Minor Intoxication

Life's hard on minors - you can score drugs easier than booze, and all I've ever bothered to do was drink (with the occasional joint mixed in for variety). So there I was at nineteen, with a powerful thirst that couldn't be quenched by college beer. My friends brought home cheap, foul poison, the kind that made Thunderbird wine and MD20/20 seem like nectar. I'd give them a twenty and specific orders, and they'd come back with the same foul concoctions time and again - several times it was brew in plain silver aluminum cans stamped "Cheap Beer" with no logo or other evidence to incriminate its maker. Their taste in hard alcohol was worse. You can degrease engines with some well vodka, but the shit they bought could corrode stainless steel. That any of us survived is a miracle.

One evening I sat by my window, thinking about the empty space in my liver, and concocting a plan to beat the drought: I'd make my own beer. I'd learned the theory - if not the art - in high school, and with professional grade supplies from the brewing store down the street, I was unstoppable. If I couldn't buy it, and I couldn't swindle it, I was going to bloody well make it myself.

My roommate grew anxious as I stockpiled plastic buckets and bubblers and sieves and bags of strange looking grain. Hops come in small, moist, green nuggets in a ziplock bag. They give beer its crisp finish. I caught my roommate with my hops in one hand and rolling papers in the other, and should have let him do it, but I was poor and hops are expensive. "That's not weed, that's hops, moron." He just blinked at me.

The next day I headed to the kitchen on the first floor and boiled my grains, strained the wort, added the hops, let it cool, and threw in the yeast. The wort was pitch black, like the liquefied souls of the damned. It smelled like the construction fumes when Heaven was built - not quite Heaven yet, but getting there fast. The swirling mix of heaven and hell steamed and bubbled and popped and splashed angrily all over the kitchen. Guys walked through the kitchen asking what the hell I was doing.

"Cooking."

"Cooking what?"

"Beer."

"Oh."

Simple conversations for simple minds, and everyone is simple minded when it comes to beer: there's the getting, the having, the drinking, and the inevitable purging the next morning. "Brewing" falls somwhere under "getting" on the list. They left me to my experiment.

I hauled the five gallon bucket upstairs and deposited it between my roommate's mattress on the floor and the wall. The bread smell of fermenting beer filled the room for a month. One morning I woke in my bunk above to find him asleep below, spooning with my brewing bucket, a sick smile on his face. I snapped a picture and went to class. When I came back, there was a stain on his mattress.

Sick fuck.

The day of truth arrived some two months later, after primary fermentation, after secondary fermentation, after straining and clarifying and sterilizing and bottling. On a crisp February evening, twelve of my closest friends gathering around to watch. Not to partake, for they trusted Auggie Busch more than the guy down the hall, but to watch their Socrates of brewing philosophy drink his hemlock.

And it was good. Damn good. No Mr. Beer can compare to doing it the right way, 5 gallons at a time, in your dorm room.

The alcohol content was somewhere north of 40 proof, which is pretty stout for beer - more than twice what's normal. The extra pack of hops I threw in for kicks signed off the sweet aftertaste of honey with a dramatic, bitter pop! It zinged. It zanged. I got wasted, and around midnight they abandoned their 30-packs and grabbed my Sobe bottles full of black death. Through the fog of what felt like coming death, I watched them stumble and lurch around the front yard, running into each other and barely taking notice. Someone complained that his arm stopped working, but we calmed him by putting the moonshine in the hand that still functioned...more or less.

By two o'clock in the morning the scene was utter chaos. Empty Sobe bottles were strewn everywhere, rubber washers and aluminum lids littering the bushes and sidewalk and bodies laid out where they'd fallen. It looked like the Jonesburg massacre, only we didn't have any Kool-Aid. In a far corner a freshman from the Nashville was clinging to a high tree branch, babbling incoherently about fire and salvation. That night he found Jesus somewhere near the streetlight.

I destroyed that recipe for the good of humanity. One bottle remains from the batch - it's labeled "used motor oil," and it's still fermenting to this day in a locker buried under the dirt floor of a storage shed somewhere in Oklahoma.

Wanna drink?

War And Piss

Fuck the oil crisis. Fuck hunger. Fuck global warming.

We have a bigger problem.

Ignored by all media consortiums on this celestial orb, and considered the polio kid that they intend to pick last for their Red Rover playground team by the scientific community, this is a simmering global crisis the likes of which have not been witnessed since a severely self-medicated Elvis donated his lard-filled corpse to the cause of Solving Earthworm Hunger And Improving Soil Nutrition by choking on a banana and peanut butter sandwich. Long Live The King. Go Jiffy.

Here's the situation: EVERY day EVERY human being on this fucking poorly named planet, exhibiting a reckless and wanton disregard for personal financial freedom, brazenly discards what could possibly be humanity's last hope for maintaining the gizmo-saturated, energy addicted culture we have grown incredibly comfortable with. (Don't argue: How the fuck are you reading this?) But what we're talking about is Gold. Liquid Gold. Not that black shit that spews out of rusty Texas rigs with all the exuberance of a 16 year old boy in the back seat of mom's minivan on prom night. No. GOLDEN Liquid Gold.

Piss.

Now, piss has been considered a valuable substance for millenia. Well before the death of that 33-year old long-haired Jew with a penchant for piercings and suspension came along, learned men and women steeped in the medical arts praised the remedial effects of urine. Hell, Jim Morrison, Steve McQueen, and goddamned Gandhi all swore by guzzling their own warm morning hello. Even that standard of hotel dressers everywhere, the Gideon's Bible heaps praise upon the practice of dick-to-mouth liquid refreshment:

Drink waters from thy own cistern, flowing water from thy own well.
- Proverbs 5:15

Two millenia later, and the plethora of remedies your own dirtwater provides has not diminished. If anything, modern research has only expanded the range of ails that urine can deal away with in a neat, recyclative, and slightly salty, manner. Dr. Beatrice Barnett, in her originally titled "Urine-Therapy: It May Save Your Life," lists the following tips for a healthy, urine saturated lifestyle:

1. Drinking: The mid stream of the first morning urine is taken. Begin with two-three ounces and increase it to your personal, comfortable level.

2. Fasts: Fasts with urine and water are practiced for one or more days. J.W.Armstrong, a renowned urine therapist from England, lets his patients fast for up to 45 days. Fasts are only recommend under trained, medical supervision.

3. Enemas: The easiest way to take an enema is with a syringe containing two-three ounces of urine. The urine is kept in the colon for as long as possible.

4. Gargle: Urine is kept in the mouth 20-30 minutes, or as long as possible, for gum problems and other lesions of the mouth and tongue.

5. Douche: For any vaginal discomfort or cleansing, a solution of Golden Seal and urine will give comfort and healing.

6. Eye and ear drops: Any pain, burning and tiredness in the eyes may get relief with a few drops of urine placed into the eyes. The ears also benefit greatly if receiving a few urine drops for ear pain and discomfort.

7. Urine sniffing: This is the most effective way of treatment for any sinus congestion and upper respiratory problems.

If you don't see the rampant possibilities of improving your feelings about the go-nowhere relationship you're in with the increasinly dull and decreasingly sexy lumpy broad you've termed "girlfriend," then you, my friend, are doomed. The rest of you: Next time you need a temporary dick pocket and she plays the sick card, just close your eyes, thank Dr. Barnett, and patiently explain to her in your best boyfriend voice that you just read in a medical journal about a home therapy that could help. Trust me, she'll be intrigued and awed at your sensitivity. Brew her a cup of Earl's Sleepy Time, prop a down pillow under that blabbing noggin, and tell her to relax. Then it's time.

Time to play Fireman.

And when she burbles and gurgles and screams, just explain to her it's medicinal, and maybe next time she should just take an Advil.

But that's NOT what's going to save the world. Singapore is going to save the world. I know, Singapore, a small East Asian country best known for its extremely limber whores and lack of remorse about beating the living shit out of American jocks with bamboo sticks. Personally, those two details alone would put Singapore in my Top 10, but this next item makes them, far and away, the Greatest Country On Earth. They sponsored a research grant.

To develop a urine powered battery.

And it works. We're saved. And when I say "we," I don't mean humanity. I mean us drunks. These days we've been turned into modern day lepers, lambasted by vote-hungry politicians, villified by mothers who haven't gotten the bottom knocked out of them in years, and witch-hunted by local police organizations whose primary goal now is not to protect the peace, but to ensure that the city coffers stay filled to the brim. We've had to cower in dive bars, pass out in bushes, and lock ourselves INTO our own houses, instead of OUT of them.

But not anymore. Now we'll be worshipped, maintained, put on a pedestal. With our ever-dwindling oil resources, humanity will turn to the next most available energy source. And with urine powered batteries on hand, that makes us drunks the next Iraqi oil fields. Our impressive ability to create gallons of urine per night will spawn international wars. When we go out at night, we won't have to worry about police checkpoints, we'll have to worry about those cumbersome police escorts that make sure we have an unobstructed path to the nearest bottle of Wild Turkey. Wall Street will rise and fall in lockstep with our hangovers. In elementary schools, Lawyer and Doctor and Astronaut will play second fiddle to Barfly. It will be a glorious day. That we will only sort of remember.

Because we will be too busy saving the world.

I've got to go take a leak. For America.

Getting Out Of Jury Duty

“You will be tried by a jury of your peers.”

The judges say this before arranging felony proceedings while the District Attorney prepares to paint you with words like a Steadman caricature. While your public defender gets wasted on Keystone Light in his shitty apartment, some court clerk mails the party invitations: brief and vaguely comprehensible notices that you, the lucky bearer, have been chosen to help decide the fate of some poor fucker who zigged when he should have zagged. Enter my predicament:

Jury duty.

It seems that I, a humble writer, lover of fine literature and coarse photography, am qualified to sit in someone else's puddle of cold sweat on a vinyl chair, in some courtroom while watching a raw episode of Judge Judy unfold. Yeah. I can smell the pseudo-Latin banter already - it's punctuated by the rotten stench from some meth mouth on the stand. Or the bile from the prosecution. Or the defense. Or both.

Somewhere in that Congolese tunnel of bullshit are diamonds of pure truth, and they want me - imagine that, me! - to find them...and then find in favor of one party. I'll be a voice - one of twelve - deciding whodunit, and it's probably not Colonel Mustard in the Study with the Pipe this time. I always lost at Clue, and they want me in court?

So I've been brainstorming, lightning shooting from my eyes, thunder rolling from the keyboard, to come up with my plan. Anyone who wants to reclaim your Tuesday-Friday, or at least to avoid spending it in some courtroom fighting to stay awake, here is my plan...a letter. That's it. I'm a writer, it won't be hard, and I've loved MadLibs my whole life. So here's the formula...solve for your own variables:

Good day Sir/Madam,

I am pleased by your invitation to jury duty on (date), and relish the opportunity to put another (expletive) (racial slur) in the clink. It's time we cleaned up our streets and put the (expletive) trash where it belongs: on a barge out to sea. You know what they call a bus full of (racial slur) on the bottom of the ocean? Do ya? A damn good start, that's what, 'cause you can't trust those little (adjective) bastards. I've got another one for you: how do you starve a (racial slur)? I don't know either, but we ought to look into it immediately!

But seriously, it's time to (verb) the (adjective) (profanity) (racial slur) who've ruined (noun) - that's why this one's in court, I betcha. As a (man/woman) of profound faith, I firmly believe it our duty to rid The Devil and his taint from society. I've read the back flap of a lot of books on the matter, and they all agree it's our duty to champion justice no matter how many (plural profane pronoun) we have to kill. This could be the start of something big, sir/madam, and I want my part.

Now I lost my license last week coming home from the tittie bar, so I can't drive, and that's what I'm writing you about. See, my (boyfriend's/girlfriend's) van blew up last month when the lab in the back 'caught fire, so there's no way I can get to court. Could you send a car to (name of bar) about eleven that morning to pick me up? I need to "pregame" a while.

Thanks, and lemme know if I should bring anything besides my cooler.

Sincerely,
_____________________,(your name)

Just fill in the right epithets and slurs for your geographic area, your own race, etc—you don't have to actually hate crackers / spics / niggers / chinks / wops / dagos / kikes or anyone else...the idea is just to make it sound like you do. But if you do hate them, it would certainly help. If it sounds like you have preexisting prejudices, or are otherwise demonstrably unfit for jury duty, you don't have to go. Who knows, it might just work—or, some poor fucker's fate could be in the hands of George, my lucky quarter.

Heads he's guilty, tails he's not innocent,

What? Huh?

Apparently, it's scientifically official now. We, and by "we" I mean us as men, really don't understand a goddamned word that comes out of the mouths of women. No longer can our significant others blame our lack of listening to selfishness and typifying a male chauvinist pig fucker. Nope, ladies and gentlemen, finally science has given proof of something that truly matters in this world:

Men just don't give a fuck what women are talking about.

According to a recent scientific finding out of Sheffield University in northern England, a land notorious for treating their women like sheep and their sheep like women, these snaggle-toothed eggheads have discovered startling differences in the way the brain responds to male and female sounds. To guys like me, I kind of figured that sort of thing was obvious, because quite frankly, whenever an ex-girlfriend would start complaining about something, suddenly her voice would sound just like the faceless teacher from a Peanuts cartoon and I would just smile and nod, all the while contemplating the many ways I could get a chance to bone her hotter younger sister. But scientists and researchers are a stubborn breed and are always determined to put some sort of physical evidence behind something we have always known to be true for millennia.

So all of us who pack two testicles and a penis are always accused of never listening to women we are trying to fuck...guess what? We have a scientific excuse now, and now longer will your crafty womanly charm tell us otherwise. Apparently, in this study, men deciphered female voices using a part of the brain that processes music and melody.. So while female voices register on a different, more melodic scale, male voices are simpler and registered in a more simpler and straightforward mechanism of the brain. Much like comparing the sound a flute makes to the sound of a sledgehammer smashing into a car window, women's voices are just that much more complex and melodic.

So what's your point, Johnny? Well, rejoice oh brothers, because no longer will we have to sit there and listen to our significant others bitch, piss, and moan about how we never listen to them or understand their meaningless and trite stories of the day. No, you show them this very article, point your finger in their face, and laugh maniacally. Why?

BECAUSE IT'S SCIENCE!

We don't understand the words that are coming out of your mouths. There's no arguiing with science.

Happy Birthday Thomas

Years upon years ago, I had the pleasure of travelling to Tokyo for the 1998 International Anime Fair. I was such an enormous comic book freak that I would have felt remiss if I was on this side of the globe and pass up the chance to attend such an event. Had you told me when I was six years old that I would one day be in a position to visit the land where my favorite shows like Battle of the Planets and Grandizer were created, I more than likely would’ve called you a liar and kicked you in the shins. But there I was flying thousands of miles above the Philippine Sea, northward from my base in Korea, grinning like an idiot and wondering what club I’d enter if I beat-off in an airplane bathroom.

The trip was fantastic! Tokyo was absolutely beautiful. It just so happened that the annual Cherry Blossom Festival was beginning the same weekend I was there and when the wind a blew cottony cloud of pink wove through air. Hardly anyone spoke English and I was reduced to communicating through a series of positive and negative grunts, pointing, raised eyebrows and bugged-out eyes. The convention itself, for a dork like me, was absolutely amazing. I wasn’t there long before my cheeks started hurting from that stupid grin which had returned. That same boner from the plane trip returned too as I observed the huge statues based on characters featured in some of the yet-to-be released series.

What a time to be had! I had toys, toons, comic books, Asian women, real sushi and a commode in my hotel room that warmed my ass upon sitting. It was one of the greatest days of my life and as such I had devilish plans for the evening and the next day. That is until I called my friend Thomas back in Korea, to check things out…

To my utter horror, my dear friend Thomas had decided to call it quits from the Air Force, and get out. I was dumbstruck. So dumbstruck was I that I had to take a moment and sit on the bionic-commode to properly ingest that which I’d read. This had been my life-partner for the past few years. We'd travelled from base to base, country to country, destroying everything in our path. And now he was leaving.

How could he do this to us? Why didn’t he tell anyone earlier how unhappy he was? If anything he could’ve just given me heads-up about what he’d planned since, of the crew, I was his confidant of sorts. But no, he let out all of our dirty laundry and even made up a few pairs of streaked stinking boxer-briefs for good measure. I called everyone I could. I called my supervisor, his supervisor, our shop chief...everyone. I went to bed that night in Tokyo with a pit in my stomach and a severe headache.

The next day at the convention center I was a completely different man. Long gone were my stupid grin and boner, all that remained was a shell of a man with sunken eye sockets and blood shot eyes. I often found myself just standing in the middle of the show floor, kicking my eyeballs around, and picking my front teeth with my tongue and the snarl that usually accompanies such hygiene. I dragged my bag of convention goodies like around like a worn-out soccer mother of eight who just wants quiet.

The taxi ride home was even more depressing. Regardless of how cool the taxi itself was (automatic doors which only the driver, who wears a suit and white gloves, can open and DVD GPS,) the only thought that occupied my mind was that I was back to managing all the projects on my own again. Damn it! Thomas was so good at managing them too. I really enjoyed his “voice” as a team leader. I grunted directions to the driver and upon finally reaching my hotel I dragged myself to my room like a kid who knew he had to clean the kitchen and the bathroom upon returning home.

I arrived in the room, flipped open my laptop, opened up Outlook and froze as I read email after email from the boys about how I’d fallen for this year’s April fool’s prank. I couldn’t help but laugh a laugh of relief…at first. A few days later Thomas would recite the same story to our friends, as he bade them to call me to tell me precisely what kind of idiot I was.

To be honest, there was nothing I could do but take it. But I would never forget.

Cut to present day. Both Thomas and I are long gone from the clutches of the military, AND we still keep in touch (he's in Killa-fornia). So amidst one of our many phone calls, Thomas mentioned that his birthday was coming up. He asked if I’d write up something about him and I joyfully accepted the task. Now, I’m a simple man. Were I not, I would come up with some scathing report of how Thomas once convinced a Florida man that knocking his testicles against one another to the beat of BBD’s Poison would repel Hurricanes. But no, instead I’ve decided to immortalize him in filth.

Men, ladies, clever children, the next time you’ve got a hooker over and she’s taking her pre-coitus shower, take half the money out of her purse. When the time comes to pay her for her services combine her money with yours. When she smiles and hugs you in gratitude for making her week, smile to yourself and know that you’ve successfully “Pulled a Thomas”.

Happy birthday you twisted sack of shit-syrup, and many more! Know that there is a angry Greek man in New Jersey who’s praying that you burn your balls the next time you try to put out a cigarette while taking a dump.

To My Dearest Friend

Dear alcohol,

First and foremost, let me tell you that I'm a huge fan of yours. My friend, you always seem to be there when needed. You've provided the perfect weekend cocktails, a gin with the boys, and you're even around in the holidays hidden in eggnog and chocolates as you warm us when we're stuck in the midst of endless family gatherings. Yet lately I've been wondering about your intentions.

While I want to believe that you have my best interests at heart, I feel that your influence has led to some unwise consequences, briefed below for your review.

1. Phone calls: While I agree with you that communication is important, I question the suggestion that any conversation of substance or necessity takes place after 2 a.m. Why would you make me call those ex-girlfriends when I know for a fact they do not want to hear from me during the day, let alone all hours of the night?

2. Eating: Now, you know I love a good meal and, though cooking is far from my specialty, why you suggested that I eat a kabob with chilli sauce, along with a big Italian hoagie and some stale chips (washed down with chocolate Nesquik and topped off with a Kit Kat all after a few cheese curls and chilli cheese fries) is beyond me. Eclectic eater I am, but I think you went too far this time.

3. Clumsiness: Unless you're subtly trying to tell me that I need to do more yoga to improve my balance, I see NO need to hammer the issue home by causing me to stagger and fall, it's completely unnecessary. The black and blue marks that appear on my body mysteriously the next day is beyond me. Similarly, it should never take me more than 45 seconds to get the front door key into the lock.

4. Pictures: This can be a blessing in disguise, as it can often clarify the last point below, but the following costumes are banned from ever being placed on my head in public again: wigs, sombreros, bows, ties, boxes, upside-down cups, inflatable balloon animals, traffic cones, or bras. Also, what is with you making me take pictures with people I clearly don't like when I'm sober, yet they suddenly become my best friends when a flash is presented?

5. Beer Goggles: If I think I may know her from somewhere, I most likely do not. Please do not request that I go over and see if in fact, I do actually know that person. The phrase "let's fuck!" is illegal from now on. While I may be thinking this, please reinstate the brain-to-mouth-block that would stop this thought from becoming a statement, especially in public. Please stop me from talking to the girl with the crooked teeth, acned-up face, bad breath, beer belly, etc. Why are they so appealing to me while I'm with you and why are they so disgusting to me the next morning after you have worn off?

6. Furthermore: The hangovers have GOT to stop. This is getting ridiculous now. I know a little penance for our previous evening's debauchery may be in order, but the 3 PM hangover immobility is completely unacceptable. My entire day is shot. I ask that, if the proper precautions are taken (water, vitamin B, bread products, aspirin, gatoraid) prior to going to bed/passing out facedown on the kitchen floor with a bag of popcorn, the hangover should be minimal and in no way interfere with my daily Saturday or Sunday (or any day for that matter) activities. C'mon now, it's only fair - you do your part, I'll do mine.

Alcohol, I have enjoyed our friendship for some years now and would like to ensure that we remain on good terms. You've been the invoker of great stories, the provocation for much laughter, and the needed companion when I just don't know what to do with the extra money in my pockets.

In order to continue this friendship, I ask that you carefully review my grievances above and address them immediately. I will look for an answer no later than Thursday 3 PM (pre-happy hour) on your possible solutions and hopefully we can continue this fruitful partnership.

Thank you from your biggest fan,
John

The Way Of The Shovel

I have to get my passport renewed.

Now for a fellow who has never ventured further from the American homeland than Bermuda, in the past 3 years, a passport serves little purpose other than insurance. By insurance, I mean the sort of policy that allows a man to run far and fast when necessary. However, when you have to get to Brieskow-Finkenheerd in a hurry, you're gonna need that little blue book to find you way back.

Where the fuck is Brieskow-Finkenheerd?

Good question, but more important than the location of some bumfucked village near the asscrack of Germany and Poland is what is to be found there, namely a certain lady pioneer in international medicine and biomedical ethics.

For centuries, men and women have conspired to make the mattress magic without spawning, and a variety of innovative methods have arisen due to this aversion to children. From the teenaged boys timing that last pump to baste their sweetheart's buttocks, to the wise old whores measuring their temperatures during ovarian hot time. From the sheepskin and latex armor behind which we shield our manhood, to cervical caps and wrought metal uterine implants, the screaming infant icon has placed enduring fear in the minds of all copulating people worldwide. And still, somehow, despite all these advances in technology and efforts to keep the baby at bay, we keep making more fucking people. No pun intended.

Well, dear compatriots, the game has changed.

Because in Bree Cow Fricken Hard what-the-fuck Germany, a woman has found a new path to truth. Rather than bother with desensitizing condoms, troublesome hormone pills, or just taking the shot on her face like any other good European girl, this very fertile female just let those humble farmers plant their seed, and over the years between 1988 and 2004, patiently plumped up and birthed nine children. Yes, that's right. Nine. Now, considering there are only about 48 hours out of the month during which a live round will hit the target inside, that's quite a feat for any fuck. Nine lucky semen shots, nine long months, nine times, resulting in nine healthy bouncing babies. Catholic? Maybe. Easy? Without a doubt. So now, ask me why I would want to renew my passport, fly away to eastern Germany, and have (presumably) unprotected sex with this wondrously profund woman, when there are nine children strewn between toddler and teenager, running amok her house? Because those kids are not in her house.

They're in the fucking garage.

Well, at least they were, before the hired help caught a glimpse of human bones on the property, and the local constabulary unearthed all nine siblings. Er, step-siblings, rather.

And before you start casting such cliche stones as "murdering bitch" or my personal favorite "psycho mommy", you just keep in mind that I love this woman, and you can keep that shit to yourselves. I love her not for her incredible womb, oh no. I love her not for her magical ability to somehow carry nine fucking babies to term over the course of sixteen years without anybody saying something. No, I lust after this anonymous fuckbeast, because she is obviously willing to accept my liquid gift in her belly, and because her libertine nature allows her to "dispose" of these little nuisances in such a casual manner. I mean, how can a woman of 39 years get her fish hole plugged all that time, sprout babies, and bury them with no compunction at all, when she's not Chinese? In rural Africa such a feat would be simple, since feeding your children just isn't an option. And any good American woman would have her frequent flyer card punched for a freebie at Planned Parenthood at this point. How? HOW?

Pay attention, ladies. I'll show ya.

1. First, you get yourself pregnant. You don't have to necessarily be German, and this can be accomplished by a variety of methods, usually fucking.
2. Then, have a baby.
3. Get yourself a good shovel.
4. Go out in the garage, and dig yourself a hole.
5. Take your baby, and put him/her in said hole. Note the initial mess involved in sectioning your baby may prove beneficial later, as the law tries to piece together the jigsaw puzzle of your infant.
6. And throw some dirt.

Just like that, you've gotten a prime piece of dirty buttfucking German slut, bareback for nothing but a little sweat and maybe a shot of penicillin. No child support. No awkward visitation. No bullshit family law attorneys.

And now, finally, you understand why I have to get that passport taken care of, and make fast tracks over the Big Puddle before she gets sentenced and all hope is lost.

To Brieskow-Finkenheerd!

Misadventures With Moonshine

There was a time many years ago when kicking back naked in a lawn chair with a bottle of Rogue was impossible. Not for any quirk in the cosmos, and who cares about public decency when you live on the fringe, but for the simple fact I was a minor. Not that my dream of lazy inebriation was impossible, just unnecessarily inconvenient. So I did something about it.

I read up on home brewing, and armed with mental diagrams, marched to the local hardware store for copper tubing, rubber stoppers, and gallon-size glass jars. Then it was off to the grocery store for honey and spices, for my recipe of choice would yield melomel: a mead-like drink favored by Greek gods and philosophers for millennia. Plus, it was far easier for a high school junior to make melomel in his parents' basement - no cooking like beer, no carbonation stage, and primary fermentation was less touchy. It seemed idiot proof.

The lynchpin ingredient to homebrew is the yeast, and there are more types and strains of yeast than prostitutes sneaking cigarettes behind the small town movie theater. My recipe called for "brewer's yeast," which sounded logical: I was brewing, after all. But in the baking section between the flower and sugar there was nothing called "brewer's yeast," and cruising the hallowed halls of inebriation, I saw only the finished products of someone else's toil - not the raw ingredients for my cause. The kindly old counter woman told me I could find brewer's yeast at the local health food store.

That yeast came in pills in a plastic tub with a nutrition information chart longer than Schindler's list. I took my supplies home and set to work.

With much revelry I bent the vent tubes and mounted the plugs, stopping the flow of fresh air into the jars so the yeast would undergo anaerobic respiration and pee drunk-alcohol as opposed to using oxygen to make killer-alcohol. That was critical: I couldn't have the little beasties turn my potion into several gallons of honey-flavored death. So I donned safety goggles and a white apron, set some superfluous science stuff around the kitchen to feel more the mad scientist I must have been, and stirred the potion into a thick amber stew. It smelled amazing. It looked like death, and hovering over the fumes I could well imagine the insanity botched brew caused in the days before Science unlocked the art of merrymaking.

My mom came home and asked what I was doing, so I explained "I'm researching yeast reproduction in a nutrient saturated environment." I was such a good little boy.

"You're making beer, aren't you?"
"Melomel."
"What's that?"
"Better than beer."

She asked about the ingredients and laughed when I told her of the brewer's yeast.

"That's a dietary supplement, dear, you need champagne yeast. They sell it at the pharmacy across town."

So she drove me to buy the right yeast, and helped me add it to the foul concoction that, by now, was moved out of the basement and onto the kitchen counter so the whole family could watch.
The day of truth arrived on New Year's Eve four months later. I carefully bottled it in wine bottles scrounged from the recycle bin, popped in hardware store corks and set off to a New Year's Eve party. When the stroke of midnight came, I lit the fuse on a battery of fireworks and my girlfriend raised a glass of my moonshine. I watched in the flickering pyrotechnics as her face twisted all around, one eye bugging out, gasping for breath.

It must have been some good shit. Then she drank the rest and staggered backwards three paces, running into a wall and straightening like a rod had been shot up her back. She stared at me, unblinking, foam forming at the corners of her mouth, eyes growing bloodshot. She lifted her right hand and pointed at me, curling her finger around and giving the "come here, slave" sign I'd never seen in person before. It was horrifying.

She was fine three days later when she emerged from her dad's bathroom dehydrated and exhausted. My white lightning was too much for the poor girl.

Damn glad I never tried any of it.

Big Tits McStumpy

A few years back, my good friend "Gooch" was getting ready to go back on active duty in the Marine Corps. He decided that civilian life was for, well, civilians and that he wanted to get those Major's bars and go lead some Marines through the sands in Iraq. Obviously, I couldn't let a major event like that pass without a big, blowout party and what better way to end the night than with a trip to the local house o' hoes.

We'd enjoyed the full spectrum of skankery that Nardone's had to offer, and he'd enjoyed round after round of two-girl lap dances and a full-service trip to the VIP room. (There IS sex in the Champagne room if you know the right people, Chris Rock be damned.) When he slurringly began proclaiming his love for a woman with an ass like two basketballs and a tattoo that said, "Darnell's", it was time to leave.

We stumbled into the parking lot and I slipped him into a cab for the trip home. While I don't drink much, he had more than both of our fair shares of Red Bull and Vodka followed up with Jager shooters. That poor bastard was going to have one hell of a morning. As I began the walk through the dark parking lot, I couldn't help but nearly shit myself when a crazed, screaming woman in a t-top Camaro came screeching into the parking lot with Metallica blaring from a shitty speaker system and missed hitting me by about two feet.

After I jumped back and screamed "What the fuck!", I noticed that there might be something wrong. The lump of screaming lunatic in that wanna-be sports car was drenched in blood from head to toe. There was blood all over the windshield, the steering wheel, the dash board, the window, half rolled down...every...fucking...where. Not the little puddle of blood you see in movies or even the splash of blood you see in horror movies. This was enough blood to shower in, enough blood to take a shallow bath in. It was incredible.

This chick starts wailing, "HELP ME MOTHER FUCKER!" at the top of her voice like that hadn't already crossed my mind, and pounding on the horn. As she's waving her arm at me, I notice that she's only waving the one arm and that she's cradling the other in her lap. I move to the side, just close enough to see in and wonder, for just a second how her hand is in the passenger seat and her...what the?...ok, her hand is...Oh shit! Yup, that's right folks, it was cut off. Cut off like a turkey leg at Thanksgiving dinner. Just sitting there, with the rings and nail polish still on it. I'm willing to bet that I turned blanche white, because I suddenly felt kinda light-headed.

About this time, the bouncer and a manager of the strip club come running outside, see her, see me, and head for me like they're going to kill me. The manager's yelling, "Bubbles, Bubbles, what the fuck? What happened? Did this bastard do something to you?" The bouncer isn't waiting for an answer, he's got homicide in his eyes and while I'm a big guy, this was a Newark, NJ bouncer. That boy topped 400 lbs. and about 6'8". My life flashed before my eyes as I threw my hands up and said, "I didn't have SHIT to do with this...I was just walking through the parking lot, she just got here...dude...relax, WHOA...not me!" He slowed just enough to look at her and she screams, "That MOTHERFUCKER cut my goddamned hand off!" He immediately resumed coming for me with renewed vigor and thank the Lord Vishnu, she finally says, "Not him, you fucking oaf. My boyfriend...Earl, Earl cut my goddamned hand off!" Wheeww...heart, resume beating now, please.

So, this whole time I'm on the phone with 911. The 911 operator's trying to convince me that I'm not in Jersey City and that I don't know what I'm talking about giving her a cross street even though I'm looking at a goddamned street sign. After she'd put me on hold a couple times, I finally said, "Just tell the ambulance and the fucking cops that they're coming to Nardone's. They've been here PLENTY of times!" and hung up. Not 10 seconds after the phone clicked shut, 6 cop cars screeched into the parking lot, the boys in blue jumped out with guns in hand and had me, the bouncer, the manager and a couple of the other girls who'd come outside to see the fracass on our knees with our hands on our heads. Everybody's complaining and yelling, "We didn't do shit, you fucking pigs." Then the manager says, "Put my hand on my fucking head? Fuck you, her hand's in the passenger seat." I couldn't help but busting out laughing at that one. So, I ended up in handcuffs.

After the ambulance came, they sorted out that it hadn't been any of us who'd whacked her hand off, the story came out and we got un-cuffed. Apparently, she and "Earl" had been sharing a bag of something powdery and naughty. The bag was getting low and she reached in for the last few pinches. That's when Earl grabbed his butcher's knife...that apparently he just keeps close at hand and whacked off her right hand. Then, with her starting at him in wonderment, he says..."That'll teach ya."

Well, that was enough for my evening's entertainment. But I had to return to Nardone's a week or so later to get the scoop. Sure enough, there was Bubbles, AKA Big Tits McStumpy on her first night back after the hospital. The hand was gone, but she was on the floor, doing a table dance with her stump in a bandage. When she saw me, she jumped off the lap at her earliest opportunity and made her way over to thank me. She told me how thankful she was that I was there and asked if there was anything she could do to make it up to me. "Well", I told her, "I've never fucked an amputee."

Alas, no sex for Johnny, and the handjob wasn't all that good either...