An Epic Road Trip

I’ve had this idea for a while now but just haven’t really grasped that it was achievable until recently. Honestly, writing it out makes it seem even more attainable because literally thousands of others have done it before me. However it’s still a little daunting…I want to road trip across the United States. I don’t mean just drive either, I mean actually see shit. See amazing shit. See the country through my own eyes and not what movies or TV have shown me. Hell not even what business trips have shown me. So what the hell do I need?

His father told him not to play with his dingy so much.

His father told him to leave his dinghy alone and to stop playing with the buoys.

A boon companion (or two) – What’s a road trip without someone to share it with? I already talked to my BFF Brad and he says he’s in but this is a daunting trip and I’m going to give him some time to back out. He’s pretty much the most awesomely fun dude to ever walk the earth and I’m grateful he values me enough to be my friend. Seriously though, he has no idea what he’s volunteered for because every story needs a foil.

In the meantime, I’m looking for volunteers. I have a foolproof plan to see if we can survive each others company too! We’re going to eat a ton of Taco Bell and baked beans and then lock ourselves together in a closet filled with unwashed socks for 24 hours. If we can survive that we might be able to survive two weeks on the road together.

Seriously…any other takers? Yea I didn’t think so.

A friggen plan – Can you imagine just renting a car and driving without any idea of where you’re going? Well, yea kinda. However, as romantic as that notion sounds… it’s definitely foolhardy. There needs to be a route with at least some idea of where we’re going and what we want to see. We don’t necessarily have to stick to the plan but it makes for a good backup should any meanderings go awry. I suppose this one can wait until the boon companion is figured out.

I found a couple great sites to help us get planning; Roadtrippers and Road Trip USA.

oscar-mayer-weinermobile-03

I wonder what kind of gas mileage this thing gets?

A Car – This seems simple as there are two real options right? Either rent a car or take someone’s. Well that’s two options for most people who have less than overactive imaginations and ridiculously nerdy pipe dreams. I want to take Boss Hog’s caddy across the US! No wait, Che Guevara’s motorcycle (possibly with a sidecar)! OMG no let’s get a vintage Batmobile! Doc Brown’s Delorean! The bus from Almost Famous! Ooh a Porsche Spyder like James Dean had! No wait. he died in that. Badly. Scratch the Spyder.

Do you see the problem now? I can’t just go rent a fucking Chrysler, I don’t have it in me. I can be practical and sensible when it comes to a lot of stuff but not this. If you know me at all you know I’m absurd when it comes to these decisions. Someone needs to talk me down and inject a little common sense into this idea. Otherwise, Brad’s going to die of thirst in the Arizona desert after the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile bites it and he has to walk for help. That would be pretty damn embarrassing and the guy deserves are far more poetic end. It might elicit some chuckles or even make the Darwin list though…hmm.

Let's hit Harrenhal on our way to see the worlds biggest ball of twine.

Let’s hit Harrenhal on our way to see the worlds biggest ball of twine.

A paper road atlas – Yea I know what you’re thinking. WTF!? Paper?! Yes paper! What if the technology fails? What if we run out of magic go juice? What if we don’t get a cell signal? Besides, technology has taken the fun from the road trip. Who doesn’t want to see the wind slap a massive map that can never be refolded correctly in Brad’s face while I blissfully drive along and pretend not to notice?

Cat Care – I have 2 seventeen year old felines who are still going strong. Someone is going to make sure they get food, water and love while I’m away. Oh and you’re going to have to clean and change litter. Any takers? Oh now you want to volunteer to go to avoid cat shit duty (heh heh, I said duty).

Time off work – I can save up vacation time and I get 4 weeks a year so this probably isn’t an issue. That said, I’ve never taken more than 5 days off at a time and this is going to require at least 16 days without doing anything work related. I know that sounds pathetic but I’m tethered to my job everywhere I go.

This is the kind of redneck I'm referring too! Oh wait...that's just Brad.

This is the kind of scary redneck I’m referring too! Oh wait, that’s just Brad again.

Preparation for the unknown – What if we’re captured by some rednecks because we saw their moonshine still in the deep woods and they torture and ass-rape Brad for days before we manage to escape by the skin of our teeth? It could happen. I might have to carry him and then nurse his ass (figuratively) back to life.

Hey Bradley, you might need to squirt copious amounts of Neosporin in the darkest of places before ever sitting down again. Still want to go?

A Soundtrack – I’m a firm believer that this kind of adventure needs the proper score. I’m pretty sure we don’t have the budget for Danny Elfman or John Williams and hiring a band to play our theme music seems really expensive as well we’ll have to rely our own music selection. B-rad is a music lover and has turned me onto some good tunes so maybe I should leave this to him. Just remember dude it needs a little Zepplin, Skynyrd and maybe some Beatles.

Documentation – You can’t take an epic adventure without capturing it for future viewing pleasure (or evidence at a trial). I could probably use some social medium like Twitter, Facebook Tumblr, etc. and maybe even take a ton of pics. It would be really nice to have a plan for this and maybe even some trials to see how it works. I don’t know the first thing about being a documentarian unless the subject is Brad and we’re both three sheets to the wind. Suggestions?

Great ideas often end up as bad decisions.

Great ideas often end up as bad decisions.

Money for gas, food and bail – This honestly shouldn’t be an issue but how the hell do you budget for something like this? I can probably figure the gas money out based on assumed mileage + 25%. We can set some kind of budget for food and motels as well based on some kind of per diem average. I might even be able to judge how much we’ll spend on booze and fun but what about the other shit? How do you plan for a bad decisions? We all know Brad’s going to jail at some point and I’ll probably want to bail him out. Will there be property damage involved? Hospital bills? How much does Neosporin cost? Will we need spiritual healers? Exorcists? Lawyers? Bride kidnapping experts? DJ’s? Pornography historians? You just don’t know!

So this is where you come in. What am I not thinking of or what am I taking for granted? What tools are out there I can use to help plan this or get ideas from? There’s no such thing as a bad idea either because while I might make bad decisions from time to time, a few crazy ideas have turned out to be hidden gems. Besides, what do you have to lose? You probably aren’t going along. :P

More Favorite Quotes

It’s that time again where I feel the need to share a few more quotes I love, live or am just plain fascinated by.

Merikah! Fuck Yea!

Merikah! Fuck Yea!

First let’s start out with a current event that is bound to be controversial and get me some delicious hate mail…the Boston Marathon.

I’m sad about the Boston Marathon tragedy, truly I am. However the flag waiving, chest thumping bullshit has already started and it frightens the bejesus out of me and I don’t even believe in bejesus.

Side bar: Apparently this word came about in 1902 and was attributed to the Irish. Does that surprise anyone? You know some guy named Paddy was incredibly fucked up and that was all he could get out. I should also mention that Urban Dictionary has another meaning for it, runny poop. Now excuse me, I need to go take a bejesus.

Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.
– Samuel Johnson

For those that don’t know, Samuel Johnson was a Brit who came up with that quote shortly before the United States was formed but I still find it poignant. In the past two days, Facebook has been awash in the “just kill him, no trial” kind of comments that disturb the hell out of me. There’s this concept of justice that you need to embrace whether you like it or not. You don’t know how far reaching this is from your armchair so shut the fuck up, let the authorities do their work and save your indictments until there’s some actual evidence and not bullshit rhetoric from the news media.

——–

Many boozes in a creepy room.

Many boozes in a creepy room.

I’ve finally managed to get my “booze room” set up. Originally the plan was to keep all my sex slaves in the root cellar of my basement, however, they proved too messy. They also made a lot of noise with all that needless “Oh please god help me” whiny bullshit. Christ people, it’s only torture and I have work in the morning.

So instead I filled it with alcohol.

I like to drink. I like to drink a lot actually. I have pretty varied taste as long as it’s not beer that’s too bitter (I’m a super taster).

Side bar: Yea I said supertaster, it’s a real thing. I have more fungiform papillae on my tongue than the average dude so bitter things taste really fucking bitter. Apparently it could be an evolutionary advantage . “heightened taste response, particularly to bitterness, would represent an important advantage in avoiding potentially toxic plant alkaloids.” Just try and poison me bitches!

I also have this ridiculous notion that some fine English gentlemen are going to want to retire to the study after dinner for some manly talk while consuming quality libations. I need to be able to accommodate that.

wine

In Vino Veritas

That said, I’ve been in this house since early November and haven’t cracked one of them until earlier this week. I’m a social drinker and not much for sitting around on my own and getting bombed. Maybe this is the reason why I’m Irish and still have a healthy liver. Well that and a lack of people to invite over to drink helps this situation as well. Don’t call me a loser either. I prefer to “outcast” as it has a far more poetic tone.

Wine is bottled poetry.
- Robert Louis Stevenson

I know, finally a damn quote. I’m pretty sure I don’t have to explain who Robert Louis “Treasure Fucking Island” Stevenson was right?

He was right though, it is bottled poetry. Maybe the supertaster thing above explains why I love it so much and feel like I can really notice the subtle nuances of flavor from one varietal or even bottle, to the next.  This scene from the movie Sideways moves me every time I watch it and does a great job explaining the passion I have for wine. I also feel a little like Miles sometimes who you can tell is completely enraptured with what Mia is saying. You’re actually seeing him fall in love with her right before your eyes.

Okay that was a little sentimental… lets bring things back into perspective.

Miles: Let me show you how this is done. First thing, hold the glass up and examine the wine against the light. You’re looking for color and clarity. Just, get a sense of it. OK? Uhh, thick? Thin? Watery? Syrupy? OK? Alright. Now, tip it. What you’re doing here is checking for color density as it thins out towards the rim. Uhh, that’s gonna tell you how old it is, among other things. It’s usually more important with reds. OK? Now, stick your nose in it. Don’t be shy, really get your nose in there. Mmm… a little citrus… maybe some strawberry…
[smacks lips]
Miles: … passion fruit…[puts hand up to ear]
Miles: … and, oh, there’s just like the faintest soupçon of like asparagus and just a flutter of a, like a, nutty Edam cheese…
Jack: Wow. Strawberries, yeah! Strawberries. Not the cheese…

——–

The theme to my life the past year or so has really been trying to figure out who the hell I am. That has especially held true since my divorce was final and I moved to Ferndale. Don’t worry, I don’t have Changnesia, I know my name and remember most of the sober parts of adulthood. These are deeper questions like:

  • Who the fuck am I?
  • Who do I want to be?
  • What do other people see when they look at me? (besides a chubby dork you smartasses!)
  • Why am I here?
  • Why is 42 the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything?

Here’s the quote:

Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.
– Henry David Thoreau

Henry was a pretty boss writer, poet and transcendentalist who died of the consumption at a pretty young age (44). While I my core beliefs don’t mix well with the whole “all people are inherently good” BS I do respect his work immensely. I’m torn between loving the simplicity and hating the vagueness. Well I’m lost for sure and I still have no answers to any of those questions. Douglas Adams is no longer with us so I’m probably gonna have to figure this out on my own. While I’m doing that I can look over at my monitor and see that quote and remember that being lost isn’t necessarily a bad thing?

Don't panic.

Don’t panic.

Here’s a bonus quote that should help sum up:

The Book – It is important to note that suddenly, and against all probability, a sperm whale had been called into existence, several miles above the surface of an alien planet. And since this is not a naturally tenable position for a whale, this innocent creature had very little time to come to terms with its identity. This is what it thought, as it fell:

The Whale –  Ahhh! Woooh! What’s happening? Who am I? Why am I here? What’s my purpose in life? What do I mean by who am I?

Okay okay, calm down calm down get a grip now. Ooh, this is an interesting sensation. What is it? Its a sort of tingling in my… well I suppose I better start finding names for things. Lets call it a… tail! Yeah! Tail! And hey, what’s this roaring sound, whooshing past what I’m suddenly gonna call my head? Wind! Is that a good name? It’ll do.

Yeah, this is really exciting. I’m dizzy with anticipation! Or is it the wind? There’s an awful lot of that now isn’t it? And what’s this thing coming toward me very fast? So big and flat and round, it needs a big wide sounding name like ‘Ow’, ‘Ownge’, ‘Round’, ‘Ground’! That’s it! Ground! Ha! I wonder if it’ll be friends with me? Hello, Ground!

… SPLAT!

I have a feeling I may be the Sperm Whale.

The Libation

The door opens.

I walk through it alone.

It closes behind me with a jarring cacophony of noise.

All eyes glare at me in revilement for breaking their blasé reverie.

I return the looks unabashedly as my jacket weeps rain droplets.

I fade into memory as the last patron returns attention to his cups.

A suitable stool materializes as an unearthly fog dissipates from my view.

My brain forces my legs to haul me towards it until my ass finds purchase.

The bar steward shambles over and harkens to my decree before wandering off.

A dark and debilitated screen broadcasts the tedious utterances of an aged scrivener.

The previously solicited libation is produced with nary a vocalization or acknowledgment.

A fulmination by Mother Nature rattles the glassware and momentarily upsets the flow of power.

The taverns egress again makes a vociferous racket announcing that one more inebriate is roaming the roads.

The gloomy lighting reveals a glass in my grasp, bereft of anything but ice and a sanguine stir that’s chewed on one end.

I ruminate on the merits of another but quickly decide this inauspicious establishment marks the denouement of my evening.

A crumple of bills flutters from my hand to the eroded surface of the bar before I contend with gravity and labor to pull myself to my feet.

Without notice, I turn towards the exit and soundlessly traipse across the boorish carpeting as if avoiding the malfeasance of but a lone cocktail.

At the door, a measured look over my shoulder shows a complete lack of regard for my exodus, at least until the sounds of my passing again intrudes on their reticence.

As I sorrowfully think of the empty house I’m about to inhabit, the mercurial breath of a spring tempest whips open my coat, intruding upon the warmth that the bourbon had brought me.

The key turned the ignition and the dashboard lit the the rearview mirror revealing a face that glared back at me, postulating whether leaving the house was lonelier than staying in and brooding over being forsaken.

I Crave

I adore the way your face lights up when I tell you something silly.
In my head, that laugh is just for me.

I love the way your eyes sparkle and cheeks flush when you look up at me.
In my head, that smile is just for me.

I covet the way you electrify me when your fingertips touch my cheek, arm or knee.
In my head, you have true passion for me.

I ache for the way the world fades to nothingness from the soft brush of your lips.
In my head, you’ve never kissed anyone the way you kiss me.

I hunger for the way you taste when I’m exploring you with my eyes, hands and lips.
In my head, you’re mine to discover over and over.

I love the way you make soft cooing noises when you awake feeling my lips nuzzling your neck.
In my head, it’s all the nourishment I’ll ever need.

I crave the next time you’re in my arms and I can experience all these things over again.
In my head, you yearn for the same.

Favorite Quotes

I thought I would share some of the poignant, meaningful and hilarious quotes that have helped me along my journey of being me. I don’t expect everyone to like or agree with them, simply know they helped shape me into the wonderfully caring person or horrific & ungainly monster you think me to be.

Let’s start with one that I remember every morning after I write.

It was one of those evenings when men feel that truth, goodness and beauty are one. In the morning, when they commit their discovery to paper, when others read it written there, it looks wholly ridiculous.
- Aldous Huxley

If you don’t know who he was, Aldous was a British writer and satirist in the 20th century, most famous for writing Brave New World. That quote sums up exactly how I feel the day after writing just about anything. In this case, ridiculous poetry, tepid erotica or silly stories from my past come across as anything but profound, sexy or humorous. I hit the publish button anyway for fear of being a total coward but at least I know I’m not alone in how I feel.

————————

I was a nerd stoner.

I was a nerd stoner.

Next up is a quote from a man who inspired me while in custody. I’d love to tell you I was serving time in Attica and a fellow con slipped me a book between the bars containing something that changed me forever. In actuality I was in junior high serving detention for doing something that seemed smart at the time but in retrospect, turned out to be incredibly stupid.

Side bar: If only I had a finski for every time I said the latter part of that sentence over the past 44 years.

Suffice to say, my act of defiance was more than likely done to either garner status or impress a girl. Somehow I managed to do the former because kids respect fellow delinquents. Well at least the kind that need impressing do.

So there I am, in the library at Robert Frost Middle School. Bored, melancholy and probably a little manic without a Mr. Vernon to catalyze more delinquent behavior and rebellion against authority. Well what the fuck… I’m surrounded by books and being held captive, may as well take a look. So I reach for a nearby book, pop it open and this quote appears:

The keenest sorrow is to recognize ourselves as the sole cause of all our adversities.
– Sophocles

That’s a relatively insightful quote for a 7th grade ne’er-do-well who was just trying to have a little fun and got caught because he didn’t have the insight to devise an escape plan. So what does young Daniel take from that? Dumb question. Next time have an exit strategy and you won’t get caught and therefore you won’t be unhappy! Sheer genius! Thank you old Greek dude!

Sadly it took decades for that to really sink in but it stuck with me all this time. Finally, after a particularly depressing juncture in my life I re-read it aloud and it finally hit home. Better late than never?

————————

My final quote for the day is from one of my all time favorite authors. What I wouldn’t give to quit my job, sell my house, buy a convertible and lots of psychotropic drugs and just see the country. Unfortunately times have changed since the late 1940’s and and any such adventure would likely end very badly. That doesn’t stop me from dreaming about it though.

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

If I could go back in time and pick one friend to have it would be Jack. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have liked him most of the time but damn we would have had a fucking fantastic adventure. I get what he’s saying too. This quote seems incredibly ironic when sitting in a management team meeting listening to the vapid corporate bullshit spew forth like a backed up sewage main.

Your typical hipster douche bag.

Your typical hipster douche bag.

Like Jack, I like the mad people too. The weird, different and odd. They make me question everything which is a trait I value highly in those I choose as friends. Sometimes these people don’t know they’re weird and sometimes they do. Those that know, well they just don’t give a fuck (or they have some other issue in their life that has forced them down this path). Right or wrong they make me at least thing about my answer. Many times they’re loud and obnoxious and you tend to steer clear of these people.

Side bar: some are weird because they think it makes them cool –>.

The ones that aren’t self-aware are the ones you pointedly ignore. Most of you feel uncomfortable and uneasy around them. Stop. You’re making a huge mistake. HUGE. Like sitting on a cops hat huge. Give them a second glance and pay attention to what they say because every once in a while you’ll find sheer genius.

They are some of the most genuine people you will meet, anywhere, ever. They blurt their weird little nonsense out with childlike innocence nor any understanding of potential repercussions. What you get is unbiased human feeling and emotion that hasn’t been scrubbed through layers of psychosis, advertising jargon and the desire to sound or look “cool”.

Jump in!

Jump in!

I’m not saying what you hear won’t be genuine bigotry or bat-shit crazy but it’s worth the chance.

Maybe the reason they frightens you is because they are a little mad? Here’s a bonus quote to help make my point:

“Why is a raven like a writing-desk?”
“Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.
“No, I give it up,” Alice replied: “What’s the answer?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter

How I Ruined a State Trooper’s Day

Welcome friends, step into my time machine and lets go back to the late 1980’s! It was a glorious time filled with all the things a young man goes away to college for; loose women, cheap beer, great friendships, brotherhood, fist fights and of course the awesome stories that come with them.

I had just managed to impress my parents with my scholastic vigor, so much so, that they would no longer pay for my schooling. In other words, I fucked up and had to pay for it. In my defense, I came in 2nd out of 4 roommates in GPA! My good friend and roomy Keith was on top with a 1.7. I came in a strong second at .65. Let me make that easier to read… 0.65. My friend Scott came in third with a 0.0 and my ‘big brother’ in the fraternity, Don, managed to have all classes dropped. Yep… Animal House. Hoover, Kent Dorfman, Bluto & D-Day in that order.

Side bar: I didn’t get the chance to throw-up on Dean Wormer in case you’re wondering.

So to make a long story slightly longer… I had to get a job. Thankfully I was well versed in selling ladies shoes so I somehow managed to convince someone I was worth hiring at the Briarwood Hudson’s.

Side bar: I just had a Maurice salad the other day, damn those things were good! So Mauricie and delicious!

So my very first day on the job comes and I shower, brush my teeth, eat breakfast (swig of Jack) and rush off to work.

Side bar: It’s possible those came in a slightly different order as brushing last would suppress the smell of alcohol possibly ensuring at least 2 days of work and drinking Jack after brushing your teeth just sounds gross.

I had a 1978 bright yellow Toyota Celica GT at the time.

Picture this with a trunk rather than hatchback, no bumper, less shiny and a lot more rust.

Picture this with a trunk rather than hatchback, no bumper, less shiny and a lot more rust.

Yea I rolled in style in those days…

Side bar: That car held an amazingly large amount of stolen box wine, beer, bottles of wine and liqueur plus 4 frat boys. Granted, two of them had to ride on top while hanging off the moon roof. It threw  a 4 foot arc of sparks from the muffler dragging on cement, which of course won’t draw notice that the car is filled with pilfered booze. Okay that’s another story.

So I jump in my chick-magnet mobile and head to work. I’m about 2 miles from Briarwood when the car dies and I pull to the side of the road. I have maybe 10 minutes before I’m late for my first day on the job so I jump out, pop the hood and pretend like I know something about cars. (Oh the thingy mcthing is too hot, let’s touch it!)

Suddenly the friendliest, most chipper voice ever heard anywhere in this galaxy proclaims “Car trouble friend?”. Okay I’m paraphrasing here but this is what I’m recollecting many years later. He was really god damn happy. I poke my head around the raised hood and there stands a miniature and downright adorable State Trooper! He has the most immaculately pressed uniform I’ve ever seen and a perfect little smokey the bear hat on. Seriously, he was short. Shorter than I am by a good 3 inches and he had this huge grin plastered on his face.

Side bar: Has anyone every met a State Trooper that was chipper? Other than this guy, my experience has been ‘prison guard brutal’ or worse. I had 2 Statey’s pull me over going 145 mph at 3 am in Detroit with my headlights off. They had me splayed in the middle lane at gun point while they searched my car and I was pretty sure they were going to kill me.

The first thing that happens is I panic in my head. “Oh fuck, what’s in the car?! Oh fuck, what’s in the glove box?! Oh fuck, what’s in the trunk?! Oh fuck! I’m going to jail!”

The panic passed pretty quickly because I realized I’d actually cleaned it out recently and removed any drug paraphernalia (a Frisbee and Zig Zags of course) and all open or closed containers of alcohol.

He then goes on to tell me what’s wrong with my car and fuck if I remember what it was. I want to say the radiator had a leak but I’m pretty sure it was worse than that because the car was scrapped shortly thereafter. Well, shortly might be a bit of a misnomer as it sat rusting behind the fraternity house for months until I finally had it towed away.

Well Pocket Statey isn’t deterred at all when I tell him I’m late for my first day on the job and he offers to drive me to work. Seriously. When is the last time a cop offered you a ride unless you were in cuffs? They probably aren’t even allowed to give someone a ride these days due to legal and insurance issues.  Of course I said yes!

I lock the car, which in retrospect was a dumb idea because I would have been lucky if someone towed that PoS away. I walk to the drivers side of his cruiser and go to hop in the back and he pipes up with “Come on up front pal!” Again, my recollection is something people said in the 50’s on Leave it to Beaver so I don’t really know what he said.

Side bar: Hey Wally! If I put a gopher in the mailbox, will it go to heaven? – Beaver

So he jumps in and I walk around the drivers side, wait for him to unlock the door and literally leap in ass first.

Huge fucking mistake. HUGE. I might have well dropped trou and took a steaming dump on the hood of his cruiser. Little did my oblivious ass know, he took his mountie hat off and tossed it on the passenger seat. Something he’s probably done tons of times because whoever rides up front with him right? My dumbass never even looked.

Side bar: That was a figure of speech, I do not have eyes on my ass. Fuck Google Glass, make the damn Google Ass already so I stop sitting on shit I shouldn’t.

I literally lifted myself off the ground and aimed my darkest of orifices for the huge bench seat in his Crown Vic. It’s at this point in our story that everything went into slow motion. All I could hear was “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO —– deep breath —-
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo000000000000oooo!”

Squish? Splat? Thunk? Kerchunk? Plunk? Whunk? I don’t know what cartoon like sound my ass made when it hit the seat but it squashed his hat like a fucking accordion. I realized immediately I sat on something and slowly turned to look at him, eyes wide. There was an ever so slight change in his demeanor…

His face had those most evil look you’ve ever seen in either real-life or a movie. It was all scrunched up, kinda red (he was a black guy) and veiny and he was just staring at me. I figured at any second he was going to just shoot me and kick my ass out the door.

I was finally able to stammer out some kind of apology and he forcefully shoved me against the door and ripped his hat out from under my ass. He was giving me the evil look and then looking back at his hat and then more evil eye and so forth until he finally started popping it out. Again his demeanor changed.

He went from royally pissed the fuck off to incredibly sad as soon as he turned the rear-view and looked at his hat on his head. I seriously thought he might cry and all of a sudden I had a strong desire to hug this tiny little sad man. Of course I was smart enough not to try…why would you even ask that?

Eventually he took it off and reverently placed it between us on the seat without ever looking at me. He adjusted the mirror back, started the car and drove off. It was the most uncomfortable 2 mile drive I’ve ever endured and I’ve been in a cab with no floor in Metamoros Mexico. I seriously felt like I just murdered his family and he was still doing me a solid by driving my dumbass to work.

In all seriousness, he never said a word to me. I chattered a little about nothing I can remember right now and I never got a peep or a look. Finally we pull up outside Hudson’s and as he’s slowing down I stammer my thanks and pop the door a little. He stops, I put one leg down on the ground and turn back to apologize and thank him again and he guns the fucking engine! I’m not even out of the car yet so of course it spins me around like a top and I drop to the pavement. The door slams closed as he sharply turns and then speeds off.

Well, I picked myself up, dust myself off and with a wistful look back I walk inside. I was only a couple minutes late and my new boss had seen the cop drop me off so of course they bought the whole “car trouble” line.

I’d like to tell you it all worked out. I found his name and mailed him the money for a new hat. My job worked out great, I paid for my school, became an upstanding citizen and role model for all youth. I’d like to tell you that…

I’m pretty sure I was fired a week later for not showing up to work.

Prey: part 2

warning-adult-contentPart 1 here

Her hand reaches back and feels the door frame as it stops her retreat. He was never more than a few feet from her the entire way. His hands find hers ever so gently and the tenderness surprises her. Their fingers intertwine and he leans forward to kiss her. His lips brush hers teasingly and then he pulls back as if daring her to kiss him. She leans forward finally ready to give in when he finally speaks.

“Upstairs.”

His hands let go of hers and after a moment she slides out from between him and the wall. Her eyes don’t leave his until her hands find the doorway upstairs and she quickly turns and hurries up them. He follows at a slower, deliberate pace and it takes a few seconds before she sees him enter the bedroom. She backs up to the bed in anticipation and waits.

He stops at the closet and opens it, obscuring her view of him. Instead she can see her reflection in the mirror on the back of the closet door and quickly pulls her robe closed and ties it. She has no idea what he’s doing but she feels more vulnerable than she would like.

Finally he speaks again, “Come over here.” Slowly she makes her way towards him and sees that he’s been digging in her “pleasure chest”. Again his hands grasp hers but rougher now and he slowly forces one arm behind her back before letting go and whispering “keep it there” in her ear. With the other he produces a leather cuff.

He buckles it around her wrist and she can feel the rough leather against her smooth skin. It’s not course, but she won’t forget it’s there. He produces another one and then just stops and looks at her. A few seconds tick by before she slowly brings her arm around in front and holds her wrist out for him. His eyes haven’t left hers but she knows he’s pleased.

He buckles the other cuff on and then clips them together in front of her. His right hand holds the chain between them and his left gently slips into her robe and lays flat against her stomach. Forcefully he pushes her back against the door while his right hand pulls her hands above her head and hooks the chain on a coat hook. Her eyes are wide with a tinge a fear and a lot of anticipation and she can barely stand without being on her tip-toes.

His hand finds the robe tie and slowly begins to pull it undone. “Wait!” is all she can managed before her robe tumbles open, again. He pulls the tie completely out of the waist loops and briefly considers it before turning his attention back to her. Both of his hands find her hips and grips them firmly, his forearms fully opening her robe.

His eyes search up and down her body, no longer looking into her own. His hands roam her sides, feeling her hips, thighs, ass and rib cage until one cups a breast and lifts it. He looks quickly in her eyes again before his mouth descends on her nipple quickly

He’s rough, kissing and sucking hard, gently biting and pulling with his teeth. A hint of a growl hits her ears. It’s just enough pain to excite her but not enough to want him to stop. Finally he release her nipple and kisses and bites his way up her cleavage, chest and neck. The fingers of his left hand intertwine in her hair and suddenly he pulls her head back. She gasps as his lips, tongue and teeth find her neck, hairline and finally her ear.

After a few moments he pulls back and considers her again, though his hand still holds her head back by the base of her hair. His mouth opens slightly and his eyes narrow as he decides on his next morsel.

Adventures in Dating: First Dates

My very first date was through POF last year and after a brief online courtship of emails and texts I met her at a bar in Ferndale. I was fairly confident I had vetted her well enough that it would be a pretty good date.

I was the first to arrive because…well…I’m annoyingly prompt to the point where I always get there a little early. Somehow I’ve convinced myself this gives me the upper hand yet I have no actual data to back up that claim. Maybe I get overly excited. Who knows.

I’ve seen her pictures and she’s seen mine so as soon as she walks in I recognize her. I smile, catch her eye and in return she sees me standing there and gives me a  once over. The entire time I’m watching her face and all I see is the smile disappear and a look of disappointment as vast as the Pacific ocean replace it. Seriously. She is standing in the doorway frowning at me.

Now normally in these kind of situations feelings would be hurt right? I know, I don’t come off as the caring sensitive type because I hide all that shit from the world. I eat all my pain so I can maintain that happy fat guy thing but the reality is I get as sad as anyone else. Except this time.

Seriously who does that? Who meets someone and gives them a disapproving look like that upon instantly meeting them? There are a lot of names for it but  shallow wins out for now but vapid is a close second. So there she is, practically scowling at me, and in that millisecond my brain goes through all the possibilities…

I’m too fat.

I’m too ugly.

I pissed myself.

I’m too short.

Wait, back up two. I don’t feel wet and a quick glance down verifies that I have indeed kept my bladder in check. Okay good, that would actually justify the look.

At this point I redirect my attention towards her and realize she’s the fucking jolly green giant. She’s in a green sweater and chunky heels and has to be a good 6’4″. Her profile said 5’6″ and mine  5’9″ but she’s obviously the one with the math deficiency because I don’t see frozen vegetables anywhere.

Whew…dodged a bullet. It’s the height thing and not my ugly face or fat ass.

She lumbers to the table and looms over me menacingly. Okay I made that up, she just walked over and sat down (sans frozen peas) and kind of half smiles at me and then looks around scowling. Oh it’s fucking on now. My whole “woe is me, FML” attitude disappears in an instant and is replaced with “fuck you, I’m going to MAKE you want me by the end of this date.”

A waitress comes over and looks confused, probably because there are no beanstalks in the area and takes our drink order. As soon as she walks away I turn the charm up to eleven and go to work. I remember some tidbits from her profile and one of those is sewing so I take that angle. I whip out “my mom was a seamstress” and “my sister makes quilts” and just about any other needle and thread related bullshit I can make up. I don’t even have a sister.

Normally these types of lies are reserved for total douche bags who just want to get laid but trust me, that ain’t happening.  I believe I can harness the power of DB evil for good and I’m going to put it to work for a noble cause. You know…revenge. Okay so it’s not so noble and yes I can be a dick sometimes but in my head it’s totally fucking justified and this is my story so go blow it out your judgmental ass.

I immediately notice a change as she is only staring at the room with a bored look on her face about half the time. Then I hit on the magic phrase, “cross stitch”. I didn’t even know what this was until recently as I bought one on Fab.com and had to wander my office looking for someone who knew how to do it. It’s this little old grandma looking thing with duckies, bunnies and shit but it says “Don’t be a Dick”. Yea it’s a little hipster but I like it and it’s totally ironic in this situation right?

She’s full on interested now but the waitress comes back to take our food order and I can see she’s annoyed with something other than me for once. She want’s to talk about our shared love for cross stitching!

I pick up a menu and mention how awesome the hummus is and ask if she wants some.

In return I get “what’s that?”

“It’s chickpeas, and garlic and all kinds of delicious stuff” I reply.

The waitress chimes in with “you eat it with pita ya know?”

She looks at the waitress and myself like we’re bat shit insane. “So like terrorist food?” she asks.

My only reaction that won’t show  either a) complete and total horror or b) cause me to fall to the floor laughing raucously is to c) blink really, really fast. My stupidity defense mechanisms aren’t all that sophisticated. I should probably work on that.

The waitresses eyes get a little big but she handles it much better than I do.  Goliath finally decides on chicken fingers. Really? Now don’t get me wrong, I love a good order of chicken fingers at a dive bar. I’m not that much a foodie that I won’t eat deliciously fried foods but I can’t let this go.

“Maybe you can get some smiley fries with that?”. I blurt out.

The waitress instantly looks at me with huge eyes which makes it harder to fight off the smirk that’s forming.

“Nah I’m not that hungry.” and just like that my comment goes over her head. The waitress actually giggles and walks away.

Megatron immediately jumps into telling me about the exciting life of cross stitching and I plaster an excited smile across my kisser. Occasionally I nod and toss in a ridiculous comment but I have no idea what she’s talking about. I may as well be listening to someone explain how to do neurosurgery (although I’d be way more interested in that).

The food comes, the waitress smiles at me again and wanders off, probably wondering how long Gulliverina has been shipwrecked in Ferndale. Speaking of which, she dives into those chicken fingers with her hands just as I suspected she would.

Now comes the moment where I question my commitment to this whole idea of making her like me. The rude behavior and boring conversation I can deal with. The blatant ignorance/racism was tough to swallow but I did it. That said, I have my limits.

I sat there for another 30 or so minutes desperately trying not to puke at the table. I don’t exactly have an iron constitution as it is and I’m a sympathetic puker so take this with a grain of salt. That said, she ate her entire meal with her mouth open. I don’t mean smacking her lips and talking when her mouth is full. No this was full on open-mouthed chewing like most 3 year olds do. I watched Paula Bunyan masticate every bite of every motherfucking chicken finger. Yea, it was that gross. I ate maybe 3 pita slices of hummus before I just couldn’t eat any more.

At this point I just wanted the date to end. I didn’t need retribution any more because it wasn’t worth it. She continued to talk and I tried my best to look interested but I couldn’t get her to shut up. I created a monster. Now the message on that cross stitch hanging on my wall at home seemed less like a motto and far more “told you so dip shit”. I briefly considered having a faux breakdown with crying and all just to get out of the rest of the date.

I just couldn’t take the cowards way out so…

She ate with her mouth open.

I gagged internally.

I briefly experimented with putting my hand in front of my face to block the view but like any good train wreck I couldn’t look away.

I gagged some more until she finally finished.

I flagged the waitress for the check.

I paid.

I wandered outside.

She followed still babbling about cross stitching.

I’m sure the fresh air helped as it took just a moment before I was back on my game. It was at that point I realized this was going to be a Pyrrhic victory unless I actually closed the date with a bang. Not that kind of bang, I’m not sticking my mouth or any other appendage anywhere near her chicken engorgement hole.

I asked where she was parked and told her I would walk her to her car without mentioning that I was just past her and had to walk that way anyway. She thanked me for dinner and a wonderful date and finally STFU about sewing related crap. Then we get to her car and she turns towards me and leans down.

She was actually coming in for a kiss goodnight! I fucking did it! I literally and figuratively stomached this woman and changed her mind about my short, fat ugly self!

There’s no way I’m kissing her so at the last minute I turn sideways giving her the “dude hug” with a patented slap on the back.

I say “Have a good night” and I’m already walking to my car.