October 29, 2010

Whisper Sweet Nothings to Me

It is no secret to anyone who has ever known me, if even for a minute, that I am a deeply disturbed man-child. Throughout my life, it has never been a secret that my internal scale for evaluating the general value of things is a bit off. The other day, however, it became evident just how much it has been skewed from its once merely "troubling" gauge. What I mean by this (and what logically follows) is that a recent conversation spurred the realization that if a girl ever wanted to seduce me for some masochistic reason, the type of stuff she would have to whisper into my ear to win me over would deviate more than a bit from the mean. I may (definitely) just be talking out of my ass here, but it seems that a good way of judging how weird you are is by imagining what type of content a theoretical seductress would have to employ (or maybe just entertaining this idea instantly makes one odd). After mulling over this absurd thought for a bit, searching for the phrases that would make my knees week, it became clear that I am not only really weird, but also suffering from a severe lack of contact with US sports/general culture.

"There's fresh bacon in the kitchen."

"It looks like Amar'e's knee is gonna hold up."

"I'm wearing short sleeves."

"Mariano Rivera's cutter is nothing short of artistic genius."

"I feel like the Knicks will play .500 ball this year."

"I just paid that guy 20 bucks to slightly alter the position of Phil's hat every 15 minutes."

"Did you hear? The 2004 ALCS never happened."

"Helmet catch."

"Can I stroke your mustache?"

October 3, 2010

Coyote Appalling

Friday night, I went out to dinner at the workplace of a Prolific Pooper with a Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Woman, a Punk Bitch, the poor man's Kevin Smith, the middle-class man's Jerry Seinfeld, and some dude named Dave. After our meal, we were attempting to decide on a bar to go and meet up with the Prince of Perve-sia. Kevin Smith suggested that we check out Coyote Ugly, saying that it was "pretty much like the movie" and that there was cheap beer. We all agreed that it was a good enough plan and headed that way.

I have never seen the movie Coyote Ugly. All I knew was that it involved half-naked female bartenders, and that based on when it came out, any of our readers who saw it probably knocked off one or two to it. Had I seen the movie, I might have been prepared for what was about to unfold and scar my psyche forever.

Upon entering the bar, the overwhelming stench was a distinct mixture of spilled beer and boobsweat - clearly not a good thing, but for a dive bar, not the end of the world. The next thing that struck us was the collection of bras hanging from the walls - roughly 200 draped around the bar. The bartenders were all wearing tight jorts and bikini tops, all looking like miserable c-bags with daddy issues. Many of them were dancing (very poorly) on the bar.

We were cautiously standing in the back of the bar trying to Willie Ponder our next move. At this point the classic "Rollin'" began playing. The crowd of 40-year-old white dudes went absolutely nuts at this (in retrospect this should have been our first sign to be the fuck out). A group of meatheads near us started going nuts and one of the bartenders came over on top of the bar. She took the shirt off of the guy that had been pushed forward by his friends, who proceeded to flex and scream while she was flailing her arms and looking totally disinterested. She then poured a beer into his mouth from about a foot up while he chugged and his friends went batshit crazy. She then poured salt on her stomach, which he licked off and did a shot from between her tatas. She then chewed on a slice of lime and spit it into his mouth.

After this grimy bodyshot, she took his head and locked it between her legs. His friends were continuing to go absolutely nuts and started to chant "BEAT HIS ASS!" The bartender then removed her belt and proceeded to repeatedly whip this grown man in the ass with her leather belt until "Rollin'" was over. The gentleman (using the term loosely) was absolutely loving this and two of his friends were face-to-face, separated by about 2 inches, screaming at each other. We finally came to our senses and got the fuck out of there.

After leaving the emporium of perversion we met up with Salad Fingers (who greeted me with a perfectly executed Cleopatra Comin Atcha) and I managed to make his ladyfriend hate me by making him drink till whiskey dick while calling him a pervert, then met up with a big fella who regaled us with stories of his bathroom orgies. On our 5:30 am train back a bumbling elderly man attempted to get me to light his cigarette while blaming Obama for my refusal. I've come to realize that perverted things seem to follow me and I can't help but fear that I am somehow to blame. I am making a resolution to myself to relieve myself of this constant perversion, and the first step I am taking towards rectumfying this situation is to swear that I will never again enter Coyote Ugly, and suggest you do the same. Feel free to continue to listen to Limp Bizkit at your leisure though, pervs.

PS Berg's classes in Costa Rica are indeed all in Spanish, and he still doesn't speak a word of it.