of us had been drinking extraordinary amounts of beer. Then we started some tequila shots. I had probably consumed at least 12 beers and about 5 shots. She was a drinker too. She easily had 8 or 9 beers and 5 shots also. They had the normal chips, tacos, salsas, etc at the party. It was late and someone came up with the idea to have a habanero pepper eating contest. Habaneros are about 100 times hotter than Jalapenos. In fact, they are one of the hottest peppers in the world.
Of course, I was the only guero there, so everyone wanted to see me involved. They thought I couldnt do it. I popped one in, and I was uncomfortable, but it was tolerable. I bit off half of another one, then popped it in. That was all for me. I almost threw up there. I started chugging more beer to put out the fire.
Fast forward back to my apartment, about 1 hour later:
So Claudia and I are starting to get horny. We go straight to the bedroom when we get home and rip our clothes off. She goes down on me for a few minutes then swings her body over me so I am in position for a 69. That is one of our favorite positions. I start working her over with my tongue, then I start fingering her. Within a minute, I hear this screaming. Not screams of ecstasy, but screams of pain. She is in tears and turns to me and asks if I washed my hands after the habanero contests. I wasnt really sure if I had or not. I just turn to her and say Uh, I may have, why? Now she is yelling IT IS BURNING!!!! AWWWWW IT IS BURNING!!! MY GOD!!!!
I am freaking out now. I thought maybe she had some weird STD or something and it went active right at this moment. Are you ok? I ask. Of course, this was a stupid question since she was obviously in pain, but I was drunk and not thinking.
She starts throwing a string of profanities in Spanish at me and runs to the bathroom. She has woken my roommates up. They pop out of their rooms just in time to see her naked, running into the bathroom. They run into my room and ask what is up. I am totally confused.
While Clau is in the shower, I start piecing things together. Apparently, I had some of the Habanero pepper juice still on my fingers. When I started fingering her, I guess the juice somehow got inside her and it started to burn. I couldnt help but laugh a little, although I felt terrible.
She came out of the shower and saw me laughing. Not good. She cussed at me some more in Spanish, then got her clothes on and left.
PS -- I talked to her the next day and she did forgive me. We continued messing around off and on for about a year. She made me vow never to put this story on my website I had then. I figure since this is myspace and I just started this website, I can put it on here. Besides, I know she doesnt have myspace and it has been like 6 years since this happened. I think the statute of limitations has worn out on this one.
While I was living in Mexico, I started sleeping with this one girl who was smoking hot!!! Problem was she was a little immature and could be annoying. Still, the sex was good and we agreed that it was physical, nothing more.
One night, we had gone to a party at a friends house. Both of us had been drinking extraordinary amounts of beer. Then we started some tequila shots. I had probably consumed at least 12 beers and about 5 shots. She was a drinker too. She easily had 8 or 9 beers and 5 shots also. They had the normal chips, tacos, salsas, etc at the party. It was late and someone came up with the idea to have a habanero pepper eating contest. Habaneros are about 100 times hotter than Jalapenos. In fact, they are one of the hottest peppers in the world.
Of course, I was the only guero there, so everyone wanted to see me involved. They thought I couldnt do it. I popped one in, and I was uncomfortable, but it was tolerable. I bit off half of another one, then popped it in. That was all for me. I almost threw up there. I started chugging more beer to put out the fire.
Fast forward back to my apartment, about 1 hour later:
So Claudia and I are starting to get horny. We go straight to the bedroom when we get home and rip our clothes off. She goes down on me for a few minutes then swings her body over me so I am in position for a 69. That is one of our favorite positions. I start working her over with my tongue, then I start fingering her. Within a minute, I hear this screaming. Not screams of ecstasy, but screams of pain. She is in tears and turns to me and asks if I washed my hands after the habanero contests. I wasnt really sure if I had or not. I just turn to her and say Uh, I may have, why? Now she is yelling IT IS BURNING!!!! AWWWWW IT IS BURNING!!! MY GOD!!!!
I am freaking out now. I thought maybe she had some weird STD or something and it went active right at this moment. Are you ok? I ask. Of course, this was a stupid question since she was obviously in pain, but I was drunk and not thinking.
She starts throwing a string of profanities in Spanish at me and runs to the bathroom. She has woken my roommates up. They pop out of their rooms just in time to see her naked, running into the bathroom. They run into my room and ask what is up. I am totally confused.
While Clau is in the shower, I start piecing things together. Apparently, I had some of the Habanero pepper juice still on my fingers. When I started fingering her, I guess the juice somehow got inside her and it started to burn. I couldnt help but laugh a little, although I felt terrible.
She came out of the shower and saw me laughing. Not good. She cussed at me some more in Spanish, then got her clothes on and left.
PS -- I talked to her the next day and she did forgive me. We continued messing around off and on for about a year. She made me vow never to put this story on my website I had then. I figure since this is myspace and I just started this website, I can put it on here. Besides, I know she doesnt have myspace and it has been like 6 years since this happened. I think the statute of limitations has worn out on this one.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Sports Fan's Bill of Rights
There's a Bill of Rights for U.S. citizens, children, taxpayers, consumers, home owners, travelers, mental patients and animals. Which leaves only one important group without one: sports fans.
Until now!!!!
Amendment I Owners shall make no seat in a stadium narrower than John Madden's butt; nor name said stadium after some soulless brokerage house; nor install trough-style urinals in said stadium without little shelves to set cold beers upon.
Amendment II A good seat being necessary to the pursuit of happiness, any fan may move down to a better one after halftime, including courtside, and not get the hook from a 17-year-old, $5.15-an-hour-making, Clearasil-jonesing usher who thinks a spiffy jacket suddenly makes him a member of the Marines Security Guard.
Amendment III No fan shall suffer strikes, lockouts, seat licensing fees, male cheerleaders, ticket-price hikes after losing seasons, drastic last-minute changes in starting times to accommodate ESPN3, team-logo changes within one year after said fan has plunked down $75 for a jersey with the old logo, mascot arrests, vendors handing over lukewarm beers with thumbs in them, 6'10" yokels wearing novelty cowboy hats in the seat in front of said fan, drunk carnies constantly screaming "Run the flea-flicker!" in said fan's ear, or ejection from the arena or stadium by a security guard because of said fan's T-shirt, even if it says JDOG DATES FARM ANIMALS.
Amendment IV The right of the fan to a short national anthem shall not be violated; nor shall the anthem be "personalized" to hell and back; nor shall said singer be the owner's niece; nor shall the guy in the music booth continue to play Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye or We Will Rock You year after year after year.
Amendment V No fan shall be required to answer questions from spouses, such as why the garbage disposal is still stopped up, during crucial situations, such as the second half; nor shall said spouse interrupt at such times to get a pickle jar opened or to "mention" a "little, teeny-weeny nothing accident" with the new Mustang knowing full well that said fan is only pretending
to listen in such crucial situations, such as SportsCenter.
Amendment VI The fan shall be afforded a fair and speedy baseball game and not suffer through human glaciers like Nomar Garciaparra stepping out of the batter's box to readjust his hat, sleeves, gloves, groin and stirrups after every pitch; nor shall the fan suffer TV camera closeups so tight that said fan can see the piece of spinach on a pitcher's tooth, all the while leaving said fan no idea that the infield has shifted and the first base coach is on fire.
Amendment VII In lawsuits it shall be judged that any ball, bat or muffler that ends up in the seats shall be permanently the property of the fan who first comes into possession of it, not the meathead who wrestles it away. In case of said wrestling away, said meathead will be subdued, stripped, wrapped in the Iraqi flag and dropped off at the nearest Harley bar.
Amendment VIII There shall be no such thing as a traffic lane between the TV and the fan watching the game. Use the off-ramp behind the sofa. In addition chips, wings and cold beer shall be readily available to said fan, though rising to get said items shall not constitute an offer by said fan to get same for lard-ass brothers-in-law in close proximity.
Amendment IX No fan shall be made to feel like a jerk just for wanting to shake the hand of an athlete said fan has spent all his time and money idolizing, just because said athlete happens to be 7'1" and 325 pounds with footwork Baryshnikov would've guzzled turpentine for.
Amendment X The fan shall not suffer parking places that are $4 cab rides to the arena door; nor shall the cost of four tickets, four hot dogs, four sodas, four programs and four souvenir hats to any game exceed that of a 2003 Ford Focus; nor shall old phone books, sliced diagonally, slathered in picante sauce and topped with green goo, be sold as a $9.95 Fiesta Mexicana; nor shall the beer be anything but very, very cold.
It would also be nice if somebody explained the Davis Cup to the fan, preferably Anna Kournikova.
These powers delegated to the fan shall not be construed to mean that said fan can streak, holler "You da Man!", participate in Father-Son Night pummelings, ask for autographs if over the age of 12, or wear those hideous striped Zubaz pants.
Now, lets work to get these into law!!!!
Until now!!!!
Amendment I Owners shall make no seat in a stadium narrower than John Madden's butt; nor name said stadium after some soulless brokerage house; nor install trough-style urinals in said stadium without little shelves to set cold beers upon.
Amendment II A good seat being necessary to the pursuit of happiness, any fan may move down to a better one after halftime, including courtside, and not get the hook from a 17-year-old, $5.15-an-hour-making, Clearasil-jonesing usher who thinks a spiffy jacket suddenly makes him a member of the Marines Security Guard.
Amendment III No fan shall suffer strikes, lockouts, seat licensing fees, male cheerleaders, ticket-price hikes after losing seasons, drastic last-minute changes in starting times to accommodate ESPN3, team-logo changes within one year after said fan has plunked down $75 for a jersey with the old logo, mascot arrests, vendors handing over lukewarm beers with thumbs in them, 6'10" yokels wearing novelty cowboy hats in the seat in front of said fan, drunk carnies constantly screaming "Run the flea-flicker!" in said fan's ear, or ejection from the arena or stadium by a security guard because of said fan's T-shirt, even if it says JDOG DATES FARM ANIMALS.
Amendment IV The right of the fan to a short national anthem shall not be violated; nor shall the anthem be "personalized" to hell and back; nor shall said singer be the owner's niece; nor shall the guy in the music booth continue to play Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye or We Will Rock You year after year after year.
Amendment V No fan shall be required to answer questions from spouses, such as why the garbage disposal is still stopped up, during crucial situations, such as the second half; nor shall said spouse interrupt at such times to get a pickle jar opened or to "mention" a "little, teeny-weeny nothing accident" with the new Mustang knowing full well that said fan is only pretending
to listen in such crucial situations, such as SportsCenter.
Amendment VI The fan shall be afforded a fair and speedy baseball game and not suffer through human glaciers like Nomar Garciaparra stepping out of the batter's box to readjust his hat, sleeves, gloves, groin and stirrups after every pitch; nor shall the fan suffer TV camera closeups so tight that said fan can see the piece of spinach on a pitcher's tooth, all the while leaving said fan no idea that the infield has shifted and the first base coach is on fire.
Amendment VII In lawsuits it shall be judged that any ball, bat or muffler that ends up in the seats shall be permanently the property of the fan who first comes into possession of it, not the meathead who wrestles it away. In case of said wrestling away, said meathead will be subdued, stripped, wrapped in the Iraqi flag and dropped off at the nearest Harley bar.
Amendment VIII There shall be no such thing as a traffic lane between the TV and the fan watching the game. Use the off-ramp behind the sofa. In addition chips, wings and cold beer shall be readily available to said fan, though rising to get said items shall not constitute an offer by said fan to get same for lard-ass brothers-in-law in close proximity.
Amendment IX No fan shall be made to feel like a jerk just for wanting to shake the hand of an athlete said fan has spent all his time and money idolizing, just because said athlete happens to be 7'1" and 325 pounds with footwork Baryshnikov would've guzzled turpentine for.
Amendment X The fan shall not suffer parking places that are $4 cab rides to the arena door; nor shall the cost of four tickets, four hot dogs, four sodas, four programs and four souvenir hats to any game exceed that of a 2003 Ford Focus; nor shall old phone books, sliced diagonally, slathered in picante sauce and topped with green goo, be sold as a $9.95 Fiesta Mexicana; nor shall the beer be anything but very, very cold.
It would also be nice if somebody explained the Davis Cup to the fan, preferably Anna Kournikova.
These powers delegated to the fan shall not be construed to mean that said fan can streak, holler "You da Man!", participate in Father-Son Night pummelings, ask for autographs if over the age of 12, or wear those hideous striped Zubaz pants.
Now, lets work to get these into law!!!!
Friday, March 2, 2007
Living With a Stripper -- What I Think It Would Be Like
I wrote this one back in 1991. I was trying to figure out what it would be like to live with a stripper. I was just starting to hang around Strip clubs in Austin, Dallas, and San Antonio. Little did I know I would date a few strippers later in life. I even lived with two.
Soon, I will post a blog about what it was like to actually live with a stripper. You can compare my preconceptions with reality. Enjoy!!
LIVING WITH A STRIPPPER -- MY THOUGHTS ON HOW IT WOULD BE
Not that I can ever say that I've lived with a stripper, or even dated one before, but my imagination is quite remarkable, and I could only imagine what it would be like to date a stripper.
The fact that she would work late hours is, of course, inevitable. Coming home at 4:00 am when you have to work at 8, wanting to chat and be held. She would explain what a rough night of work she had, how her ass simply didn't look as good as it normally does, and how she just didn't give the audience enough boobies in the face like she's used to.
But while she wasn't at work, what would life be like? I mean, would she want to dance on the table every morning for breakfast?
I think that having any kinds of tables in the house would definitely promote behavior you may not want on a constant basis. Every hour, she would be on the coffee table stripping, forcing you to give up your single bills. You would take out the kitchen table, only to find her on top of the end table. She would constantly be telling you, "honey, don't you think a fire pole would look great here?"
You would have to stop by the bank more often to make sure you had plenty of singles on you. You would always be asking your buddies, "hey, I'll give you a ten for ten singles," or "hey, you got any singles on you." In fact, it would trickle down to the fact that your friends will always save their singles for you.
That AC/DC and other heavy metal that you love so much is out. No more of that. You couldn't play that music without her jumping up and starting to remove her clothes. Which brings us to another point....your buddies would come over and, while your not looking, put the music on. Your girlfriend's Pavlovian instincts would take over and, boom, there she is on the coffee table again.
Of course, there could be an upside. I mean, it would be great to have a girlfriend confident enough to strip for you every night. You would know that a couple of dollars in your pocket, and an AC/DC CD would definitely get you in the mood, if nothing else.
Making a Theory Into Law (and THONGS!!!)
This was on my old website. The actual event happened in 1995, if memory serves me correct.
Making a Theory into Law
I wouldn't even call it road-rash; I've had carpet-burns that looked worse than this. But let me qualify all of this by saying that I was hoping for much more. I started a new teaching job around two months ago, and part of the deal with starting a new job is that you have no time off for the first 90 days. For those of you in Canada who can't do the math, 90 days is three months and that means I have another 30 days, or another month, before I can take some time off. Anyone who knows me knows I am all about taking time off, coming to work late, leaving work early, working on the web page during work, and thinking about not being at work while I am in fact at work. I figured that breaking a major appendage while on a road-trip would be the perfect excuse for me to take some time off and get to relax. But I failed miserably.
But the weekend road-trip wasn't a total failure; I did prove a theory of mine. That's right; I turned a theory into law. It is now unbreakable, and punishable by courts. You may have gotten the impression that I do pretty well with the ladies. That is true for the most part, at least romantically, but ladies that I am not involved with romantically or sexually sometimes tend to find me as a bit harsh and abrasive, and I've often wondered why that is. My theory (now a law) doesn't explain why that is, only when it happens. Typically, my experiences with the fairer sex in non-physical capacities have all started well enough and then horribly careened out of control until one of us is left in tears or cussing the other out. I have found that this downhill process has to do with the number 4. It always occurs in the 4th hour, 4th day, 4th week, etc. For some reason this paranormal 4th hour has plagued me my entire adult life.
During my road-trip where I was intending to seriously injure myself, I was in a car with 3 other stand-up, honest, male individuals... and one female. Like my theory goes, all is well for the first 3 hours and 59 minutes, then it happens. We were talking about college football after seeing a game and I mentioned that I watched a particular game that they were discussing. I explained that I was just sitting at a bar, eating food and watching the game when a hottie contest broke out. I was a victim of hottie fever, what the hell was I supposed to do? I was a spectator at one of the most strategically sound coups ever. The hottie wasn't going to win until she played the "thong card". Just like an Olympic champion, the thong-girl knew what it would take to win; she dug deep and found the courage to do what had to be done. As the saying goes: the thong always wins.
Needless to say, the girl in the care with us became very upset with me. Why get upset with me? I wasn't wearing the thong! She pointed out that mentioning the word "thong" in context with a female was degrading to her gender. I said that guys in San Francisco wear thongs and I don't find it degrading (Check that, I find it utterly disgusting, but I didn't want to make things worse so I tried a little diplomacy to try and smooth the situation). I would think calling her "harpy" would be degrading; "thong" is just a word.
Then she said, "that shit isn't cool", and thought evil thoughts about me while staring at the back of my head. I've never seen a chick this upset, ever. She was livid. I'm just lucky that she was female and was probably incompetent with firearms (I found out later in life that some females are too competent with firearms, but that is another story).
Then she called me a "pig". She didn't call me a pig to my face, but she did call me a pig. I think the female population needs to take a long hard look inwards. First they wear the thong, and then they get upset at me because of it. Why the dichotomy? Where is the compassion? We should be celebrating the thong, not calling me a pig! The thong equals power. The thong-girl is going to get a lot farther in life than the nasty pig-calling girl. I think she feared the thong. Viva la thong!
Making a Theory into Law
I wouldn't even call it road-rash; I've had carpet-burns that looked worse than this. But let me qualify all of this by saying that I was hoping for much more. I started a new teaching job around two months ago, and part of the deal with starting a new job is that you have no time off for the first 90 days. For those of you in Canada who can't do the math, 90 days is three months and that means I have another 30 days, or another month, before I can take some time off. Anyone who knows me knows I am all about taking time off, coming to work late, leaving work early, working on the web page during work, and thinking about not being at work while I am in fact at work. I figured that breaking a major appendage while on a road-trip would be the perfect excuse for me to take some time off and get to relax. But I failed miserably.
But the weekend road-trip wasn't a total failure; I did prove a theory of mine. That's right; I turned a theory into law. It is now unbreakable, and punishable by courts. You may have gotten the impression that I do pretty well with the ladies. That is true for the most part, at least romantically, but ladies that I am not involved with romantically or sexually sometimes tend to find me as a bit harsh and abrasive, and I've often wondered why that is. My theory (now a law) doesn't explain why that is, only when it happens. Typically, my experiences with the fairer sex in non-physical capacities have all started well enough and then horribly careened out of control until one of us is left in tears or cussing the other out. I have found that this downhill process has to do with the number 4. It always occurs in the 4th hour, 4th day, 4th week, etc. For some reason this paranormal 4th hour has plagued me my entire adult life.
During my road-trip where I was intending to seriously injure myself, I was in a car with 3 other stand-up, honest, male individuals... and one female. Like my theory goes, all is well for the first 3 hours and 59 minutes, then it happens. We were talking about college football after seeing a game and I mentioned that I watched a particular game that they were discussing. I explained that I was just sitting at a bar, eating food and watching the game when a hottie contest broke out. I was a victim of hottie fever, what the hell was I supposed to do? I was a spectator at one of the most strategically sound coups ever. The hottie wasn't going to win until she played the "thong card". Just like an Olympic champion, the thong-girl knew what it would take to win; she dug deep and found the courage to do what had to be done. As the saying goes: the thong always wins.
Needless to say, the girl in the care with us became very upset with me. Why get upset with me? I wasn't wearing the thong! She pointed out that mentioning the word "thong" in context with a female was degrading to her gender. I said that guys in San Francisco wear thongs and I don't find it degrading (Check that, I find it utterly disgusting, but I didn't want to make things worse so I tried a little diplomacy to try and smooth the situation). I would think calling her "harpy" would be degrading; "thong" is just a word.
Then she said, "that shit isn't cool", and thought evil thoughts about me while staring at the back of my head. I've never seen a chick this upset, ever. She was livid. I'm just lucky that she was female and was probably incompetent with firearms (I found out later in life that some females are too competent with firearms, but that is another story).
Then she called me a "pig". She didn't call me a pig to my face, but she did call me a pig. I think the female population needs to take a long hard look inwards. First they wear the thong, and then they get upset at me because of it. Why the dichotomy? Where is the compassion? We should be celebrating the thong, not calling me a pig! The thong equals power. The thong-girl is going to get a lot farther in life than the nasty pig-calling girl. I think she feared the thong. Viva la thong!
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Sex in the City -- Not what you are thinking!!
I was friends with this hottie a few years ago and she had won a weekend trip to NYC. She invited me along. "Damn!!", I thought, she is finally falling for me!! Why else would she invite me along.
I am not a big NYC fan. It is nice to visit, but I could never live there. Too many people, taxi's, noise, and rude assholes. Don't know why, but everytime I have been there, people tended to be rude to me and the people I travelled with. If we asked for directions, they would look at us like idiots. If we would ask someone for a good Italian Restaurant, they would say "Look in the phone book!!! There are thousands of em here in New York!!!" WHATEVER!!
To make this short, the first two days were pretty cool. We went to the Museum of Art, a Broadway play, partying at clubs, etc. We got drunk!! Messed around a little. I was making progress.
But the last full day was horrible. She wanted to surprise me with a special tour. I am all for surprises and I thought maybe this was the breakthrough. She was planning a romantic day together. Something unforgettable.
We ate a brunch at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. One of the best brunches I have ever had. Then we went to near Times Square to get on a tour bus. I had no clue what the tour was. It was mostly women on the tour, so I thought it couldnt be all that bad.
The tour gets started with a video of scenes from the TV show "Sex in the City"
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" I thought!!
Turns out she had booked a tour to see the sights shown on that stupid TV show. IT was a sex in the city tour!! The whole time we were in NY she had been relating parts of it to the series"this is where Carrie might have been" etc. She was addicted to that show. So here we are on this tour. I am already on the bus and wishing to get off. But it is moving. DAMN!!!
It ended up being a 3 hour tour of some of the sex in the city filming locations. There were several times I almost made a run for it when we had stopped. I decided at one stop to by a 20 oz beer to take on the bus. I figured maybe I could get drunk and at least enjoy it a little.
They tourguide said "You!!! No alcohol on the bus!!"
I countered and tried to rationalize with him "Isn't this whole show about sex, alcohol, and having a good time?"
The tour lady was not amused. I went off the bus and pretended to throw it away, but I managed to sneak it back on and chugged it down before the next stop.
I openly voiced my displeasure at this tour. The tour guide was a loony -she knew her sex in the city stuff.They even had tv monitors in the bus to show cuts of scenes to refresh your memory after she pointed out the actual location. We stopped into the adult shop where Charlotte bought her rabbit and my girl got a sex in the city board game. I didn't even know they had a board game!!!!
We also stopped and had a famous cupcake (The cupcake wasnt that great BTW) and then walked to Carries apartments stoop for photos . The last stop we had was cosmos(not sure if that is right, I am not up on this Sex City lingo!!!!) in Aidan and Steves bar Scout
It was a shitty tour, unless you were a fan of that show. I kept making stupid comments and putting the show down. I thought maybe I could get kicked off the tour and end my misery!! Didnt work. I had to stick it out. OH MY GOD!!! I was so bored and annoyed. My girl didnt even notice. She was so into the tour.
I cannot believe people get this into TV shows. The tourguide said they run one tour each evening during the week and four tours on Sat and Sun. And they almost always sell out.
Anyway, this ruined the last day of the trip. She kept apologizing, saying she thought I watched the show!!!!! I asked her to think of a time I even mentioned that show and she could only think of one (I kept saying that Sara Parker Bitch is an anorexic Whore!!!) and she took that to assume I watch it. I dont think I have even seen one whole show. To me, it seems like a chick TV show.
I am not a big NYC fan. It is nice to visit, but I could never live there. Too many people, taxi's, noise, and rude assholes. Don't know why, but everytime I have been there, people tended to be rude to me and the people I travelled with. If we asked for directions, they would look at us like idiots. If we would ask someone for a good Italian Restaurant, they would say "Look in the phone book!!! There are thousands of em here in New York!!!" WHATEVER!!
To make this short, the first two days were pretty cool. We went to the Museum of Art, a Broadway play, partying at clubs, etc. We got drunk!! Messed around a little. I was making progress.
But the last full day was horrible. She wanted to surprise me with a special tour. I am all for surprises and I thought maybe this was the breakthrough. She was planning a romantic day together. Something unforgettable.
We ate a brunch at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. One of the best brunches I have ever had. Then we went to near Times Square to get on a tour bus. I had no clue what the tour was. It was mostly women on the tour, so I thought it couldnt be all that bad.
The tour gets started with a video of scenes from the TV show "Sex in the City"
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" I thought!!
Turns out she had booked a tour to see the sights shown on that stupid TV show. IT was a sex in the city tour!! The whole time we were in NY she had been relating parts of it to the series"this is where Carrie might have been" etc. She was addicted to that show. So here we are on this tour. I am already on the bus and wishing to get off. But it is moving. DAMN!!!
It ended up being a 3 hour tour of some of the sex in the city filming locations. There were several times I almost made a run for it when we had stopped. I decided at one stop to by a 20 oz beer to take on the bus. I figured maybe I could get drunk and at least enjoy it a little.
They tourguide said "You!!! No alcohol on the bus!!"
I countered and tried to rationalize with him "Isn't this whole show about sex, alcohol, and having a good time?"
The tour lady was not amused. I went off the bus and pretended to throw it away, but I managed to sneak it back on and chugged it down before the next stop.
I openly voiced my displeasure at this tour. The tour guide was a loony -she knew her sex in the city stuff.They even had tv monitors in the bus to show cuts of scenes to refresh your memory after she pointed out the actual location. We stopped into the adult shop where Charlotte bought her rabbit and my girl got a sex in the city board game. I didn't even know they had a board game!!!!
We also stopped and had a famous cupcake (The cupcake wasnt that great BTW) and then walked to Carries apartments stoop for photos . The last stop we had was cosmos(not sure if that is right, I am not up on this Sex City lingo!!!!) in Aidan and Steves bar Scout
It was a shitty tour, unless you were a fan of that show. I kept making stupid comments and putting the show down. I thought maybe I could get kicked off the tour and end my misery!! Didnt work. I had to stick it out. OH MY GOD!!! I was so bored and annoyed. My girl didnt even notice. She was so into the tour.
I cannot believe people get this into TV shows. The tourguide said they run one tour each evening during the week and four tours on Sat and Sun. And they almost always sell out.
Anyway, this ruined the last day of the trip. She kept apologizing, saying she thought I watched the show!!!!! I asked her to think of a time I even mentioned that show and she could only think of one (I kept saying that Sara Parker Bitch is an anorexic Whore!!!) and she took that to assume I watch it. I dont think I have even seen one whole show. To me, it seems like a chick TV show.
My Denny's Story
This happened in May of 1995:
I am known on local systems as the King of Denny's, because I have achieved that honored goal of being banned from a Denny's in San Antonio, TX. for life. For Life.
So, without further ado, I most humbly present My infamous biographical story entitled Denny's at 2AM.
Denny's, right before 2am, is a fairly quiet place. Aside from the bathroom vermin and other customers scurrying around, there isn't much there. There's the manager sitting at the counter working on his eighteenth cup of coffee, the Denny's waitpersons (to be politically correct) standing around talking, and the cooks dredging up phlegm from their lungs, spitting onto the grill and watching it crackle. There are a few customers around, mostly dazed college students like myself.
Then, 2AM. This is a special time, as the bars have just closed. In minutes, many late '70's domestic cars will swerve into the parking lot, their inebriated contents hungering for a Grand Slam, or maybe just looking for a cup of coffee to pass out in. After a few moments of searching, they finally get the doors open, and stumble into the cheery restaurant. They look a bit ill. Most are Denny's veterans, however, and could probably swallow a live hamster with no digestive trauma.
Eventually, they are seated. Most of the table light cigarettes, but the single non-smoker is invariably seated in the center of the group. Eventually, the intrepid waitperson walks over, and asks if they want coffee. Asks. Our waithero(ine) could have asked if they'd like a cup of gold. They all do, except the non-smoker, who wants herbal tea. This health freak hasn't yet realized that anything served in a greasy mug is toxic.
They get their coffee, a thoroughly evil substance that looks and smells like thin mud, but is evidently composed of materials with much higher atomic numbers than the components of anything organic. No one is sure what it is, but a team of Dennysologists have discovered that it will dissolve a nail in just under an hour. They have also discovered that exposure creates an effect vaguely similar to brain death.
After a few moments, the waitperson returns to take their orders. There are many Grand Splat breakfasts to choose from, but tonight the Harvest Slam is the favorite. For the uninitiated, this is the most evil breakfast item on the menu. It supersedes even the legendary Southern Slam, which features blobs of flour and yeast jokingly referred to as ``biscuits,'' covered with what looks like vomit after a meal of cat food and Cream of Wheat. The Harvest Splat, as previously stated, is worse. This features pancakes, but not the regular mushy discs of toxin that are normal Denny's pancakes. These are slightly darker in appearance. The taste brings to mind the odor of a stack of burning truck tires. The texture is a real treat, as some genius decided to put walnut pieces in the batter. They have no taste, but do give the disconcerting sensation of feeling as if you broke a tooth, and the piece is floating around your mouth. The ``pancakes'' have a strange coating over them, a thick yellow liquid with shriveled apple pieces floating in it. Avoid this at all costs; the fumes can damage sensitive sinus linings. Next to the ``pancakes'' there is a section devoted to the ``eggs,'' usually scrambled. These are truly fascinating. They are covered with water, but are somehow dry and crackly. They clump together for survival. They are an even, unnatural yellow. They shrivel up if you add salt. Finally, there are two pork fat strips, er, bacon, and two small brown sausages linked along one side, that resemble aged bowel movements more than anything else. Crude, but true. The contents of these are unknown. Spectrographic analysis by Dennysologists has so far proved inconclusive. This rounds out the entree.
At this point, the restaurant is quickly filling with drunken customers. As the table previously mentioned begins to eat, several other groups enter, and repeat the same ritual, or one very much like it. They have a longer wait, however, as the waitpeople are taking a cigarette break. Steam is rising from the kitchen, as the mysterious cooks, little more than heads with funny caps to the customers, bob around behind the counter.
Leaving before the brawl begins is a good idea. The manager has already slipped out the back door, just hope you have received your bill by then. After that, all that is needed is to go home and pump your stomach.
I am known on local systems as the King of Denny's, because I have achieved that honored goal of being banned from a Denny's in San Antonio, TX. for life. For Life.
So, without further ado, I most humbly present My infamous biographical story entitled Denny's at 2AM.
Denny's, right before 2am, is a fairly quiet place. Aside from the bathroom vermin and other customers scurrying around, there isn't much there. There's the manager sitting at the counter working on his eighteenth cup of coffee, the Denny's waitpersons (to be politically correct) standing around talking, and the cooks dredging up phlegm from their lungs, spitting onto the grill and watching it crackle. There are a few customers around, mostly dazed college students like myself.
Then, 2AM. This is a special time, as the bars have just closed. In minutes, many late '70's domestic cars will swerve into the parking lot, their inebriated contents hungering for a Grand Slam, or maybe just looking for a cup of coffee to pass out in. After a few moments of searching, they finally get the doors open, and stumble into the cheery restaurant. They look a bit ill. Most are Denny's veterans, however, and could probably swallow a live hamster with no digestive trauma.
Eventually, they are seated. Most of the table light cigarettes, but the single non-smoker is invariably seated in the center of the group. Eventually, the intrepid waitperson walks over, and asks if they want coffee. Asks. Our waithero(ine) could have asked if they'd like a cup of gold. They all do, except the non-smoker, who wants herbal tea. This health freak hasn't yet realized that anything served in a greasy mug is toxic.
They get their coffee, a thoroughly evil substance that looks and smells like thin mud, but is evidently composed of materials with much higher atomic numbers than the components of anything organic. No one is sure what it is, but a team of Dennysologists have discovered that it will dissolve a nail in just under an hour. They have also discovered that exposure creates an effect vaguely similar to brain death.
After a few moments, the waitperson returns to take their orders. There are many Grand Splat breakfasts to choose from, but tonight the Harvest Slam is the favorite. For the uninitiated, this is the most evil breakfast item on the menu. It supersedes even the legendary Southern Slam, which features blobs of flour and yeast jokingly referred to as ``biscuits,'' covered with what looks like vomit after a meal of cat food and Cream of Wheat. The Harvest Splat, as previously stated, is worse. This features pancakes, but not the regular mushy discs of toxin that are normal Denny's pancakes. These are slightly darker in appearance. The taste brings to mind the odor of a stack of burning truck tires. The texture is a real treat, as some genius decided to put walnut pieces in the batter. They have no taste, but do give the disconcerting sensation of feeling as if you broke a tooth, and the piece is floating around your mouth. The ``pancakes'' have a strange coating over them, a thick yellow liquid with shriveled apple pieces floating in it. Avoid this at all costs; the fumes can damage sensitive sinus linings. Next to the ``pancakes'' there is a section devoted to the ``eggs,'' usually scrambled. These are truly fascinating. They are covered with water, but are somehow dry and crackly. They clump together for survival. They are an even, unnatural yellow. They shrivel up if you add salt. Finally, there are two pork fat strips, er, bacon, and two small brown sausages linked along one side, that resemble aged bowel movements more than anything else. Crude, but true. The contents of these are unknown. Spectrographic analysis by Dennysologists has so far proved inconclusive. This rounds out the entree.
At this point, the restaurant is quickly filling with drunken customers. As the table previously mentioned begins to eat, several other groups enter, and repeat the same ritual, or one very much like it. They have a longer wait, however, as the waitpeople are taking a cigarette break. Steam is rising from the kitchen, as the mysterious cooks, little more than heads with funny caps to the customers, bob around behind the counter.
Leaving before the brawl begins is a good idea. The manager has already slipped out the back door, just hope you have received your bill by then. After that, all that is needed is to go home and pump your stomach.
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