How It Was That We Met

The Lady in Red

2009-10-28T12:19:00.000-07:00

I arrived on scene with my Air Jordan’s and Lite-Brite to collect some samples from the scene. Some girls can’t stomach the work I do, which is why I demand so much respect at suicide sites. “Here she comes! Lilly will solve this case and see if there is any foul play. She demands respect!” I walk up to the Sergeant and grab his ball pouch and say, “Fuck off! Let me do my shit!” He tipped his KFC bucket-hat to me and stepped aside.

I go in and realize the monkey in the sequined red dress is sprawled on the floor with an empty 200-count sleeping pills mason jar next to her lifeless face. “She was a famous actor in the Piccadilly Square in London,” one baby said, “but she recently lost her only hamster, and the grief was too much.”
I examine the drool and banana bits coming out of the primate’s mouth and realize no foul play was involved. I took out my Lite-Brite, made a skull and crossbones, threw up and realized I wasn’t wearing any clothes.

I woke up in a cold sweat, realizing my brown bear husband was still in hibernation. I felt relief knowing I still had work in this economy even though I was a greeter at Hopscotch-Mart. His Monster, Inc. bed sheets were keeping him warm. There were deer corpses in the fridge for when we he gets up in April. I licked my eyelids and fell into a coma.

Scarlett O Haira

2009-10-27T09:51:00.001-07:00

The year was 1992. I was thirteen and Dan Cortese was teaching me how to snowboard every Sunday morning. Susan le Crema was a neighborhood virgin that I desired from deep in my stone-washed, elastic-banded Bugle Boys. The hair on her head was minimal but she had a condition where she would pick it out and eat it. I found this erotic at that age.

One day after school, we began watching Ladybugs starring the great Jonathan Brandis. “He’s gonna be the next Mel Gibbons,” Susie claimed. She was right. He was wonderful on camera and made cross dressing not gay for adolescent males, which was good because I spent the previous summer tucking my junk like that cool dude from Silence of the Lambs. As she admired my dad’s Vietnam memorabilia, I told the tale of how he sneezed on twenty four gooks there in one day. Her eyes lit up like Winnie Cooper’s did the first time Kevin kissed her. So I moved in, pulled down her shirt and licked her right mosquito-bite nerp. She slapped me and I never spoke to her again.

But on the anniversary of that day, I crack open a can of Juicy juice, turn on Ladybugs, and lick my nipples as my dick sneezes into those same jeans. She’s a lawyer and I find jewelery for rich MILFs for a low cost. I saw her at the high school reunion and she had married an extremely famous reality star named Puck. I lived my years since that day doing what Dan Cortese did: living life on the edge. Autoerotic asphyxiation is the tits.

--Jorts McGee

Bowling

2009-07-29T16:11:00.000-07:00

My brother Chaz was in town for our cousin's wedding. I didn't get invited even though he lives in Santa Monica and I live in Venice, but I wasn't super bummed because I had a bowling tournament that weekend with my 3-man "God" squad, The Green Lanterns (named after comic book). Chaz managed to snuggle in a bar of hash he wrapped in a Three Musketeers wrapper and then buried in a jar of peanut butter, and we broke it out before my tourney and his journey, mixing it with an eighth of the medical marijuana I take for my swimmer's ear, Dr. Destructo #9. We rolled up two B.M.'s and smoked them on my sex swing before Chuzz got into his tux and I got into my bowling shirt, mongrammed "No Raid" and hiked a few blocks to the AMF Venice Dirt Shop Lanes and Buffalo Wing Bar. Me and another rotund gentleman had a little snafu with the electronic doors, which did temper my high a hair, but other than that, I got in scott free and my bowling (and life) partner Apron had a cold Coors Cutter waiting for me and my lucky ball Bustieros polished and being air-dried by our son's fake hand.

The Witchdoctor started things off by shooting two dead roosters out a canon, both of whose throat's had been slit, arguably 7 or so hours ago judging by the rigor mortis. I was a bit shaken by the sight of two lesbians making love in the middle of Lane 9, but I knew this meant we were bowling for keeps. I cut a nice thick gator tail up on the edge of our computer and snorted it all up before I rolled two strikes and a spare. Confident in my skill, I decided to switch from N/A to real beer and that's when things got UGLY: I ended up on stage with this band: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLsOWiqQbO8, playing a keyboard I'd never touched and singing background vox on a song I'd never heard in some Abilene, TX horsehole. I stuck around to dry out a bit after the gig and ended up falling in love with a Mexican senorita named Luz whose chocolate chili never failed to bring him a blue ribbon at the state fair, and whose innovations in the data entry field led to the formation of the Texas Instruments corporation, of which I am an honorary charter member although all I really do is race Go-Karts with the employees' kids at the company picnics.

Scent of a Woman

2009-07-28T20:56:00.000-07:00

Suzz was a kinda girl whose legs tucked inside of her body like a pre-teen spider. She had a pair of bugger blue jeans that she wore day in and day in, ready for a trip to Australia that never came (but I did, heh heh heh). We had our first date at a cowboy bar in Villanova, second date at the Alter in a Los Alamos restoration of the Alamo, but made out of tin foil and twenty thousand Kermit the Frog dolls recoverred from Lady Gagger's bed box. I knew I'd made it when I could sleep on a block of ice underneath a blanket of golden skulls, stitching by Stella McCartney, daughter of the Lady Linda. Twenty years later and she's puttering out of the driveway in my Datsun with a car bomb I strapped underneath as soon as the ink dried on the divorce papers.

I'm standing by a giant keyboard with red buttons on all the black keys, and when I play the melody to "Chopsticks" on it with my feet (like Big) that bomb is going to go off. My son's staked out by the Hardee's near I-75 so when she stops at the drive-thru to get a Six Dollar Burger and pick up that 20 year old Mexican wet rat she's been fucking, I'm gonna do the dance on top of those keys in a tux with tails, top hat and sails. Once the car explodes into a million gooey pieces and takes out the kitchen to that fast food hellhole, I'm gonna take a cab to the Cedar Lines where I will bowl a 240 while my best friend John Paetsch watches on in terror and Mission of Burma plays live in the party room and where they will encore with "Peking Spring" at gunpoint. I will then proceed to climb to the top of the building and blanket the parking lot with salt water taffy I made myself, down a shot of Jagermeister, touch the edge of the roof and, running at a full sprint, swan dive off of the top of the building, catch the wind in my homemade Human Sailboat costume that I've spent the previous two wives on designing and fly away into the coolest Sun Spot where I will live forever off of Megan Fox's hair.

Ready For the House

2009-07-08T13:54:00.000-07:00

My girlfriends Suzanna and Tina II were down at teh [sic] Rathskeller where they were setting up inflatable pool tables for the Twilight fan-fic conference. I was at a burning down Taco Bell with a supersized Bella Swan, trapped inside. You were at a Jimmy Eat World concert with my best friend Roger, getting high off of Margaritas and clove cigarettes. Dad was a cop; Mom was a butcher; Brother was a queen who used to blow my boss at the video store in exchange for fish food. Some enemies fought us off with knives and swords, some fought us off with punches and words. Some flushed keys down the school toilets; that is, I had to go in after it. Some dressed like losers to try to get the half of it. Too pretty, too young, too Red.

One Album: Off the Wall

2009-06-26T15:03:00.000-07:00

I took a Sabbatical after college for a two month intensive ropes course in Argentina in order to buffer my self esteem and get blow-jays from college co-edz when I finally did get thurr. I ended up 15 pounds overweight due to an addiction to Avocado-flavored Fruit by the Foot, but upon arriving at school, my roommate Martin Steinway burned me a copy of Michael Jackon's 1979 CD "Off the Wall", and I fell in love with something that, while made of plastic and lasers, still provided me with more pleasure and comfort than any girl would ever have been able to.

I played that durned album every Saturday morning, as I forced down three whiskey and lemonades plus a few lines of No Doze, a cheap stimulant I used to shoplift from Eckerd Drugs. The pills were for keeping unwanted erections down. The booze was so I could better acclimate myself with my braying jock classmates who wouldn't know the game of Othello if it was personified and performed by Anne Hathaway and James McAvoy at Shakespeare In the Park while in blackface. If it was a covert homage to the Minstrel GMC Robots of Transformers 2, then all the better.

From the soft strains of "The Girl Is Mine" to the crescendoing po-mo Lindy Hop of "Wanna Be Starting Something", "Off the Wall" was an album that really delivered. I remember getting my first real makeout with a transformer of my own, while my roommate watched in horror from the dense, farty pit of his bedspread. I would eventually graduate to the refined sophistopop of Usher Raymond, but back then, at age 23, I couldn't beat good old Mike Jaxson.

Un-Involved

2009-06-14T20:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Penthouse Forum,

This letter is to inform you that I hereby renew my subscription until June 12, 2012, which is less than or equal to the first day of Armaggedon. I'd like to commend you for your grammatical choices, strings of violent, sexual doggerel and the panting WET images of Men and Women in various erotic settings -- Office, Library, CarMax, Six Flags, Serengetti, etc. etc. However, I do have one bone to pick. As I am legally blind in both eyes, I would like to recommend that you alter my subscription to the Audiobook format (or current technological equivalent), and that these salacious stories be read by President Barack Obama. I am confident that Obama's authoritative speaking voice will be able to present these stories the way your writing staff has always intended: as a living, breathing, omnipotent, cosmic narrative. As God is not presently available to read me Penthouse Forum, I am fine with settling for President Obama.

I would also like to recommend that your finely crafted bi-rotic tales by not only read by B.H.O., but set to the music of ZZ Top. I am fine with any song choices off of "Eliminator", or the entire "Greatest Hits" tracklist. Achieving orgasm to the twin guitar attack of the Brothers Gibbons while Frank Beard's percussive thrust keeps my masturbatory rhythm intact as Barack Obama himself rains down verbal Money Shots from the precipice of Mount Olympus would likely cure my blindness and likely influence my hand to select the correct Mega Millions numbers, thereby ensuring that every member of my extended family would also receive lifetime subscriptions to The Forum.

I understand that this is an unorthodox request, but one that I urge you to please consider. I can be reached at gasgzlr@rocketmail.com when you're ready to say yes.

Best Wishes,

Lyonel Huts

Oceanfront University

2009-06-14T13:01:00.000-07:00

I decided to pack it up at the small shingle I was running out of Raymond Skeller's Air Conditioner warehouse in the Jewelry District, Downtown Los Angeles, California, after my office was broken into for the third time in two years. Each robbery had gotten increasingly more violent, and this most recent "go", three thieves battered down the door with a dog whose throat they had just slit. The Rigor Mortis gave the dog the density the they needed to pummel the door, and like the Unearthed Story of Romulus, I soon find myself sucking the end of a single-barrel shotgun like a dick while they tattooed the lyrics to Don Henley's "Dirty Laundry" on the insides of my thighs. To make matters worse, they stole the Macbook Pro which contained the entirety of my Final Draft files, including the pilot I wrote, "Duck Soup", a sort of post-modern family sitcom revolving around a harried, overweight mother named Rosette, her blue collar husband Don, and their maladjusted, sexually/socially experimental children Darlene, Curdle, and Monroe. The show was set in just one room of a cramped four room roachbox, 88s 88s 88s, and I was ready to "go wide" with it by printing the Courier text in a fake newspaper format, printing 10,000 copies, and tucking each one into an LA Times with the hopes of maybe catching the eye of some young, hungry agent or executive who might ride my coattails to Vicodin and First Class Tickets to New York Fuckin' City on Virgin America.

I took the GMAT, crushed it, and transferred to Oceanfront U, a quaint, sleepy community graduate college in Venice. My daily ritual consisted of getting incredibly stoned on medicinal marijuana, hitting Muscle Beach for an hour, taking one class, and chasing tail at Stringer's Bar et Grill until they kicked me out. I quit writing (a fool's procedure I always thought. See also: Breast Implants, Fatherhood). We wuz at Stringer's one night. Me completely loaded up on a bocce ball full of Rum Raisin Ice Cream and Johnnie Walker Blue when I saw Serafina, a F.O.T.R. from Guadalajara who managed to survive a bad case of swine flu to come to America to learn ceramics and cray pas non-fiction art. I used a couple of cold openings, The Cube, Best Friends Test, and made her fill out a Dairy Queen questionnaire for Store #436 in Birmingham, AL, before realizing that the only English words she new were "South", "Park", and "Cartman". I took her back to her no-tell on La Cienega and woke up nine and a half months later with a pair of twins strapped onto my body in a double-breasted Baby Bjorn that Sera obviously had time to handcarve, what with her cryogenically freezing me for nine months, inducing me into legally-binding Mexican wedding, shaving my entire body, mailing my parents and brother pictures of me performing fellatio on Dustin Lance Black, phoning bomb threats into every major television studio in LA and cancelling my Netflix subscription after turning in my Graduate Thesis which was just the Director's Commentary from the Jim Carrey movie "The Number 23", erroneously set to Emperor Hitohiro's conciliatory speech after Fat Man and Big Boy knocked the tits off of Nagasaki -- all of this for a 2nd Degree in Political Science. Not a bad way to spend a lifetime.

Seacrest Out,

Violent J

Ground Chuck Vs. Ground Round

2009-06-05T17:41:00.000-07:00

Suzette and I took a beeline to Cabo San Wabo for our 2nd Honeymoon, and though I can no longer predict the future, I knew that I was going to fall in love with some exotic flower the second we touched down on Wabian soil. Our porter took our bags to our ground floor condo, and I told Suze to take a quick spritz and shitz while I took the opportunity to scout out some of the local talent roaming the poolside cabanas.

Much to my chagrin, the deck chairs and bar stools (hey, that's a Chesney album!) were full of pale, pudgy middle-aged women from North Carolina, most of whom had forgotten to take off their name tags from the blue collar jobs they worked back home. So determined was I to cap off our 2nd Honeymoon with a fling or at least a beavershot on my Kodak Klickster underwater camera, that I purposely took Suze to an all-you-can-cram Pasta-thon at the local J.T. Hawaii's that she had no choice but to return to our chateau and fall asleep hanging from two separate window blind cords, one wrapped around her neck and one around her crotch, as is her people's custom.

After dropping Sudz off, I crept around the bar and hotel restaurant (Carochi's), where Sam Hagar was playing an all acoustic set of all things, Aerosmith songs. He built up a head of steam with a taught "Toys In the Attic" cover but blew his goodwill with one too many "Get a Grip" songs, and I split for leaner pastures. With most of the ladies hanging on Sammy's every throaty growl, I putzed around the tennis courts and beaches by myself until I came across a couple of Japanese businessmen putting down Bud Lights at a tiki bar on the beach. I pulled up a stool next to them, swapped stock tips in broken English for about 45, and retired to my twin bed to let off some spuzz in my palm to a mixture of Susan Boyle in an Elvis jumpsuit and Kirstie Alley in the last season of "Veronica's Closet" (a little fat).

How About A Little Fanfare?

2009-06-05T14:40:00.000-07:00

Hey fans,

I'm pleased to report that I've no longer decided to hang myself from an electrical cord for the following reasons:

1) Michael Tyson's daughter did it -- too passe
2) David Carradine did it -- jumped the shark
3) I just won my first radio contest after daily attempting after 48 years

If you balk at the first two, please understand that the third was a slamK [sic] DUNK after I called up the Mark & Brian radio program when they requested the name of Track 9 off Todd Rundgren's "Todd" LP. I called up and Mark himself answered after the first ring. "Whad'll Ya Have" he asked?

"King Kong Reggae!!!" I screamed through the receiver. A basketball buzzer went off and they started playing John Tesh's "Roundball Rock" at a deafening volume. It was so loud everybody on Olympic sidewalks started going batshit crazy and doing invisible crossover dribbels between their legs and dunking on each other.

I drove straight down to the station to pick it up, and in my sincerest attempt, drank a little too much Captain Mo out of my hip flask on the way down, and accidentally wrapped my Celica around a telephone pole on the way down there, killing me instantly.

--Nitemare Lite

Monsterville, U.S.A.

2009-05-07T13:55:00.001-07:00

I was hiding out in Cancun, not really doing anything mayjor save for judging a couple wet t-shirt and sock contests in Girlstown with my buddy Kris, and selling some G-13 to a couple Mexican ninos part time for Los Narcos. I punched in on Friday at 3:30pm at Los Van's Swimshack, the bar where I backed at and judged those few contestos. Kris and I pounded a few stiffies; mostly, Bloodies and some Baja Vidas (Tecate and a shot of Sauza) before the 5pm Happy Hour when the touring college kids set in like rigor mortis in my Ed Hardy's when I saw some of these dizzy brujas. One girl, Tiffany, I think I regressared from high school. She was on the arm of some tan jocky looking motherfucker, twirling her hair and pressing her rack up against the bar trying to get our Dyke bartendress Tricia's attention.

As I was almost unrecognizable from my high school self: pale, skinny pussy turned into cocaine-thin, leathery, tan jagoff with a moustache made of dirt and the wings of la cucaracha, so I took it upon myself to try to lure her into doing of our wet T-shirt contests. "Take Our Test" I said to her, the Minutemen reff obv. lost on' er ('s OK though). Her jock douche boyf looked at me with a serious duhgree of scorn, and reared his hand back to hit me. I caught my breff when he just twisted the brim of his Dodgers cap backwards and slapped one of her tits to let her know she should dance for a whopper of a grand prize, a five back of room temp bud lights and some spanish peanuts.

Tiffany got up on stage and set the cabana on fire. She danced slowly at first, to Janet Jackson's "If I Was Your Woman" and then fast, to Lady Gagger's "Player Face", grinding her untamed bikini zone against a fake palm tree and pouring jugs of iced tea all over her hair and neck. She really clinched that fiver of beer when, as a finally, she grabbed the Emergency in case of Fire Axe and with one clean stroke, took her boyfriend's head completely off the neck. A geyser of boozy red blood erupted from his stump of a neck, dousing the patrons and turning most of them into HalfSharkHalfHumanHalfVampire creatties when the blood touched their lips. I stayed away from the spray, mostly to avoid turning into a human thing, but creat'd a few geyser sprays of my own when I rubbed out a gallon of milk hanging upside down in my Suspended Bat Slingerz that nyte...

Peter North

2009-04-25T20:55:00.000-07:00

My "wife" Vikram and I were playing foosball at the Parlor, a local Santa Monica sports bar, and a favorite watering hole of ours. A couple of dazed frat boys came in at about 9pm Pathetic Time, and I thought nothing of it. See, normally, I take my hamburger like I take my steak (black on outside, charred on the inside), but these pathetic putzes came in with a MAJOR chip on their shoulders.

One of them immediately reached for a pool cut, thrusting it under Vik's neck, I guess in some sort of attempt to frighten me. The other frat scumbag punched me in the face, pinning my arms back against my sides, taunting me with his creemy Mojo and flavor savor moustache. I couldn't spot a bartynder within a 7 mile radius, and the benches were filled with Watermelons in Sunglasses, so I did the only thing I could do: I blew my Peter North whistle.

Peter exploded through the ceiling tiles, cracking an 8-ball over the head of one of the goons before upending the pool table on the heel of the other one, slicing him right above his Achilles' tendon and sending him screaming to the ground. He threw a pool dart perfectly through the eyes of one of the other tuffs, and grabbed an empty Double XX, winging it at the bartender who North must've known had a gun.

Taking Vik and I under his massive wingspan, Peter flew right through the front door and out into the safety of Wilshire Boulevard. We piled in the back of his GMC Jimmy, and Peter, behind the wheel, peeled out onto the streets, leaving a cloud of dust in his Hellish wake. Back at his Reseda manse, he offered Vik a cold glass of scotch, and iced my bruised knees for me, exercising compassion and tenderness, that I must admit, left me a little turned on.

When he excused himself to use the bathroom, I took the opportunity to glance at his prodigious member, practically black in the warming glow of his blue-lit bedroom that reflected off his medical mirror. He invited Vikram and I into his bedroom, where he put on his band Havin' Parliament's demo, "Time for School", and before we knew it, we were walking out of the front door in a daze, wiping flumes of creamy sperm from our bottom lips and chins.

'Til Next Time,

Teddy Kennedy

Fucked!

2009-04-20T22:23:00.000-07:00

Oh shit, I think she stopped breathing. Oh, wait...there she goes again. God, for a second there I thought I was gonna have to drag Deana out of the meat locker, into the alleyway and try to bury her body in the bottom of the seafood dumpster.

I used to have a rule about not dating co-workers, but I had never worked at Red Lobster when I jotted that rule down New Year's Eve 2003 after Jessica stole my 300ZX and left a pair of my manager Paul's boxer briefs in my glovebox. Deana was our hostess, barely 18, and she had the most elegant blonde hair, flowing from the top of her widow's peak, down to her asscrack. I courted her with an increasingly sexualized series of crayon'd placemat drawings I would disguise as to-go orders for her to pickup.

Things started to heat up like a motherfucker between us, with a few steamy seshs of making out in her parents basement and disguising the sound of me cumming in my pants by keeping Wolf Blitzer crank'd ta 11. I took a train up to Syracuse to purchase a ring, but I stayed a day late to watch my friend Rune's Ring of Honor tryouts, and when I came back, I caught Deana sucking my manager Joey's dick in a cleared-out banquet and Bar Mitzvah area. I flew into a murderous rage, which alcohol failed to temper and Hardee's failed to soothe.

Why is it that the women in my life are only attracted to restaurant managers?!?!? What do those guys have that I don't?

I lured Deana into the kitchen by lying and telling her I got Randy Orton to autograph a Delta dinner roll for her (I lied, it was just Mankind). She bounded to the back, only to get hit right in the face with a frying pan, cartoon style. Unlike those classic Chuck Jones, spots, she lay there motionless. I'm not sure if I was expecting her to bounce back up like Daff or Buggz, but I did esspect her to at least do something aside from laying there motionless and not breathing.

Then, like a nightmare painted by God himself, my manager Joey walked in.

Did I:

A)

B)

C)

Hey "Hows We Met" fans! Here's a chance for you to fill in your ending. Send your entries to drcomedy69@gmail.com by December 11, 2012, and your winning entry might be read by President Elect Palin one calendar day before the World ends.

Othello the Game

2009-03-26T18:11:00.000-07:00

At the World's Othello Championships in Horton Foote's hometown of Fort "Foote" Lauderdale. Suckin' dry the exhaust from the back of a CruiserVan where I slept for three nights and three days on a bed of crushed sardine (and other weeeird fish) tins. As you know, we've successfully lobbied for a name change -- back to Othello, and away from that fucking shit name Reversi. When my driver Tumi pulled up to the convo center, I felt the hairs on the back of my back rise when I saw my ex-girlfriend Ritzy. She was my chief competitor last year, and my triumphant victory on her Othello hand gave me bragging rights to brand her hand and douse it with lye (the chief ingredient in soap). This rule wasn't brought up until 1999, and enforced in 2002, after Clark Gregg's "Fight Club" became a massive cult hit. She barely caught our CruiserVan as she led her boyfriend, professional wrestler Tommie Dreamer into the reception hall for a buffet that was sure to shock and awe.

It's Tumi. We're here together in bed, me and my 2nd unit driver Crispin. There was a talk about a flaming skeleten that lacerated through my door. Left handed and in bed with a professional wrestler. It wasn't real until it waz.

Love,

Chaz

Hot Sperm

2009-03-01T21:39:00.000-08:00

Genevieve and Jack were two real cool cats
And they lived inside of a satin space
The exterminator came and shook out a roach
And the centipedes all died in the flames
As the bailout hit, it was a second time writ
And all the axes were sharpened on stains
Were the water wheels rolled
Now it's blood that flows
Through the rivers and the lakes in the Siene
Well, those seaseed plants they really started to dance
And man climbed right back out of a game
On a nuclear board, I drove my Honda Accord
Into the side of your Range
And both cars exploded, in my pocket the antidote
Coded, with the last helix of a recipe to cure AIDS
But that's how our story went
And with all the money spent
I only had to go back two spaces to claim

Young girl,

They call us the breakfast logs.

Young gurl,

They called us the last of the white Nogs

Beware,

They year of the just-right wrongs

Drive-Thru Window (Into Your Soul)

2009-02-24T02:25:00.000-08:00

You -- black haired, black eyed in a white Celica waiting patiently for your four tacos at Jack in the Box. You were talking to your friend Bonces. She sat next to you. Her eyes betrayed a weariness of the soul that only a Junior Jack with Cheese and a chocolate malt could even hope to cure. I overhead a fragment of your conversation. You spoke of "Adam". A boy who had ripped your heart in two with his doublespeak and broken promises. Sensing my moment was about to pass, I ran past the sightline of your car, right as you were about to grab your bag of goodies and sprinted out into the street, spiking the food in the middle of Pico Blvd. and doing a can-can kick meets Super Bowl Shuffle, all while wearing full football regalia. I don't know where I get these ideas, or why I do such things. Well...I'm off to set fire to my neighbor's house, but first I, uh, gotta stop off at the CVS to pick up some T.P.

Here we go

2009-01-31T09:41:00.000-08:00

Hey Howswemet,

I've been thinking about submitting the tail of me and brü's romance for quite some time (long time reader), but I hadn't been able to find just the right wording. Until now that is. So, here goes:

1997. For me, the year burgeoned not unlike the previous. Just another oak ring for me and "the twins" (my two spaniels from a previous marriage -- Oh yeah, and, howswemet'rs, don't look forward to seeing any posts on that spun-out of a marriage anytime soon!). I wasn't really up or really down -- just doing time so to speak. Work. Eat. Sleep.

That changed abruptly though. On a saturday in early march, I got a call from an old NSMU friend (we had pledged the same sorority, but both dropped out after the sharpie judgement day). She wanted to grab some drinks and catch up on the "oil days". We met at Sparky's on US-6 around 9pm. After about three hours of chatting/chuckling/hissing, we got ready to leave. Just then, though, out of the clear blue Sky Vodka club room, Bruce Elliot Seer, Jr grabbed me and offered to buy me some shooters. "No, thanks", I said. But Brü was persistent. When he sees some "thang" he wants, no stopping him. Nothing. Period.

The next 3 months were just your classic, fairy-tale courtship Flowers. Chocolates. Theatre. Miniature Golf.

We just celebrated our first anniversary, and there doesn't appear to be any end inside us.

Thanks for letting me share!

Dizzy Dean

2009-01-30T16:49:00.000-08:00

We were down at Brad's lake house rushing some little punkass kids in order to get their parents to cough up enough money to float the Ying Yang Twinz to play at our Halloween party another year. I picked out one of the gumps and quoted him $2,000 higher than our yearly rate because I need to pay for my girlfriend's hysterectomy (got that idea from D.D. Afternoon), and he seemed game -- heck, even happy to get in the house and post up a bunch of Jimi Hendrix posters and build a bong box instead of studying for finals or doing crunches. It's how it is in the South. Hot as hell and we all spent most of our time playing Three Card Stud and Texas Hold 'Em, smoking Marlboro filters and trying to get drunk. I dropped my gump off at a Publix in East Brewster, and made it a point to fire a round or two off in the air with my Daisy handheld in order to impress his smokin' hot MILF of a mom, who pulled up in a Subaru Outback with a DMB "Dancer" sticker on the back. I took this as a sign that she wanted me to drill a hole in between her legs and quickly nuding my gump, I had him invite me over for a steak dinner. Steaks on him. I told him that I like my women like I like my meat, black on the outside, and pink on the inside, just to get a further ryse out of him. He tried to crack and smile, and stammered out "You're not going to try and have sex with my Mom, are you?" I told him it depended on his perception of sex, and whether or not he considered anal sex or coprophagia to be acceptable forms of lovemaking. It took this steambean a little longer than I expected to get his mom lubed up enough for me at dinner. He did his best to tip her carafe of Carlo Rossi repeatedly, practically filling up seven chalices of vino. She gave me that come hither stare, and unfortunately, I forgot to roofie myself and put on a pair of my good shorts, so I simultaneously blew a milky wad of beer shit into my dooks and made a boner that tore through the roof of my zipper and canvas, spraying arcy ropes of jissom all over the dinner table. To quote my favorite MTV movie -- "Better Luck Tomorrow".

Born to Run,

Bruce

The Pleasures of the Flesh

2009-01-24T23:51:00.000-08:00

My girlfriend Lily and I met the neighbors across the hall from us today. They're a cute, young couple like us -- I noticed a Max Ernst painting in the main room, a sign of good taste. There was a couple strategically placed Bruce Springsteen records around the apartment in case anybody came to interview them or question his sexuality. During a robust game of Charades, I managed to dump a fingernail's worth of "roofie" powder into her drink (not "Spill"y's mind you, the other girl -- name's changed to protect the date raped). After blowing a couple of easy cues with her husband (Tom Cruise, Tom Wolfe and Tom Servo), we dragged this sexxed-up foxx and her more-than-willing husband back to their bedroom. Since the bed was (unfortunately) only made out of pillows, I left illy there to do the dirty work, while I took a carobener out the first open window and through the skylines of Gotham City to track down my arch nemesis Mr. Freeze.

I ended up in SkyBar at a Ministry listening party for shit album "Rio Grande Blood" back in 2002 with Chaz, Ben Busters and Matchstick, trying to scoop up as many jello shots as time would allow before the refuse went to ladies' wrestling. Don't remember much of the rest of the night, 'cept I woke up alone. She must've left in the middle of the night because she cleaned out my wallet and left a bunch of Moondog's receipts in there instead.

Here Cums Success

2009-01-13T18:44:00.001-08:00

To Whom It May Concern,

Attached please find my resume in consideration for the Assistant to Mid-Size Sales & Distribution at the Nissan dealership next to Vivid Video in the Valley. I am recently laid off from my job at M.A.C. Cosmetics for putting half a bottle of hot sauce (Osama bin Laden's Heat-Seeking Fuck Missile-flavored from The Grove hot sauce stand to be exact[ing]) into the tester bullets of "Swollen Purple" lippystick, and as a result, I desperately need a new source of employment in order to support my weblog How's We Met, as well as my Netflix Three-at-a-Time DVD rental plan.

I consider myself skilled beyond most mortals' beliefs in the fields of administrative assistance, as well as sales. I have a strong feeling that most of the Vivid Video girls -- Jesse Jane, Jenna Jameson, Kobe Tai, and Tera Patrick amongst them -- will want to not only buy mid-size sedans from me, but fraternize with myself and my inner circle of co-workers at the dealership. After making initial contact, myself and my chosen work partners will proceed to undress, fondle and make love to these heretofore unobtainable women in a variety of positions, most of which I am certain the majority of the Nissan Sales Staff had never thought possible, either due to lack of imagination or excessive girth around their lower abdomen, groin and thigh areas.

After toweling off, I will proceed to close a series of deals with not only the stars of Vivid Entertainment, but the executives and assistants at the company, making sure that they know that Valley Village Nissan is the premier destination for new and used Nissan sales and service.

I look forward to scheduling an interview to discuss the position further, and I advise you to proceed with haste, as I have several offers at a variety of mall kiosks and three regional Spencer Gifts locations, where my extensive knowledge of blacklight installation and maintenance would serve the company well.

Best Regards,

Dick Cheese

Dark Magus

2009-01-12T21:10:00.000-08:00

A throng of sleepless nights in bed with Annette, a shot girl I picked up at a conference in Los Alamos. I was sharing my double room with Ted Griffin, a sharp account exec (luckily, on my wavelength) who I managed to buy out of splitting the room with me in exchange for the key to the mini bar and the use of my SkyMiles to attend his stepdaughter's funeral. Nights we would slink down to the "jazz lounge" where some hack band of border hoppers and unreasonably narcissistic dilettantes would be warming up the bandstand with winking versions of old Charlie Parker songs (I counted "Koko" and "Salt Peanuts") before tearing into a swampy, funky froth of avant-something. Each number would endtroduce another band member -- most of them were percussionists. These Mexican peanut counters would lug a homemade gunga drum, tabla or trap on stage and play the living ghosts out of it. My skull was fucked six ways through Sunday when they tore through an unrecognizable version of "Spanish Key". Tom Cruise was in the audience. He pointed to the trumpet player and said to me, "He's improvising". I knew that wasn't the case, and that he was just restating the melody, but try telling that to the star of "Rusty Business".

After a few drinks they brought on a replicant version of Paul Gonsalves and ripped through a few hard-charging fusion numbers that sounded like Jerry Garcia sitting in with Peter Brotzmann and Mike Thorne. We got so worked up that Annette stripped her dress off over her head and proceeded to dance amidst the shirtless, black Cuban men that penned her in on each side, in the audience. The biggest man in the group, a negro wearing a human skull necklace, threw her over his shoulder and carried her off to his Dodge Caravan. I felt a ribbon of petrified old LSD trips and dandruff blanche down my spine like the first time I read and internalized The Rum Diaries. I knew death was certain if I dared to follow, so I let Suzette ride away with those long-dicked savages, certainly sucking cock on the way back to their penthouse suite at the far superior Ramada New Duquesburge.

I called up Ted to commiserate, but he was with the all night watchmen at a bowling game, close to spiking a 265 on his 10th frame. I left him alone and managed to find my buddy Too Many Cutlets, who bought me a warm cup of coffee down at Nighthawks. We sat together, spooning lukewarm tomato soup until the blood red sun rose over the horizon, forcing us to rethink another day.

Advanced File Settings

2009-01-06T16:28:00.000-08:00

Jenny was a City Editor at the AJC when we first met. I offered several times to let her take me out on the town, hoping to get my foot in the door at a couple local Atlanta hotspots since the owners hobnobbed with her on a regular basis to try to get a good write-up in her section. What did she want with Ralph Mahler, Auto Section Junior Copyright? Turns out absolutely nothing, but I did manage to finger fuck Laika Khalamed, the F.O.B. Assistant Sports Editor at the company Christmas party after I fed her seven glasses of peppermint schnapps I told her was "Southern Eggnog". Two paternity lawsuits later and I'm ready to drop a lead boot on the accelerator of a loaner [Pontiac] Fiero and take it over the edge of Riverside Drive with myself in the passenger seat because I know I'm too chicken shit to put the pedal to the metal myself. Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion!

Knife Hits

2008-12-03T12:10:00.000-08:00

After seeing the movie "The Dark Knight", I decided to come clean to my father about the extracurricular activities I've been involved in over the years. Nothing (extremely) gay -- just your typical 31 year old male superhero fantasies. I don a cape, climb some rooftops, try to take out some bad guys or at least beat up on the homeless, and scurry home before my secret identity is revealed, so I can go on living my normal life as a drug dealer.
I broke the news to my father over Thanksgiving. He took the Amtrak down here from Olympia, and we spent Thanksgiving Dinner in a "dualie" between IHOP and the Sizzler, where I unfortunately had to boot & rally after some cherry cobbler made my throat swell like it had been stung by a hundred wasps. He carried me back to my apartment, where I showed him a highlight reel of my stunts. Expecting him to curl his harelip in horror, he showed a rare moment of reporach (I can show you a phrenology charts of the cerebral lacerations I received at his hook as a kid), and congratulated me for doing something with my life instead of selling drugs at the In & Out Burger near Hollywood High.
We shook hands like men for the first time I can ever remember. Not the type of handshake you might give an interviewer or your landlord or a prison guard on one of those heaven-sent days when they take you in through the out door, but a handshake that makes you break into a hug to solidify it.

I took Dad on a stroll through the ratty L.A. streets where I lived. We laughed as he pointed out oil stains in the shape of Jesus' face, or dead cats that lay in the fetal position on the sidewalk, slowly returning to the Earth from whence they came. He suggested we stop in at a local juke joint, Q's, for a pint and maybe a couple rib stickers. I obliged. "It's on me Dad", I offered. After getting through the door, I whipped the .380 I'd stashed in my leather jacket out and pistol-whipped the bouncer, and killed the bartender just to prove I was serious. My Dad started foaming at the mouth. "I'm having a heart attack" were the last words he ever spoke to me. Even those, spoken clear as day, floated into the miasma of life as I grabbed the long black hair of one of the Miller Lite trivia night girls. It was her bad luck and my good fortune that she covered for her roommate Trish that night. She wasn't even a Miller Lite girl; she was a USC law student that was unlucky enough to have the necessary requirements to do the job. "Sandy" I said as I threw her through the men's bathroom door and bolted the latch behind me.

Crack the Skye

2008-12-02T10:46:00.000-08:00

My bowling bud Chaz convinced me to make the trek back to West Palm for my 10 year HS reunion. I didn't actually graduate with the class; not because I failed out or anything, but because I spent graduation rehearsal week doing DMT with my mortal enemy Max Kraigen and listening to Dio in his cherryed-out Vanagon. My wife was in Alaska on research, so I tried to convince my step-sister Nitsy to be my date for the dance, but she gave me some bullshit excuse about going in to labor even though I heard her 7 month old crying in the background. I ended up going stag, and boy, am I glad I did: after Chaz and I hit the beer bar, I spotted Kathy Mixon knocking back a white wine spritzer and doing one of those half-dancing, half-joking kung fu kicks to "Nookie" (jeers to the DJ for only playing late 90s hits the whole time, ugh). Now I'm not one to brag, but I had a Rasputin-sized bone for Kathy throughout Middle School and on up through Junior Year of High School until I heard a rumor that she spent her spring break locked in a glory hole at Inserection. She looked fine now, done up in black eye shadow and fishnets, with just a leisurely cunt gut poking over her spandex undercrotch. I shook my way over to her, doing the 21st century robot made popular in the Beastie Boys "Intergalactic" video, and though she pretended to ignore me, I got some stink-line vibes that I could see in real-time (see, I had 3D contacts permanently welded to my eyes). I gave Chaz twenty greenbacks for a cab ride to IHOP, making sure to book him a 24-hour table res there, and took Kathy back to the same Motel 6 I lost my dignity at 10 years earlier (I let my pal Wes nail my prom date while I watched an ECW pay-per-view), except this time, we set the place on fire with a lovemaking session that, while consisting exclusively of the missionary position, was deeply passionate and obviously came from a very personal place. The next morning, as I leaned over to whisper to Kathy, "See you in ten years", she beat me to it, as she had bailed, emailed my wife the details of our "fucking" (cc'ing me on the note), stolen my wallet, charged two continental breakfasts on my credit card, and left the Shoney's tray and receipt on my stomach. Oh well, better late than never.

Work Shirts

2008-12-01T16:41:00.000-08:00

Drug out of local custody battle by wife's new husband, an American Gladiator named only "The Sergeant". Thrown out down courthouse steps like a cartoon character, right onto a packet of hot sauce (Tapatio), staining my striped suit. Wouldn't have been permanent, but I doubt I can afford dry-cleaning bills since Ford's (Filling Station) been garnishing my wages due to unpaid burger bills. Judge said we're close to a decision. That means another day off of work to fight my ex-wife because we both don't want the kid. I waved to him today, my son, Max Ernst Snow. He flipped me the bird. The judge saw it and smiled.
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I called Teddy, my last friend in El Lay. He took me out for a Coors and some sliders. He left after his dinner, but I slumped further into the red leather. Teen Caffeine was playing a couple of old Fall songs. I requested "Smile" and they played "Reformation". Must be like a real Fall concert. There was a girl though. Couldn't have been older than 18. Said she was a college radio DJ. I went to college, told her that plus "we have a lot in common". Laughed at my own joke. Freud says that encourages them to laugh. Guess she didn't take her intro course at university. She pulled out a stack of books, asked me to autograph each one. Held up The Pumphouse Gang. I'm not Tom Wolfe, I said. She looked crestfallen. Her face was a mush of pea soup and burnt sienna Crayolas. Two more drinks and she looked like the cowgirl that hangs the moon on the Miller High Life labels, except come to life. She said she told the policeman what she really thought. I asked if she'd like to go to the Windy City.

She said yes, had some extra frequent flier miles as long as I could fit in a dog kennel she customized for a rottweiller she loved until he ate a 3 year old in La Cienega Park. That's Turtle and Drama's favorite type of dog I said. "Don't be a loser" she said to me, and I had to agree. We robbed an Urban Outfitters before the flight. I had some photomatic cameras and vinyl LP coasters for the flight. Giving these to the stewardesses gets you free beers. It's like beads at Mardi Gras. I used to get drinks with this Cajun named Samm. He drowned diving off a dock on Jeff Buckley Day. His last words were "Jesus in a tape recorder" that he spoke into a microphone he made out of his fist. Nobody knows this but me.