Where have I been? Don't worry about it, what's with all the questions? No more, quit worrying about it. I'm back. And I'm going to try (again) to get at you more regularly. I don't understand why it is that I can never keep up with this thing. I have things I need to get down a lot...but I just don't, because I'm lazy, and a drunk, and I'm just not that good at keeping commitments--just ask my untrained bird that ended up in a dumpster in 2006--not good with the commitments.
Nonetheless, I've decided to add a new feature to this...although it won't really be "new" because that would me that I had "old" features...what the hell is wrong with me tonight? I'm talking out loud (also known as typing) to myself on a computer...
Here are some things I don't get:
1. Why all the attractive women I've seen this week have kids, are in high school, or both.
What is with this? I had a cute girl move in next door...she's with some guy that I'm quite sure can't even speak English, I'm not going to go derogatory with my remarks, I'm just going to say that maybe she should give people that can communicate quasi-effectively a chance before she jumps in the sack with Razor Ramon. Also, I was out at the mall with a buddy the other day...nothing but high schoolers...what's that? That's what people that are under 21 do? That if I wanted to find a woman my own age I should have gone to a bar? Hmmmm....noted.
2. Where are all these old people going? I was driving back from my hometown the other day and it seemed that everybody I passed was straight out of a Liberty medical commercial. Where the hell are these people going? Are their kids that lazy that they can't go visit their parents? I wish my parents were as ambitious and saved me the $560 I had to spend on gas (and hookers).
3. Math. Just don't get it. Don't know why we need it.
4. Why stains that look like semen don't come out of clothing. What is with this phenomenon? When I was a kid, I had no idea what seminal fluid looked like when caked on an article of clothing. No idea. And when I spilled toothpaste on myself (I like to brush my teeth while doing cartwheels...it helps fight against gum disease) I would wipe it away and that was that. I went on to play with the other kids on the swingset or whatever. But now? Now I spill toothpaste on myself and I don't see it until I've been in my office for 2 hours and have talked to about 40 people. When I try to get rid of it, it just keeps coming back. I can't help but hang my head in shame for the remainder of the day--constantly thinking that everybody is talking about how I've been beating off in the parking garage.
5. Breastfeeding stories. Are these supposed to be cute? Funny? Educational? Erotic? Because they're gross. Never refer to your buxom as a "smorgasboard", "teat", or "dinner", I will never be able to respect you.
That's all I have for right now. I know it's not much, and it's not interesting, but I had to get them off my chest---er smorgasbord, yeah that's right, I lactate.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
My first love: David Duval
There is certainly no shortage of sports heroes in America today. No matter what your sport of choice is, there is always one person that stands above the rest. Lebron James, Peyton Manning, Parker Bohn III (now that’s a name drop), or Sidney Crosby, there is always someone for all the kids in the neighborhood to look up to.
On a side note: the other day I was watching “Liar, Liar” when I was working out (really gets me pumped up), and the little boy wants to play baseball with his father…and I stood there with a look on my face that said “I smell farts” when the boy said “I’ll be Nomo, you get to be Canseco”. Which seemed like a very odd thing to want to be. The boy wants to be the 1996 NL Rookie of the year? (which in hindsight was undeserved, look where Chipper Jones is now…) and he wants his father to write a tell-some book and then appear in lingerie on “The Surreal Life” that sounds really gay…I’m sorry but it does. That’s like me going outside and wanting to play a game with my buddies where I get to be “Short round” from Indiana Jones, and my buddy gets to be Al Sharpton.
As many of you may (but probably don’t) know, my sport of preference is Golf. So the obvious questions are often asked “You for Tiger or Phil?” to which I answer Phil, I often get “Who do you think will win this week?” to which I usually reply, Tiger…but my favorite question that I get asked is the easiest question of all.
“So Linde…who’s you’re favorite golfer?” This question takes no time at all to contemplate…for the answer is clear.
David Duval.
Sometimes this answer is met by a quizzical face of “who the hell is that?” but mostly I’m asked “Where the hell has he been?” it is because of these questions that I love David Duval. Let me count the ways.
YEAH…THAT GUY.
If you turned on golf at anytime between 1998-2001 you heard his name. He finished in the top 15 in an unheard of 12 of the 15 majors he played during that span of time. Before the force that is Tiger, that was quite an impressive feat. He has one of the most beautiful swings I had ever seen. He looked like a guy that may own a cool boat. He certainly looked like a guy that preferred nacho cheese to salsa…for these things I was enamored with Mr. Duval as a youth.
THE DOWNFALL.
The best part about David Duval is that nobody knows who he is anymore. He has literally seemed to have disappeared off of the face of the earth. How do you go from #1 in the world to completely off the radar (other than the 1985 Kansas City Royals)? He has made one cut in 13 events this year…a staggering number. Not only that but he has gained an inordinate amount of weight, grown a goatee, and married a woman that already had three kids. He’s kind of like your 7th grade teacher that ended up marrying a lunch lady, a abysmal choice, but it was really the only choice he had. Much like Hitler, Stalin, and George W. Bush, we look at people with the world in their hands and secretly wish that they fall hard. Watching Duval golf anymore is like watching Bill Gates work as a receptionist at a Free Clinic after the fall of Microsoft.
THE MONEY
On par (no pun intended) with the Bill Gates Metaphor, Duval is a guy who received one of the biggest contracts from Nike since the Michael Jordan era. A 10 year deal worth reportedly over $13 mil. At the time, for a white golfer, that was staggering. He was making millions on the course as well, he had it all. Endorsements with Nike and Oakley (for those robo-cop M-frames he wears), a pairing with Tiger Woods in the Ryder cup (a purported dream duo), and a Major win (2001 British Open). And then what? Nothing.
THE PRESENT
Forget that Duval had his own SIGNATURE BALL, his own SIGNATURE SUNGLASSES, and most likely a condom marketing deal in the works, he was supposed to be one of the GREATEST of all time. Can you imagine if Michael Jordan, after 6 titles began shooting free throws like Shaq? If Alex Rodriguez couldn’t hit a ball off a tee? Or if Ray Lewis killed a man? Superior athletes do not receive huge endorsement deals and perform on an uncanny level for years and then disappear. We have many draft flops and trade blowups, but we never see somebody pull a “Duval”. Except for the man himself.
THE 59
The last point is perhaps the most crucial. The 1999 Bob Hope Chrysler Classic. Duval is a non-factor. 9 shots back to start the day. All of a sudden he shoots a PGA Tour record 59 (13 under) final round to win the tournament by 1, solidifying double fist pumps and Tommy Hilfiger button up polo’s un-cool for the rest of time. David Duval may NEVER have this record touched. Nicklaus, Tiger, Watson, NOBODY has shot 59 in a final round ever….except for Duval. He is as famous as Hank Aaron, yet as infamous as Bill Buckner…all of this seems oddly surreal.
So there it is. I’m not going to be ashamed of it any longer. He was everything, he is now nothing. So far this year, I have made more money than Duval, that is staggering. But oddly not, considering we’ve played golf with the same amount of talent as well.
An odd side note: I had to look up Hideo Nomo to verify if he won the 1995 or the 1996 Rookie of the Year honors. When I did this, I found that he had his own signature shoe the “Air Max Nomo” in ’97, Nike tends to be extremely hit or miss when it comes to the money they put into future stars.
On a side note: the other day I was watching “Liar, Liar” when I was working out (really gets me pumped up), and the little boy wants to play baseball with his father…and I stood there with a look on my face that said “I smell farts” when the boy said “I’ll be Nomo, you get to be Canseco”. Which seemed like a very odd thing to want to be. The boy wants to be the 1996 NL Rookie of the year? (which in hindsight was undeserved, look where Chipper Jones is now…) and he wants his father to write a tell-some book and then appear in lingerie on “The Surreal Life” that sounds really gay…I’m sorry but it does. That’s like me going outside and wanting to play a game with my buddies where I get to be “Short round” from Indiana Jones, and my buddy gets to be Al Sharpton.
As many of you may (but probably don’t) know, my sport of preference is Golf. So the obvious questions are often asked “You for Tiger or Phil?” to which I answer Phil, I often get “Who do you think will win this week?” to which I usually reply, Tiger…but my favorite question that I get asked is the easiest question of all.
“So Linde…who’s you’re favorite golfer?” This question takes no time at all to contemplate…for the answer is clear.
David Duval.
Sometimes this answer is met by a quizzical face of “who the hell is that?” but mostly I’m asked “Where the hell has he been?” it is because of these questions that I love David Duval. Let me count the ways.
YEAH…THAT GUY.
If you turned on golf at anytime between 1998-2001 you heard his name. He finished in the top 15 in an unheard of 12 of the 15 majors he played during that span of time. Before the force that is Tiger, that was quite an impressive feat. He has one of the most beautiful swings I had ever seen. He looked like a guy that may own a cool boat. He certainly looked like a guy that preferred nacho cheese to salsa…for these things I was enamored with Mr. Duval as a youth.
THE DOWNFALL.
The best part about David Duval is that nobody knows who he is anymore. He has literally seemed to have disappeared off of the face of the earth. How do you go from #1 in the world to completely off the radar (other than the 1985 Kansas City Royals)? He has made one cut in 13 events this year…a staggering number. Not only that but he has gained an inordinate amount of weight, grown a goatee, and married a woman that already had three kids. He’s kind of like your 7th grade teacher that ended up marrying a lunch lady, a abysmal choice, but it was really the only choice he had. Much like Hitler, Stalin, and George W. Bush, we look at people with the world in their hands and secretly wish that they fall hard. Watching Duval golf anymore is like watching Bill Gates work as a receptionist at a Free Clinic after the fall of Microsoft.
THE MONEY
On par (no pun intended) with the Bill Gates Metaphor, Duval is a guy who received one of the biggest contracts from Nike since the Michael Jordan era. A 10 year deal worth reportedly over $13 mil. At the time, for a white golfer, that was staggering. He was making millions on the course as well, he had it all. Endorsements with Nike and Oakley (for those robo-cop M-frames he wears), a pairing with Tiger Woods in the Ryder cup (a purported dream duo), and a Major win (2001 British Open). And then what? Nothing.
THE PRESENT
Forget that Duval had his own SIGNATURE BALL, his own SIGNATURE SUNGLASSES, and most likely a condom marketing deal in the works, he was supposed to be one of the GREATEST of all time. Can you imagine if Michael Jordan, after 6 titles began shooting free throws like Shaq? If Alex Rodriguez couldn’t hit a ball off a tee? Or if Ray Lewis killed a man? Superior athletes do not receive huge endorsement deals and perform on an uncanny level for years and then disappear. We have many draft flops and trade blowups, but we never see somebody pull a “Duval”. Except for the man himself.
THE 59
The last point is perhaps the most crucial. The 1999 Bob Hope Chrysler Classic. Duval is a non-factor. 9 shots back to start the day. All of a sudden he shoots a PGA Tour record 59 (13 under) final round to win the tournament by 1, solidifying double fist pumps and Tommy Hilfiger button up polo’s un-cool for the rest of time. David Duval may NEVER have this record touched. Nicklaus, Tiger, Watson, NOBODY has shot 59 in a final round ever….except for Duval. He is as famous as Hank Aaron, yet as infamous as Bill Buckner…all of this seems oddly surreal.
So there it is. I’m not going to be ashamed of it any longer. He was everything, he is now nothing. So far this year, I have made more money than Duval, that is staggering. But oddly not, considering we’ve played golf with the same amount of talent as well.
An odd side note: I had to look up Hideo Nomo to verify if he won the 1995 or the 1996 Rookie of the Year honors. When I did this, I found that he had his own signature shoe the “Air Max Nomo” in ’97, Nike tends to be extremely hit or miss when it comes to the money they put into future stars.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Confessions of a Street Dancer
There was certainly a lot to be pondered this weekend. It was my typical Nebraska weekend, which I can not ever help but be overjoyed with. I’m talking about things that simply cannot occur in New York City. Things like bonfires, golfing, pool drinking, and street dancing. I know what you’re thinking: bonfires? Like ‘em, golfing? Like it. Pool drinking? Love it. Street Dancing? What are you some kind of cowboy hat wearing hooligan? Perhaps you’re thinking “they’re fires, golfing, pools, and dancing in NYC and it’s much cooler than Nebraska” to which you’d also be more or less correct.
In any event, I do not own a cowboy hat…and in hindsight, street dancing may not be for me.
But I will tell you what is for me, and that is margaritas and 7&7’s regardless of obscene price ($4? Get out of here with that). And drunk women who dance provocatively to marginal house bands on a hot summer night. (Note: These women do not have last names, and in most cases I forget if they have first names).
I can never decipher whether this is where I belong, or whether I awake everyday to a fish out of water scenario. For this I have been a tad bit confused, and although I try not to get to “deep” on this thing, I find it only fair that I beg the 3 questions I actually questioned this weekend.
1. Does any person that wears business attire (i.e. a shirt and tie) have a pass to be “that drunk guy” at the pool? Me and some friends often find our way to the pool at my place on Saturdays, Southern Comfort in hand, where we pretty much make fun of the college guys doing stupid stuff, and ogle the cute bikini-clad women that lay out. I am far too young to think that I don’t belong, but I also can’t help but think that I’m out of my element. I only think this on Monday’s…because while I’m going back to work from my lunch I notice all the same people out at the pool…without me…because I’m the only one with a job.
2. What’s with the country music/cowboy hat lifestyle in Lincoln? I haven’t seen this the entire time I’ve lived here, but suddenly you put a party outside, include alcohol, and everybody is rummaging through their closet for the gayest double-breast pocketed shirt and cowboy hat. Do guys really think this is proper anywhere in the country? I know that people think there are hicks in Nebraska but there is a time and a place, and that time is never, and the place is maybe in Alabama… jeez, and for a while there I actually defended Nebraska against the stereotypes…
3. I told you I was going to be honest with the questions I asked myself…and because I’m as honest with you as I am with my ex-girlfriends…which is very honest…seriously, I have no idea who that girl was, I have never met her in my life. Anyway….who decided that they were going to start serving Marinara sauce with things? Breadsticks, cheeseballs, mozzarella sticks, etc. That’s a poor man’s way out. I know you’ve got ranch back there, why put spaghetti sauce in a dish and expect me to be satisfied? This is fried…full of cheese…there is no room in this equation for tomato substances…give me the ranch and step away from the table: lest you get deershanked.
Obviously it was an interesting weekend. With so much inner-philosophy being begged. I made the $100 bet with my buddy Bo over the fall that the Celtics would win the NBA Championship and I’ve got a couple ideas of what to do with it.
1. Frame the check: this would put my great sports predicting genius on display for all to see…
2. Buy 52 stupid things for roughly $1.85/per. And mail them to Bo on a weekly basis, thus constantly reminding him to never bet against my genius and to suffer the incredibly ridiculous spending of his money.
3. Spend the 100 at a strip club while wearing a Larry Bird throwback Indiana State jersey.
4. Gamble the 100 on Big Brown to be euthanized before Flag Day.
5. Invest the money in a high risk bond, wait it out for 20 years and find myself in a 4 story beach home in the year 2028, resting comfortably on the beach with a beer in my hand and a Kevin Garnett Minnesota Timberwolves jersey on my back.
I’ve got a few weeks to think about it, they’re stringing out the NBA Finals longer than William Hung’s celebrity status. Any advice on the matter would be quite appreciated.
In any event, I do not own a cowboy hat…and in hindsight, street dancing may not be for me.
But I will tell you what is for me, and that is margaritas and 7&7’s regardless of obscene price ($4? Get out of here with that). And drunk women who dance provocatively to marginal house bands on a hot summer night. (Note: These women do not have last names, and in most cases I forget if they have first names).
I can never decipher whether this is where I belong, or whether I awake everyday to a fish out of water scenario. For this I have been a tad bit confused, and although I try not to get to “deep” on this thing, I find it only fair that I beg the 3 questions I actually questioned this weekend.
1. Does any person that wears business attire (i.e. a shirt and tie) have a pass to be “that drunk guy” at the pool? Me and some friends often find our way to the pool at my place on Saturdays, Southern Comfort in hand, where we pretty much make fun of the college guys doing stupid stuff, and ogle the cute bikini-clad women that lay out. I am far too young to think that I don’t belong, but I also can’t help but think that I’m out of my element. I only think this on Monday’s…because while I’m going back to work from my lunch I notice all the same people out at the pool…without me…because I’m the only one with a job.
2. What’s with the country music/cowboy hat lifestyle in Lincoln? I haven’t seen this the entire time I’ve lived here, but suddenly you put a party outside, include alcohol, and everybody is rummaging through their closet for the gayest double-breast pocketed shirt and cowboy hat. Do guys really think this is proper anywhere in the country? I know that people think there are hicks in Nebraska but there is a time and a place, and that time is never, and the place is maybe in Alabama… jeez, and for a while there I actually defended Nebraska against the stereotypes…
3. I told you I was going to be honest with the questions I asked myself…and because I’m as honest with you as I am with my ex-girlfriends…which is very honest…seriously, I have no idea who that girl was, I have never met her in my life. Anyway….who decided that they were going to start serving Marinara sauce with things? Breadsticks, cheeseballs, mozzarella sticks, etc. That’s a poor man’s way out. I know you’ve got ranch back there, why put spaghetti sauce in a dish and expect me to be satisfied? This is fried…full of cheese…there is no room in this equation for tomato substances…give me the ranch and step away from the table: lest you get deershanked.
Obviously it was an interesting weekend. With so much inner-philosophy being begged. I made the $100 bet with my buddy Bo over the fall that the Celtics would win the NBA Championship and I’ve got a couple ideas of what to do with it.
1. Frame the check: this would put my great sports predicting genius on display for all to see…
2. Buy 52 stupid things for roughly $1.85/per. And mail them to Bo on a weekly basis, thus constantly reminding him to never bet against my genius and to suffer the incredibly ridiculous spending of his money.
3. Spend the 100 at a strip club while wearing a Larry Bird throwback Indiana State jersey.
4. Gamble the 100 on Big Brown to be euthanized before Flag Day.
5. Invest the money in a high risk bond, wait it out for 20 years and find myself in a 4 story beach home in the year 2028, resting comfortably on the beach with a beer in my hand and a Kevin Garnett Minnesota Timberwolves jersey on my back.
I’ve got a few weeks to think about it, they’re stringing out the NBA Finals longer than William Hung’s celebrity status. Any advice on the matter would be quite appreciated.
Monday, June 2, 2008
A new view of second chances.
I’ve seen the light. Well, not particularly. I guess I’ve seen lights…but they aren’t very life changing. But this particular light is currently making my blog.
I’m a pretty self-aware person. I like to think that I have a pretty good grasp on the types of people that I get along with and the types of people that I do not. I very rarely have large life changing epiphanies, and to be quite honest, this isn’t one. But it still deserves to be out to the masses. This is big enough for me to want to share.
I recently read “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby. This was a popular book from the mid nineties that I had never read, and I’m quite aware that it was made into a movie with that pseudo-homo John Cusack and I had not seen that movie either. Now there wasn’t anything within the content of High Fidelity that I found groundbreaking. It was—however—a great book. Now this in and of itself is not a plug for anybody to read the book. The thing that blew my mind was this: I hate Nick Hornby.
In 2006 I was at the lake with one of my exes. I had decided to bring along Bret Easton Ellis’s “American Psycho” to read on the beach. Those four days of reading were the most captivating and oddly mystifying of my vacation reading career. If you don’t believe me, then consider this: the next time you’re out on the beach, look at the guy next to you. Now picture him reading a book about horrendously violent murders while having a hard on…that was me.
Now after finishing the book, I was informed by my ex-box that we’d be spending another 3 days at the lake. This I was not prepared for. I didn’t have any extra clothes, not much money, and most importantly, nothing to read on the beach while I drank myself into a stupor. So I went out and about looking for a book to read. The bookstores in the lakeside shops were pretty standard. Something with Fabio on the cover, or Shopaholic goes dancing. But somewhere amidst the crap I found a book called A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. I saw that he was the author of High Fidelity, a book I’ve heard a lot about, and decided to buy it.
I finished A Long Way Down, but let me tell you this. It may have been written by an autistic four year old. The book was complete crap. I can’t believe that the publisher received my $14.95 for that crap. It was the most understated piece of literary shit that I’ve ever read.
Enter my epiphany.
I wouldn’t say that High Fidelity was the best book I’ve ever read. It may make the top 20, but it’s certainly not number 1. (See: Glamorama) But A Long Way Down does rank amongst my 5 least favorite books.
How can one man produce what is essentially something great. And something that is complete garbage? I looked within myself to answer.
I am quite fabulous. This I know, and you do too. So in most cases, waking up and brushing my teeth is so fantastic that it ranks amongst my top moments in anybody’s life. Regardless, I had to look at specific moments in my life where people that have never met me have seen odd sides of me. Although I can be known as the “Author of High Fidelity”, what were the situations where people saw me as the “Author of A Long Way Down”? Dig? Here’s a few moments.
2005 à I drunkenly argue with a fat girl at a party. Puke on the deck, shit on the lawn, and wipe my ass on a Cadillac. All within about 30 minutes of each other. Anybody that bears witness to this display must think that I’m pretty retarded and have no control over anything my body takes in or out. I also worked at K-mart for 2 weeks…that alone would make people draw strange conclusions.
2006 à After a window is broken on a car and a laundry basket full of clothes is thrown into the street, I set them ablaze. A few friends and I watch. All that is left in the morning is a few melted buttons and a giant black stain. Anybody that sees this probably thinks that I’m a felon and a pyromaniac. I am both, but do not partake in either on a regular basis.
2007 à During an insane beer pong winning streak (12 games) I am completely wasted and shit talking any challengers. Most of the people at the party do not know who I am. Although I am getting laughs for the most of the night, I start getting cocky. My teammate and I are doing trick shots against these two girls. Both of which are cute, but very young. I am doing shots blindfolded, left-handed, and my psyche outs pretty much consist of me dropping my shorts.
After an incredible comeback, I am defeated. I take this opportunity to slap my remaining beers at my competitors, soaking both women in warm, stale beer. The crowd is not amused and although I refuse to apologize and leave the party, I can’t imagine my actions are referred to as classy.
2008 à Any combination of the words “drunk”, “naked”, “pass out”, and “open apartment windows” should do the trick.
So go on and think about what people have seen you at your worst, or even your least normal. And think of all the people you’ve only seen once and didn’t think were very decent people. Perhaps you just saw their “A Long Way Down” when they have a “High Fidelity” sitting on their shelf.
How Profound,
Peace.
I’m a pretty self-aware person. I like to think that I have a pretty good grasp on the types of people that I get along with and the types of people that I do not. I very rarely have large life changing epiphanies, and to be quite honest, this isn’t one. But it still deserves to be out to the masses. This is big enough for me to want to share.
I recently read “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby. This was a popular book from the mid nineties that I had never read, and I’m quite aware that it was made into a movie with that pseudo-homo John Cusack and I had not seen that movie either. Now there wasn’t anything within the content of High Fidelity that I found groundbreaking. It was—however—a great book. Now this in and of itself is not a plug for anybody to read the book. The thing that blew my mind was this: I hate Nick Hornby.
In 2006 I was at the lake with one of my exes. I had decided to bring along Bret Easton Ellis’s “American Psycho” to read on the beach. Those four days of reading were the most captivating and oddly mystifying of my vacation reading career. If you don’t believe me, then consider this: the next time you’re out on the beach, look at the guy next to you. Now picture him reading a book about horrendously violent murders while having a hard on…that was me.
Now after finishing the book, I was informed by my ex-box that we’d be spending another 3 days at the lake. This I was not prepared for. I didn’t have any extra clothes, not much money, and most importantly, nothing to read on the beach while I drank myself into a stupor. So I went out and about looking for a book to read. The bookstores in the lakeside shops were pretty standard. Something with Fabio on the cover, or Shopaholic goes dancing. But somewhere amidst the crap I found a book called A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. I saw that he was the author of High Fidelity, a book I’ve heard a lot about, and decided to buy it.
I finished A Long Way Down, but let me tell you this. It may have been written by an autistic four year old. The book was complete crap. I can’t believe that the publisher received my $14.95 for that crap. It was the most understated piece of literary shit that I’ve ever read.
Enter my epiphany.
I wouldn’t say that High Fidelity was the best book I’ve ever read. It may make the top 20, but it’s certainly not number 1. (See: Glamorama) But A Long Way Down does rank amongst my 5 least favorite books.
How can one man produce what is essentially something great. And something that is complete garbage? I looked within myself to answer.
I am quite fabulous. This I know, and you do too. So in most cases, waking up and brushing my teeth is so fantastic that it ranks amongst my top moments in anybody’s life. Regardless, I had to look at specific moments in my life where people that have never met me have seen odd sides of me. Although I can be known as the “Author of High Fidelity”, what were the situations where people saw me as the “Author of A Long Way Down”? Dig? Here’s a few moments.
2005 à I drunkenly argue with a fat girl at a party. Puke on the deck, shit on the lawn, and wipe my ass on a Cadillac. All within about 30 minutes of each other. Anybody that bears witness to this display must think that I’m pretty retarded and have no control over anything my body takes in or out. I also worked at K-mart for 2 weeks…that alone would make people draw strange conclusions.
2006 à After a window is broken on a car and a laundry basket full of clothes is thrown into the street, I set them ablaze. A few friends and I watch. All that is left in the morning is a few melted buttons and a giant black stain. Anybody that sees this probably thinks that I’m a felon and a pyromaniac. I am both, but do not partake in either on a regular basis.
2007 à During an insane beer pong winning streak (12 games) I am completely wasted and shit talking any challengers. Most of the people at the party do not know who I am. Although I am getting laughs for the most of the night, I start getting cocky. My teammate and I are doing trick shots against these two girls. Both of which are cute, but very young. I am doing shots blindfolded, left-handed, and my psyche outs pretty much consist of me dropping my shorts.
After an incredible comeback, I am defeated. I take this opportunity to slap my remaining beers at my competitors, soaking both women in warm, stale beer. The crowd is not amused and although I refuse to apologize and leave the party, I can’t imagine my actions are referred to as classy.
2008 à Any combination of the words “drunk”, “naked”, “pass out”, and “open apartment windows” should do the trick.
So go on and think about what people have seen you at your worst, or even your least normal. And think of all the people you’ve only seen once and didn’t think were very decent people. Perhaps you just saw their “A Long Way Down” when they have a “High Fidelity” sitting on their shelf.
How Profound,
Peace.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Out of mere curiousity
Ah, I have returned from my long four-day weekend (that’s right, three is just not enough) and I have completely cleared my system of some things I’ve been dying to do. There was copious amounts of hanging around, copious amounts of drinking, copious amounts of driving, and now: copious amounts of using the word copious.
But now that I’ve returned to the dark dreariness of Lincoln, I’m right back where I was when I left. Slightly tired, a little befuddled, and without much food in my refrigerator—the latter being a product of laziness and not economic disposition.
There were a few things that happened over the last 4 days that struck me as strange, thought-provoking, and sometimes even mind-blowing. Let me elaborate with the three biggest things that have occupied my time over the last couple of days.
1. Weather
There was NEVER really a bad moment throughout the entire trip. We went to 4 different places—my friend and I—and everytime we woke up, hung over, covered in body odor and filth, we gathered our things, said our goodbyes, filled up the car with gas, breakfast pizza, coffee, and water, and headed to our next destination. Every time we did this it was a cloudy, dreary scene. But the second we entered the city limits of our destination, the sun came out, the rain stopped, and there was a great amount of beer-drinking weather to be had by all…until of course we woke up the next day, in which it was time to beat the weather to our next location.
During this trip there were tornadoes and severe thunderstorms the day we left, or course we were oblivious to all of this because we were in another location and most likely under the influence.
I’m sure there is some meteorological reason for this phenomenon, but I’m going to just assume it is because the world revolves around me.
2. Relationships
Just a little update on the girl from the gym. I introduced myself, asked her out (I got a maybe…what does that mean?), and have had colloquial conversations with her over the past few days. Nothing major, nothing minor, just…being around I guess. But throughout all the lake watching, fire watching, tv watching, road watching, etc. There is a lot of room for conversation. The one I couldn’t help but becoming most engrossed in is the concept of the relationship. My best friend’s dad had made an interesting assertion about our generation: “Nobody your age dates anymore, either you’re fucking or you’re married.” This was one of the simplest ways I’ve ever heard it put, and quite honestly, it was fabulous.
It is true, we don’t do anything anymore. What is the difference between knowing somebody that you occasionally have sex with, you take out to dinner from time to time, and you talk on the phone every once in a while versus a girl/boyfriend? Essentially dating is just like going up to one of your friends and saying “You’re no longer able to do this with anybody but me”. Where’s the fun in that? I’m not sure, and this is why I’m single.
I’m just completely blow away by why anybody would want to chain themselves down like that. And I know that karma will undoubtedly get me a girlfriend in the near future and I’ll be forced to explain myself, but from where I’m sitting right now (at my desk, at work) I don’t really see a reason to jump into that pool,
3. Humor
I laugh, a lot. I joke around, I’m immature, I fart, all of these things produce laughter. I can’t help but think of all the people I know that probably sat at home and did things like watch C-SPAN or “took the dog on a walk” while I was out meandering through peoples yards after 15 cans of free graduation party beer. These people make me sad.
My buddy had “Grandma’s Boy” on his iPod and we listened to it for part of the 4 hour drive home yesterday. It’s strange that Grandma’s Boy is so funny you don’t even have to watch it to find it hilarious. Without the visual, I found different parts hilarious. I give you a few of my favorite lines, from simply listening to that movie:
“What’s up Douche Bigelow”
“Who else wants to hear about my STD from the Silent Film Era?”
“Alright, I hope it’s a guy with a boner”
“I am a robot, I have a robot vagina”
So anyway, four days, a few learned lessons, many don’t bear much relevance and I’ll do them again, probably soon.
So be happy where you’re at, don’t chain yourself down with people that aren’t drop dead gorgeous and incredibly electric to be around, and just laugh once in a while.
Peace.
But now that I’ve returned to the dark dreariness of Lincoln, I’m right back where I was when I left. Slightly tired, a little befuddled, and without much food in my refrigerator—the latter being a product of laziness and not economic disposition.
There were a few things that happened over the last 4 days that struck me as strange, thought-provoking, and sometimes even mind-blowing. Let me elaborate with the three biggest things that have occupied my time over the last couple of days.
1. Weather
There was NEVER really a bad moment throughout the entire trip. We went to 4 different places—my friend and I—and everytime we woke up, hung over, covered in body odor and filth, we gathered our things, said our goodbyes, filled up the car with gas, breakfast pizza, coffee, and water, and headed to our next destination. Every time we did this it was a cloudy, dreary scene. But the second we entered the city limits of our destination, the sun came out, the rain stopped, and there was a great amount of beer-drinking weather to be had by all…until of course we woke up the next day, in which it was time to beat the weather to our next location.
During this trip there were tornadoes and severe thunderstorms the day we left, or course we were oblivious to all of this because we were in another location and most likely under the influence.
I’m sure there is some meteorological reason for this phenomenon, but I’m going to just assume it is because the world revolves around me.
2. Relationships
Just a little update on the girl from the gym. I introduced myself, asked her out (I got a maybe…what does that mean?), and have had colloquial conversations with her over the past few days. Nothing major, nothing minor, just…being around I guess. But throughout all the lake watching, fire watching, tv watching, road watching, etc. There is a lot of room for conversation. The one I couldn’t help but becoming most engrossed in is the concept of the relationship. My best friend’s dad had made an interesting assertion about our generation: “Nobody your age dates anymore, either you’re fucking or you’re married.” This was one of the simplest ways I’ve ever heard it put, and quite honestly, it was fabulous.
It is true, we don’t do anything anymore. What is the difference between knowing somebody that you occasionally have sex with, you take out to dinner from time to time, and you talk on the phone every once in a while versus a girl/boyfriend? Essentially dating is just like going up to one of your friends and saying “You’re no longer able to do this with anybody but me”. Where’s the fun in that? I’m not sure, and this is why I’m single.
I’m just completely blow away by why anybody would want to chain themselves down like that. And I know that karma will undoubtedly get me a girlfriend in the near future and I’ll be forced to explain myself, but from where I’m sitting right now (at my desk, at work) I don’t really see a reason to jump into that pool,
3. Humor
I laugh, a lot. I joke around, I’m immature, I fart, all of these things produce laughter. I can’t help but think of all the people I know that probably sat at home and did things like watch C-SPAN or “took the dog on a walk” while I was out meandering through peoples yards after 15 cans of free graduation party beer. These people make me sad.
My buddy had “Grandma’s Boy” on his iPod and we listened to it for part of the 4 hour drive home yesterday. It’s strange that Grandma’s Boy is so funny you don’t even have to watch it to find it hilarious. Without the visual, I found different parts hilarious. I give you a few of my favorite lines, from simply listening to that movie:
“What’s up Douche Bigelow”
“Who else wants to hear about my STD from the Silent Film Era?”
“Alright, I hope it’s a guy with a boner”
“I am a robot, I have a robot vagina”
So anyway, four days, a few learned lessons, many don’t bear much relevance and I’ll do them again, probably soon.
So be happy where you’re at, don’t chain yourself down with people that aren’t drop dead gorgeous and incredibly electric to be around, and just laugh once in a while.
Peace.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
The randoms
Waitress: What can I get you guys this morning? Milk, Coffee, Water?
Me: Water
Matt: Water
Trev: Same…water, wait no, yeah, wait…coffee…yeah coffee.
Waitress: okay I’ll get that out to you.
Matt: Make up your fucking mind, man.
Trev: I figure, it’s cheap, it’s only like 26 cents, wait, I bet it’s like three bucks, fuck.
Matt: did you just win an argument with yourself?
Jenna: What are you doing this weekend?
Me: I’m actually taking Friday off, going to make it a 4 day weekend.
Jenna: So what are you going to do?
Me: I’m not sure, it’s supposed to be shitty out.
Jenna: Then go to work.
Me: the point of taking vacation is that I don’t have to go to work.
Jenna: you don’t actually work at work anyway.
Me: good point.
Dad: I thought you were coming here this weekend.
Me: Yeah, but it’s going to shitty out, I won’t get to golf or hang in the pool.
Dad: So what are you going to do in Lincoln?
Me: Probably just get drunk.
Dad: You can do that here.
Me: Yeah, but when I pass out naked here, I don’t feel so awkward when I wake up.
Me: How was your first day in the real world.
Matt: gay.
Me: That can’t bode well for the future.
Matt: It most certainly can not.
Me: Water
Matt: Water
Trev: Same…water, wait no, yeah, wait…coffee…yeah coffee.
Waitress: okay I’ll get that out to you.
Matt: Make up your fucking mind, man.
Trev: I figure, it’s cheap, it’s only like 26 cents, wait, I bet it’s like three bucks, fuck.
Matt: did you just win an argument with yourself?
Jenna: What are you doing this weekend?
Me: I’m actually taking Friday off, going to make it a 4 day weekend.
Jenna: So what are you going to do?
Me: I’m not sure, it’s supposed to be shitty out.
Jenna: Then go to work.
Me: the point of taking vacation is that I don’t have to go to work.
Jenna: you don’t actually work at work anyway.
Me: good point.
Dad: I thought you were coming here this weekend.
Me: Yeah, but it’s going to shitty out, I won’t get to golf or hang in the pool.
Dad: So what are you going to do in Lincoln?
Me: Probably just get drunk.
Dad: You can do that here.
Me: Yeah, but when I pass out naked here, I don’t feel so awkward when I wake up.
Me: How was your first day in the real world.
Matt: gay.
Me: That can’t bode well for the future.
Matt: It most certainly can not.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Letting one go...
There are many things that come along with being a guy. You must drink more, care less, and generally keep your breath minty fresh—although the guy that sat next to me in French class in high school would beg the differ. But one thing that is pretty standard with being a buy is having a good “game”. Now I’m not talking about beer pong game, flippy cup game, or sipa-sipa game—though these are extremely important. I’m talking of course of your generic “getting laid” game.
Now all guys have it, or at least they think they have it. I’m not going to embarrass myself by trying to make you believe that I possess the ultimate game. I’m actually currently in a “game change” which is quite comparable to a golfers swing change…it’s a little rough at first (ex: David Duval) but it ultimately works itself out in the end (ex: Phil Mickelson). What I am going to share with you is a story that happened last night. Warning: if you like happy endings, this does not have one, in fact I will ruin the ending of this story right now, think Bill Buckner in game 6 of the 1986 world series or Jean Van de Velde in the 1999 British Open. What I did last night is comparable to striking out in slow-pitch….sober.
I decided last night to work out a little later. Usually I try to get over to my gym’s facilities a little after 5, but last night I ended up going at 6, I figured this wouldn’t change much, but I was ultimately incorrect. At 6 is apparently when the sexiest girl that has ever graced the Lakeview Park workout area decides is a good time to work out. I pretend not to notice her (which is impossible) and it is just her and I in this small room together. We both have iPods on…I don’t expect much to happen.
Around 2 minutes into the workout—in which I am staring at the ground while doing upright bench press to avoid eye contact—she gets off the treadmill and bends down to make eye contact with me. I pause my iPod and give her the “what?” face, accompanied by a hand to my ear. “You can change the channel,” she says, even though I’m not facing the t.v. I turn around. “No, I love Hannah Montana” I say. She laughs, I smile. I unpause the iPod and get back to work. About a minute later she gets off the treadmill and grabs her towel, a clear indication that she is leaving. I decide to ask her “why are you working out inside when it’s such a nice night to go running?” to which we get into a conversation about the horrible bug situation that comes along with living by a lake.
She then asks me “so are you new here?” which I take a wide open “I’m interested in you” tactic. Generally girls don’t make small talk with guys. And if they do, they rarely instigate this (unless drunk at a bar). I tell her where I’m from, then she asks what brought me to Nebraska, then where I work, then what building I live in. She is bombarding me with questionnaire questions—all of which with underlying real questions.
“So did you move here alone?” which means “are you seeing anybody?”
“Where do you work?” which means “can you afford to take me out sometime?”
“Which building do you live in?” which means “how long is the ‘walk of shame’ going to take for me to get from your apt. to mine the day after we drunkenly bump uglies”
I answer her questions and can instantly tell that this is going in the right direction. She is essentially putting the ball on a tee for me and standing back for me to hit it out of the park.
Suddenly I’m done with my workout. I should also note that not only did she stand around and talk to me, she got back on the treadmill for a “second run?” I guess.
Instead of asking her out, or getting her number, or anything. I just put on my shades and told her I was going to try and brave the outdoor run—regardless of the bug situation. She gave me a very disappointed look, as if she had failed, and told me “good luck” which could be interpreted as “good luck not swallowing a swarm of bugs” or “good luck ever meeting a woman ever…have you not seen the signs? I want you!”
I knew it was a dumb idea to leave that gym without closing the deal. I got about 2 miles out on my run and stopped…paused my iPod and said to my self “you are an idiot”.
Sad. Sad. Sad.
Now all guys have it, or at least they think they have it. I’m not going to embarrass myself by trying to make you believe that I possess the ultimate game. I’m actually currently in a “game change” which is quite comparable to a golfers swing change…it’s a little rough at first (ex: David Duval) but it ultimately works itself out in the end (ex: Phil Mickelson). What I am going to share with you is a story that happened last night. Warning: if you like happy endings, this does not have one, in fact I will ruin the ending of this story right now, think Bill Buckner in game 6 of the 1986 world series or Jean Van de Velde in the 1999 British Open. What I did last night is comparable to striking out in slow-pitch….sober.
I decided last night to work out a little later. Usually I try to get over to my gym’s facilities a little after 5, but last night I ended up going at 6, I figured this wouldn’t change much, but I was ultimately incorrect. At 6 is apparently when the sexiest girl that has ever graced the Lakeview Park workout area decides is a good time to work out. I pretend not to notice her (which is impossible) and it is just her and I in this small room together. We both have iPods on…I don’t expect much to happen.
Around 2 minutes into the workout—in which I am staring at the ground while doing upright bench press to avoid eye contact—she gets off the treadmill and bends down to make eye contact with me. I pause my iPod and give her the “what?” face, accompanied by a hand to my ear. “You can change the channel,” she says, even though I’m not facing the t.v. I turn around. “No, I love Hannah Montana” I say. She laughs, I smile. I unpause the iPod and get back to work. About a minute later she gets off the treadmill and grabs her towel, a clear indication that she is leaving. I decide to ask her “why are you working out inside when it’s such a nice night to go running?” to which we get into a conversation about the horrible bug situation that comes along with living by a lake.
She then asks me “so are you new here?” which I take a wide open “I’m interested in you” tactic. Generally girls don’t make small talk with guys. And if they do, they rarely instigate this (unless drunk at a bar). I tell her where I’m from, then she asks what brought me to Nebraska, then where I work, then what building I live in. She is bombarding me with questionnaire questions—all of which with underlying real questions.
“So did you move here alone?” which means “are you seeing anybody?”
“Where do you work?” which means “can you afford to take me out sometime?”
“Which building do you live in?” which means “how long is the ‘walk of shame’ going to take for me to get from your apt. to mine the day after we drunkenly bump uglies”
I answer her questions and can instantly tell that this is going in the right direction. She is essentially putting the ball on a tee for me and standing back for me to hit it out of the park.
Suddenly I’m done with my workout. I should also note that not only did she stand around and talk to me, she got back on the treadmill for a “second run?” I guess.
Instead of asking her out, or getting her number, or anything. I just put on my shades and told her I was going to try and brave the outdoor run—regardless of the bug situation. She gave me a very disappointed look, as if she had failed, and told me “good luck” which could be interpreted as “good luck not swallowing a swarm of bugs” or “good luck ever meeting a woman ever…have you not seen the signs? I want you!”
I knew it was a dumb idea to leave that gym without closing the deal. I got about 2 miles out on my run and stopped…paused my iPod and said to my self “you are an idiot”.
Sad. Sad. Sad.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
The most confusing thing is a simple mind
Jenna: Hey what are you doing?
Me: Golfin'
Jenna: I should have guessed, what are you doing later?
Me: I don't know
Jenna: Every single time I call you, you're drinking, golfing, or both...do you do anything else?
Me: I took a shower this morning.
Jenna: You're my everything.
Me: Hey I got a box in the mail.
Matt: Who's it from?
Me: Ahhh, it's from my mom, it's going to be pants.
Matt: Pants?
Me: If I get a box from my mom, it's going to be pants. I've got a whole closet full of dress pants, but every week I'm getting 3 pairs in the mail from my mom...
Matt: Linde, that's excitement.
Ashley: Nick, we should date.
Me: What?
Ashley: We hang out, we talk, we're practically dating.
Me: That's all dating is? Hanging out and talking?
Ashley: That and sex.
Me: Golfin'
Jenna: I should have guessed, what are you doing later?
Me: I don't know
Jenna: Every single time I call you, you're drinking, golfing, or both...do you do anything else?
Me: I took a shower this morning.
Jenna: You're my everything.
Me: Hey I got a box in the mail.
Matt: Who's it from?
Me: Ahhh, it's from my mom, it's going to be pants.
Matt: Pants?
Me: If I get a box from my mom, it's going to be pants. I've got a whole closet full of dress pants, but every week I'm getting 3 pairs in the mail from my mom...
Matt: Linde, that's excitement.
Ashley: Nick, we should date.
Me: What?
Ashley: We hang out, we talk, we're practically dating.
Me: That's all dating is? Hanging out and talking?
Ashley: That and sex.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
JJ: A letter of complaint.
There are a lot of uses for the Internet. Most of which surrounding the exhibitionism of Asian women and donkeys and some of which pertaining to legitimate knowledge (wikiquote, askmen.com, etc). But some people use this web of world...wide...ness...as a social networking tool. I am using this medium to explain my displeasure with a man named JJ. So if you're out there JJ...this is about you, and if you want to sue me for defamation of character, go right ahead because I have 3 witnesses to your atrocious behavior...perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, perhaps I should inform all of you readers what has exactly happened, perhaps I should stop saying perhaps...
Between posing as a 14 year old girl on MySpace and enjoying the occasional game of Kerplunk! I find myself in need of nourishment. This entails going to restaurants, sometimes with other people. On this night--yes this night--as in May 4th, 2008 a few friends and I partook in the classiest of Italian establishments outside of Fazolis: The Macaroni Grill.
Now in my limited experiences at TMG I've received concierges service, usually from a cute waitress who is able to write her name in crayon on the white-paper tablecloth UPSIDE-DOWN and put little hearts around it to accent the name "Ashley" it is quite a neat trick--it's not Copperfield--but lets get real, she makes $3.45/hr.
Me and my company (1 man, 2 ladies) were seated and told that our waiter would be with us shortly. Waiter...as in man. Needless to say I immediately let out a large sigh and began hoping for some gratification under the table from the ladies in attendance. And then he came: all decked out in his white collared shirt, his ravishing tie, and his shag haircut with scruff beard--hardly the hygiene of somebody I want handling my food.
"I'm JJ, I'll be your server tonight.:
and....
and....
and..........
nothing.
He didn't write his name on the paper table cloth or ANYTHING. I was absolutely stunned, disgusted would be a good word to use in this instance. Who is this JJ? Why does he think that he doesn't have to adhere to Macaroni Grill protocol? I could only make one assertion: He was on LSD. This is not a generalization. 10 times out of 10 if you work at a food service restaurant and you don't follow the guidelines of said restaurant, you are on hallucinogens. Don't believe me? Ask my friend Chad why he got fired from Cold Stone...hard to remember the tip song when you're tripping balls on mushrooms. And my (now ex) friend Shawna? Yeah, apparently if you don't rock the birthday song at Happy Joe's your ass is out! (They also don't take kindly to drinking on the job or stealing from the register we found out).
So Mr. "I'm too good to do my job correctly" took our orders. 3 diet cokes and an Iced Tea...I was planning on consuming hard alcohol, but this guy was already on my bad side and I didn't want to risk having to go back into treatment for assaulting a food service worker, even if he didn't write his name on the tablepapercloth thingy.
We place our orders and things are going fine. Naturally, we're in Nebraska and the table of elderly citizens sitting behind us are engaging in a highly racist conversation while their black waiter brings them refills. This kind of thing is more common in the Midwest than you'd think...of perhaps you think we're all bigoted racists...to which you'd be more or less correct.
We too received refills as we finished our drinks, but there was something not right about the situation. As we sat there...new drinks in hand, our old glasses just hung out. Sitting on the table...4 glasses full of ice with straws in them...cluttering up the place. I occupied my time by stealing crayons from the kids at the table behind me and drawing a rocket ship and a calendar from the year 2001...this was all very symbolic and I topped it off with an Ingmar Bergmann quote. At least somebody is using the crayons and the paper, JJ sure seemed above it.
Our dinners are then brought out...with nearly no room to put them...JJ just pushes shit everywhere. He also mistakes everybody's order and came without one meal entirely: mine.
I sit and wait...wondering why it takes 25 minutes to prepare spaghetti when I could make it at home....blindfolded....for a fraction of the time (and price). But alas, I sit quietly...not wanting to hurt poor JJ's feelings on account of his LSD-induced fragile state of mind. After another 5 minutes my food has arrived. At our request he takes some of the glasses back, saying "whoop, here we go" as he stacks each one. Now we are left with 3 glasses, all in need of re-filling, I do not have a glass all together and I have received only one meatball on my spaghetti, even though I paid an extra $3 to have them.
I eat the entire meal without a drink...which was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I got it in my head that my meatball was some kind of animal testicle (they are large and round and could easily be mistaken for such) and I need something to wash it down. Where is JJ? Where the fuck is my soda? He comes back about 15 minutes later (I've finished) and tells me that they ran out of meatballs (shouldn't I have been informed of this earlier) and that his manager will come out and talk to me--as if this is necessary. He also says that my meal will probably be comped (I'm not even 100% sure what that restaurant jargon means) and that they will bring me some meatballs out later. As if I have the time to wait around and have testicles dropped on my plate...*insert your own joke here*
So by this time it's pretty much your standard "get me out of here" situation and he brings the checks out. Now instead of doing this in literary form, I will break down the ticketing situation in list form to help you understand what the hell happened (I'm still confused).
The first time JJ brings us our tickets.
1 check.
Problem: we want it split up.
Take two:
2 checks, mine is $28, the other is $30. We put our cards down.
After scanning them:
He gives the receipts to the women, which makes no sense, they give them to us.
2 checks, mine is $28, the other now has a top copy of $30 and a bottom copy of $42.
We inquire....
After taking the card and re-scanning it:
He gives us receipts...again to the wrong person.
2 checks: mine is $28 (I felt like I was donating to the handicapped so I left him the abysmal tip of $3, my friend was going to tip $6...this was not a smart move).
The ladies ask for boxes, he brings them tins with lids...which isn't a box at all...I begin wondering if my soda was in fact Diet Coke or if I was duped into drinking Diet Pepsi...I actually like DP better...but he should have been honest with me.
I don't think I will ever go to another Macaroni Grill in my life...for 1 the service sucked, for 2 I don't like eating testicles.
I will also never trust a food service worked that goes by initials. Sketchy shit, people.
So if you're on the net, JJ and you decided to google your profession and your name..." JJ + "The Macaroni Grill" + "Lincoln, Nebraska" " I hope you find this....I also hope you find a new line of work...and quit the LSD. We all suffer because of it.
Oh, and I never received my extra meatballs...and the manager never showed up.
Between posing as a 14 year old girl on MySpace and enjoying the occasional game of Kerplunk! I find myself in need of nourishment. This entails going to restaurants, sometimes with other people. On this night--yes this night--as in May 4th, 2008 a few friends and I partook in the classiest of Italian establishments outside of Fazolis: The Macaroni Grill.
Now in my limited experiences at TMG I've received concierges service, usually from a cute waitress who is able to write her name in crayon on the white-paper tablecloth UPSIDE-DOWN and put little hearts around it to accent the name "Ashley" it is quite a neat trick--it's not Copperfield--but lets get real, she makes $3.45/hr.
Me and my company (1 man, 2 ladies) were seated and told that our waiter would be with us shortly. Waiter...as in man. Needless to say I immediately let out a large sigh and began hoping for some gratification under the table from the ladies in attendance. And then he came: all decked out in his white collared shirt, his ravishing tie, and his shag haircut with scruff beard--hardly the hygiene of somebody I want handling my food.
"I'm JJ, I'll be your server tonight.:
and....
and....
and..........
nothing.
He didn't write his name on the paper table cloth or ANYTHING. I was absolutely stunned, disgusted would be a good word to use in this instance. Who is this JJ? Why does he think that he doesn't have to adhere to Macaroni Grill protocol? I could only make one assertion: He was on LSD. This is not a generalization. 10 times out of 10 if you work at a food service restaurant and you don't follow the guidelines of said restaurant, you are on hallucinogens. Don't believe me? Ask my friend Chad why he got fired from Cold Stone...hard to remember the tip song when you're tripping balls on mushrooms. And my (now ex) friend Shawna? Yeah, apparently if you don't rock the birthday song at Happy Joe's your ass is out! (They also don't take kindly to drinking on the job or stealing from the register we found out).
So Mr. "I'm too good to do my job correctly" took our orders. 3 diet cokes and an Iced Tea...I was planning on consuming hard alcohol, but this guy was already on my bad side and I didn't want to risk having to go back into treatment for assaulting a food service worker, even if he didn't write his name on the tablepapercloth thingy.
We place our orders and things are going fine. Naturally, we're in Nebraska and the table of elderly citizens sitting behind us are engaging in a highly racist conversation while their black waiter brings them refills. This kind of thing is more common in the Midwest than you'd think...of perhaps you think we're all bigoted racists...to which you'd be more or less correct.
We too received refills as we finished our drinks, but there was something not right about the situation. As we sat there...new drinks in hand, our old glasses just hung out. Sitting on the table...4 glasses full of ice with straws in them...cluttering up the place. I occupied my time by stealing crayons from the kids at the table behind me and drawing a rocket ship and a calendar from the year 2001...this was all very symbolic and I topped it off with an Ingmar Bergmann quote. At least somebody is using the crayons and the paper, JJ sure seemed above it.
Our dinners are then brought out...with nearly no room to put them...JJ just pushes shit everywhere. He also mistakes everybody's order and came without one meal entirely: mine.
I sit and wait...wondering why it takes 25 minutes to prepare spaghetti when I could make it at home....blindfolded....for a fraction of the time (and price). But alas, I sit quietly...not wanting to hurt poor JJ's feelings on account of his LSD-induced fragile state of mind. After another 5 minutes my food has arrived. At our request he takes some of the glasses back, saying "whoop, here we go" as he stacks each one. Now we are left with 3 glasses, all in need of re-filling, I do not have a glass all together and I have received only one meatball on my spaghetti, even though I paid an extra $3 to have them.
I eat the entire meal without a drink...which was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I got it in my head that my meatball was some kind of animal testicle (they are large and round and could easily be mistaken for such) and I need something to wash it down. Where is JJ? Where the fuck is my soda? He comes back about 15 minutes later (I've finished) and tells me that they ran out of meatballs (shouldn't I have been informed of this earlier) and that his manager will come out and talk to me--as if this is necessary. He also says that my meal will probably be comped (I'm not even 100% sure what that restaurant jargon means) and that they will bring me some meatballs out later. As if I have the time to wait around and have testicles dropped on my plate...*insert your own joke here*
So by this time it's pretty much your standard "get me out of here" situation and he brings the checks out. Now instead of doing this in literary form, I will break down the ticketing situation in list form to help you understand what the hell happened (I'm still confused).
The first time JJ brings us our tickets.
1 check.
Problem: we want it split up.
Take two:
2 checks, mine is $28, the other is $30. We put our cards down.
After scanning them:
He gives the receipts to the women, which makes no sense, they give them to us.
2 checks, mine is $28, the other now has a top copy of $30 and a bottom copy of $42.
We inquire....
After taking the card and re-scanning it:
He gives us receipts...again to the wrong person.
2 checks: mine is $28 (I felt like I was donating to the handicapped so I left him the abysmal tip of $3, my friend was going to tip $6...this was not a smart move).
The ladies ask for boxes, he brings them tins with lids...which isn't a box at all...I begin wondering if my soda was in fact Diet Coke or if I was duped into drinking Diet Pepsi...I actually like DP better...but he should have been honest with me.
I don't think I will ever go to another Macaroni Grill in my life...for 1 the service sucked, for 2 I don't like eating testicles.
I will also never trust a food service worked that goes by initials. Sketchy shit, people.
So if you're on the net, JJ and you decided to google your profession and your name..." JJ + "The Macaroni Grill" + "Lincoln, Nebraska" " I hope you find this....I also hope you find a new line of work...and quit the LSD. We all suffer because of it.
Oh, and I never received my extra meatballs...and the manager never showed up.
Friday, May 2, 2008
The Truth about Germs
*After using a public restroom*
Me: So you going to wash your hands there, chief?
Trev: Ummm...I didn't really, you know, touch it.
Me: Neither did I.
Trev: Do you usually wash your hands?
Me: Only if there's somebody else in the bathroom with me.
Trev: Same.
Me: And when they don't you're usually like "Gross, that guy didn't wash his hands."
Trev: That's life.
Me: I think if you slicked your hair back, you could pull of being Phil Mickelson at a bar.
Matt: That's what I need...people coming up to me and asking me questions I can't answer.
Me: Like what?
Matt: Ultimately, nothing golf related. If I saw Phil Mickelson at a bar I'd ask him "What the hell are you doing while everybody else on the PGA TOUR is--I don't know--getting better?"
Me: hmmm
Matt: To which I'd have to reply, "Eating a bowl of apple jacks and watching cartoons"
Me: You think that'd get you laid?
Matt: For sure, with models probably, crazy hotel PGA TOUR sex.
Random Girl: That's a lot of beer.
Me: Yeah.
Random Girl: Didn't I see you running this afternoon?
Me: Probably.
Random Girl: And you drink that much beer?
Me: It's a cycle.
Random Girl: Wow.
Me: I don't do it at the same time.
Random Girl: what?
Me: Drinking and Running.
Random Girl: Oh I thought you meant drinking and driving.
Me: What?
Random Girl: Huh?
Me: So you going to wash your hands there, chief?
Trev: Ummm...I didn't really, you know, touch it.
Me: Neither did I.
Trev: Do you usually wash your hands?
Me: Only if there's somebody else in the bathroom with me.
Trev: Same.
Me: And when they don't you're usually like "Gross, that guy didn't wash his hands."
Trev: That's life.
Me: I think if you slicked your hair back, you could pull of being Phil Mickelson at a bar.
Matt: That's what I need...people coming up to me and asking me questions I can't answer.
Me: Like what?
Matt: Ultimately, nothing golf related. If I saw Phil Mickelson at a bar I'd ask him "What the hell are you doing while everybody else on the PGA TOUR is--I don't know--getting better?"
Me: hmmm
Matt: To which I'd have to reply, "Eating a bowl of apple jacks and watching cartoons"
Me: You think that'd get you laid?
Matt: For sure, with models probably, crazy hotel PGA TOUR sex.
Random Girl: That's a lot of beer.
Me: Yeah.
Random Girl: Didn't I see you running this afternoon?
Me: Probably.
Random Girl: And you drink that much beer?
Me: It's a cycle.
Random Girl: Wow.
Me: I don't do it at the same time.
Random Girl: what?
Me: Drinking and Running.
Random Girl: Oh I thought you meant drinking and driving.
Me: What?
Random Girl: Huh?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Musings...Sex and the city...and goats.
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Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Conversation with Matt
N: "I'm thinking I might get married."
M: "AHHHHAHAHAHAHA, good for you."
N: "Seriously, dude."
M: "Some girl let you teabag her, and now you're going to marry her?"
N: "No dude, I'm going to marry Bo's sister, Michelle."
M: "why?"
N: "I don't know...she has nothing to do...we're both single, I'll let her move to Nebraska and I'll take care of her and shit."
M: "Awwwwww that's not good."
N: "Then I'd get to hang with Bo all the time--"
M: "--not good at all."
N: "We'd be brother in law--"
M: "--Fuck me."
N: "You're really against this aren't you?"
M: "Fuck." N: "Alright...maybe I won't."
M: "Nah--I just locked my keys in my car...I'm going to have to call you back."
M: "AHHHHAHAHAHAHA, good for you."
N: "Seriously, dude."
M: "Some girl let you teabag her, and now you're going to marry her?"
N: "No dude, I'm going to marry Bo's sister, Michelle."
M: "why?"
N: "I don't know...she has nothing to do...we're both single, I'll let her move to Nebraska and I'll take care of her and shit."
M: "Awwwwww that's not good."
N: "Then I'd get to hang with Bo all the time--"
M: "--not good at all."
N: "We'd be brother in law--"
M: "--Fuck me."
N: "You're really against this aren't you?"
M: "Fuck." N: "Alright...maybe I won't."
M: "Nah--I just locked my keys in my car...I'm going to have to call you back."
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Record...
It happens to everybody sooner or later. It is as natural as masturbation and turns women on just as much...it is of course: Pooping your Pants.
Now I tend to be competitive by nature, from drinking games to old-school Nintendo, you can bet that not only am I going to shit-talk you through the duration of our competition, I'm going to continuously downgrade you in public for the rest of the night based on my performance (it should be noted that on the very rare occasion that I lose, the following reasons are often brought to the forefront of conversations: cheating, unclear rules, swamp-ass, etc.)
And there is one thing that my competitiveness will not allow--and that is to let all the 2 year olds have all the good pants-pooping stories. It's just not fair, there are plenty of grown adults that have stories that go far beyond the "too much mashed peas" bit that I keep reading about all over the net. So without further adieu...I give you, "The Record"
May 15, 2005
At the time I found myself living in wonderful Cedar Falls, Iowa...home of the University of Northern Iowa and from what I can remember, a gas station, a bar, and a chinese restaurant--although don't quote me on that because the gas station may not have actually been there--I can't be relied on for any pertinant information pre-2007.
Regardless, I was moving into an apartment with a couple of guys that you'll undoubtedly hear more in upcoming articles. They being 2 of my best friends: Trev and Bo. We had rented a small 4-bedroom place that we would share with a guy named Garet who, for all intents and purposes, may be the gayest man I have in my memory bank. I know what you're thinking that he wasn't really gay...and that he just wore skin tight tank tops in the middle of winter, ate nothing but cool whip and iced coffee, spent 50 minutes in the bathroom each day, and had 8 x 10 glossy photos of himself layed out on his dresser at all times--just in case he needed to prove to his daterape victim that he was indeed "taking his modeling seriously" you would be correct in assuming all of these things.
But I digress--
This story actually begins with the move-in. Being underage at the time, we needed to stock our new fridges with enough beer to get us through our innagural shit-show, this of course required the help of a few 21 year-olds, most notably my brother and his girlfriend who (along with other friends and family) stocked our apartment with about nine 30-packs of Busch Light...not my drink of preference, but nobody was employed at the time and well....when in Rome...
When we finally got everything moved in and running we began doing what all college guys do: we drank beer and played video games. There was something awe-inspiringly liberating about shit-talking my friends without repercussion from resident assistants, which at UNI is pretty synnonomous with "Born again Christians, closet homosexuals, or the faceless guy from High School that got stood up at prom by the girl in the wheelchair".
We invited some girls over and got the night started in fashion--of course we were young and had no intentions of ruining our place the first night and decided to keep things low key with a game of "circle of death" with the occasional beer bong thrown in for good measure.
By 10 things were getting a little hazy, I walked into my bedroom a couple times and bellyflopped on my bed for no reason other than I finally could do whatever I wanted to and this was something that excited me.
Periodically throughout the night my brother would ride past our screen windows on a stolen bike and drunkenly tell us to time him while he went around the block, only to show up 30 minutes later wearing a beer dispensing helment that was filled with Jim Beam on one side and a bottle of Mylanta on the other...brothers are crazy.
By 12 I was officially shit-faced. There were going to be many nights in which I was this wasted (many of which in public, but those are stories for another time). This was the first time that I was wasted, in my own place, with my friends, with a bunch of girls, and I was taking this thing home.
Mistake #1 -- Beer bong contest. I've already told you that I was competitive, beer for beer--through a funnel? Let's do this. Beer number 1--> nothing but silk..I take a knee and let the taste of funnel cake and abortion excess that is Busch Light run its course to the pit of my stomach. I gently rise, wiping my mouth with my arm and grab the tube, nodding to my competitor that I am ready for another. Beer number 2--> I am money. I will not be stopped, part of me actually thinks that the fact that I'm already drunk is the ninja-like mentality that will bring me to dominance. Beer number 6 --> I waver...ever so slightly misjudging my weight as I get up of one knee. I look like a parkinson's patient who has just be denied a marriage proposal. I look around the room and see nothing but neon lights. Beer number 9--> My mouth fills with water as I make it to my feet, I can no longer take this--suddenly I'm being shook by Bo in celebration. In my addled state I didn't notice my competitor had keeled over, potentially dead from alcohol poisoning. I slur a smile and raise my arm in victory, victory tastes delicious.
Mistake #2 -- Victory tastes delicious, and so does a Jimmy John's sandwich when you've been drinking for 9 hours. Conveniently placed just down the parking lot from our apartment door is a Jimmy John's. We proceed.
It is now 2 am and the store is closing. I make small talk with the sandwich maker who informs me that at the end of the night, they throw away the bread....let me get this straight--I'm an unemployed college student who can hardly spend $1.29 on a loaf of gas station brand bread and you throw loaves away at night!? I can't believe my ears and promptly have the employee bag me 10 loaves. Let's see...things to do: Get Groceries? Check.
I take the loaves of bread, along with my 3 number 1's with me back to my apartment where the girls have invited some more people over and my brother stops by on the stolen bike again to claim that he "will dominate any bitches ass"--brother's are crazy.
Mistake #3 -- After consuming all 3 sub sandwiches I feel less drunk than before. I am getting incredibly tired and actually find the notion of sleeping alone in my own room more enticing than attempting to get a girl in there with me. I crumple my sandwich wrappers into balls and throw them on top of the near-100 beer cans stacked on top of our coffee table.
I give a half-attempted wave to my guests and roommates and then bee-line for my bed room. After closing the door I strip down naked and decide that this is the most comfortable way to sleep.
Mistake #4 -- As I lay down to embrace my drunken slumber I get a rumbling in my stomach. It doesn't seem life threatening, so I roll over onto my back. The light in the middle of the bedroom circles above me and I flinch, thinking the glass is going to come crashing down onto me. Like a character in an Alfred Hitchcock movie I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes in an attempt to make the spinning stop. My stomach turns with each rotation of the room around me. I know deep in my heart "I'm going to puke".
But I never puke. Honest to god, from birth til now I can count on two hands the times I've vomited in my life.
I throw the covers off of me, revealing my out of shape naked body to anybody who wants to look through my open blinds. I decide that I have no time to get dressed, but I also don't want 10 people out in my living room to see my naked body grossly contorting its way to the bathroom. I do what any sane man would do in my position: I pressed my face against my screen window and tried to puke through the screen onto the sidewalk below. Here's a tip for all you up and coming drunkards out there: this is not effective.
I try to choke down what is essential 24 inches of sub sandwich and over 30 beers rumbling in my stomach. I throw on a pair of khaki shorts...unbuttoned, unzipped over my bare ass and run frantically through the party and into the bathroom. The last thing I remember hearing was "he's gonna puke" from one of the girls in my living room.
During the tormentingly violent heaves of vomit all over the bathroom I realize that the gale forces that come with every heave has lead to my worst nightmare: I'm shitting myself.
As projectiles escape me from both ends I can't help but put my face on the toilet seat...a seat so new in our apartment that it hasn't even been sat on yet.
There is a knock on the door: it's my buddy Bo.
"Linde, you alright in there?"
"Yeah," I reply, frantically grabbing every towel I can off the racks and pushing the vomit around the bathroom.
"You puking?"
"Nah dude, I've got it."
For some reason I thought the towels would absorb the vomit, but it's just like the paper towels in junior high science class, nothing really gets picked up, it just gets pushed around a bunch.
I take some toilet paper and wipe my ass...it looks like I just dipped a roll of angel soft into a fondue pot.
A knock again. This time it's a girls voice.
"Can I use the bathroom? I really have to pee."
"Uhhhh, just a minute--" I finish off what appears to be most of the vomit and throw the towels into the trash can.
I open the door to expose 4 horrified faces. Trev and Bo look at the bathroom along with two girls that were at the party. I look at their faces and then turn and look at myself in the mirror. I'm completely covered in vomit, my genitals are hanging out of the unzipped khaki pants, and there is poop streaks all over the tile floor.
"Linde....." Bo says, utterly speechless.
I walk past them and go to bed.
The next morning our apartment is spotless, it appears that the following things happened after I passed out.
Bo cleaned up all of my poop and excrement, which took him until around 4 am.
Bo then received a blowjob from the last remaining girl at the party.
Bo then blew up an air mattress by his mouth which took him 2 hours to complete.
My brother rode by on a bike and yelled "I dominate bitches" as he threw the bike into the parking lot and slept outside his front door at 8 am.
5/15/05 was the last time I vomited. The record was in tact until 3/30/08 when I puked...that time I was also naked, but in my apartment, where I was forced to clean up after myself.
Now I tend to be competitive by nature, from drinking games to old-school Nintendo, you can bet that not only am I going to shit-talk you through the duration of our competition, I'm going to continuously downgrade you in public for the rest of the night based on my performance (it should be noted that on the very rare occasion that I lose, the following reasons are often brought to the forefront of conversations: cheating, unclear rules, swamp-ass, etc.)
And there is one thing that my competitiveness will not allow--and that is to let all the 2 year olds have all the good pants-pooping stories. It's just not fair, there are plenty of grown adults that have stories that go far beyond the "too much mashed peas" bit that I keep reading about all over the net. So without further adieu...I give you, "The Record"
May 15, 2005
At the time I found myself living in wonderful Cedar Falls, Iowa...home of the University of Northern Iowa and from what I can remember, a gas station, a bar, and a chinese restaurant--although don't quote me on that because the gas station may not have actually been there--I can't be relied on for any pertinant information pre-2007.
Regardless, I was moving into an apartment with a couple of guys that you'll undoubtedly hear more in upcoming articles. They being 2 of my best friends: Trev and Bo. We had rented a small 4-bedroom place that we would share with a guy named Garet who, for all intents and purposes, may be the gayest man I have in my memory bank. I know what you're thinking that he wasn't really gay...and that he just wore skin tight tank tops in the middle of winter, ate nothing but cool whip and iced coffee, spent 50 minutes in the bathroom each day, and had 8 x 10 glossy photos of himself layed out on his dresser at all times--just in case he needed to prove to his daterape victim that he was indeed "taking his modeling seriously" you would be correct in assuming all of these things.
But I digress--
This story actually begins with the move-in. Being underage at the time, we needed to stock our new fridges with enough beer to get us through our innagural shit-show, this of course required the help of a few 21 year-olds, most notably my brother and his girlfriend who (along with other friends and family) stocked our apartment with about nine 30-packs of Busch Light...not my drink of preference, but nobody was employed at the time and well....when in Rome...
When we finally got everything moved in and running we began doing what all college guys do: we drank beer and played video games. There was something awe-inspiringly liberating about shit-talking my friends without repercussion from resident assistants, which at UNI is pretty synnonomous with "Born again Christians, closet homosexuals, or the faceless guy from High School that got stood up at prom by the girl in the wheelchair".
We invited some girls over and got the night started in fashion--of course we were young and had no intentions of ruining our place the first night and decided to keep things low key with a game of "circle of death" with the occasional beer bong thrown in for good measure.
By 10 things were getting a little hazy, I walked into my bedroom a couple times and bellyflopped on my bed for no reason other than I finally could do whatever I wanted to and this was something that excited me.
Periodically throughout the night my brother would ride past our screen windows on a stolen bike and drunkenly tell us to time him while he went around the block, only to show up 30 minutes later wearing a beer dispensing helment that was filled with Jim Beam on one side and a bottle of Mylanta on the other...brothers are crazy.
By 12 I was officially shit-faced. There were going to be many nights in which I was this wasted (many of which in public, but those are stories for another time). This was the first time that I was wasted, in my own place, with my friends, with a bunch of girls, and I was taking this thing home.
Mistake #1 -- Beer bong contest. I've already told you that I was competitive, beer for beer--through a funnel? Let's do this. Beer number 1--> nothing but silk..I take a knee and let the taste of funnel cake and abortion excess that is Busch Light run its course to the pit of my stomach. I gently rise, wiping my mouth with my arm and grab the tube, nodding to my competitor that I am ready for another. Beer number 2--> I am money. I will not be stopped, part of me actually thinks that the fact that I'm already drunk is the ninja-like mentality that will bring me to dominance. Beer number 6 --> I waver...ever so slightly misjudging my weight as I get up of one knee. I look like a parkinson's patient who has just be denied a marriage proposal. I look around the room and see nothing but neon lights. Beer number 9--> My mouth fills with water as I make it to my feet, I can no longer take this--suddenly I'm being shook by Bo in celebration. In my addled state I didn't notice my competitor had keeled over, potentially dead from alcohol poisoning. I slur a smile and raise my arm in victory, victory tastes delicious.
Mistake #2 -- Victory tastes delicious, and so does a Jimmy John's sandwich when you've been drinking for 9 hours. Conveniently placed just down the parking lot from our apartment door is a Jimmy John's. We proceed.
It is now 2 am and the store is closing. I make small talk with the sandwich maker who informs me that at the end of the night, they throw away the bread....let me get this straight--I'm an unemployed college student who can hardly spend $1.29 on a loaf of gas station brand bread and you throw loaves away at night!? I can't believe my ears and promptly have the employee bag me 10 loaves. Let's see...things to do: Get Groceries? Check.
I take the loaves of bread, along with my 3 number 1's with me back to my apartment where the girls have invited some more people over and my brother stops by on the stolen bike again to claim that he "will dominate any bitches ass"--brother's are crazy.
Mistake #3 -- After consuming all 3 sub sandwiches I feel less drunk than before. I am getting incredibly tired and actually find the notion of sleeping alone in my own room more enticing than attempting to get a girl in there with me. I crumple my sandwich wrappers into balls and throw them on top of the near-100 beer cans stacked on top of our coffee table.
I give a half-attempted wave to my guests and roommates and then bee-line for my bed room. After closing the door I strip down naked and decide that this is the most comfortable way to sleep.
Mistake #4 -- As I lay down to embrace my drunken slumber I get a rumbling in my stomach. It doesn't seem life threatening, so I roll over onto my back. The light in the middle of the bedroom circles above me and I flinch, thinking the glass is going to come crashing down onto me. Like a character in an Alfred Hitchcock movie I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes in an attempt to make the spinning stop. My stomach turns with each rotation of the room around me. I know deep in my heart "I'm going to puke".
But I never puke. Honest to god, from birth til now I can count on two hands the times I've vomited in my life.
I throw the covers off of me, revealing my out of shape naked body to anybody who wants to look through my open blinds. I decide that I have no time to get dressed, but I also don't want 10 people out in my living room to see my naked body grossly contorting its way to the bathroom. I do what any sane man would do in my position: I pressed my face against my screen window and tried to puke through the screen onto the sidewalk below. Here's a tip for all you up and coming drunkards out there: this is not effective.
I try to choke down what is essential 24 inches of sub sandwich and over 30 beers rumbling in my stomach. I throw on a pair of khaki shorts...unbuttoned, unzipped over my bare ass and run frantically through the party and into the bathroom. The last thing I remember hearing was "he's gonna puke" from one of the girls in my living room.
During the tormentingly violent heaves of vomit all over the bathroom I realize that the gale forces that come with every heave has lead to my worst nightmare: I'm shitting myself.
As projectiles escape me from both ends I can't help but put my face on the toilet seat...a seat so new in our apartment that it hasn't even been sat on yet.
There is a knock on the door: it's my buddy Bo.
"Linde, you alright in there?"
"Yeah," I reply, frantically grabbing every towel I can off the racks and pushing the vomit around the bathroom.
"You puking?"
"Nah dude, I've got it."
For some reason I thought the towels would absorb the vomit, but it's just like the paper towels in junior high science class, nothing really gets picked up, it just gets pushed around a bunch.
I take some toilet paper and wipe my ass...it looks like I just dipped a roll of angel soft into a fondue pot.
A knock again. This time it's a girls voice.
"Can I use the bathroom? I really have to pee."
"Uhhhh, just a minute--" I finish off what appears to be most of the vomit and throw the towels into the trash can.
I open the door to expose 4 horrified faces. Trev and Bo look at the bathroom along with two girls that were at the party. I look at their faces and then turn and look at myself in the mirror. I'm completely covered in vomit, my genitals are hanging out of the unzipped khaki pants, and there is poop streaks all over the tile floor.
"Linde....." Bo says, utterly speechless.
I walk past them and go to bed.
The next morning our apartment is spotless, it appears that the following things happened after I passed out.
Bo cleaned up all of my poop and excrement, which took him until around 4 am.
Bo then received a blowjob from the last remaining girl at the party.
Bo then blew up an air mattress by his mouth which took him 2 hours to complete.
My brother rode by on a bike and yelled "I dominate bitches" as he threw the bike into the parking lot and slept outside his front door at 8 am.
5/15/05 was the last time I vomited. The record was in tact until 3/30/08 when I puked...that time I was also naked, but in my apartment, where I was forced to clean up after myself.
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