You know, these days, I can remember strolling down stairs one fine hung over Sunday morning at the ripe old age of nineteen. Being a college sophomore and, well, Irish, I did what any fine young lad should do the night before: got shit housed.

I remember hearing my sister who was a few years out of college ramble on about how she had just been promoted, but work had gotten, “kind of depressing”. I sat there grilling about six pieces of toast thinking to myself “ I stuff bread in my stomach it will somehow absorb the alcohol and take the sharp pains out of my frigging head,” but, besides that, thinking to myself, “what the hell is this chick babbling on about? She majored in economics, what did she think she was gonna be? Indiana Fricken Jones?” I firmly set out to avidly avoid any corporate sell out career path and promptly skipped the business section of the course guide. Instead, I majored in history and criminal justice, thinking I could either go to law school, become an archaeologist, or perhaps gunfight with drug dealers. Something inherently badass was in my future.

Flash forward seven years later. Monday morning. 6 AM. Have to leave in an hour. Wake up, throw alarm clock at pile of magazines.

6:45. Finally roll out of bed. Look at Moneyball on the floor. Read two pages. Think about how this guy spent a portion of his life writing about baseball and I’m about to strap on my fag suit and best shit-eating grin to go to some place I hate. Promptly throw Moneyball at same pile of magazines.

7 AM. Time to leave. Log on to email. Read and respond to cute bartender who thinks I’m funny. Watch Youtube videos of sports fans fighting at games.

7:30. Running late. Go to get ice coffee. Look at obnoxiously long drive in line, and decide to wait in that and listen to radio instead of walking my lazy ass in.

Walk in to work late. Asked why I’m late. Respond, “because I didn’t get here on time”. Make peace with fact that this response will likely not advance my career. Sit down at cubicle. Toss homemade sandwich into top drawer, because I suddenly realize that I don’t even give a shit to put it in the fridge. Cold or disgustingly warm, the damn thing will suck anyway. Stare at Tom Brady and Jon Papelbon figures in cubicle for inspiration. Get depressed. Log in to system. Move papers I don’t want to work on. Realize I got notices that are virtually meaningless that I don’t even want to respond to; shred said notices. I then spend about an hour and a half clicking between my work screen and fantasy baseball wondering how the hell to save my team’s season when my two best third basemen are out for the year. Walk to the bathroom, stroll past “company guy” co-worker. He asks how I’m doing. I respond, “livin’ the dream”. He gives me awkward look and responds, “having fun, huh”. Look back with maniacal death stare and say in straightest face possible, “ALWAYS”.

Spend twenty minutes on the shitter reading sports transactions while pretending to take the Browns to the Super bowl. Return to work for about an hour or so. Give up. Start researching vacation packages to see where the Vikings lived. Run across “Viking Resort” which is essentially a sex club. Realize they offer a $7800 package that guarantees two women of your choice every night.

Realize there are bigger losers than me out there.

Re-energized. Do about another hour of work. Realize that I have this blinking red file that I haven’t looked at in three months and will probably get me fired if I don’t finally do it. Instead, go to sporcle.com and start quiz naming every NFL MVP ever. Slap myself so hard girl next to me hears it and asks what’s going on, did I screw something up? Respond with, “How the hell did I forget Eric Dickerson?” Fake an hour of work by moving things around and walking back and forth to the mailboxes. Go to movie and music store at lunch. Feel the awkward stare of the people my age making half what I do judging me for being a sell- out. Mentally agree and avoid eye contact. Go buy John Wayne movie since I realize I need to figure out how to get my nuts back. Return to work. An hour passes. Decide to rebound from my failure to name all the Batman villains in quiz by taking on quiz to name the top then rated TV shows in every decade since the 70s. Fail again. Refuse to believe Magnum, P.I. was not in the top 10. Get really pissed off when phone keeps ringing. Finally answer. Response to phone conversation goes something like this:

“Oh, let me stop you there, I can tell by the file number, that’s on the old system, and I can’t access that right now…Oh, I don’t know, I can’t get into the old system, for some reason I couldn’t log in today….No, I’m not sure what’s wrong, I haven’t actually asked anyone…well, I can’t say when it would be fixed, like I said, I haven’t even talked to anyone about it, so I’m not sure if its broke, could just be me….ya, ya, well, listen, why don’t you call back next week, I don’t want to tell you I’ll call you back and then forget or something”.

Hang up phone. Tell my friend, “Can you believe that bitch? She told me it was need to know information? Really? It’s frigging insurance crap. Need to know information involves your nuts, jumper cables, and a car battery”. Hear friend’s manager walk up behind me to inform us that they are monitoring phone calls. Thank her and tell her it’s been a pleasure working with her, because, “guess I won’t be around much longer”.

What the hell happened to me? I went into college all bright eyed thinking I’d actually do something. Instead I’m surfing the internet, developing office physique, and taking mediocrity to new levels. All while under the watchful hell of those goddamn fluorescent lights and that awful re-circulated air. I thought I was going to be Indiana Jones or something. How the hell did I end up here?

All guys are assholes. Wait; comment if you’ve heard this one before.

Now, if we (as men) are to assume, for the sake of argument, that all guys, are indeed assholes, is it ok if we just kinda accept that and roll with it? Like, “ok, fair enough, but only because we don’t respect women because you’re all idiots”. Would that be a fair trade off? Because I’m kinda willing to negotiate an armistice in the battle of the sexes here.

Let me be pretty clear about one thing, it’s not so much that I have the balls to say these sort of things because I’m single, but rather, I’m single because I have the balls to say this.

A couple of months ago, I profoundly expressed my excitement and unyielding anticipation at another “Fast and the Furious” movie. This was much to the dislike of my mom, female friends, female coworkers, my one friend who refuses to come out of the closet, and anything else that has a vagina or wish they had a vagina.

The basis is the sheer “stupidity” of the films, which I find pretty gaddam appealing. What do I expect in one of these movies? Badass cars, short skirts, and fist fights. Let me tell ya, the new one hit on all three. Satisfaction guaranteed.

Now what I find odd about this whole situation, is the uproar from the same group that watch “the Hills” and actually saw “Sex and The City” in the movie theaters because its “such a good show”. What the?

Ladies, a collection of moderately attractive, “independent” women, living in a city with jobs well-paying enough to support their fashion gluttony isn’t any more realistic than Vin Diesel hijacking trucks.

The difference between me and women on this issue is not that I “just don’t understand it”, but rather, I’m self aware enough to understand that the shit I’m watching is just that, SHIT.

You know what’s unrealistic? Me having biceps like Diesel and abs like Ryan Reynolds. You know what else is unrealistic? Independent, self-supporting women. Now it’s not the self-supporting part that gets me, it’s the “independent” part. Every girl I’ve ever met has been just as emotionally needy as your average puppy from Michael Vick’s Petland. If they were really so independent, why the hell do they sit around bitching about relationships?

Well, you see, its because they can’t be alone. Most women are either in a relationship, looking for a relationship, or looking for another relationship as a way out of their current relationship. I’m not denying that there aren’t a good number of women who are single for a good amount of time. These are typically the ones with “standards”. Or as I like to say, every car dealership has that Yugo they just can’t sell.

The real independent women are the ones that understand “equality”. Remember now, you gals wanted equality. Ya’ll wanted to be big girls, work, vote, nail whoever you want, and live your own lives. I certainly think you have a right to it. What I don’t get is why the hell you keep wondering why guys don’t open doors, ask you out on dates, or buy you flowers anymore.

Well, once again ladies, equality. Ya’ll wanted it, ya’ll got it. Now we treat most of you just as good as our dipshit buddies. Ain’t it grand? Just remember, you fought for it, not us.

What’s that? You want romance? Chivalry? Flowers? Surprise dates? You want to be taken out for dinner? No problem sweetheart. Just remember, back then, we paid for dinner all the time, but half the time we ordered for you. You want to venture back to the good old romantic days? Fine, no sweat off my ball sack, but I get home at five, so a blowjob by 5:15 and dinner by 6:00 sweet tits.

The reality is that a large percentage of you have cornered yourself into an un-fulfilling situation.  You want all the benefits of equality but you really don’t want all the work.  Very few of you actually want to go to war or deal with any of the hardship.  As far as I know, women aren’t allowed to fight on the front lines (although right now anyone there might as well be on the front line).  Women still don’t register for the selective service system and it appears the only group that’s ever challenged the constitutionality of that was a group of men.  Sure as hell wasn’t any “I am woman hear me roar” in that courtroom huh?

It’s no secret why I’m single. As ya’ll so consistently point out, like all men, I’m an asshole. Unfortunately for ya’ll, I tend to be an asshole who’s able to win arguments with you. Yep, I’m that guy. The one who defies that “it’s ok for a women to be angry without explanation” philosophy. Half the time I’d be willing to bet that a good percentage of you start arguments just to see if there’s any spine in us. Hell, I’m sure it’s nice to see a little bit of passion once in awhile.

You see, the irony of the situation is that while I’ve pissed off an untold number of women, a good percentage of these women I’ve still managed to get in the sack, or, to be perfectly fair, they’ve managed to get me in the sack. Despite the overwhelming anger in the room, we’ve managed to have some mind blowing sex. Hell, the angry and crazy girls are the best. Especially the one that broke the lights in my ceiling that one time. Call me an idiot, call me an asshole, but ya’ll keep coming back to us.

Photo by Grenade

You know, a few years back, I used to write what I called The Hangover Update, a random posting sent to various friends that enlightened all about the current state of my brain and rectum after a night of spirits.  Consequently, when the film The Hangover came out, everyone felt the need to contact me first and tell me how hilarious it is so we could compare favorite parts.  Unfortunately, I’ve yet to see it.  Everyone repeatedly seems disappointed.  I’m not sure why.

It’s not that I doubt its inevitable hilariousness or the endless amounts of quotes I’m sure to expect, but rather, I just didn’t have the same initial level of excitement.  See, movies are supposed to have a certain level of escapism.  Which is why I like James Bond movies.  That is some over the top stuff I can’t even dream of living.  For most people, this is true.  With The Hangover, for me, not so much.  I’ll get around to seeing it, but man, I’ve lived it.  Ya’ll act like I’ve never woke up in a room at a place I don’t really know wondering who the guy passed out on the couch with the funions is. One time I even woke up naked on the floor hugging a box of Cheez-itz.  Hell, I’ve woken up next to people I don’t really even remember meeting, never mind the time I had to jump from a second floor bathroom window to avoid a nutcase with a machete sized kitchen knife.

Unfortunately, today is one of the worst hangovers of my life.  The sad part is that its 7:00PM on Monday.  I gotta be honest, the events of the last four days are somewhat hazy.  I do remember taking two days off to head down to Cape Cod for some last minute boozing.  Like any good hangover, it started innocently enough with me playing a game of home run derby while drinking.  Now, some people mean that they drink and do things by meaning they drink between plays, etc.  Not yours truly, who managed to not make a single catch in the outfield by refusing to put my beer down.

Flash forward many drunken hours later and halfway through my cigar I’m realizing that not only did I smoke my cigar backwards, but I have this massive burning pain in my right arm that travels down my right side.  Eventually, I realize that I did not in fact light myself on fire as I initially thought and decide that I must be having some sort of mild heart attack.  I use this diagnosis to convince some girl I barely know to let me lie down in her room.  When she informs me that I can, but she’ll be kicking me out of the bed when she returns due to its small size, I promptly decide to go to bed on her floor, by sticking my head half under the mattress and the rest of my body resembling Stephen Hawking’s natural body posture.  I can’t believe no one even took a picture.

Somehow at 7AM I decided it was best to wake up and get myself some coffee and the houseful of people who took me in some donuts.  I think I was the most popular random drunk guy to still be at a party the next day.  Rather than go home after, I decide the best idea is to start drinking, hit the beach, and enjoy the Atlantic Ocean.  I’ll sum up that day with a valuable lesson; buoys marking ocean travel lanes were not meant to be swam to, no matter how good of an idea it seemed at the time.

Realizing that all my clothes are now wet, I search my car for the only attire I have available, dirty jeans, a hideous Hawaiian shirt lying in my back seat, and a Whalers hoodie.  Realizing that a hoodie in 80 degrees is just too awkward looking while rocking a Hawaiian shirt, I decide to ditch that.  Somehow sticking with the party, we venture to the downtown bars.  As the night before slowly catches up to the rest of the party, they make an early exit.

Unfortunately for my liver, my addictive personality just won’t let me quit.  So me and the one friend willing to stay out, but not still drink, call in reinforcements.  At this moment, I’ll think this is a great idea.  Two hours later, I’m at a seafood restaurant/karaoke bar, being dragged across the dance floor collar first by two clenched fists containing the retard strength of ten men connected to a “Sabretooth” (think cougar, but older, uglier, snaggletoothed, and way more likely to bring you to an end).  Taking this as a bad omen, I quickly bail as soon as a female distracts her.

One would think this would be enough drunken shenanigans and bad omens for one weekend.  Most people would have called it a weekend.  But I wasn’t about to go out like that.  8AM rolled around and I promptly drive my useless ass back from Cape Cod, stopping only for breakfast and more booze.  At 2PM, I hit a cookout, figuring the best way to quench my thirst and wipe out the headache is to sit in the sun and start downing LandShark.  Somewhere along the line, I’m drinking tequila and some sort of sweet rum out a 24oz can of Monster.  At daylight, I’m still awake and in the garage with of my friends.  After we ran out of booze and decided we had too much tequila, we very wisely decide to head back to her place, both nervously swerving to the side of the road as the State Trooper passes us.

By the time I come to and start heading home, my head kills, my vision is blurry, and my breath is even bothering me.  Realizing this is gonna get rough, I stop at the ghetto mini-mall down the street, grab a sub, an energy drink, and more booze.  Despite the beautiful weather, I wind up watching Die Hard in a basement dreading the next day at work.

When I wake up today, I’m disgusted by the stench of vomit.  After realizing that I didn’t actually puke, my conclusion is that my room and clothes smell of such a strong mixture of liquors that I’ve started to associate it with vomit. I do my best to look somewhat sober and fall into my car late.  At this point, I realize that I left my clothes from the ocean in the trunk of my car and the smell of wet, saltwater soaked clothes in 80 degree plus sunlight has filled my car.  By the time I get to work, no matter how much cologne I spray on me, I can’t shake the feeling I stroll through the front door smelling like Courtney Love’s vagina.

As the day goes by, things don’t appear much better.  By 11AM I’m getting odd stares as I double-fist a large, black ice coffee and a red bull.  I figure it’s the best way to keep me from passing out and whacking my head off my desk.  Lunch doesn’t help.   The combination in my stomach of leftover booze, energy drinks, and coffee doesn’t help hold the chicken sandwich.  I feel like I have two midget sumo wrestlers in my stomach and I suddenly have no body heat as I break out into a cold sweat.  Running to the stairwell to head to the bathroom, I let out a fart so painful and with so much force it feels like a prison assault. It echoes up the stairwell.

As I sit on the bowl with my head in my hands, pure concentrated evil the likes of which have only been chronicled in Ghostbusters 2 comes out of my rectum.  It takes five minutes of reading hockey news printouts before I feel well enough to stand up.  I check to make sure that Vigo is not in fact in the toilet and stroll out of the bathroom leaving that place smelling like pre-sewage system London.  It takes two more hours of cold sweat and no body heat trying to hide the fact that I’m playing sporcle and not answering my phone before I finally come to the conclusion that I’m doing no one any good, shut my computer off, and leave my cubicle.

The fact that its 80 degrees out does nothing to warm my car.  The stench of the sea does nothing to help my stomach on the ride home.  Sitting outside in the sun all day did not exactly did not help.  I struggle to hold back the vomit reassured by the fact that there can’t possibly be anything left in my stomach after the nexus of evil I left in the toilet.

I head home, stop in a store, buy Stepbrothers on DVD without looking at the price, convinced it’s of the same quality as Godfather Part II. I grab a  pepperoni pizza, and spend the next four hours watching the movie twice and chugging Mountain Dew.

I sit here wondering: why it is, after I’ve completely lost my soul, dignity, and morality, that you guys think I’ll be impressed by a movie where they’ve lost the groom?

Awhile back I had one of the most surreal experiences of my  life. Being a life long Bruins fan, and the fact that they managed to make it past the first round of the playoffs, I decided I needed to see at least one playoff game before I die. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let that little thing called a ticket hold me back.

After spending hours at work failing to convince my alleged “diehard friends” to accompany me, I decided to fly solo and figure it out. Roughly twenty minutes before the puck dropped, I found myself without a ticket amongst scalpers willing to split up pairs.

I did what any diehard fan would do. I went to the infamous Penalty Box across from “the gahden”. Probably one of the few cash only bars left in Boston and the last refuge of the real fans. The ones who can actually name players behind Orr, Neely, and Bourqe. Gottta love a place where the door to the bathroom stall ends approximately ten inches above where the toilet seat sits. Women’s room too, but that’s part of another story.

So there I sat, broken hearted, drowning sorrows in two hands with Guinness and Jack Daniels. Down, but not out. I decided to bond with some A-rabs. Yep, that’s right. A-rabs. In an old ass, beat to shit hockey bar, three A-rabs just chillen’. Well, the situation just seemed to be too odd to ignore, so I bonded with them.

After a shot or three, they inform me they have an extra ticket to the game, and offer it to me for a couple bucks over face value. Feeling like this is Allah’s personal moment shining down on me, I promptly shell out cash, and proceed on my own personal Mecca to my seat, six rows from center ice. I then proceed to get absolutely shattered and quite loudly at that.

Somewhere along the line, I wanted to fit in with my fellow fans and opted to tie the plaid work shirt around my waist and buy myself a Terry “Tasmanian Devil” O’Reilly shirt.Unfortunately the only jeans I had in my car were ripped to hell and three years old. My hat, aged twice over. Consequently, I ended up looking like something thrown up by Seattle, circa 1992. Lord only knows what the sight of me, a fire lieutenant, and three A-rabs looked like on TV.

The next morning, the experience got even more surreal. Suddenly, I heard the phone go off and as I blinked my eyes open wondering where the stench of Jack Daniels was coming from (clearly my own aroma). The hangover hit me like a stampede of fat women charging a new Popeyes. I slowly recalled that I had agreed to go with the most recent ex to see the Dalai Lama at Gillette Stadium. Seeing as I had broken things off to “have some time alone and work on my drinking”, I imagine she was somewhat less than thrilled at the drunk who answered the door in a cold sweat, with a whalers hoodie, and a stench of liquor so bad I could fail a breathalyzer without actually blowing.

Despite this, I figured strolling to see the Dalai Lama at a football stadium after Allah getting me into a hockey playoff game was a good idea. The gods were shining down on me, but I was unprepared for what I was about to see.

I walked in to my own personal Simpsons episode, and the most surreal moment of my life.As we pulled up to the stadium, I saw a large blinking construction road sign that indicated, “Dalai Lama on the left, retail parking on the right.” After being directed to parking, I began my entrance into the stadium. Not only were they selling various books, clothing, and jewelry, but nachos and hot dogs as well. I wanted a t-shirt that said “Property of Buddha” or perhaps a foam finger that said “Lama Rama” or something of the like. Not since the sight of ATMs at Woodstock 99 have I seen unyielding power of commercialism invade a sacred event.

I even saw a fat woman leave half way through the Dalia’s lecture on freeing yourself from desire and material things, only to come back with a smoothie and fried dough.

Nothing like having the sight of the Dalia Lama wearing a Patriots hat interrupted by two fat cheeks waging their own personal war of yin and yang down the aisle as the buffalo that owns it goes back to her trough. The gluttony was yet to stop there.

The Lama, I must admit, is hilarious. The guy’s got a general upbeat outlook on life. He cracks a few jokes here and there and his mentality seems to be one of teaching people to look at themselves and be more tolerant. Nothing like watching a few yuppies and hippies ask him, “what one thing can we do to change the world?” and “how can we deal with all the bad things in this crazy world?” only get responses of “no one thing, world is really screwed up, many things” or “world not so crazy, we crazy, try to be more realistic and less crazy”. Of course I wasn’t completely fulfilled, I would have gone with a “lay off the fried dough slim tons and a shower wouldn’t hurt a few of you”. But hey, that’s just me.

The perfect ending to this unbelievably surreal experience occurred when I began making my exit from the stadium. As I strolled to my car, I witnessed a hippie, with prerequisite soul patch and accompanying douchebag ponytail, beep and raise his hands after jamming on the brakes of his rather large SUV to avoid running over a slim granola gal. Her response, the bird. Yep, the international “piss off” or “the highway salute”. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what the ol’ Lama meant in his speech about tolerance and living in a more simple manner.

And right about then, I was reassured in my believe that there is no hope for humanity as a civilization or a primal, post apocalyptic species. I promptly went home, went back into my basement, threw out more of my possessions, loaded up on liquor, and passed out dreaming about Thunderdome.

Photo by doug88888

As I write this on the computer in my parent’s basement, still drunk from last night’s wedding, I have to wonder, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me? The events of the last twenty four hours are not quite clear. It’s a little hazy. It started with me strolling into work, hungover.

You see, I recently moved. To avoid further shenanigans that have occurred over the last five years, I moved into a rather large apartment that was specifically not, “a party house”. We all agreed. Turns out, our definition of “a non party house” simply means not inviting thirty people from the bar. Instead, we rather quietly all drink together. It’s been less than a week and we have ten milk crates of empties we’re saving to recycle and buy toilet paper. Two roommates killed six thirty racks of PBR in six days. At this rate, we’ll pay the rent instead.

In my hungover state, I strolled to work with a fucked up back and knowing that I had a wedding to go to that night. I promised myself I’d only have one or two and take it easy. I left work and was double fisting by nine. When the song “Amazed” came on, I quietly mumbled, “fuck”. It’s that song that everyone hears at every wedding. The one that half of us have an ex it reminds us of. However, for the first time in five years, drunk as hell, I quietly listen to the entire song instead of pretending to go to the bathroom and think not of my ex, but some new girl I met. Realizing that to a drunk like me, this is scarier than approaching a Puerto Rican with a knife outside a bar at two am, I proceed to load up and get way drunker.

The bride, who, despite my alcoholism, has an apparently high opinion of me, attempts to introduce me to a bridesmaid, the one that looks like a model. I get so drunk I can’t even fake my dance, “the white boy” right. All I can think of is said new girl. This is not a good combination. I’ve got some gorgeous girl I’ve seen pictures of in a bikini in front of me and I’m thinking of some girl an hour away. Not good.

I pretend I’m drunker than I am to walk away for a second. Realizing I blew it with the hottest bridesmaid, I return to my table with two older women who have sat with me the whole night and have fallen in love with me in a kid brother kinda way. They promptly ask me what happened and I inform them of said fuck up. They agree to help me rebound and hook me up with a girl. I believe at least one of them wanted to hit me when they asked what kind of girl I like and I respond with “train wreck”.

At this point in my life, hell, I’ve dated nice girls and lasted all of two weeks. Some people are dreamers who want a picket fence. I’m a hurricane who wants another hurricane for the perfect storm. All things considered, I feel I deserve it, seeing as I have to be one of the most selfless and kind alcoholics I know. Within an hour last night I chased down two separate girls who were mad at their boyfriends and convinced them to reconcile. Somewhere along the line I woke up on a hotel room floor with no one in the bed and two bud light limes in my pocket. Not sure why I didn’t sleep in the bed or had bud light limes in my pocket, I don’t even drink that Mexican goat piss.

I woke up to some Spanish maid knocking on the door. Some people would be moderately embarrassed still being in the suit from last night and not having a change of clothes, but for some reason, black and Spanish women love me. As the hazy details of last night start coming into my brain, I quickly realize my car is two parking lots away and I’m about to do the second worst walk of shame ever (the first being my infamous two hour stroll through southie).

I realize I have two options. One, I throw my coat on, duck down, and avoid all eye contact with a rapid hustle to my car. Two, just say fuck it, throw the coat over the shoulder, and strut out, Travolta style. Thinking that my plans for the day include a going away party topped off with meeting up with two lesbians who promised me moonshine, I realize,” hey, would two attractive lesbians give a douchebag moonshine?”

Hell no. I must have some swagger. So I do it.

Toss the coat over my shoulder, crack open the door, skip past Rosalita’s cleaning cart, and strut out of that hotel, Stayin’ Alive playing in my head the whole time. Rather than avoid eye contact, I make a point of looking and smiling at everyone I pass by, as if my hangover shit smelled like kittens and roses. Old women look away. Young women laugh. Families move to the other side of the hall.

Five minutes and two parking lots later, I’m in my car realizing I could fail a breathalyzer just by driving past a cop and head to get coffee and a bagel. Finish said coffee, and crack another. It’s 2pm and I’m on to the party. I’m hungover, probably still drunk, and have lesbians and moonshine to look forward to.

Looks like I don’t need Jesus after all, because God definitely loves me.

In honor of my successful avoidance of the dating scene, it’s time to reminisce upon some of my classic fuck ups over the years.  Once again, the events here actually occurred, but the name of the girls will be left out to spare her any embarrassment so that she can safely deny ever dating me.

From time to time, someone I’ll come across will ask that always-intriguing question, “Why are you single?”  Well, besides being an asshole and lacking any fashion sense, I have less game than a Jamaican bobsled team.

One particular girl I dated for awhile, I took to the movies.  Now I figure if you’re going to do something, just cowboy the fuck up and do it.  No one deserves to make progress if they don’t have the nuts to step up and try.  On this particular occasion, I’m referring to the arm around the shoulder.  I don’t go for the fake stretch, the yawn, or slow stealth-like creep move where suddenly it’s just there.  No, I just go ahead and do it.  Usually it’s no problem.

Unfortunately this time, we had both been tired and went to a late night movie.  I was really into the movie and had started to zone a bit.  I didn’t know that she had actually fallen asleep and her head was leaning toward my shoulder.  So, totally watching the movie and not looking, I go to put my arm around her.

Next thing I know, she’s awake.  Why is she awake now?  Because I straight up elbowed her in the fucking head.  Sweet.  I’ve got mad skills.  It was definitely unintentional but I didn’t want her to feel like she was on a date with Ike Turner, so I made sure to apologize and cheer her up after that.  For the record, like shifting lanes on the highway, I now throw a glance to the side before I decide to make that move.

As you can probably guess, there wasn’t a second date.  That particular girl was smart enough to get out quickly and avoid the awkwardness of the next gal.

I had the day off and was just lounging around.  She came over when she got out of work and asked if I wanted to watch a DVD or something.  I forget what it was, but I was like, “ya, sure, it’s just on top of the TV”.

Unfortunately, it actually was not on top of the TV, although a porno was.  She turned around and said, “um….,this definitely isn’t it”.  True dat.  It most definitely was not the DVD I had anticipated being there.  This might not have been that embarrassing if we were together for awhile, but at this point I think we had dated for like a month.

Anyway, you would think that I would quit while I was ahead.  You know, learn from my mistake, and get my ass on over there and find it myself.  Nope.  I just said, “Oh, it must be in the DVD player then.”  Funny thing.  It was not in the DVD player.  But you know what was?  Another porno.  Idiot.  I’ve got like two pornos and somehow managed to leave them directly where some chick would find them. Once again, I suck at life.

On a side note, I remember that the one in the DVD player was called something along the lines of Anal Whores.  Somehow I find that to just sound even more embarrassing.  Looking back now, I really have to wonder what she found more strange, me leaving porn like that, or my whole “well that’s embarrassing, oh well, what did you wanna watch again?” attitude.

On an end note, I think I’m gonna have to go back and quote a good friend on this one:

If humility is a virtue, then I am on the path to righteousness.

Photo by pusgums

Well, apparently Part 1, despite its overwhelmingly successful response, was unsuccessful in landing me a pad. You’d think people would be a little more caring to a guy whose current neighbors consist of an eighteen year old girl that runs her boyfriend(s?) over about once every other week and an old drunk that pretty much routinely bangs every party gal in a one mile radius in the back of his Caddy. I’m guessing his wife knows, just doesn’t give a shit. When I jog past her and she waves, somehow I feel an urge to get the fuck outta there and run Forrest run.
So on to Part 2.

Roommates. Now, it’s not so much that I’m extraordinarily uptight or picky, but rather I think some of the people I’ve run into are just not a good match, and some, what one would call “a douchebag”.

Like the guy who canceled on me and tried to reschedule because his date was so “hawt” that he dumped his girlfriend. If you’re wondering why I didn’t call you back, it’s one, because you’re a dickbag, and two, because I would inevitably come back shitrocked only to listen about how you miss the girl you dumped because she liked reverse cowgirl and gave blowjobs. My response would have probably have been something along the lines of, “you’re fucking depressing me, you’re killing my buzz, and you’re making me wish for a time before booze, sixth grade and the days of Nintendo”. And you probably would have punched me in the face.

And then the responses from alleged “drinkers” who have bragged about puking, and puking often. Look, drink fucking gasoline if you want, I don’t give a shit, but don’t brag about frequent puking you goddamn amateurs. Drinking and puking is like throwing an interception. Ya, we all know it happens, but realistically, you’re letting the team down and now everyone else has to deal with your mistake. Know what happens to a QB who throws too many interceptions? The bench. Puking should be reserved for those long, drunken nights after someone you realize you actually liked dumps your ass. That’s it.

Vegans- Well, you’re vegan, that’s great. Noble even. Still not sure what the fuck that really means or how much different it is from being a vegetarian. I could probably just wikipedia it, but to be honest, I simply don’t give a shit. You could just simplify it say “I’m vegetarian” because regardless of the differences, people will still react the same, in their minds; “Oh, odd hippie, got it”.

And to be honest, I like meat. Mostly chicken and cows. Yep. That’s right, eat that shit right down. Love fried chicken. Buffalo sauce too. Hell, maybe I am a vegetarian since I’m not too sure that the meat that makes it to the store was originally a chicken anyway, but fry that shit up and it’s tasty enough. Could be Soylent Green, who cares. And cows, let’s be honest, if we didn’t eat them, what else what they do? Imagine if they could talk? “Hey cow, whatcha doing today?” Cow: “Oh, I don’t know, probably stand around an shit”. Let’s be honest, if God didn’t mean for these things to be eaten, he wouldn’t have made them loaded with meat and lazy.

Musicians- it’s not so much that I’ve got anything against them, but if you’re going to rock out, at least be able to really rock out. Don’t suck. And replacing the typical living room with a drum set just scares the shit out of what a possible Sunday afternoon hangover could be like. If you like to play a little bit of guitar on a random afternoon and are good at it, great, but please, don’t have a soul patch. It pretty much says, “I don’t want to get laid”. Or possibly even, “I’ll lick your heels and you can use a strap-on”.

Druggies- To the druggies who contacted me: Look, I don’t care what you do behind your closed doors, I’m not really that judgmental, but just because I don’t really care if you sniff paint, eat glue, or make muffins mixed with chemicals under the sink doesn’t mean I fantasize about dangling dimebags of blow in front of chicks to get laid. Booze is enough of a vice for me. Christ, I once drank the majority of two thirty packs on a camping trip. My head barely recalls the pain, but my ass sure does. I dropped a deuce in a New Hampshire Dunkin’ Donuts so bad I’m pretty sure there’s a wanted poster there with a security cam mug shot of me. I don’t even want to imagine what me on drugs would be like.

Oh, and I know you probably missed the new “the more you know” commercial, but it generally cautions about randomly emailing people on craigslist to discuss drugs. Not the brightest.

Sustainability people- Great spirit, but you really need to watch Terminator 2. Arnie’s speech on the self-destructive nature of humans is pretty on point. The only way to sustainability for the earth is to wipe out the human race. But don’t worry, ol’ Kim Jong Il is already way ahead of you guys on that.

Yuppies- Yuppie people that have contacted me or repeatedly post, well, the short answer is, “we’re not a match”. Or go to a “benefit” which usually involves girls with annoying voices and shoes reminiscent of elf shoes babbling on about nonsense while guys that talk on the real world make me wonder why suicide is a crime.

Oh, and the one really cool chick who did contact me but the room was slightly more than I was looking to pay for considering my desire to leave my corporate job for something that pays less and is inherently more badass, you were damn cool. If you’re single, keep that attitude and have some standards. You’re a rarity.

So what I would like in apartment:

Washer/dryer, water, electricity, some level of parking (I don’t expect a convenient spot reserved but Christ an ability to park in a neighborhood that doesn’t require greasing a smart car like trying to get a fat woman through a door in order to parallel park). Relatively close to the T.

Why I’d make a good roommate: I’m relatively clean, mostly because I’ve been getting rid of all my material possessions. I’m the best weekend functioning drunk you’ve ever seen. My random benders are bound to consistently lead me on a variety of adventures that will give you the place all to yourself (Yes, I have woken up in other states at some points). No pets. Steady job, making probably more than I should. Excellent credit. No girlfriend, no crazy exes, and hell, don’t even get laid often (after reading this, shit, would you sleep with me?). So you won’t even have to deal with loud bouts of random sex after the bar. Bathe daily (twice if I ran that day). You’d think this should be a given, but you never know. My amazing asshole abilities will quickly drive away any annoying potential romance prospects that you quickly realize you do not want around. Oh, and last, but not least, no kids (that I’m aware of). Just kidding.

PS

At the rate my personality is going, ya’ll should be prepared to tune in about 2-3 weeks from now for Part 3.

Another monday, another kick in the fricken nuts.

Trying to make my peace with the fact that this, like all mondays, royally sucked. I drove home through an extra half hour of stop and go traffic, only to take five minutes to park when I got to my place. This is primarily because the fucking Yeti that lives across from me needed a whole five minutes to waddle her giant ass across the street. There I sat, my car idling, burning off more gas as her two cheeks ebb and flow against each other with the biggest series of retreats and advances since D-day. At $2.79+ a gallon, that bitch owes me at least an ice coffee. And I know she likes Dunks.

My current area sucks so much I couldn’t even sleep off the hangover I got this weekend from boozing everywhere in Boston but my place. Ever try and sleep off a hangover only to fail because one neighbor is busy loudly fucking anyone but his wife and your other neighbor, the 18 year old jailbait, is in the process of running her boyfriend over again? Christ I wish I made that shit up.

Man I knew I needed a change, but I didn’t think it was this bad until I convinced some kind gal to let me crash at her place for the weekend not for the purpose of getting laid, but rather something more along the lines of, “look, I’m a drunk, I hate my place and my area, and I just don’t want to go home”.

And it’s not like I’m going to fall into a relationship and take that all important trial step of moving in. Let’s be honest, drunken underachievers just don’t rate as high as they did in 1940. Hell, to be married by now I’d have to go back to the days of pre-arranged Indian marriages. Even then my parents would probably have had to pay a hefty fee to convince someone to shack their daughter up with Ol’ “Smells Like Firewater”.

But apparently I guess I’m just too much of a dickbag to find a roommate. I mean, I get the fear of living with a moderate drunk and the general assumption I wouldn’t pay the bills because of said alcoholism. Trust me, I’ve been at this since like age 17 and I’ve got a credit rating in the 700s. Why the hell is it hard to find like minded people? Hell, all I meet are yuppies and vegans. What the fuck is a vegan anyway? Is that like a less energetic or strict vegetarian? Fucked if I know, nor do I care. Not sure I’d make it a communal household anyway. I don’t think strolling in on a sunday with, “hey guys, got beer and wings!” would go over too well.

I don’t know, all things considered, can’t say I’m the worst potential roommate. Christ, there’s some gal out there who specifically requests no snoring although if you’re nose is dry or you have a cold, that’s ok. Gee, that’s real fricken kind of you sweetheart, don’t let your heart fall out of your chest. And then there’s the guy looking to fill a place for June 1st. Yep, and I’m still hoping the Bruins win the next series.

I need a fucking change. Or Jesus in my life.

So, I’ve pretty much been rocking out with food poisoning for the last day and a half, and it’s been moderately awful. Needless to say, I needed a break at work today.

Mondays are typically awful, but Monday after two consecutive nights of drinking past 3am is a little more like a volunteer proctology job at a sex offender facility. Suddenly my weekend dietary schedule of consuming nothing but beer, vodka, and whiskey until a Sunday afternoon filled with buffalo chicken and eggs didn’t seem like such a great idea. So I went to my safe haven.

See sometimes you just get too stressed and need a break. I don’t smoke, so I can’t weasel my way into those extra sleaze breaks. So I go to the bathroom. Even if I don’t take a shit, I’ve learned that if you sit your ass on the seat the right way and squeeze it just a bit to the right or left, making the seat scrape the bowl, you can make a sound that sounds a little bit like squeezing one out.

There’s a man, be he myth or legend, that is my hero. You see, one day I found the fourth floor bathroom out of necessity. I sprinted up there like Shitbrake in American Pie. Once releasing the demons, I looked to my right and saw papers stuffed above the roll o’ TP. They were printed sports pages from the Boston Herald website. Some mythical legend realized he could get this for free and read it. We’ve never met, but he’s pretty much my hero. So today, I soldier on in, stomach feeling as if I’m about to die.  Some dickbag has my stall.

My safe haven.

So I take the one next to it. I try, but it just doesn’t feel right. I don’t get any reading material or the comfort of that seat I’ve gotten to know so well. Then I decide maybe he’s almost done and I can put one of those sanitary things over it and grab my seat. Then it hits me. After about two minutes, I realize this guy’s not shitting. I don’t even hear games being played on a phone. He’s fucking shit-shy. He thinks he’s going to wait me out to continue shitting in peace. WELL I SAY FUCK THAT. I have taken a lot of crap in this world. I will deal with laughs when I say the Packers can make the playoffs. I will deal with the Athletics building hope then nose-diving in mediocrity. I will deal with every woman I ever date reminding me how much I suck. I will deal with my mom thinking I’m completely incapable of doing anything. I will deal with Fenway being taken over by tools and douchebags. I will deal with no one giving a shit about the Bruins. I will deal with paying into social security that I’ll never get to use. I will deal with paying higher excise tax than my stepfather whose car is worth about ten grand more than mine. But I will not give up my safe haven.

I drew my line in the fucking sand.

I out waited him. My stomach made noises I never heard before and I felt it wanted to shit through my mouth and throw up out my ass. I sweated. I wanted to cry. I stared at this one beat up tile on the ground and entered a Zen Buddhist like state. But I would not give in.

Sweat poured off my forehead and I wanted to cry. We must have sat there for half an hour. BUT Ol’ SHITSHY FINALLY CRACKED. He exploded like a volcano. And I heard it all.

Today I stood my ground. I kept the one thing worth fighting for in life. My upstairs bathroom with the sports pages. My safe haven. And no one’s taking that away from me.