Smoothness

Ah, Tuesday night. The whole night is a blur, thanks to my friend Joe and I splitting a liter of vodka before going out, then me running up a $230 bar tab. But one thing that always cracks me up about drinking and really cracked me up this night is that when I’m drunk, I really can’t hear or understand a word that any person I’m conversing with is saying. Of course, this is magnified with each drink and of course, I make less and less of an attempt to conceal this with each drink, so by the end of the night, every conversation is the same:

Me: “So what do you do again?”
Girl: [could be saying “I give head for a living” and I wouldn’t know the difference]
Me: “Cool. Do you want a drink?”

Also, poor Angie had to deal with me hitting on her for most of the night. For any girls that I have yet to hit on, my approach is the following:

1) Tell stupid jokes;
2) Repeatedly offer drinks/shots;
3) Ask the same questions over and over again;
4) Spit all over the girl while talking to her;
5) Repeat steps 1-4 until the lights come on at the bar.

As if that wasn’t smooth enough, I actually remember even saying to her, “So, I don’t know if you know this or not, but I’m hitting on you right now.”

Smooth, dude. Real smooth.

I can’t believe she left without saying goodbye.

I'm A Veterinarian

A bachelorette party showed up at the bar we were at on Saturday night.

One question about bachelorette parties: have you ever come across a bachelorette party in a bar with really attractive women? I never have. Every one I’ve seen is filled with nerdy or unattractive girls drunk of their asses on from their second martini, getting hit on and fondled by the grossest, drunkest guys at the bar.

So naturally my friends and I were all about it.

I hadn’t really started drinking by that point in the night, and the drunkest of the bunch decided to come to talk to me, so I didn’t really feel like dealing with it:

Her: [eyes barely open, spilling her cosmo everywhere] “Hi!”
Me: “Yes indeed. Yes.”
Her: “So why are you not drinking?”
Me: “I have a competition tomorrow, so I really shouldn’t be drinking.”
Her: “What kind of competition?”
Me: “I ride horses. I’m a jockey.”
Her: “Really? I love horses. Where?”
Me: “Like 45 minutes south of here.”
Her: “Where?”
Me: [guessing] “Um, Andover?”
Her: “I know Andover!”
Me: “Yeah, I was married in Andover.”
Her: “Oh, you’re married?”
Me: “Well, divorced.”
Her: “I’m sorry.”
Me: “Don’t worry, it’s not your fault; it’s mine. I just can’t stay away from those internet porno sites, and she couldn’t take it.”

This surprisingly didn’t scare her away, so for another ten minutes I talked about my marriage, divorce, and love of horses, including the genesis of this life-long affection (”I grew up poor and in the city, and the first time I saw a horse I thought it was just a giant dog. But a beautiful, majestic giant dog.”). Later on, I talked to her sister, and told her sister I was a doctor. Apparently, the two talked about me, and when my discrepancies were brought to light, they confronted me:

Sister 1: “You told Mary you were a doctor, but you told me you worked with horses. Are you lying to us?”
Me: “I would never lie to a woman. I’m both.”
Sister 2: “You mean like a veterinarian?”
Me: “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

Sometimes it’s just really fun to fuck with wasted girls, when you know you have no chance of hooking up with them, because they are just too, too drunk, so much so that it would be borderline illegal.

Goals For 2007

Because I have no girlfriend or nothing much to do, I spend a lot of my time thinking and strategizing. This is how I pass most of my days and nights.

For example, last week I set an important goal for myself: before next summer is over, I will have sex in a pool. For as many women as I’ve had sex with (“Johnny Trashbag’s Genitals: Custom Made for Virgins Since 1976”), my list of crazy places I’ve had sex is woefully inadequate. I’ve never had sex in a car or on a beach or on a roof or in a bar bathroom or anything. Weak, I know. I did have sex in an ex-girlfriend’s office once, but that was so thoroughly planned that it became something more to survive and get over with than something to enjoy. Also, I couldn’t get an erection, so I’m not sure if it even counts. Although technically, I was in there for a little bit, but it was kinda like stuffing a wet dish rag into a shot glass. But I digress…

[I should clarify about one thing: I don’t mean that women I sleep with are typically kinky and willing to do it in the parking lot of a Walmart, but I mean that my best sexual bragging point is that I’ve had sex with many women than any of my friends, which I attribute to my less-than-intimidating genitals. Add to that that I’m all nice and funny and most women are pretty sure that I have no STDs, because, you know, you need to have sex to have a sexually transmitted disease, and all these factors combine to mean that I’ve been with more women than most porn stars. Which I am more than cool with. Because really, from the girl’s point of view, it can only get better after doing me, as that’s about as low as it gets, you poor thing. You poor, drunk, non-English-speaking thing whose brother is waiting outside in the hallway to shiv me.]

But hear me now: by the end of next summer, I will have done it in a pool. Of course, there are several obstacles to this. First, I have to find a pool. Then I have to actually get in the pool, something I haven’t done since 1987, the last year I had more hair on my head than on my back. And lastly, I have to find a woman willing to have sex with me in a pool, which will probably be the most difficult part. My only hope is that by next summer I will have won the lottery or have killed someone famous, making me fuckable to someone. Keep your fingers crossed.

[Do I focus on finding the pool first or the woman first? Since I’ve been focusing on finding a woman for, oh, fifteen years and have not had much luck, I should probably look for the pool first. It’s about time I change course. Unless I were to immerse myself into a circle of cokeheads. I’m pretty sure I’d be able to find a girl who’d have sex with me in a pool. Hell, I might even be able to find a girl who would have sex with me in a burning car, depending upon the cokehead circle. Maybe I should reassess...]

I Am No Bob Villa

I have a friend, Sid. Sid is into home improvements, as is his father-in-law, Dave...a master carpenter. I am not. Actually, in the carpentry department, I'm more of a failure. Sure, I'm good at reading and stuff, but I can barely turn on a light and I use the tool set my dad got me before I joined the military as cooking implements and utensils. This causes much distress to Sid's father-in-law, who has tattoos and loves only two things: fixing shit and cigarettes.

Also, I am incredibly lazy. I remember growing up I’d do anything to get out of doing some home improvement-type project, and to this end I’ve faked numerous maladies, including but not limited to diarrhea, a hamstring pull, seizures, and a drug overdose that got me out of redoing the spare bedroom for a whole week (score!).

But Sid called me up to join him in helping Dave with some home improvement projects, because at the very least I can lift things or hold them in place. Sure, I may not take orders well, like when during the last project he asked me for an allen wrench and I handed him a picture of a puppy that I thought was cute, but at the very least I'm a body with hands.

Because I avoid home improvements projects like women avoid me after I’ve had thirteen drinks or whenever or all the time, they are never announced. This was the case this past week, when Sid called me over to his house, and when I arrived said “I need you to take a ride with me.”

“I need you to take a ride with me” is the death knell, the phrase that sets off the alarm in my brain that screams, “Manual labor is imminent! Manual labor is imminent! Avoid at all costs!” I have learned to recognize this phrase instantly as the beginning of something terrible. I learned very early that when Sid said this, he wasn’t planning on taking me to get ice cream or to the flower show. No, that usually means a trip to Home Depot or the hardware store or I don’t know - some other manly place with tools and shit.

And so we went to Lowe’s to get twelve feet of flooring for his kitchen. Sid explained that the project, which would be undertaken the next day, would be easy. Nothing about moving a refrigerator and stove and “tracing the measurements” and “making cuts” sounded easy to me. So what did I do? I left his house shortly afterwards, and went back home that night. Instead of helping put in a floor in my friend’s kitchen, I got home at 10pm on Friday night so my friend Brian and I could sit in my living room pounding Bud Lights, going through them so quickly and being so lazy about it that instead of getting up and getting a beer, we were grabbing two at a time and sitting them on the table in front of us, because we are the laziest drunks in the world. And, oh yeah, we’re awesome.

In my defense, I did call the next day to see how the project was going, and Dave said it was going quite well, thanks in no small part to the fact that I was not there to fuck it up and say things like, “Can we take a break? I really want some coconut cream pie” or having exchanges with my Sid like:

Me: “Sid, my arm hurts. Is it supposed to hurt like this when I hold this cutter-thingy?”
Dave: [smoking] “John, you haven’t even done anything yet, except stand there, complain that your legs hurt from standing, and read my wife’s US Weekly.”
Me: [screaming, then storming off] “Why can’t you accept that I’m not like you, Dave?!? You just don’t understand me!!!”
Dave: [smoking, shaking head] “Christ.”

And yes ladies, I AM single.

Other People's Blogs Suck

I've been spending some time checking out other people's blogs, and I have a few observations:

1) No one's is as good as mine. Like, not even close. This is not a knock against other blogs, but a testament to how truly special I am (I mean "special" in the same sense as "special ed").

2) Asian people have some very high-tech blogs. And I don't mean Asian-Americans, I mean real Asians: people from Singapore and Japan and other Asia-type countries. Some of the graphics on these things require separate downloads. You know what? No thanks. I don't need to download Flash 11.0 so that I can read about how you and your friends went to the mall on Tuesday. Unless you went to the mall and had a giant orgy and all of your friends have extremely large boobs. If that's the case, please email me.

3) The youth of America are barely literate. Teenagers have some atrocious blogs. When their words are interspersed with capital and lowercase letters (LiKe thIS bITch), they use @ for "a" and $ for "S", it makes me sad, and even more determined to never have kids (on purpose).

4) I've been cracking myself up by leaving comments on other people's blogs whose blogs are in a different language. There'll be a ten paragraph opus written in Portuguese, and I'll make a comment like "Totally." I've done this probably twenty times already, and each time it gets funnier (to me).

5) People care a lot about politics. Like, a whole lot. Apparently, there are people who support Bush. I wouldn't know it, but they actually do exist, and they are very pissed at liberals. Go figure.

6) People write a lot about their emotions, wailing away endlessly about loss, desperation, happiness, fear, etc. I guess I write a lot about my emotions too, but the difference is that the only emotions I have are lust and hunger. Oh, and revenge. That's my favorite one.

7) Some blogs are downright sad. In the "About Me" section, one person wrote (and I'm not making this up):

I decided to retire a couple years ago..was thinking about working part time until I broke my ankle and the way it swells will not allow me to be on it long..We have 2 dogs, 2 cats and 2 birds for pets..We have a piano I keep thinking I should learn to paly [sic]but have not tackled that yet..

I mean, I don't know what I feel, but it's not "good", and it's definitely not "horny."

Johnny Trashbag: The Anti-Fanny Pack Commando

Pockets. I can not tell you with certainty, but I am almost convinced that they were invented by Greeks. The genius behind them points to a Gureek mind. Will you come with me while we look into how these came about?

Vangelis: Yanni, have you seen these amazing things that I have covering mi loins?
Yanni: Why yes, Vangelis. I have noticed, but didn’t want to intrude.
Vangelis: I call them pantalones, but I did not invent them. My cousin did. What I did invent was these…
Yanni: Vangelis! Are you a magician? How did you pull those many items out of your pantalones?
Vangelis: Yes! No! I am not a magician, but yes! Are they not amazing? I call them pockets. You can protect yourself from the elements with the pantalones, but with the pockets, you no longer need to carry small items on your head or in your hands.
Yanni: Vangelis, this is going to change my life. I have long wondered of a way to carry the many small items without dropping them on the floor. Now, because of your amazing Greek mind, I can do this! Thank you Vangelis! Thank you very much! Now let's have sex with some boys to celebrate!

And this, my friends, is how the pocket was invented. It is not listed as such on Wikipedia, but soon, soon it will be.

Why am I talking to you about pockets? Have I been eating too many chips again? Well, yes. Brian came upon some old chips hidden in one of his old coats and we ate them all. They were amazing chips, but this is not the only reason why I am discussing pockets. I am discussing pockets because there are some tourists in the great city of Newark who seem to be very much anti-pockets. And frankly, I can not stand anti-pocket people.

Why do I believe this? Because they have to wear things like fanny packs.

Why? Why do you make my eyes cry with such a horrible device? Do you have so many things that you absolutely MUST carry on your stomach? Is the pack of M&M’s melting in your pockets? Do you have 77 pairs of keys? Is it necessary to carry around your garage door opener?

Margaret: Bill, you should truly take this bottle of Scope with you in case your breath gets ever so awful.
Bill: You’re right Margaret! Why don’t I carry the “V” volume of the encyclopedia in case I find myself with moments of unused time? Why, I can just place it around the base of my fanny with this outside pocket/belt contraption that I’ve just invented!
Margaret: Why Bill! That’s an incredible idea! You can wear it around your fanny and move it around the base of your stomach for when you sit down! I’m ever so happy I married you Bill. Let’s go pick wild flowers!

Please, tourists of Newark. You are no longer allowed to wear fanny packs. That’s a rule. If you see someone wearing one, please tackle them. Thank you for your time.

Newark Is Poop

I was in a meeting this morning in which I’m pretty sure I heard someone use the phrase "scatological development", as in a "scatological development in the architectural landscape of Newark" or some similar boring work talk. I did a double take.

When I got back to my office, I went to dictionary.com to make sure my understanding of what "scatological" meant was correct. And it was. The word "scatological" means one of three things: of or relating to the study of excrement; marked by an interest in excrement or obscenity; or of or relating to excrement or excremental functions. Hmmm…

Not be a vocabulary snob, but methinks the person speaking did not mean to refer to the architectural landscape of Newark as marked by an interest in excrement or obscenity. I’ll admit that I’m not 100% sure that the word scatological was used, but as a connoisseur of poop-related words, my ears certainly perked up after it (or something like it) was said. I looked around the room and no one batted an eye, but that’s not unusual - no one really bats an eye in these meetings.

So while it is awesome someone may have accidentally referred to parts of Newark, NJ as poopy, this is a sad story, since I will go to my grave never knowing the truth and always wondering what really was said.

Trouble. Scatological trouble.

(And if I’m wrong and there’s another interpretation of the word or a word that sounds similar to scatological could have been used more appropriately, please let me know.)

Drinking Alone, Again

Last night I went over to the local bar and joined two of my friends as well as their family and friends for some beers, which were tasting delicious. I was a little late getting there and shortly most of the people were gone. Then everyone was gone and it was just my friends and I. And then, tired from all that partying or whatever, they too left, just as I had gotten by third beer, a pint of Guinness that tasted like God.

I couldn’t begrudge them for leaving - they did run quite a bit that day - but I was just hitting my stride and wanted to keep drinking. I think that I have a problem: I love getting drunk when I’m not supposed to. I think that beers taste much better on Sunday nights or Tuesday afternoons than they do on Friday and Saturday nights. I have no doubt that the naughtiness of it has something to do with it - while the rest of the world is settling in for the start of their week, I’m pounding pints of Guinness and feeling like a million bucks - but I’m ok with that. Because I’m naughty sometimes.

(Ugh - I just grossed out myself by writing that.)

Of course, I wasn’t going to leave with them and leave my full beer at the bar, but I knew that none of my friends weren’t doing anything last night, so I figured I’d call it quits after that beer - even though it was only just 8pm. Besides, I could have one beer at the bar alone. After all, I’m a grown-ass man, more than capable of and secure enough to enjoy a beer by myself and watch some Sportscenter. I’d have my beer, check out some highlights, then head home. Not a big deal.

FOUR HOURS LATER, the bartender brought me over another of a few free Guinnesses that he treated me to that night, as well as a pint of water, "just in case [I] want it." Friends, I was shitcanned. And alone. And the bartender was bringing my sad, drunk ass water.

I’ve never before been brought water by a bartender when I didn’t ask for it, so I can only guess that "just in case you want it" really means, "You’re bombed and making me sad, because I’ve been listening to you beg every person in your phone book to come out and drink with you and have been watching send about 500 text messages, I assume imploring the same. Drink this water so you’re not too hungover tomorrow and then get the fuck out of here. Christ."

Taking the water offering as my cue, I stumbled home and passed the fuck out, not before sending a few more last-minute text messages, asking anyone - anyone - if they wanted to have a drink. But by now it was just after midnight and my lame ass friends were not interested. I contemplated taking the plunge and going to this other bar in the area, but I was too tired. Also, I didn’t have the cash on me.

At 5am, I woke up because the heat was coming out of my radiator so angrily that it felt like my condo was on fire. I was covered in sweat, which for about four half-conscious minutes I thought was piss, before realizing that my hair was matted down and knowing that there was very little chance I could piss all over my head. This latest heat explosion was the worst ever and there is a very decent chance that as I write this my condo is, in fact, burning to the ground. Because something ain’t right with that heater. I had sweat so much that this morning that I took all my sheets off and threw them in the washer - and it’s not even that time of year!

(Ladies, again, I’m single and coming to a city near you.)

Anyway, long and short of it is that I’m a defeated man today. No one to drink with last night, got bombed by myself. Took comfort in that at least I’d get a decent night’s sleep, but was woken up by my own sweat and couldn’t fall back asleep. Been trying all day to tell you about it, but am so tired that I’m practically slapping my hands on the keyboard and ian sfp9qhi”’oN inndpgoij i’s.

And the moral is that I need new friends here. Just a piss-poor performance by everyone I know last night - I couldn’t get one single person to come out and have a beer or two with me, so I had to get rocked by myself (which I’m still not sure was awesome or sad). If interested, please send a cover letter and resume and you’ll be hearing from me soon. If you're lucky, we’ll drunk at a bar on a school night.

Oreo Pooping

I had 10 Double Stuf Oreos for breakfast, and for the third time in five weeks I actually had to stop at the nearest gas station in the middle of my morning commute to poop. Apparently, though delicious, 10 Double Stuf Oreos are not good on the stomach at 7:15 in the morning. Who knew? Suffice to say, I won’t be having 10 Oreos for breakfast any more. Or at least until tomorrow. God they are delicious.

Strip Club Malaise

On Friday night, I got into Queens late. I had a major attack of insomnia on Thursday night and was a mess all day. It’s almost like clockwork; once every two months, seemingly out of nowhere, I’ll get walloped with a horrible night of lying awake in bed, stressing about all sorts of things that seemingly don’t matter much to me, in this case cats and mental institutions.

(I at least realize the source of these most recent nightmares - a book I’m reading called The Master and Margarita. Still, it would have been nice to have an appearance by my favorite nightmare character, a lady vampire who sexes me up and then strangles me, after which I wake up amidst a sea of pulled out chest hair. Can someone - preferably a psychologist or a drug addict - explain to me what this means?).

When I arrived in Queens at 9pm on Friday, I went out, stayed out late, and slept fitfully. I woke up early on Saturday because a dog was stepping on my face and was not able to fall back asleep after that (after having nightmares about cats, being woken up suddenly from a drunken slumber by a dog walking all over me was pretty fucking terrifying). I gorged myself on some creamed chipped beef, my favorite food ever, returned home from my local diner, and took a nap. From noon until 4:30pm.

Why do I tell you all this? Because, jerk, I’m trying to set the stage for Saturday night, the reason I was home in Queens. That night was my buddy Jimmy's bachelor party. Because if I did anything regrettable, I blame it entirely on my messed up sleep cycle.

I realize that there is an unwritten rule about bachelor parties, something like "What happens at a bachelor party should not be disseminated via the internet to thousands of strangers, forever recorded in the annals of the web to be googled at any point in time in the future." But I’m kind of hard up for material, so fuck it.

And aside from that, everyone was (reasonably) well-behaved at this bachelor party. The groom-to-be, Jimmy, is normally a pretty timid guy whose behavior was stellar (and no, I’m not just saying that because he gave me $200 to do so). Also, the rest of the guys on the party were well-behaved too. If anything, my behavior was (arguably) the most not good.

The bachelor party started at a buddy’s house, where we had hired two strippers to do all sorts of horrible things to each other, things that make you blush, laugh, yell, and vomit all at the same time. But only one stripper showed up. The other, presumably, had gotten murdered and couldn’t make it. But our stripper, Destiny, who (I’d guess) was 25 but looked 35 with ginormous fake breasts, tried to allay our fears about her coming alone, saying that this would allow for "more interaction" with the partygoers.

Well.

I’ve written before that I’m damn near terrified of strippers. Something about them - possibly the amount of dicks they’ve been through or the variety of household items they’ve stuck in their sexy place for $15 or the herpes that is just running roughshod on their upper lip there - just kinda turns me off. I know - I’m crazy and less of a man. Throw in that I’m a sappy drunk and I turn into the guy at the strip club saying things like, "Move to New Jersey, come live with me, and we’ll make a family. I promise I’ll be a good husband and moderately capable lover." and "Destiny - why do you do this? I can take you away from it all. And no, I will not pay you $8 to watch you stick my wallet in your ass." and "Baby, let’s go right now. I can have us back at my place in an hour. Wait, the whole wallet or just a corner of it? With or without my credit cards in there?"

So when Destiny said the thing about more interaction with the guys, I made sure to stay on the fringes of the group and make a b-line for the yard (where the beer was) if she was looking for volunteers. The good news is that I was able to do this fairly easily.

The good news is also that over the next hour, I and the rest of my buddies learned many things from Destiny. Chief among them: paying $60 for a handjob from a stripper - who minutes before you watched spit in your friend’s ass crack - sounds like a great idea in theory, but in actuality…not so much. At least that’s what I heard. From someone else. Not from myself.

And that’s really all I’ll say about that. I’m just glad this whole blog’s fictional or else I’d have some explaining to do to my future ex-wife.

(But for the record, we all know that paying for handjobs is not a big deal, since it the only sex act that you can close your eyes during and easily pretend it’s yourself. Except you don’t smell like vanilla candles and pain pills. And you don’t sound like a garbage disposal when you breathe. And you probably wouldn’t stick two of your fingers in your ass while masturbating. But the point: handjobs are totally not a big deal. Now no more talk of this part of the evening.)

(Well, I’ll say one more thing, because I haven’t been writing much and would do you a disservice if I left it out: a buddy of mine was stripped down to his boxers and laid on the floor on a few towels. Destiny then placed a bottle of beer on his bird, which was not exposed but under the boxers. Destiny then squatted down and - bless her skanky lil’ heart - started making love to the bottle of beer. At this point, every guy in the room was on the floor screaming, laughing, and retching. I, of course, was eating Doritos. But then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Destiny stood up and removed the beer bottle from her secret place and beer streamed everywhere, like champagne in a post-game celebration. Screaming, laughing, retching, times ten. Then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Destiny, um, opened herself and shot leftover beer from her privates onto my buddy, lying below her. Several times. Opening and closing. Over and over again. Words. None. When it was all over, I felt like I had just been in a fight: sweaty, agitated, pissed off, and sore. So yeah, it was pretty fucking sweet.)

(Also, the name for my fifth book: Sweaty, Agitated, Pissed Off and Sore: How Johnny Trashbag and a Band of Misfits took Down the World’s Greatest Porno Empire (With a Foreword by Bob Dylan). It has a nice ring to it, right? I could sell it on the title alone!)

(God, I’m going to be the worst writer in the history of the world.)

After the "show," we headed in a bus to a local strip club for more "entertainment." We went to a strip club I’ve been to several times before and had a private room, so I felt comfortable. However, my comfortableness did not prevent me from drinking whiskey sodas like, um, something easily drinkable and spending enough money in two hours for a nice vacation on the coast of Italy.

I had been laying off the whiskey because it was beginning to take over my life. But tonight, with the help of said whiskeys, I was unleashed. And the whiskey-addled me had some business to take care of.

For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to give strippers $5 bills instead of $1 bills, because that’s just how I roll. And there were a lot strippers in the private room. And a lot of bill giving. I won’t say how much I spent, because I’ll only wind up throwing up again, but one of my buddies, who I was hanging out at the strip club with the most, had $200 in $1 bills on him. He spent them all. And we were similar in our spending habits. So do the math on that one and get back to me. God damn me. God damn me straight to hell.

As if I wasn’t disgracing myself and my family’s good name enough, I decided to fall in love with a stripper at the club. I’ve gone on at length at my type of woman: big busted, tan, good dancer, hoop earrings, messy ponytail, sass mouth. So since my type of woman sounds like a stripper anyway, it follows that I’d at least fall in love with a decent-looking stripper, yes? Again, in theory perhaps this would be true. Not in real life.

The objection of my affection (read: the girl I was giving so much money to that she was essentially robbing me) was probably the most unattractive stripper at the club. Now, the club was kinda high end so it’s not like this girl was picking at her scabs or anything, but on the whole, she wasn’t attractive compared to the other girls. For one, she had no boobies, which is not a dealbreaker in and of itself, but she just wasn’t good-looking. She was plain, very plain.

BUT – she did have one thing that got me: sexy librarian glasses. Every one of my ex-girlfriends had these glasses and though I don’t recall being especially into them at the time, I guess subconsciously I’m attracted to the sexy nerd look (hell, one of my ex-girlfriends was actually a real life librarian).

And I’ve always liked smart girls. I’m not talking smarter than me or anything, because that’s no good. The perfect girl is always just a little less intelligent than I am, so that we can converse but if she starts running her sass mouth off I can drop a little knowledge to shut her up, like, "Oh yeah? Aristotle died in 322 BC. So there’s that." or "1812 – remember that year? Well, former Massachusetts governor Elbridge Gerry does, because that’s when he invented gerrymandering. But you probably knew that." This is how you win an argument with a girl who thinks she’s smart.

Whereas my darling stripper, whose name I can’t recall but who we shall call Stacey, was probably not nearly as smart as I am, sexy librarian glasses notwithstanding. And I’m not saying this because I’m smart or anything, but because I watched her put her shirt on backwards three times and once I saw her trying to eat her shoes. But I’m the moron because I spend all week designing phone systems so I can give Stacey my money so that she and her boyfriend can go to Greece next summer. God damn me. God damn me straight to hell.

(And I would have given her more if it had not been for my buddy Chris, who in front of Stacey said, "Johnny's got a girlfriend." I made a joke about how she and I were going to get married soon, which I’m sure at the time was only a half joke, maybe even a third of a joke, and then I never saw her again. Methinks the fire in my eyes and the passion in my loins was enough to keep her hiding in the kitchen for the rest of the night. But hey, she had already made enough money that evening, so good play on her part.)

After the strip club, it was back to the local bar, the last stop on the bachelor party. Fortunately, I don’t remember much of this part of the evening, as my belly was full with whiskey and my testes swollen with semen. At that point, I just wanted to make sexy time with Stacey and eat. I’ll give one guess as to which one worked out.

In conclusion, yes, I had a good time. And yes, I’ve spent most of my free time since in the shower, scrubbing myself and weeping. But again, I can take solace in the knowledge that if I had only been sleeping normally, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have to eat fingernails for dinner for the next month to make up the difference in my bank account. So let this be a lesson: get a good night’s sleep before a bachelor party. And stay away from whiskey. And don’t be a lonely drunk with a big (but fake) ego and a tiny penis. Because that is a lethal combination.

(At least that’s what I heard. From someone else. Not from myself.)

Me No Likey Pee-Pee

My penis and I are no longer on speaking terms. Too often recently I have woken up filled with regret about the previous night’s behavior, all because my penis is putting me in awkward positions with members of the opposite sex (and by "awkward positions" I don’t mean trying to fit myself, two women, a bottle of champagne, a dozen toy cars, and a Native American into my bathtub). Without getting too into it, he and I had a major blow-up precipitated by his unconscionable behavior this weekend (and the past few weekends) and we are finished. I don’t want to even look at or touch him, which means I’m going to have to start wearing diapers or something (and if I can’t touch him I will not be able to wash him, which is bad news for everyone, especially my poor co-workers - guess we won’t be having any meetings in my office this week).

This is not how I was hoping to end the week. Not at all.

(And I hate it when dudes refer to the birds as a person or "him," but I kinda had to here. So forgive me. At least I realize I sound like a douche.)

The Devil's Holiday

"No."

But mom, this isn't the devil's holiday. You just go around asking for candy.

"No."

Come ooooooon. Every year I'm the only one at school without any candy.

"Good. You can thank me later when you're not fat with pimples."

Mom, I'm telling you. Trust me. Just let me go out with Leo for one hour. I promise I won't do anything to get in trouble.

"No. What is this holiday? Trick or treat? When the kids come by and I ask for a trick they look at me funny. Why do something to celebrate the devil? No. Not in my house. I don't care if you begin to eat the apple pie instead of my baklava, you will not celebrate this holiday."

Mom, your baklava is the best. You know your baklava is the best. I don't want to eat the apple pie. I just want to go out and get a little bit of candy.

"I know what you want. This is a day for the women to dress like street whores! Why do they do this? Why do they do this?"

My mom likes to ask me questions only to answer them herself.

"I'll tell you why they do this. They dress like street whores because it is the devil's holiday and it is a night of temptation. A night of temptation that my son will spend indoors giving out the candy."

Mom! Why do we give out candy if it is the devil's holiday? Aren’t you being a bit of a hypocrite?

"Now you call your mother names? The mother who carried you around for 10 months? Maybe I hugged you too much Johnny. Is this my punishment God? Is this how I get repaid?"

My mother likes to speak to God who conveniently resides in or around our kitchen.

Fine. I'll hand out the candy.

And this is how I spent most of the Halloween nights of my youth. That was until I figured out how to sneak out the back window and go dressed up as "a runaway child" with Leo.