Yo Quiero Un Bebe

Friends of mine, a married couple, recently had a baby. Yesterday after work, I went to see the baby. And I mean, wow. I really love babies. I don’t mean to be getting all soft on you or anything. I’m just as bitter and angry as I’ve always been. And I’m pretty sure I’m not dying (at least 60% sure). Nor have I found God or anything like that. He and I are still not anywhere close to reconciling, especially since two weeks ago I called Him at 4 in the morning to leave an angry rant on his voicemail about how quickly milk goes bad and how expensive condoms are.

And it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with babies. The're like people, only little, and filled with poop.

But I’ll tell you, maybe it was the tequila, but seeing this baby really got me. And I immediately made a decision without seriously thinking about it: I want one.

I know what you’re thinking, “Aren’t you the same guy who fell off his roof two weeks ago because he drank a bottle of shampoo and tried to fly?” Well, yes, that’s true. Although it wasn’t technically “falling off”, as I did get a pretty good running start. Just pointing that out.

All I know is that that baby was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen. Upon seeing it, I forgot about my low self-esteem, my drinking problems, my sexual, physical and mental impotence, and all those crimes I committed in Ohio, Illinois, Tennessee, Oregon, Washington, Pennsylvania, and New York from 1988 until 1995. And three times last week.

I realize that in order to have a baby one most procure the help of a real live woman. All I can say about this is that I’m working on it. I won’t take any further questions, because they are just too painful.

Two side notes about my baby experience:

1) Everyone came to the new parents’ house with gifts for the baby: clothes, stuffed animals, toys, etc. I showed up with a bottle of Grey Goose. Some people made fun of me for this, but I thought this was perfectly acceptable. Who needs a gift more: the baby who’s been sleeping, eating, and pooping every three hours or the parents who have been harried and sleepless since its birth? Johnny: 1, Others: 0.

2) There was a lot of talk about how expensive baby clothes are. I think this is kinda moot. Why would you care what your baby wears anyway? The baby doesn’t have any idea what it’s wearing, so why not just drape it in old t-shirts for the first few years? Of course, you can start buying the child clothes when it gets school-age, maybe five or six, because you don’t want him/her getting picked on. But in the meantime, why not save the cash for other crap and fit him in your old Zeppelin shirt? Seems pretty simple to me.

You Lazy Bastards!

Is there any lower form of existence than the person who takes the elevator up ONE floor?

I’m not talking about the elderly or infirm, because I’m ok with them doing it (most of the time).

I’m talking about the able-bodied person who gets in the elevator that serves twenty floors of a forty story building and goes up one floor.

Every time this happens, I let out an audible “ugh” of disgust, hoping that it’s overheard, hoping then that the dude says, “What? You have a problem with me taking the elevator one floor?” and I say, “Yeah, I do - bitch” and he says, “Well, are you gonna stand there looking like you’d suck dick for a pork chop or are you gonna do something about it, fat ass?” and I say, “Well, how about I do a little of this!” as I drive my open palm into his chest, karate-style, and he falls backward, gasping for air, to the delight of everyone else in the elevator because they’re also pissed at him for taking it up one floor. And then the elevator door opens, and I say, “This is your stop” and throw him out, and everyone else cheers and gets off except for three sexy college co-eds, all named Starla, who happen to be interning in my office, and they pull me back in the elevator and hit the “stop” button, and proceed to give me the fiercest most glorious handjobs the world has ever known for the next three and a half hours, only breaking temporarily when my heart stops beating, but fortunately one of the Starla’s is an EMT and she is able to easily revive me, and the handjobs continue until I say, “Ladies - we need to stop this!” and they say, in unison, “Why baby?” and I say, “Because I’m hungry!” and then we go get giant plates of chicken parm and spaghetti and have pint glass after pint glass of chocolate milk, and then we all go home and pass out naked on the couch in front of the TV, which is playing porn and congratulating me on an awesome day.

…

Anyway, don’t take the elevator up one flight. It’s very rude. Just walk it.

Elementary

I am learning a lot about women this summer. The summation which is: they’re tough to operate.

Previously, my approach to women was simple and straightforward.

[approaching Girl at bar ordering drink]
Me: "Hi."
Girl: "Hi."
Me: "What’s going on?"
Girl: "Um, noth -
Me: [sweating, speedtalking] "I don’t really know how to tell you this but I’m trying to be famous, and I think I might be writing a book"
Girl: "Ok, I - "
Me: [having mild panic attack] "You know what? Just take my wallet!"
[relaxes slightly, looks Girl up and down]
Me: "Our children are going to be beautiful. And hopefully lithe."
[Girl walks away]

Sadly, this approach rarely worked (the exception being those girls that were so drunk that one needs only the ability to call a cab and tie a simple bowline knot to get laid). But now, everything is changing. I’ve begun a series of changes. For example, I decided that since I’m 30 years old and a future writer with his own house, I should probably have some sense of style. Or rather, I should at least put some thought into buying clothes aside from going to Banana Republic every three months and buying every XL shirt in the sale rack. I, in connection with most of the girls I know and male friends with some semblance of fashion sense, am working on this but results are not to be expected for another six to eight weeks (although the groundwork was laid this weekend with a few purchases). I feel like much progress will be made once I get to my friend Shantel, a pseudo-but-not-really-hipster who constantly criticizes my taste in clothes. I need a little more constructive feedback from her other than "Oh wow - another Gap polo shirt! Cool!" and "Are you going to wear the blue striped shirt, the not-as-blue striped shirt or the dark blue striped shirt tonight?" But again, this will take some time.

[And fear not: I will have limits. If any of you ever see me in a bar wearing a blazer, I invite - nay, implore - you to come up to me and punch me in the throat. And to quote my friend Meg, "Nothing says ‘I’m gay’ like a guy wearing a $150 pair of jeans" so we don’t have to worry about that either.]

Yet more immediate progress can be made in the realm of intersexual relations. See, for years, I have had a fatal flaw in my game: I actually believed women wanted what they said they wanted (here’s where I sound bitter, when I’m not - I’m more grateful than anything else).

For example, let’s look at the following syllogism that, on the surface, seems correct:

Women desire a man who is funny. I am a man who is funny. Therefore, women desire me.

Wrong. This syllogism is imperfect because one of its premises is flawed - at least when it comes to the social situations in which I usually find myself (think: $6 Bud Lights, dim lights, pool table).

Women say that they want a guy who’s funny. And I’m not doubting this. I think that sure, they do. I mean, hey - everybody gets fat and bald and wrinkly and impotent in the end, so you might as well be with a man who’s going to give you a naked picture of himself for your birthday every year you’re together, even long after it stops being funny, but because he continues to do it year after year after year it kinda gets funny again.

It seems to me that women’s wants, in order to be fully understood, must be divided into two categories: elementary and ephemeral.

The desire for a mate with a sense of humor is an elementary want. As the name implies, it is basic, inherent, practically indisputable. Other elementary wants is a man who is capable of providing stability, a comfortable life, and non-retarded children; who is physically attractive; and who is respectful and caring.

But when you meet a woman, elementary wants are difficult to manipulate to your advantage because it can be hard to appeal to those elementary wants in such a short time (literally a matter of seconds as she decides whether or not she’ll continue talking to you, provided you stop spitting on her of course). And more importantly, I’m usually so drunk that it’s a fucking miracle I can even get out the words "Tanqueray and tonic," let alone convince a woman that I have virtually no history of cancer, or retardation in my family. So while it can be done, I ain’t the one to do it.

Instead, it’s better to focus on a woman’s ephemeral wants. What does she want from her night? Is she looking to get laid? Does she want to get tanked? Is it a girls’ night out? By assessing where she’s coming from, it might make approaching her easier.

But there is one want that is both elementary and ephemeral at all times: the want to be wanted. That’s what it’s all about, baby.

In high school I was head over heels "in love" with one of my female friends. But it was doomed from the start; she happened to be one of the most beautiful girls in neighborhood while everyone in the neighborhood thought that I was gay (or at least bi-curious and VERY experimental), so I never told her about my feelings (at least not until much later). Once, in maybe sophomore year, she and I were on the phone late at night and the Lenny Kravitz song "Believe" came on the radio (she was on the other end of the phone listening to the same station). Overcome with a sense of teenage desperation over unrequited love, I repeated the lines, "Because it’s all just a game/We just want to be loved" after Lenny sang them and added a maudlin, "Man, that’s so true." There was a slight moment of silence before she broke into hysterical laughter, leaving me with the most profound sense of embarrassment I have felt to this day.

But wasn’t Lenny, in his infinite wisdom and leather pants, onto something there? From the moment we arrive on earth, we are looking for love, searching for something to project our feelings onto but at the same time gives us that warm and fuzzy feeling inside (that I haven’t had in a long time but fortunately have discovered that whiskey provides something similar). I say yes, he was. Whether it’s as a baby or as a 30 year old sucking down mojitos in a bar, we just want to be loved.

Now, armed with the knowledge that all anyone - man or woman - wants is to be wanted, what should you do? Johnny says: Completely fucking ignore that desire.

From this point forward, I am changing the way that I meet women. Instead of being the "trying too hard funny guy" we’re rocking more this style:

[going up to bar to order drink next to Girl]
Me: [surly] "What’s up?"
Girl: "Hi."
Me: [rolling eyes] "Whatever." [walks to other side of bar to order drink]

I’m pretty certain that if I actually got the balls to pull this off, said Girl and I would be making out in the coatroom in under forty minutes.

In an environment in which people are drinking, being agreeable elicits no reaction. Being a dick elicits an often visceral reaction. Perhaps this is an incorrect extrapolation and sure, I’m probably still a bit drunk as I write this, but is this the same kind of thing as "there’s no such thing as bad press?" Meaning, isn’t any sort of gut reaction better than indifference?

I don’t think that I could ever pull this off because I’m too soft (although we shan’t underestimate the drunk version of Johnny Trashbag) but there has to be something here, I think. Forget all the mumbo jumbo when you’re at a bar. Everyone wants to be wanted. By showing disinterest you only pique interest which can then be used to your advantage. I’m not claiming this is groundbreaking here - it’s pretty much textbook manipulation. But I’m wondering if it actually could work in a real life setting.

Here is where I begin to stumble - and not just because on second thought I’m not still drunk but rather my hangover is starting to kick in and it's making me unhappy.

So I’m sorry to disappoint you with this ending. Much like the way I make love, I got you involved, got you all riled up, and then suddenly finished and am now going to heat up some pizza. But this post was born out of a discussion which was born just after Drink #7 last night and I wanted to at least flesh out what I thought about the issue and see if y’all could provide any insights. It’s an interesting topic, no? Additionally, everybody is slow at work in August, so in keeping with the recent motto here at Inbreeding For Fun And Profit, "Hey, at least it’s long."

And now I’m seriously going to heat up some pizza. Fuck dieting. I’m getting a wicked hangover.

Stop Singing, Ice Cream Vendors!

I went to Cold Stone twice this weekend and came to a conclusion: the singing has to stop. Whenever you tip them, one yells, “Hey guys, we got a tip!” and they all break into song. It is very, very uncomfortable.

I went on Saturday and it wasn’t a big deal, because when I tipped them the place was packed with people and there were a lot of Cold Stone workers behind the counter singing, so I just got the hell out of there and let the crowd deal with the song. But when I went on Sunday, there were only three employees working and myself and another woman in the store. So when I got my ice cream I tipped and sure enough, the three employees started singing. I didn’t know if I was supposed to sit there and listen to them sing or what, but I got the hell out of there and let the other customer deal with it. Very, very uncomfortable.

The sad thing is that I don’t think I can tip these guys anymore. I mean, I really want to - what with them giving me a delicious and over-sized ice cream treat - but I can’t take that singing. And I feel like if I tried to tip the guy but said something like, “You don’t have to sing”, it would turn into some Larry David-esque episode with him calling me out on it and saying, “What? You don’t like our cheerful singing?” and then a customer saying, “Yeah - what’s wrong with you?” and then some hot chick saying, “He’s just bitter because he’s fat!” But unlike Larry David, I would grab a fucking chair and hit the bitch who called me fat and would scream “You fucking bitch! I will kill you and shit on your grave! I will shit on your fucking grave in front of your family and your pets! Do you know who the fuck I am!" I am sensitive about my weight.

So sorry, no more tips.

A Broad Scale

Believe it or not, I have sometimes been accused of being less than sensitive to women's feelings when describing the "boneablility" of a broad. So, to clear up any confusion, I've come up with a flawless rating system for women that not only takes appearance into consideration, but also personality and presence of venereal disease. The scale is as follows:

10. This is purely hypothetical, but her features would most likely include (but not be limited to) having multiple vaginas and an ability to perform oral sex while cooking.

9. Still mostly relegated to folklore, a rating of 9 is reserved for only the most beautiful and quiet of women.

8. The highest realistic rating on the scale, 8's are usually downgraded to 7's or 6's after their inevitable psychotic tendencies start to emerge. This emergence generally takes 2-3 weeks to arrive, like something you order off of TV.

7. Beautiful, but not full of herself, a 7 is marriage material.

6. 6's come in two forms: 1) Good-looking, but a huge bitch, the majority of women fall into this category. 2) Funny, great personality, but let's face it, Ray Charles would struggle to get wood, even with a bag over her head. But then again he's dead, so there you go.

5. 5's are a dime a dozen. They are a combination of two or more of the attributes from list one and list two.

List 1:
semi-attractive face
nice-body
money

List 2:
overweight
large benign tumors
sexually transmitted diseases

4. It starts to go downhill from here. A 4 most likely is coherent and generally aware of their surroundings, but is morbidly obese or ugly beyond the possibility of surgical repair.

3. 3's contain the unattractive physical characteristics of a 4, but lack a conscious understanding of time, thought, or their own existence.

2. Now we start to get to the other extreme end of the spectrum, and just as was the case with 10's and 9's, 2's and 1's are rare, if not mythical. A 2 would not only possess numerous distinguishable hideous physical disfigurements, but also a severe mental condition that could lead to violent outbursts.

1. 1's are literally beyond my comprehension. And although evaluating such a disgusting woman is outside my professional qualification, I would have to assume that coming in physical contact with a 1 would undoubtedly have serious consequences on a man's long-term sexual function.

Stay Alive Until Your Next Fix/Drink

I learned a valuable lesson in college. Poor people need food too. Long gone are the days of wandering through grocery stores searching for expired ground beef that's 10% off, and throwing perfectly good cans of beets in the aisles to get the manager to give me 50% off. Having been through this, I know that there is a big market segment of poor college students willing to eat shitty food to stay alive. But what I don't understand is why no one has tapped into the starving and desperate demographic of homeless people that we see on the streets everyday.

Sure, people will give them free food and try to help them, but it's about time that someone took advantage of their misfortune. It's my plan to open a chain of grocery stores offering a low-cost, trashcan fire friendly line of foods marketed to the homeless. It will be mostly pasta and bread products to keep the prices down and will have public restrooms open to even the dirtiest of hobos. For a store name I'm thinking about "Stay Alive Until Your Next Fix/Drink". I've also made a list of possible slogans:

"Give your ringworm the best in Italian cuisine"
"You shouldn't be ashamed of yourself"
"We accept bags of pennies"
"Have lunch in a box, in a box"
"Because Jesus forgot you"

Think about it...I can even make my own SAUYNF/D foods. The line will have several products at launch, including "Deluxe Cheese Macaroni" and "Party Blend", which is just the leftover pieces of crushed macaroni soaked in MSG. The first store will also offer a healthy, cheap Grape Nuts alternative called "You're Almost Dead". It's made of petrified wood, Centrum Silver, recycled paper towels, and potting soil.

In addition to the sub-standard ingredients, I will also keep prices low by employing children and by robbing and selling whoever passes out in the store.

Any investors?

Senor Clean

I was thinking about washing the floor in my kitchen today, but a gallon of milk and a box of cereal seduced me into a night of Major League II and masturbation instead.

But almost washing the floor did get me thinking. Well, I'm not sure if you can call it thinking, but something was going on that made the stuff behind my face hurt, and I'm pretty sure it was thinking. This story is gonna be pretty pointless, but you're probably wasting your life away already anyway. Watching Sex and the City reruns on TBS and kidding yourself into believing that you can lose weight.

Anyway, back to my story. I was just remembering back to the days growing up when washing the floor wasn't voluntary, and therefore it actually happened every once in a while. Back when my dad would make me wash the crusty shit off all the floors in the house at 8AM Sunday morning whilst hungover and televangelists are on every channel (Even BET would have some guy named Chip Harrelson that's even whiter than my ass).

I'd be there in the kitchen with nothing but two rolls of paper towels and dish soap washing behind the broken weedwacker engine that's sitting next to, but never in, the trash. And why am I using dish soap to wash the floor, you ask?

"Because we aren't paying for two kinds of soap. You're gonna wash the kitchen floor with the dish soap and you're gonna like it. If you get sent to the grocery store and come back with some Mr. Clean floor crap, you'd better be able to wash the dishes with that shit. You come back with that and you're gonna be washing your ass with Mr. Clean for the next month. That'll learn ya."

This story is going nowhere. Let's just leave it at that and all go take a nap. And it had so much potential too.

Swinging My Bell

This might surprise some of my younger readers, but having a girlfriend isn't all titty-fucking and magic like the movies make it out to be. It's actually pretty hard. I mean, I'll be the first one to admit that when I was younger, I wasn't completely in tune with the needs of a woman. Mostly because they were on Cinemax and I was just masturbating. But as I've matured into the man I am today, I can't help but wonder why my grandma's prediction that I would be the most handsome boy around, hasn't translated into me consistently getting laid. Is my grandma a liar? It's possible.

(I've always questioned in the back of my mind whether or not angels really get their wings from something as ridiculous as a bell ringing. There are probably thousands of bells ringing around the world right now. When you think about it on that kind of scale it just doesn't seem very likely at all)

To get back on topic, there have got to be other reasons why I can't keep a woman. I've done some thinking, and I realized that I've never been very good at putting much effort into anything. So there it is. I've decided that that is the number one reason for me not being able to maintain a relationship for any longer than it takes (Chinese restaurants) to skin a cat.

So now that I know the problem, what do I do about it? Something mature? Something constructive? Something involving demon worship? No, all those are good, but they're just not me. Instead I've decided to completely disregard the woman's feelings and squeeze every fucking ounce of sex that I can out of the two months that I share with my next "girlfriend". It's a win/win situation. We'll each get what we want: I'll have empty sex and end up alone watching Highlander: Endgame again; and she doesn't have to endure my awkward attempts at conversation after I've used up all the stories that I stole from old Reader's Digests and passed off as my own. Until I find that next special lady, I think I'm just gonna spend my time walking around swinging a bell at people and screaming that I'm helping angels. I'll let fate take its course from there.

Gay Pong

Last night I went on a blind date with my buddy’s girlfriend.

Last week, I got a call from my old friend Tom, who was in Italy. Tom is very, very dear to me, mostly because he is (or was) an incredible drunk. I won’t get into his stories here (since he might want to write a book about them later), but we rather unoriginally called him Jekyll and Hyde. He’s the only person I’ve ever known in my life whose demeanor, facial expressions, and body language would change after each drink, charting his descent into alcoholic madness. It was incredible. After his first drink, we’d say, "Uh oh - Hyde just left his apartment." The second would find Hyde on the bus, by the fourth and Hyde would be on campus. By the sixth, Hyde would be in the elevator of our dorm and shortly thereafter Tom would be half-naked throwing towels in the oven. Tremendous, tremendous stuff.

I tried to catch up with Tom before he went to Italy with his family, but was unable to. Still, I was surprised that he’d call from Italy to shoot the shit. But he didn’t want to shoot the shit. He had a favor to ask.

Tom explained that the girl he is seeing, Christine, would be in NYC for a week. Tom had mentioned her before in an email, but I really wasn’t paying attention. Tom asked if I wouldn’t mind showing her around.

My first reaction? Crap.

I love women. Love them more than anything really. Even the gross ones are beautiful in some way. Supposedly.

But the prospect of one-on-one time with a woman I’ve never met - never even spoken to or emailed - is a little scary to me. I have a lot of female friends (or had, until I alienated all of them by trying to make out with them), but again, I had no idea about who Christine was. What if she was crazy? What if she was high maintenance? What if she took offense to me staring at her lustily all night? So many what if’s.

Of course, I couldn’t say no, so I agreed. While Tom was saying that she’s a great girl, I was already thinking about breaking out the ol’ date skills. I thought that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. It’d be like a free lesson in dating, just in case I ever again have to spend time with a woman not in a loud bar or on an airplane or in line at the free clinic.

Yesterday, I went back to my place to shower, change, and get ready. By that point, I had already spoken to Christine a few times to both arrange our hanging out and to answer her questions about NYC and she seemed to be a very nice girl. I decided that we’d have dinner at a nice restaurant (I'd tell you where, but if you went it wouldn't be so nice once you were done...asshole).

I met Christine and right away my fears were allayed. She was not needy, crazy or handicapped in any way. She was actually quite normal and cheerful and there were no lulls in the conversation. As an added bonus, she’s in grad school studying to be a marriage therapist, particularly a sex therapist (or something). Though I was hoping to maintain my perfect gentleman facade, when she first mentioned this, I realized it was only a matter of time before I’d have too much to drink and ask her questions like, "Why don’t women like me? Is it because I steal from them when they’re sleeping? And by ’steal’ I mean ‘touch’ and by ’sleeping’ I mean ‘on the subway.’" and "Right now, my approach to sex is: 1) Start making out; 2) Count to 100; 3) Stick it in. Is this bad?"

After Sea, Christine and I went to a bar. We sat there for an hour or so, shooting the breeze. She asked me all sorts of things about Tom, and all I could think about was, "Dude, don’t say anything that’s going to get him in trouble." Tom is a rare breed. While he takes Japanese and ballroom dancing lessons, he once wasn’t allowed on a plane because he was unbelievably drunk, and one night in college I watched him pick up a passed out girl’s vomit and throw it around a stranger’s apartment. I emphasized the first two attributes and was mostly silent about the last two.

After a short stint the bar where we met up with my friends Mark and Matt and their friends and later my buddy Jeremy, we walked across the street to another bar. Then things started getting weird.

First, by this point, all of us were pretty drunk. And by this point, like I had thought, the perfect gentleman façade was dropped, especially when my friends learned that Christine was studying to become a sex therapist. We spent the rest of the night peppering her with questions about weird things that girls we did did, which she answered in turn.

Second, the bar was empty except for us and four musclehead dudes playing beer pong right across from us. But they had that musclehead look that says, “I work on my triceps for my boyfriend.” Since my friend Jeremy and I are bigots, we immediately started calling them funboys (behind their backs, of course – they might have liked men, but their muscles were still pretty big).

We continued drinking and all niceties were dropped. Soon we were discussing The Shocker (“two in the goo, one in the poo” has replaced “two in the stink, one in the pink” when it comes to Shocker slogans) and at one point I demanded that everyone proclaim me King of Vaginas [One of the things I’m most proud of is that I have had more women than any of my friends, but that’s because I was basically genitally-engineered by the Lord himself to be the sexual predator that I am].

The Funboys were getting a little looser too, carrying on and partying and getting touchy-feely. But I have to stress that they weren’t flamingly homosexual; it’s not like they were speaking in lisps and talking about Cher. They were just a couple of party boys in tight shirts getting loose.(By the way, I love gay people. I have many gay friends. I promise.) Jeremy soon left, leaving the four of us. It was a mistake on his part.

Christine and I were sitting with our backs against the wall, facing the four guys playing beer pong. Matt and Mark were sitting opposite us with our backs to them. Suddenly, when Matt was talking about a crazy Philippino girl he was dating, I looked over his shoulder to see two of the guys kissing each other.

Well.

Again, I hope this doesn’t sound homophobic, but you have to understand the circumstances. It’s an empty bar. Four guys are playing beer pong. My friends and I are sitting not six feet anyway from them. I look up and two of them are going at it.

I grabbed Christine’s knee to as if to say, “OHMIGOD TWO DUDES ARE MAKING OUT OVER THERE LOOK RIGHT NOW BUT BE COOL DON’T MAKE IT OBVIOUS” After the initial surprise wore off, I watched (maybe a little lustily) and figured out their game.

Their rules of beer pong were slightly different from the ones I played in college. The way I remember playing is that when I hit a cup, the opposing team had to pull that cup off the table and drink it. These guys added another level: after a cup was hit, it had to be pulled off the table and drank. Then the guy whose cup was hit had to kiss the guy who threw the ball.

Ladies and gentlemen, Gay Beer Pong.

So I sat there watching this game play out and watching these dudes make out, fascinated, fixated, and maybe even a little turned on. I mean, every time they hit a cup they leave their ends of the table, walk to the middle, and make out. Like, for a while. All four of them – it didn’t matter who. Fascinating.

[Again, I’m concerned about sounding like a homophobe because I’m a big deal in the gay community, but c’mon – this was my first game of Gay Beer Pong.]

[As for Matt and Mark, they were aware of what was going on, but they couldn’t exactly turn around in their seats to watch the dudes make out. I mean, I would have, but they were raised right, I guess.]

Anyway, the night ended anti-climactically (for me at least, maybe not those guys), as we decided to part ways after 1am. When I got home I was starving and sweating. So I stripped down to my boxers and sat in front of the air conditioner in my living room eating salsa with my fingers (Tostito’s were not available and would be too fatty anyway). Aren’t you glad I’m not the first person you’ve had sex with?

So what have we learned?
- I’m a nice guy to women I don’t know
- Sex therapists make interesting conversationalists
- My friends are degenerates
- Gay Beer Pong is real, very real
- Salsa is even more delicious sans shirt and with hands

Yup, pretty typical Sunday night.

Vegas Trip

Whenever I go to the airport, I always call work to order a car the day or night before my flight. I don’t charge this to clients or anything and pay for it out of my personal account - it just beats trying to flag down a taxi with my luggage. I call the taxi desk at work, give them my employee ID number, and I’m done. For a few dollars more than a yellow cab, I have a nice luxury sedan pick me up at my door and drive me to Newark airport in comfort and style. Because that’s how I roll.

On Monday night, in preparation for my Tuesday flight to Las Vegas (leaving at the reasonable time of 12:25pm), I called the work taxi desk to order my car. But it did not go as smoothly as it normally does. When the operator asked me for my employee ID number, I responded "Um…err…" Despite the fact that my employee ID number is one of four numbers that I know by heart (the others being my phone number, my social security number, and the number of women I’ve slept with – though the last is a little fuzzy, since once you hit triple digits it gets blurry), I was too fucking drunk to remember it. I had been hitting the whiskey pretty hard that evening, and when asked for the number, I completely fucking blanked.

So I did what any reasonable person would do in that situation – I panicked and abruptly hung up on the operator. Then, quickly thinking, I wrote down the number, fixed myself a drink, called the taxi desk back, blamed our “disconnection” on bad cell phone service, and properly ordered the car. By the way, this was at around 9pm, three hours before I even left my house to go out.

This is not what you want to be doing the night before a six hour flight and a very fun week. But sometimes, well, fuck it.

My plan for Monday night was to be in bed by midnight. I’ve documented on here that I don’t fly well. Therefore, I had very little interest in sitting on a plane for six hours for a massive hangover.

But then I started drinking that damn whiskey again.

When the lights came on at the bar at 4am, I was bombed and hadn’t yet packed. My friends Brian and Mike spent the night trying to convince me to fly to Vegas with only the clothes I was wearing. While rolling up to the ticket check-in with no luggage or carry-ons or even a plastic bag was certainly appealing, I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. So when I woke up 30 minutes after I was supposed to on Tuesday morning (with a brain hemorrhage as well), I threw a bunch of shit in a bag and was off to hot-ass-hell Vegas.

Of course, when I arrived at the airport, I learned my flight was delayed 45 minutes. And of course, this only made my hangover worse. I immediately doubled up on the Xanax to ensure that I would sleep through the flight and eventually boarded the plane.

But again, more bad luck. Sometimes, no matter how drugged up I am on a flight, I can’t sleep. No matter how tired or hungover I am, I’ll sit in my too small seat, squirming this way and that, feel groggy and miserable and unable to do a damn thing about it.

Of course (again), this flight was exactly like that. Despite that I was on the aisle and the middle seat was unoccupied, and despite that I was exhausted and in desperate need of sleep, I was unable to fall asleep. And I spent a fitful six hours on a plane, absolutely fucking miserable.

My impromptu Las Vegas trip not going well.

The day before, I had agreed to meet some friends for drinks at 6pm on Tuesday evening. Then I got shithoused on Monday night and had a horrible (and delayed) flight. So I pulled out of the drinks, citing severe ill health. I needed to get to the hotel so crash for a few hours. My friends, God bless 'em, were understanding.

As I had plans to go out on Wednesday night with some other friends, I was convinced that if I took a nap at the hotel I could turn the night around. After all, I had nothing to do now except sleep, several hours to do so (and eat and shower). Plenty of leisure time to relax.

But again – I couldn’t. I tossed and turned in the hotel bed, sweating the Xanax out of my body, trying harder than I’ve ever tried before to JUST FUCKING FALL ASLEEP. I was driving myself crazy. The hangover, the little sleep, the shitty flight, and now this. Throughout my whole horrible experience, I looked forward to the hotel, and the time when I could blast the AC, crawl under the covers, order the all-day porn-pass, and after roughing up the suspect, take a nice, long nap, falling asleep to the blissful sounds of a woman asking to have her face ejaculated upon. And now that this wasn’t happening, I was upset.

But then, Divine Providence, in the form of Taco Bell, wine, and Red Bull, stepped in and made everything right.

After tossing and turning, I hopped out of bed and decided to gather some supplies for the evening. The plan was to meet my friend Allan and some friends at a bar on the strip for a birthday party. I spoke to Allan and knew I had a few hours to kill. Sleeping wasn’t working, so I decided to fall back on my other two favorite hobbies: drinking and eating.

My first stop was at Taco Bell. Since I’m on a fucking diet, I haven’t been able to enjoy Taco Bell very much recently. But I took a three-day hiatus from the diet and went with my standard order: two beef burrito supremes and two soft taco supremes. I threw in one of those crunchwrap supremes for good measure. It was going to be a good night.

Next, in keeping with the "two" theme, I stopped at the supermarket and got two bottles of wine and two cans of Red Bull. It was going to be a very good night.

The next three hours I can only describe as a Bacchanalian feast the likes of which (I’m certain) that hotel room had never seen before. Between the sour cream, caffeine, booze, and masturbating, it was a one-man orgy: drinking, eating, and fucking (myself). No longer will I fantasize about Miss America contestants or remember steamy sex with ex’s when I masturbate. I will think only of those three glorious hours.

(Is anyone else grossed out by my comfortable use of "steamy sex with ex’s?" I mean, ewww.)

By now, the night had completely turned around and I was ready to go. (Pretty much) Drunk and full of caffeine and Taco Bell, I headed to the bar to meet Allan and friends.

Well.

…

Let’s just say that I do much better in other towns than I do in Jersey, as the women there are much more receptive to what I have to offer. Let’s do some comparisons, shall we?

Most other big cities, saying "I'm working on a book" to a woman is equivalent to saying "I have a ten inch penis, I love kids and my mom, and I donate half of my income – which is substantial – to help orphaned children with AIDS in Africa. I also spend most of my springs in Africa, killing lions who threaten the AIDS orphans, with my bare hands. Actually, my hands are not bare, but rather wrapped in soft and fluffy pillows. Otherwise, it just wouldn’t be fair to the lions."

Saying "I'm working on a book" to a woman in Jersey does not work nearly as well. When I mention this to women in NJ, the response I get is usually, "You have an onion ring in your beard. Or maybe it’s funnel cake. I can't tell – it's really mashed in there. Is that your balls that I smell and did you throw up on yourself?"

In Vegas, the "I'm writing a book" line gets something like, "Do you want to see my tits now or later? I know a nice alley close by. Can I buy you a drink? Maybe rub your dick a little? Wanna see me make out with my friend?"

Why, again, do I still live in Jersey? I am unstoppable everywhere but here. Absolutely unstoppable. I thank my Vegas friends for this, who introduce me to new people by saying, "This is my friend John – he is a very talented writer" and then mention everything else I do. Again by comparison, my Jersey friends almost never introduce me to new people, and when they do it’s more like, "This is Joel or something. He pays people to watch them jerk off. Also, he's got the hairiest back I’ve ever seen. He’s like a gorilla, but without all the strength and strange eroticism. Hey, do you have any drugs? I’ve done so much cocaine my dick is buzzing."

At the end of the evening, my friends invited me to an after-party in one of the canyons or something, but I had to decline. Not just because there was mention of a jacuzzi at this place and I did not want to stand awkwardly in the corner while the dozen or so girls and guys I was with were having half-naked fun, but also because I reminded them that I actually had something to do the next day that I could not be (too) hungover for. Well, mostly it was the awkwardness of the jacuzzi that kept me away and not so much what I had to do. Whatever.

The bar was about a fifteen minute walk from my hotel. I turned down a ride and instead chose to walk, taking advantage of the gorgeous Las Vegas night. If I were sober, I would have enjoyed it more, but instead I sang Hall and Oates' "I Can’t Go For That" to myself as I zig-zagged down the street, text messaging nearly every girl in my phone book, writing either only "hi!" or "." hoping to illicit a response (the period worked much better than the "hi!", which was generally ignored). Though no one responded that night (since all but maybe three or four of the text messages went to people on the East Coast), I did have a dozen responses the next morning, which required me to apologize for my weird behavior.

I woke up without too much of a hangover, got a grand tour of Vegas from a friend, and met with some other people. The following day after a leisurely brunch I made my way back to Jersey, just in time for the 115 degree heat index.

On the flight home, I watched "V for Vendetta" (sweet movie) and wondered why I live in New Jersey. The weather sucks, the people are asshats, and the only way I could probably get laid, on a consistent basis, is by a woman who’s sleeping with me just so she can buy formula for her baby. So what’s the hold up? What’s keeping me in NJ? I have a good job here, but I could probably find one in Vegas. I have some friends here, but many have moved away. And I have no girlfriend keeping me here, only certain "women" that I have cybersex with (and that chick with the kid). So why don’t I just move to Vegas?

But then on the cab ride home from Newark, I looked at the skyline of New York City and was nearly moved to tears by its beauty. And I realized I how much I love it here. For better or worse, I live in New Jersey. For all its faults – the high taxes, the millions of foreigners, the Bridge & Tunnel trash, the alarming rate of HPV, the oppressive summers and frigid winters, the lack of fake breasts, that smell of rotting garbage year round, the fact that I’ll never have a yard as long as I’m here – this is my home.

And then in a perfect New Jersey moment, the cabbie, in his soft Haitian accent, said, "Hey, hey – fattie, fattie" and angled the rearview mirror slightly, just enough to give me a view of his exposed penis, which he was wiggling in his hand. I smiled, nodded, and gave him $7. And I knew it was true: I loved Jersey more than ever.

It was good to be home.