Featured Articles

  • A Best Man

    A Best Man

    On March 19, 2013 the world lost a good man. Larry Bloomer was a loving husband, proud father, and an amazing friend to all who knew him.

    I am especially fortunate to have known Larry and honored call him one of my best friends for over 30 years. He was the best man at my wedding, and I was best man at his. Outside of my family, he was the only person who never, not one time, forgot to call me on my birthday. We always kept in contact, sometimes via text, or Facebook, and would have periodic phone conversations where we’d catch up on life, give each other advice, and keep our decades long friendship strong. He was like a brother to me and I loved him as such.

    larry

     

    I was lucky enough to be in North Carolina recently for work and we met up for dinner. As always, it was like no time had passed since we’d last seen each other. We talked about life, love, family, and the future. Larry was happier than I’d ever seen him and that made me happy. His career was going well, his beautiful daughter Alexis was his little princess, and his beloved wife Kara was on the verge of having twins which both thrilled and terrified him in a hilarious way. Listening to him talk about the dilemma of purchasing a min-van had me laughing so hard I almost choked on my food. After dinner we grabbed a Starbucks where he mocked me for ordering my hot chocolate “kid’s temp” and he drove me back to my hotel. Before I got out of the car we agreed to plan a trip to San Francisco to see another old, mutual friend (Tarik) and give him a hard time about his religious fanaticism. I loved Larry’s sense of humor because it was as irreverent, albeit not as public, as mine. He made me promise that I would go on the trip and we agreed to plan it in the next month or so. I promised, we shook hands, and said goodbye. It was the last conversation we would ever have.

    Just over two weeks later, Lisa and I were shopping and were getting in the car when my mom called to tell me the news. I hung up the phone, told Lisa what had happened, then sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. The tears crept up on me and soon turned into uncontrollable sobbing as I pictured Larry’s face when we said goodbye that night. Once I regained control of myself, I switched seats with Lisa and she drove us to the beach while I stared out the window, occasionally breaking the silence to recount a memory of Larry. Over the course of the day, I smiled a lot through my sadness as I thought back over our friendship. I even mustered some laughter when I told Lisa about the one big fight Larry and I had as teens, where I left him in Ocean City, MD and drove the 3 hours home without him. Even in the darkest moments, Larry could always make me laugh. Later that afternoon, when the sadness was too much to bear, I broke down and cried again, both for the loss of my friend and for the wonderful family he left behind.

    Larry loved his family more than anything. He adored his wife Kara and his world revolved around her, his daughter Alexis and, of course, his dog. Just days after they lost him, Kara gave birth to two, beautiful healthy twins, a boy and a girl. Although the twins will not meet Larry in person, through the countless people whose lives he enriched with love and laughter, they will understand the great guy that was their dad. An excellent father, a loving husband, and an amazing friend.

    PLEASE DONATE TO THE “BLOOMER BABIES” FUND TO HELP OUT KARA AND THE NEWBORN TWINS: http://www.gofundme.com/bloomerbabiesfund

     

    My love and thoughts are with Kara, Alexis, the twins, and the entire Bloomer family.

    I’m going to miss you, Larry.

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    | March 28, 2013 | 1 Comment
  • Working The Rail – My Life As A Male Stripper

    Working The Rail – My Life As A Male Stripper

    This is a tale of sweaty man-gyrations, red-tassled g-strings and hot leather boots. Of cash, ass, sports cars and luxury villas. It’s a journey of epic proportions involving world travels, women and untold stories of debauchery resulting in vast riches.

    In 1993 (yes, I’m old motherfuckers), I was a rising star in the world of amateur bodybuilding. Having won the Teenage Mr. Maryland and the Musclemania, I was featured on ESPN and in various bodybuilding magazines. In spite of that success I was horribly unhappy, having just bailed out of a 5 1/2 year relationship. To ease my pain and shake up my life, I packed my shit and moved to Florida. This would prove to be a brief but interesting experience.

    I’d saved enough money so that I didn’t have to work for a few weeks and could just focus on my training. So, like any aspiring Mr. Olympia, I went out binge drinking every night. It was really conducive to the enhancement of my physique, so I committed to it. I was very consistent. With this lifestyle it wasn’t long before I started to need an actual source of income. Back in Maryland, I’d tried just about every job known to mankind and the only thing I’d really stuck with was being a bouncer. Resume in hand, I made my way through all of South Florida trying to find someone who required an intelligent, ambitious, professional who brought to the table vast experience saying, “ID please” and “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” On top of all that I had, in my “Special Skills” section, experience with headlocking two people at the same time and dragging them out to the sidewalk. I was highly qualified. Apparently there were a great many aspiring bouncers in the area because virtually every bar, club and Denny’s had a full roster of trained monkeys er, security people. I was beginning to get discouraged when I saw the light. Well, lights. As I was driving home one evening I saw a shiny object off in the distance. As I got closer it grew and grew in size until I realized it was not an object but a building. A building completely faced in reflective surface so that anyone within a quarter mile could look into a giant mirror. When I got within a few hundred yards I saw a sign, a beacon of light, if you will, and it read “Crazy Horse Too”.

    Pull in, park, primp, penetrate.

    I say “penetrate” because it’s really the only “P” word I could find for “go into the fucking joint”. Alliterate much?

    Long story short, I go in and ask for the manager. Turns out this place is the hot new strip club in South Florida. Over 20,000 square feet of black lacquer stages and shiny gold plated poles. Not one, not two, not three, but four cages for housing the precious flightless birds widely known as strippers. Anyway, they gave me a job on the spot. $7 per hour plus tip outs from the girls. Doesn’t sound like much but I ended up bringing home like a grand a week. I also wore a tuxedo while I waddled my stocky ass around the club making sure all was well. I looked like a penguin on steroids. The job was cool for a while but, like any job, got boring and annoying rather quickly. They didn’t like to overstaff so they made me work my first 27 days straight. I had to call in sick just to get a night off. The manager yelled at me for not coming in so I told him to go fuck himself. Hence, I retired from Crazy Horse Too in just under a month. At this point I’d become “friendly” with most of the girls who worked there. One of them would get picked up every night by her boyfriend in his new Corvette. I was driving a Hyundai Excel with personalized license plates that read, “GetnBig”. You had no idea I was that cool, didja? The girl tells me that her boyfriend is a male dancer at some club in Miami called ‘La Bare’. It sounded kinda gay but he had a Vette and I had a Hyundai with no a/c. A little gay-ness never killed anyone, right?

    (INSERT TASTELESS HIV JOKE HERE)

    I have no idea what it’s like to be a boy-stripper but I’m game for making car-with-a/c kinda cash. So I call. They basically tell me to drive my ass down to Miami so that they can look at me. Um, ok. What kind of attire does one wear when one is applying for a position where one doesn’t really wear attire? Will I have to get naked? If so, we can save ourselves a trip to Miami. I’m already sized-challenged in the groinal area. Put me in an air-conditioned room full of women staring at my pecker and they’ll think I’m a chick. You know how the dude in ‘Silence of the Lambs’ does the junk-tuck so he can see himself as a chick? In a room full of people my junk wouldn’t need to be tucked. It would cringe, cower and the crawl back up between my buttcheeks. From behind it would look like I was pooping a pee pee.

    “Pull in, park, primp, penetrate.”

    “cringe, cower and the crawl”

    “pooping a pee pee”

    What do these 3 phrases have in common? ANSWER: They are all mildly disturbing.

    But no, I don’t have to get naked. They have “costumes”. So I hop in the GetnBig-mobile and head down to Miami. As I’m flying down 95 in my cars top gear, which is 4th, listening to the whine of my moped-like engine, shoulder length hair whipping me in my eyeballs (the windows were down cuz I had no a/c), I’m dreaming about my new job as an exotic male dancer. The hundreds of hot women, the wads of cash, the sex, the cash,the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash, the sex, the cash….

    I almost rear end a mini-van.

    Back to reality and arriving at La Bare. It’s actually connected to a female strip club which only adds to my fantasy. I go to work and make thousands of dollars while I revel in the adulation of hundreds of women. After work I count my cash and, as I walk to my brand new Dodge Viper, various hot strippers from the club next door beg to follow me home to my ocean-front apartment. There we have a giant Frank-and-fake-breasts orgy just before I doze off to the sound of waves crashing.

    I walk inside to find a small, empty club not completely dissimilar to the Crazy Horse Too, albeit one tenth the size. I’m greeted by the manager who looks like a fat, worn out John Stamos. We shake hands, he looks me up and down and says, “you’re hired”.

    All my dreams have come true.

    He takes me to the main room and explains to me the process of becoming a Fabio-fabulous superstar of male exotic dancing. You must start off on the slow nights in order to build experience. Even then, you can only “work the rail”. There is a main stage for the featured performers who have worked their way off the rail. “The rail”, of which there were two, was a 4 foot high, 2 foot wide platform that ran about 1/3 the length of the room. At any given time two of the male dancers would be up on the rail, dancing in a sexually suggestive manner for the titillation of the female customers. This is in addition to the performer on the main stage who would put on a costumed and choreographed show. Now, you’d get tipped on the rail by women who liked your look, your charisma, the way you moved. And, if they really liked you, they’d ask you for a lapdance. Awwww yeah. Now you’re really making the bucks. Ten bucks, to be exact. Not this petty ass dollar at a time bullshit up on the rail. But an up-close-and-personal private dance for ten dollars a song. Holy shit! At 3 minutes a song I could make like…carry the 3, divide the 6, times pi, 43 percent of infinity…I could make like $86,000 a night!

    YES!

    Once you moved to the main stage and became a featured performer, you made even MORE money. And got more ass. Money and Ass!

    YES!

    When could I start? What do I do? How do I come here and collect my money and my sex?

    He directed me back to the costume lady and said to find myself something to wear. I could start on Tuesday. Today was Monday. That meant I was going to be rich and get fucked by hot women TOMORROW! HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! I went to the back room where a haggard old lady sat sewing what appeared to be Liberace’s yarmulka. She looked at me and asked me how big my waist was. I told her it was about a 32. She turned to a rack full of sequined somethings and pulled out a piece of shiny pink cloth covered in what appeared to be fake diamonds. Bling for your thing. I was like um, no thank you. She glared at me and held it up anyway. The sides and back looked like they were made of dental floss and the blinged out “cup” area was um, HUGE. I laughed and said, “I’ll fill that with what?” She looked at me like I was retarded and said, “You don’t have to fill it. There’s a wire frame that makes it look full.”

    Ok, now some people might think, “Cool, it’ll look like I’ve got a huge unit.” These are the same idiots who grew up bragging about the size of their cocks. Now, having a um, moderately sized (*cough* small) phallus, it always seemed to me like I’d be stupid for bragging about how large I was only to drop my trousers and have a girl go, “Do you have difficulty with size perception?” So I try not to do any false advertising. This fucking g-string was way worse than just talking about it. It was the ultimate bait-and-switch tactic. And it’s not all cute like putting a diamond ring in a refrigerator box. A chick is thrilled when she finds that small item in a large container. Having sex with me is disappointing enough. I don’t have to kill it before we even start. I’m not one to overpromise and under-deliver. So let’s get this out of the way right now. My penis is small and I get tired easily.

    Now anything above that is gonna be a nice surprise, huh?

    Show me the money!

    Anyway, we find a more reasonably sized g-string. It’s bright red with tassles. The cup area is still a little roomy for my piece but the tassles help make it seem less so. I go home to beging mental preparation for my first night as a male performer.

    Jump ahead 24 hours. I walk into the club, gym bag in hand, to find it pulsating to some sort of dance music. There’s one bartender setting up his area and I spy a dj up in the booth. The manager storms out of the back and tersely directs me to the dressing room. “Get dressed and up on the rail,” he barks at me. Wow, not exactly the star welcome I’d anticipated. I wander around until I find the dressing area. I walk into a tiny room with a few old rusty lockers and a cracked wooden bench. There are 3 guys already preparing for the nights festivities. I say hi and get nothing in return except for a nod from the guy closest to me. At this time I weigh about 200 pounds and each of my thighs measures about 28 inches in circumference. I’ve got a lot of muscle but I’m not super lean. So you can see my abs but they’re not cut all deep like these guys. The other major difference is that the 3 of them collectively weigh about the same as I do and they all have hair that reaches to the center of their backs. One of them reminds me vaguely of Sebastian Bach from the band Skid Row. Weird. As I’m extremely self conscious, I don’t really want to change in front of them but I do. None of them pays me any mind. While I’m adjusting my g-string so that it doesn’t dig directly into my butthole, I notice one of the other guys has the pink one I declined to purchase. I think to myself, “damn, he must have a friggin donkey dick”. About 2 seconds later I watch as he stuffs one of his socks into the cup to fill it out. I finish adjusting my ball sling, put on my black leather ankle boots and don the finishing touch…a cowboy hat. They have not authorized me to wear this additional accoutrement but I’m on the fastrack to main stage stardom. Let the lesser mortals work the rail like a regular dude. I’ll be riding a white stallion onto the stage, guns blazing, by Thursday. By next week the club will tear down the old sign and put up a new one that reads ‘La Frank’ in 6 foot lights. I will be king of all male strippers. Chippendales will call me offering a multi-million dollar contract for my own show in Vegas called Frankendales.

    NOTE: As I wrote “Frankendales” it suddenly made me picture monster-ized versions of those cartoon chipmunks, Chip and Dale. Instead of being really polite and offering to let each other escape into the hole first,

    Chip: “After you!”

    Dale: “No, after YOU”

    They’d rip the heads off of little bunnies and drink their blood.

    END NOTE.

    I exit the dressing room and walk down the hall to the club area. The lights have been turned down so the room is lit disco-ball style and the music is blaring. I’m prepared to walk into that place like a rockstar entering stage and be cheered by a crowd of hot horny women. As I scooch around the bar (all sexy male strippers like to scooch around things) and enter the room I stop short.

    There are 3 women in the room.

    One one side of the room is a lone chick who I can barely see in the dark. Closer to me are two very large black women sipping very large drinks. This does not bode well for my wallet or my sex fantasies. Ok, it’s early. It’s a Tuesday. It’ll pick up in a bit. I’ll just woo these women and take the hundreds of dollars I’m sure they’ve brought with them. Good practice for later when the rich hotties pull up in their Ferraris waiting to pay me for making them wet and then have dirty, dirty sex with them. Yeah, practice. As I am the only guy out in the club area, all eyes are on me. All 6 totally dead, indifferent eyes are pointed directly at me. So I hop up on the rail and suddenly realize that I have to dance.

    I can’t dance.

    Apparently I hadn’t quite thought this through. In my fantasy I had women, money and a hot ride. I had most certainly NOT fantasized about dancing. That’s kind of a problem. One that I must solve within the next few seconds or risk the derision and scorn of these 3 women. So I start to move. I don’t have any clue what I’m doing and I’m sort of doing a half white-boy moving-my-feet-in-and-out dance crossed with a little bit of a breakdance. I try to do that thing that looks like you’re doing the worm but standing up. The women stare at me with a blank look. I feel like I’m trying to get a rise out of the Queen’s guards outside the palace. Nothing. I force myself to make eye contact but I can’t. I’m way too embarrassed. One of the women shifts in her seat and I think she might be about to pull out some money. She pulls out a tissue and blows her nose. It seems that my attempt at sexy gyrations have given her a runny nose. That’s hot. Moments later one of the guys that ignored me comes out of the dressing room. It’s sock-cock boy. Great. I expect he’ll man the other rail and entertain the lone woman while my soul is crushed by the two black ladies. No. For some reason he decides to join me on my rail. To make matters worse, he starts fucking throwing down and dancing like he’s auditioning for Solid Gold. What the FUCK? I’m barely able to keep my feet moving with the music, my dumb g-string feels like it’s tearing my asshole open, and these 2 women appear to actually hate me. I can feel it. They despise me. And sweatsock is dancing like his life depends on it while he stares these women directly in the eyes. Snot-nose lady gets up, pulls out her wallet and takes out some money. She squeezes out from behind her little table and approaches him. He leans down and kisses her on her greasy looking cheek. She smiles and puts a one dollar bill in his cup. (I wonder to myself if she felt the sock and thought he had cotton pubes). She turns to go back to her seat and he stands up, adjusts his man-panties and gives me a haughty look as if to say, “fuck you muscle-boy. this is my rail”.

    About 30 seconds later I realize that I’ve stopped dancing and gone catatonic. I hop down off the rail, walk to the dressing room and open my locker. The one guy that nodded at me says, “How’s it going”? I reply, “Left something in the car.” I put my jeans on over my g-string, throw on my shirt and shoes and exit. 2 minutes later I’m flying up 95 in my beloved Hyundai with the getnbig tags, butt-floss trying to climb into my colon, sweating from the lack of a/c.

    My stripping career lasted approximately 8 minutes.

    One week later I returned to Maryland, where men don’t dance with strings up their butts for a dollar.

    And I still can’t dance.

    ******************************

    BONUS: Years later I would return to the pole in a classic episode of my internt talk show. Experience my shame in full color!

     

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    | January 24, 2012 | 2 Comments
  • Losing My Virginity

    Losing My Virginity

    My friend Chris got himself an apartment in Georgetown (downtown D.C.) just after high school. It was a pimpin little studio right near all the cool G-town bars. Every Friday night I’d head down and spend the weekend getting hammered and trying to pick up girls. The key word being “trying”. Actually, the key word would be “failing” but that’s looking at the vagina as half empty.

    At this point, the closest I’d come to sex was a blow job. Yes, Frank was an 18 year old virgin. Not that I hadn’t had the opportunity to get laid when I was younger, it’s just that I was scared. Scared of the pussy. And I hadn’t even heard the term “vagina dentata” yet. Oh, you wouldn’t have known I was scared. My cocky attitude and swagger hid that shit real well. But deep down I was terrified. Insecure little bastard, I was. The irony about guys who are scared to get laid is that we don’t even know what we’re scared of. We know we jerk off to fantasies about pussy all the time. How does one masturbate to something that terrifies? I never watched Nightmare On Elm Street while whacking my pud. It all makes no fucking sense.

    Anyway, my boy Chris calls me and says that these 2 girls from FL are coming up to visit. I have to head over. They’re currently in their car, somewhere around North Carolina. Chris explains to me that they’re sluts. Hey, sounds good to me! I love me a slut. Well, I’d love me a slut if they weren’t all scary and shit. They call again a few hours later to give us an update…they’re in Virginia and they’ve stopped for liquor. Ok, we have 2 drunk sluts flying up 95 to party with us. Then the kicker. They tell us they want to fuck as soon as they get there.

    Jigga what?

    They tell us they want to fuck as soon as they get there.

    Say again.

    They tell us they want to fuck as soon as they get there.

    Como?

    They tell us…you get the idea.

    I’m down like a clown with and upside down frown…wearing brown. Man, I swear I felt like I was going to jump out of a plane. These girls were ready to throw down, no questions asked. I knew Chris wasn’t a virgin and I don’t think he knew that I was. So backing out wasn’t an option. What was I gonna say? “Uh, I have a girlfriend in Canada. I don’t wanna cheat.” Riiiiiiiiiiiight. Now, there was one stipulation. Chris said that one of the girls, Kim, was a good friend of his. This meant that he couldn’t fuck her. So I had to take her and he’d get the other one. Like I cared. Whichever, whatever, whenever. I was finally ready. No way I was going to turn 19 and still be a virgin. Bad enough that I graduated high school as one. Now, in order to boost my courage and get ready for my first real live penis-in-vagina experience, I did what any normal, brave young stud would do. I started drinking. “Bartender, pour me some balls.” Yep, a little vodka would be just the thing to get me up, in and over my issues. Incidentally, I did not drink “a little vodka”. I drank “a lot of vodka”.

    The girls arrived.

    My penis and my vision were both thankful for my indulgence.

    As the two girls walked in the door I thought, the fat one had better not be Kim.

    The fat one was Kim.

    Within 5 minutes I was fucking Kim, the fat one.

    Vodka and virginity do NOT mix.

    Or do they?

    The girls virtually explode into the room. They throw their shit down and make way straight for the kitchen. “Drinks, we need DRINKS!” I agree. So we mix up 4 drinks and drop down on the sofas to chit chat. Chris and Lisa on one, Kim and myself on the other. Kim looks at me, says, “You’re cute”, and straddles me shoving her tongue in my mouth.

    I couldn’t have run even if I wanted to. She was too heavy.

    Within one minute she’s got her top off, my pants off, and is blowing me. Suddenly she went from being a big girl to being the hottest girl I’d ever met. The girls who gave me the lame ass tentative bj’s in high school had nothing on this bitch. She was fucking going for it.

    Now, the way Chris had his apartment set up was odd. Since it was an efficiency (or single), he had 2 sofas in the living room/bedroom. One was a hide-a-bed pushed back against a wall. The other was on the opposite side of the room, but sat a few feet from the wall behind it. Between the back of the sofa and the wall, Chris had put a twin bed mattress that he slept on. This was his version of privacy. So Kim jumps over the back of the sofa and basically pulls me over. 10 seconds later we’re both naked and she’s riding me. Woooo hoooooooooooooooooooooooo!

    Keep in mind, I have just lost my virginity. Granted, I’m drunk, on a dirty mattress, behind a sofa, with 2 other people a few feet away and a fat girl on top of me, but I’m PSYCHED! This was nothing to be scared of! Well, if I’d thought about the situation I’d have realized that the whole fucking thing was scary but hey, the sex was nothing to be scared of! Vagina is nice. I like vagina. More vagina please. FRANK WANTS MORE VAGINA! MORE! MORE! MORE!

    I love vagiiiina,
    Oh yes I do.
    I love vagiiiina,
    Oh yes it’s true.
    When it’s not near me,
    I’m blue.
    Vagiiina I love you!

    Shit, you should hear the song I wrote when I discovered anal.

    Suddenly I go from being the scared virgin dork to sexual athlete extraordinaire. We fuck behind the couch, then get up and fuck on the fold out bed. Then I fuck her in the dining room. Then the kitchen. Then again on the fold out bed next to Chris and Lisa, who are also fucking. Chris and I hi-five each other the entire time. Fucking RULES! Then I fuck her in the shower. Lisa comes in to pee and Chris walks in to stick his dick in her mouth. I reach out and we hi-five. We fuck everywhere and every which way and just had a pretty goddamn fucking-fuck-fuck-a-thon. FUCK YEAH!

    And on the 7th day, he rested.

    Once we got tired all of us sat around and started drinking more. I’m silently toasting my sexual prowess on my first night as a man! Just sitting on the sofa my dick started to get hard again. I’m hammered and it’s time to up the ante. I grab Kim by the hand and drag her out the apartment door. She is 100 percent naked and I’m wearing nothing but a long button up shirt. We hit the stairs and moments later we’re on the roof of the building overlooking K Street in Washington DC. If the building were higher I’d be able to see the White House and the Capital dome. But all I can really see is traffic below.

    So I did what any self respecting citizen of the United States of America would do…

    I fucked her doggy style over the edge of the building.

    At this point I’m ready to stand on the ledge of the building and scream, “I’m king of the world”…and this was long before Titanic. Speaking of Titanic, my mood sunk slightly when we got cold. This was fun but it’s time to go back in. Actually, I could really use some water and some sleep. So we head back toward the apartment but um, is the door to come in off the roof locked? Are we locked on the roof? Naked?

    I am locked on the roof of an apartment building on K Street naked with a fat girl.

    WHAT THE FUCK! In my drunken state I’d never thought to check the door to see if it locked automatically. Oh, and did I mention that it’s about 2am? Yeah, sweet huh? I bang on the door for a while and when that doesn’t magically open it I start calling over the edge of the building hoping that, four floors below, Chris isn’t sleeping or fucking or doing anything other than sitting by his window wondering if I’m going to call for him cuz I’m trapped on the fucking roof. No such luck. I did have some luck as the door magically opened moments later. If by “magically” I mean that some total stranger from within the building was woken up by my drunken yelling and came to let us back in. How awkward do you think I felt riding an elevator with a naked fat girl I’d just given my virginity to and some strange guy I’d just woken up at 2am screaming from the roof of his building. To top it all off, all I’m wearing is a button up that does nothing to hide my erection. Yes, I’m still hard. I was eighteen for chrissakes. My dick could stay hard for 2 days. Now I need a 12 pack of Viagra, three 21-year old girls and periodic naps to accomplish that.

    After the elevator ride of shame we go in to wake up Chris and Lisa. Everyone is hungry and Chris says he’ll go pick up some food. Kim decides that she’s going with him and that’s fine with me. I’m starting to sober up and realize that she’s not the supermodel I saw in my mind’s eye. Chris picks a diner and we give him our order. Just before they leave he pulls me aside and says, “Don’t fuck around with Lisa while I’m gone.” See, he knows he’s got the cute one and I’m stuck with the fat one cuz she’s his friend. He doesn’t want me moving in on his action. No problem dude. I just lost my virginity and only because she attacked me. It’s not like she fucked some game into me. I’ll probably fall asleep two seconds after you leave. I don’t say this though, I just say, “No problem,” and they leave.

    Lisa is naked on the fold out bed. I’m on the other sofa. We chat for about 10 minutes and then she says, “Where’s that diner?” I explain that it’s almost all the way in Maryland and, given that we’re in DC, they should be a while. She smiles and tells me that she would have rather been with me instead of Chris but the Chris-Kim friendship prevented that. I’m flattered and nervously respond, “Um, me too.” Lisa says, “Come here”

    Jigga what?
    Say again.
    Como?

    I go over to the bed and she grabs me, sticking her tongue down my throat. It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve just lost my virginity and now I’m going to have sex with a second girl the same night and she’s cute. I am the mack-fucking-daddy. Who’s the P.I.M.P. up in this motherfucker? Me, that’s who. We make out for a bit and she pulls my boxers off. I’m over her and just sliding the tip of my cock into her soft wetness when…

    “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

    Chris had gone to a different diner just blocks away.

    Oops.

    So I lost my virginity and experienced my first cock blocking on the same night. I guess I deserved it for being so greedy and starting to fuck the girl Chris was with but hey, he stuck me with the fat one. Needless to say, this would not be the only time I fucked a fat girl, tried to fuck someone I shouldn’t, or got cock-blocked.

    But it was the only time I lost my virginity. And I’ll never forget it.

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    | November 29, 2011 | 0 Comments
  • The World Famous BK Blaster

    The World Famous BK Blaster

    This story is not for the faint of heart (or stomach) so be forewarned. It’s gonna get uglier than Rumsfeld and Bin Laden having gay sex in a vat of mayo.

    I take you back to 1989 when yes, I was a wee lad of 19. (I’m old motherfuckers, I know that. No need to point it out.) Having just won the Teenage Mr. Maryland Bodybuilding contest I was determined to become a professional bodybuilder.

    To meet this lofty goal I decided to forego school and focus on a career that would help further my endeavor.

    I got a job at GNC.

    At the time, GNC was a place where bodybuilders purchased their protein shakes, teenage boys bought their supplements before they met the bodybuilders who sold them steroids, and freaky vegan and hippy types bought their herbs in the hopes that they could put some color in their sickly, pasty skin.

    My salary was a whopping $6.00/hr plus “spiffs”. The spiffs were commissions based on selling certain products on which GNC made a higher profit. Those were primarily the low-quality house brands that they had produced in 3rd world countries. Is there a great deal of protein in powdered dog?

    I was the king of spiffs. More useless products flowed through that GNC during my tenure than in all the years since time (or GNC) began. If you questioned me about the efficacy of a product I would listen intently, pick up a container of the very same item, pretend to read everything on the label while looking at the spiff code, and then give my expert recommendation based on whether that, or a “better” product would generate another $2.00 toward my next paycheck.

    “No sir, that particular item does, in fact, increase your lean muscle tissue by increasing your ability to metabolize the amino acids in your diet while simultaneously improving your stamina and decreasing subcutaneous stores of bodyfat. But (looking at another spiff code) THIS one does it longer, faster, cheaper and is buy-one-get-one-half-off. Will you be needing an anti-oxidant with that today?”

    Can anyone say salesman numero uno? I sold so much that, when they implemented a new policy that stated everyone had to wear a tie, I continued to wear t-shirts. The manager threatened to fire me. I told him to go for it. Then he told the regional manager who came in to have a talk with me. He solved the problem with a brilliant decisiveness…he stopped scheduling the manager to be there when I was working. Now I had GNC to myself. At 19 I had effectively made the GNC manager a mere figurehead, securing the schedule that I wanted and getting to work all by my loneseome. I was not yet king but rest assured, I sat firmly, albeit alone, on the throne. That very thought would come to haunt me sooner than I expected.

    GNC was in White Flint Mall, very close to an entrance. Next to it was a Gingiss Formal Wear and directly across the corridor, Burger King. As an aspiring young Arnold, I didn’t eat at Burger King. I sat on the counter at GNC eating my tuna and watching the fat people and families get their Whoppers “their way”. Every so often some slovenly family with their overweight kids would all come out wearing those paper crowns. The Burger Kings. I almost pulled a hamstring when I’d fall off the counter in hysterics. The only reason I ever entered Burger King was to use the restroom. Our little toilet at GNC didn’t work. I’d perfected the art of sprinting across the hall, peeing and running back within about 40 seconds. I never even missed a customer. Skills baby, I got skills.

    So one day I was running late for work and didn’t bring any food with me. This sucked because I was used to eating about every 2 hours. My shift was 6 hours long. FUCK! I’m gonna starve. But then I thought…hmmmm, we’ve got all these protein bars and energy bars that people seem to love. I’ll just try a few of those. I opened one and took a bite.

    GAG!

    Trash can.

    I pick another and tear it open. Bite.

    GAG!

    Trash can.

    I proceed to eat one bite of almost 20 different protein bars looking for ONE that’s fucking edible. This simply does not EXIST!

    But at this point I’m kinda full so I say fuck it, I’ll starve a few hours. Won’t kill me. I might deplete a quarter inch off of my bicep but I’ll eat two entire chickens when I get home to make up for it. Nothing will stop my impending hugeness. NOTHING! Moments after I silently and maniacally screamed the word “NOTHING” in my head, I felt funny. In my tummy.

    GURGLE.

    Huh?

    GURGLE SPLURGLE

    Uh oh.

    Have you ever watched pea soup start to bubble? Slowly at first and then with increasing rapidity and intensity? That was my poor stomach.

    Oh shit.

    Literally.

    As the first bead of sweat dripped down my forehead I took off faster than an boy scout troop being chased by the NAMBLA track team. I literally plowed my way through The Home of the Whopper, smashing all 200 pounds of myself through the bathroom door, sliding into the bathroom stall while simultaneously dropping my pants and locking the door. Even in that advanced state of bowel distress, my compulsive cleanliness and aversion to germs kicked in, so instead of sitting down, I squatted. Welcome to a new level of shitting.

    We’ve all heard catchy terms for diarrhea…
    Fire-rhea- when it’s hot, it’s hot.
    Shwater- incorporates both shit and water
    and one of my favorites….
    Shitting pure lava rocks

    I laugh at you puny amateurs and your weak terms of defecation.

    Behold THE BK BLASTER.

    As I released my tightly clamped ass cheeks I think I experienced the sense of relief a bazooka might feel when someone pulls the trigger. Or perhaps a flamethrower would be more apropos. A flamethrowing bazooka if you will. Will you? Should you? I wouldn’t if I were you.

    The sounds and feelings that were coming out of my ass were scaring me. At one point I was positive that some important internal organs had liquified and were shooting into a Burger King toilet.

    “I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom”…Humpty ain’t got nothing on me.

    Well, after what I believe to have been about 10 minutes or more of leg tiring, stomach cramping, full body sweating agony of my anus, it stopped. I squeezed, I puckered, I pushed…that was it. I was spent. So I reached for a handful of the cheap sandpaper that BK calls tp and took the first swipe.

    HOLY CHRIST!

    It looked like I’d dipped the TP in a bucket of brown paint. And it was all the way off to the sides of the paper which meant that it had spread across my ass. I grabbed more and I wiped, and I wiped, and I wiped, and I wiped and now I think I’m gonna cry cuz I’ve stopped wiping the crack and I’m wiping my actual cheeks which seem to be just as bad as my crack. OHGODI’MGOINGTOPUKE. I have shit pretty much from the back of my knee caps to the small of my back. It took me longer to wipe myself than it did for me to eat the fucking protein bars, run to BK and take the fucking shit in the first place. I need a shower and a nap. Finally, I get a few clean swipes with the paper and at least feel like my soiling of myself won’t be obvious to the rest of the world. I stand, pull up my pants and turn toward the toilet.

    Some poor Burger King employee is quitting today.

    It looked like someone had thrown a shit grenade into the stall. The toilet itself had turned from white to brown. There was shit on the floor, shit on the sides of the stall and shit, I shit you not, about 2 feet up the wall above the toilet. I had never seen such devastation.

    I imagined this conversation:

    BK Mgr: Charlie, can you go check the bathrooms?

    Charlie: Sure boss, I’ll do it now.

    10 seconds later Charlie emerges from the bathroom.

    BK Mgr: Is it clean?

    Charlie: Fuck you, I quit.

    I quickly washed my hands and sped from the bathroom praying that no one had seen me. I don’t embarrass easily but destroying an entire bathroom stall with public knowledge makes me slightly uncomfortable (as you can tell by the way I’m publishing this blog. duh). I ran back to GNC which was full of customers waiting for me. The first belligerent lady bitched me out for abandoning the store. About halfway through her diatribe I started imagining myself jumping up on the counter, dropping my pants and screaming,

    FREEZE MOTHERFUCKERS OR EVERYONE GETS BLASTED.

    Thus, the legend of the BK Blaster was born.

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    | November 8, 2011 | 1 Comment
  • Frank Prather’s First Time Doing Stand Up (Video)

    Frank Prather’s First Time Doing Stand Up (Video)

    This is my first time doing stand up ever. The Jon Lovitz Comedy Club.

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    | November 7, 2011 | 0 Comments

Recent Posts

On The Road Again

On The Road Again

| March 5, 2013 | 0 Comments

I’ve been on the road for eight days with four more days to go and I am cold, tired, and desperately want to poop in my own toilet. The trip started in Florida which was delightful because, although I’m traveling for work, I got to visit my grandparents. Any opportunity to see them is appreciated and my job has afforded me that multiple times in the past year. After Florida I flew to Atlanta, Georgia then drove to Athens. From there I drove to Charlotte, NC then Raleigh, NC where I was able to dine on pulled pork (which is not a euphemism for gay sex) and have laughs with one of my oldest friends (and by “laughs” I also don’t mean “gay sex”).

Whereas I typically have good luck with weather, traffic, and airlines when I travel, this came to an abrupt halt when US Air called to inform me, as I arrived at the Raleigh airport, that my flight was delayed by an hour. No big deal, right? No, not if my connecting flight wasn’t scheduled 15 minutes after my original flight was supposed to land. Commence kicking me in my balls repeatedly in lieu of the soon-to-be-torturous flight situation. Upon checking back with the US Air counter a second time (the first they said I was going to make my connection), they kindly put me on a Delta flight that took me from Raleigh to Atlanta where I got to enjoy a three hour layover before my flight Cincinnati Airport which, by the way, is in Kentucky. My luck changed for the not-at-all when I landed in Cincitucky Airport at midnight because, after waiting in the 25 degree cold for the Enterprise shuttle, I decided to call to find out when it wasn’t ever coming. Seems that they close at 10pm which makes perfect sense because no one flies in later than 10pm or has a flight delay that’s beyond their control. And, should someone fly in after 10pm and be stupid enough to want to pick up their pre-paid rental car, they shouldn’t expect that the business they’ve already paid would have pre-alerted them to the fact that IT WON’T HAPPEN. The tide turned slightly when I called the Hilton who promptly sent the shuttle to retrieve me and place me gingerly on the doorstep of their inn moments later where the innkeeper presented me with a delicious cookie. A motherfuckin’ delicious cookie.

Then, much to my surprise, things changed.

raccoon

 

I drove from Cincitucky to Cleveland which was smooth sailing. Even got in a good workout at my hotel before watching Arrested Development on Netflix until my delicate, beautiful baby blue eyeballs got fuzzy and I drifted off to dreamland where I had the following dream about my girlfriend and texted it to her:

dream

First and foremost, by “torn” I meant “to run” and by “n” I meant “in”. Secondly, and second most, why would I listen to a homeless guy, as if he knows what stores have the best sales. Thirdly, but certainly not least, my ample quads and supple buttocks would look good in daisy dukes. I wouldn’t necessarily wear them (in public), but that doesn’t negate how well I’d rock them.

Now I’m in NYC until Wednesday evening when I leave for Pennsylvania where I will be until Friday. As much as I enjoy mingling with the unwashed masses of America, I can’t wait to be back home where the people are normal. Los Angeles, I miss you.

 

 

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Anger Management

Anger Management

| January 28, 2013 | 0 Comments

Angering people makes me happy. Not in a, “you’re angry so I’m smiling” sort of way. More like in a “I personally have angered you and now I’m experiencing such great joy that I feel like I may very well have discovered the meaning of life” sort of way. It took years for me to figure out what it was that brought me such satisfaction when others were disgruntled, but then I had an epiphany. There are actually two aspects of your outrage that give me the warm, fuzzy feeling inside that one equates normally with, dare I say, love.

First, and most importantly, I am controlling your feelings which only serves to prove that I am, in fact, God. Behold my great power. (Side note: god is make-believe)

Secondly, angry you is hilarious. No matter your method of displaying your anger, it all looks to me like a Leprechaun having a seizure.

I could go on and on and on about how the anger of others fuels me, fulfills me, brightens my life in the darkest of hours. How when I’m being tailgated, and I slow to a crawl then watch the driver of the car behind me turn red and start screaming. Or how when someone is waiting for a machine I’m on at the gym and, instead of asking to work in, they just glare at me and I pretend not to notice until they stomp off like a petulant child. Or how when my girlfriend is yelling at me and I just smile and roll my eyes causing hers to almost pop out of her head in a fit of rage. But no, I won’t mention those things. What I will do, however, is tell you about two wonderful experiences that I had, not just on the same weekend, but on the very same day.

Morning Glory

I woke up on Saturday morning after a restful night of sleep, soothed by the sound of pouring rain outside my bedroom window. After a delicious cup of coffee, I donned my workout clothes, ready to hit the gym and start my day off right. As I approached my car, parked on Manhattan Beach Blvd in beautiful Manhattan Beach, CA, I noticed something on the windshield. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a handwritten note, soaked from the prior nights precipitation. Because it was damp, I removed the note gingerly so as not to tear the page. Luckily, it had been folded in half which effectively doubled the structural integrity of the paper. Once I was seated in the car, I carefully unfolded said paper so that I could read what some stranger had thought so important that they must hand write it and leave it upon my vehicle.

On one side it read,

“FUCKING IDIOT COCK BREATH MORON, SHIT MOUTH ASS WIPE”

 

Click for full sized image!

Click for full sized image!

 

A smile instantly plastered on my face, I could barely contain my excitement and reading the other side of the note. I turned it over as gently as I could to read,

“ASS MUNCH YOU SUCK COCK!! TAKING TWO SPOTS ON THE STREET. WE WANT TO FUCK PUNCH YOU! YOU MUST BE FROM IRAN, IOWA, OR I DONT CAREIA. THIS IS MANHATTAN BEACH NOT NEW YORK. LEARN TO PARK AND DONT MAKE LIFE HARD FOR OTHERS ASS BREATH!!!”

Click for full sized image

Click for full sized image

 

I was so delighted that I must have read the note five times before fear set in. Not fear of the scribe, mind you, but fear that the note might be somehow damaged either by tearing, or perhaps the ink running. How would I preserve this beautiful and unexpected gift that karma had given me? Should I leave my car taking up the two spaces it was parked in, skip my beloved workout, and take it inside to de-moisturize it with a hair dryer? Or maybe I could microwave it briefly and dry it out as if I were making jerky? Would that even work? I’ve never made jerky as I have a job and I’m not some kind of freak that makes his own jerky because I can fucking buy unlimited amounts of jerky. I panicked for a moment until it hit me that I could both engorge my ample pectoral muscles with blood using weights that are certainly too heavy for the average man, while also preserving my note that was physically delicate yet poetically powerful. I turned the passenger seat heater on my Lexus to the highest level, then gently placed my letter upon the supple leather normally reserved for my girlfriends pristine twenty-five year old ass, and drove off toward my fitness facility. By the time I arrived at my gym, it had gone from being a soggy, saturated mess, to a crisp, clean, lasting piece of correspondence that would later be given a coveted position upon my refrigerator. My day was made.

 

Afternoon Delight

After karma’s sweet kiss on my most delicate windshield of a soul, I thought my day could get no better. I was flying high on cloud nine and a half when I walked in to Target to acquire some new socks, underwear, and Paul Newman’s Special Blend Coffee in K-Cups which is not only delicious, but also organic or, should I say, orgasmic. Upon collecting the necessary items I began making my way toward the registers when I walked past a young black couple. Lost in thought, I barely noticed them until the man’s voice rang out behind me.

“OH, SO YOU LOOKING AT OTHER GUYS NOW, HUH?” he screamed.

She replied, “What?”

“I SAW YOU EYEBALLIN’ PEE WEE HERMAN OVER THERE!” he shouted angrily.

His volume was what made me turn my head and, as I looked around, realize three things in rapid succession:

1) There was no one else in the vicinity.

2) They were both looking at me.

3) I was “Pee Wee Herman”.

I have stated on hundreds nay, thousands of occasions that I deny the existence of god or any type of higher power but, in that moment, my conviction faltered. For something this amazing to happen after the awesomeness of the note I’d received just hours before, I almost had to allow for someone “upstairs” to be smiling down on me. This was a defining moment of happiness in my life.

It was obvious that the girl had checked me out and turned her head as I walked by, no one could deny that. In all fairness, she couldn’t be blamed for I am extremely, undeniably, excessively attractive on so many levels but let’s not belabor how handsome I am which is so very, very handsome. That was flattering enough. To make matters infinitely better, her boyfriend was so threatened by her gazing upon my visage that he felt the need to publicly and embarrassingly scold her while simultaneously attempting to insult and belittle me with his “Pee Wee Herman” remark. I can only assume that his reference to the beloved character created by the gaily masturbating genius that is Paul Rubens was meant as an attack on my height, because I in no way resemble Mr. Rubens or his Pee Wee character. In fact, I believe Paul to be a very slight gentleman, physically speaking, and I was looking particularly buff on this day. I already possess a high degree of muscularity but I was also still slightly pumped from the aforementioned pec workout this morning. I was virtually busting out of my extra-medium shirt. This could only lead me to conclude that he was insulting my height which he assumed would somehow either upset me or detract from my beauty in his girlfriend’s eyes, or both. I can’t speak for the girlfriend, although I think we can all agree that she was, how do I put this lightly, “all up on my shit with her eyeballs”. As for me, it only serves to bloat my already massive ego when a young lady risks a vicious public berating from her man just to scope me out. I probably should have tried to make him feel less threatened by explaining to him that I would never try to steal his girlfriend because A) I have eyeballs which enables me to see her face; B) Because she was the type of girl that would be with the type of guy that would scream about another dude in the middle of Target; and C) Because I am 42 and already have a smoking hot 25 year old girlfriend that, on her worst day, is better looking than any chick he could get to speak to him. But really, I didn’t feel like it was my duty to alleviate his concerns or relieve his stress, so I simply laughed and kept walking.

The point I’m trying to make here is that I’m thankful. I’m thankful for who I am, and my ability to elicit such strong emotion in strangers with virtually no effort whatsoever. It reminds me that I am all powerful, basically controlling the world and everything in it. More so, I am thankful for the angry people who have a complete inability to control their outrage and resulting actions. But mostly, I am thankful for the knowledge that I am really super hot coupled with the unwavering belief that all parking spaces are mine, no matter what.

I thank me. I thank me from the bottom of my heart.

 

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Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween

| October 31, 2012 | 0 Comments

Although I think we can all agree that MLK Day is the holiday, All Hallow’s Eve is definitely in the upper echelon of celebratory occasions. Here are 5 inarguable reasons:

1) Halloween is awesome, but it’s much better as an adult than it ever was when I was a kid. All the neighborhood children come to my door dressed in their adorable costumes squeaking out, “Trick or treat!” to which I happily respond, “Obesity or diabetes!” Then I fling a king sized Snickers at them as if they were an attacker I was trying to impale with a knife. It’s easily more fun than Easter where you have to actually go out and find kids to throw hard boiled eggs at.

2) It’s also one of the more educational holidays, since kids learn that it’s perfectly acceptable to go door to door begging strangers for food under the veiled threat of doing something fucked up to them. “I will create paper mache out of old eggs and toilet paper which I’ll glue to the front of your house and all of the foliage in your yard unless you give me something delicious with nougat. Oh, and my mom said to say, “Thank you!”

3) Pedophiles with ambulatory problems don’t even have to leave their houses. Rather than stalking children throughout the neighborhood in their windowless vans, they can simply relax while watching Justin Bieber videos and wait for their doorbell to ring. If they’re smart, they don’t rape and murder the first five or ten kids. They give them at least a dozen pieces of premium candy then let them spread the word to all of the other youngsters in the area. That’s called “viral marketing,” and it’s not just for Herbalife anymore.

oldman

 

4) Children who would normally be called dorks can wear super cool garb and change public perception of them. Nothing gets bullies to back down on the beatdowns like an 8 year old boy wearing a Katniss costume. I, for one, will always dress my child as either a pirate or a ninja, because those are two figures that demand respect, even from the older kids. Or maybe it’s just that my little ones outfits will be accessorized with real swords.

MY KID: “Daddy! Mean Billy from up the street tried to take my candy.”

ME: “What did you do?

MY KID: “I cut off his fucking head with my sabre!”

ME: “Good boy. Let’s have some treats.”

5) Slutty nurse outfits.

And there you have it. While your fat ass is binge eating all of your kid’s candy under the pretense of “checking it for poison,” remember the true message of this exciting and wonderful holiday.

Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.

Or I’ll kill you.

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Vote Republican

Vote Republican

| October 26, 2012 | 0 Comments

I believe in lower taxes, smaller government, and the right to bear arms. I’m also pro-choice, anti-religion, and think that Republicans, generally speaking, are idiots. Lucky for me, I can vote for Obama because I have a good accountant, the government doesn’t infringe on my life in almost any way that I notice, and I am a law abiding citizen so no Democratic president will ever try to pry my guns from my warm, live fingers.

What I’m saying is that there are plenty of reasons to vote Republican.

Here are 5.

1) You’re a racist. – This one should be pretty obvious but, if you’re a racist or a bigot, don’t vote for Obama. He’s black and, in all likelihood, will remain so indefinitely. In fact, never in any debate or policy speech has he ever once implied that he might consider turning white. What I don’t want to hear is you complaining that you voted for Obama because you were under the impression that he was going to turn white; now you’re all pissy and accusing him of unfulfilled promises. Just vote for a Republican who is most certainly white already.

guns

 

 

2) You’re a homophobe. – All gays are Democrats, even the ones that aren’t. You’ll never catch Mitt Romney at a wedding ceremony that ends with, “I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss the grooms.” Marriage has nothing to do with love. It’s a legal contract in the eyes of god between a penis and a vagina. That’s really the only way it make sense. If you don’t vote Republican, we will all surely get AIDS.

3) You believe god should influence policy. – Because Jesus saves—-you money on your taxes. America is the greatest country in the world and only because god allowed us to slaughter the Indians, build a slave based economy, and make Ford trucks. Amen.

4) You think a zygote should have a social security number and pregnancy from rape is because god loves you enough to bless you with a child. – Ignorant liberals are just going to keep letting women get away with making their own decisions, and you can’t abide by that. We need to allow every teenage girl who gets knocked up, victims of rape, and ladies who might die during childbirth, the opportunity to be forced to have an infant child that they can’t care for, needs to be visited by it’s father/rapist, and/or might kill them. The lord wouldn’t deprive them of that, nor shall you.

5) You’re a rich old white man. – Because unless you get richer, the rest of us will never survive. We need you to keep buying mansions, yachts, private jets, and high priced hookers so that we can achieve the American dream.

Those are just some of the great reasons to vote Republican this election. I could list countless more but I have to get up early for work tomorrow. I don’t have any kids to support, but there are those 47% of Americans that are lazy as fuck and someone’s got to feed them.

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Don’t Call It A Gum Back

Don’t Call It A Gum Back

| May 24, 2012 | 0 Comments

I’ve chewed here for years.
Rocking veneers,
Keeping your teeth in fear.

If you’ve been following the saga of my dental adventures of late, you’ll know what you’re getting into here. If not, I strongly suggest you read both:

Teeth Don’t Fail Me Now!

and

Teeth Don’t Fail Me Now! The Pictures!

Those will bring you up to speed and allow you to understand what you are about to see. If you don’t, proceed at your own risk. Might I suggest you chew on some tin foil while you’re reading? Bwahahahahahaha!

When we left off last episode, I had my new temporary plastic teeth. These are designed to hold one over until their new veneers are created by elves, down at the center of the earth. The plastic temps, however, are created by blind, mentally retarded Malaysian children out of old, recycled, Scooby Doo Shrinky Dinks. They’re actually just one solid piece of material bonded to your teeth so you don’t look like you’re from Appalachia whilst you wait for your real choppers. That said, no one mentioned to me how porous they were and that, if I drank a cup of coffee, I’d suddenly look like I’d been eating the yellow snow. So, after day one, I had pee pee teeth which were evident in the pictures from Episode 36 of my show. Then, to make matters infinitely worse, I broke one of them off while grinding my teeth in my sleep. So now I’ve got three yellow teeth and one little white nub of a tooth. I look like a tweaker who went crazy, obsessively brushing just one tooth.

 

I’m sorry, did you need a closer look?

Here’s a series of modeling pictures for a popular dental magazine. Can you pick out which one I call Yellow Steel?

Shortly after my sexy photo shoot, young virgin quadruplets were sacrificed and one tooth was wrenched from each of their mouths. In this ceremony, I am presented with my freshly harvested virgin veneers.

 

Suprisingly, the virgins all once played for the LA Clippers.

I know I mentioned earlier that veneers were created by elves at the center of the Earth. Turns out the elves are part of the Writer’s Guild and were on strike when I got my teeth done. Learn something new every day.

Remember in my first dental picture blog, when they ground my old veneers off in order to put the temps on. Well guess how they get the temps off, in order to put the new veneers on. No seriously, guess.

 

Wait, is that too far away for you to see?

 

This battle was slightly bloodier than the first.

Kiss me you fool!

I just can’t get enough! I just can’t get enough!
(sing it)

 

And rinsed!

 

This is where they start to implant my titanium skeleton. Wolver-who?

The dental work wasn’t near as traumatizing as ET’s screams when they ripped off his finger for this. Phone home now motherfucker.

 

The Lord toucheth my gums and said, let there be light. And let these veneers bond to his natural teeth which begat these nubs.

Sonia, my sweet angel of oral pain.

(please note that I can make people laugh even when they’re torturing me in my mouth hole)

Aaaaaaaaand ta-motherfuckin-daaaaaa!

Finally, the new veneers are in place. Granted, I’m still wearing the protective goggles and I’m more baring my teeth than smiling, but my entire face is paralyzed from the novacaine. Point is, I got some kick ass new choppers, thanks to the efforts of Miss Sonia, the incredible Dr. Sam and, most importantly, the man who’s little bad ass sperm battled it’s way to a lonely egg, creating both another teenage mother and me. Thanks for the teeth dad!

 

I hope you’ve enjoyed my dental experience as much as I have. But now that my teeth are finished, don’t worry that there won’t be any more fun picture adventures. Next month I’m getting some hemorrhoids lasered off! Stay tuned.

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Teeth Don’t Fail Me Now (PHOTOS)

Teeth Don’t Fail Me Now (PHOTOS)

| May 24, 2012 | 0 Comments

Allrighty then…if you’ve read my last blog, Teeth Don’t Fail Me Now!, you’ll understand the significance of this particular blog. If you haven’t, go read that first, then come back to this one. Seriously, don’t be a retard. Do as you’re told.

That said, the previous entry left off at my visit to Dr. Sam, the dentist extraordinairre who is giving me my new veneers. He is, to the best of my knowledge, the dentist for some celebs including the LA Clippers basketball team and our esteemed governer, Arnold. Of course all that is trumped by the fact that he’s being featured in one of my world famous blogs.

Anyway, this isn’t going to be one of my notoriously wordy blogs. It’s going to be mostly pics, so you can enjoy my agony right along with me. Ready? Let’s begin…

Here I am in the dentist chair. Those are NOT my sunglasses. They’re protective goggles so tooth schrapnel doesn’t blast into my cornea. What’ll they think of next? Peep the old veneers. They look like regular teeth but if you saw them in person they’re ugly. At least I think so. And they’re more cracked out than a crack whore.

 

Here is a disturbing close up of my gums and nose hair.

 

This is my version of a grill. Bling bitches!

Ok, if you thought the nose hair was gruesome, check out the choppers as they start to remove the old veneers. Can you imagine if I bit you?

Wanna make out?

This is what the underlying nubs look like once the old veneers are removed.

I feel so…so British!

 

The next few pics are for every person who’s ever emailed me said things like, “You’re hot.”
It’s time to reconsider your feelings.

Incidentally, I do not use hair product to go to the dentist. My hair is goofy looking and quite fluffy.

Back in the shades and my grill. Gangsta!

Ever wanted to get up close and personal…with my gums? Here’s your chance. I learned that your gums turn white when injected directly because the anesthesia has no where to go. It just builds up in that one spot. Sexy!

 

The reason that they numb your gums up directly is because they have to yank them back and shove a bunch of yarn up there. I know it looks like there’s just a piece of string running along the edge of my gums, but that’s the THIRD piece. Two others of equal thickness are jammed up INSIDE my gums. This is to create a hollow space when making yet another mold. Today, my gums are bruised. It feels really good. No, really. Like an orgasm. If an orgasm felt like you’d been punched in the gums.

 

I believe I mentioned another mold, no?
I look like a retarded dog with my tongue hanging out. Mr. Winkle anyone?

The resulting mold of my jacked up mouth.

And finally, the moment you’ve all been waiting for…
my temporary plastic teeth!

They actually look even better than my old veneers. Pretty sad isn’t it? I only have to wear them for a week or so. I’ll go early next week to the lab to do color matching and then they’ll create my new veneers. Once they’re ready, it’s back to Dr. Sam for more torture and to get em installed. If all goes well, I’ll have pics of both. Hell, maybe Doc Sam will let me take some video. One can only hope. Nothing entertains like the sound of a dental drill and me screaming like a girl.

Stay tuned and stay toothed!

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Teeth Don’t Fail Me Now

Teeth Don’t Fail Me Now

| May 24, 2012 | 0 Comments

I’m at a Mexican restuarant with my girlfriend and another couple. Both of the girls are super hot and we’re all dressed nicely. After dinner we’ve got tickets to Quidam, one of the traveling Cirque du Soleil shows. It’s the first time one of those shows is in the Washington DC area and I’m overwhelmed with excitement. And, for the first time in a long time, maybe since I was a child, I’m smiling. Not just a little smile either, I’m grinning from ear to ear. Big ol’ toothy grin, kinda like I’m insane.

Our food hasn’t arrived so we’re all munching on chips and salsa. I grab a chip, scoop up some salsa and take a bite. As I’m chewing, it feels like a piece of a chip is lodged between my front teeth. I touch it with my tongue and it feels really weird. Turning to my girlfriend, I ask her to check my teeth and she sort of gasps.

“Um, I think your tooth is broken.”

What?

“I think your tooth broke in half. Oh shit.”

WHAT?

I reach up and feel my front teeth and it does NOT feel right. I pull the object out that’s lodged in there and clearly it’s half a tooth. Not a top or a bottom half, mind you, but a left or a right half. My tooth has split down the middle. Vertically.

MOTHERFUCKER!

Even worse, I look at the remaining piece of chip in my hand and the other half of the tooth is sitting on it, mocking me, like an evil little half tooth bastard. I feel like I’m gonna cry. See, it’s been just over 24 hours since I got four new veneers on my upper front teeth. Already, one of them has cracked. They’re supposed to last 10 years. “Don’t try to remove bottle caps with em,” the dentist said. He did not, however, mention that I could not utilize them to crack through what is, apparently, the equivalant of wrenching a metal cap off of a beer bottle, a fucking tortilla chip. Maybe he should have told me that I needed to be cautious about Wonder Bread. Soft, fluffy bread can wreak havoc on fragile body parts, like teeth.

“Actually, these veneers could explode. But only if you touch them to things like food. Or liquid. Or air. They’re not rated for breathing at all. Truth be told, it’s best if you keep them cryogenically frozen and buried in an underground lair, safe from anything that might destroy them when you’re out with hot girls in a public place and don’t want to look completely retarded with gaping hole, front and center, in your grill piece. That’ll be thousands of dollars. Please pay the receptionist and enjoy your new smile!”

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the evening with my mouth slammed shut. I’m certain that every person who saw us that night thought, “Damn, that dude looks insanely pissed.” If anybody looked at me wrong I’d have wanted to fight. But I was scared that if they called me a name my other 3 veneers might leap right out of my mouth and run. Chickenshit fake teeth.

The next morning I called the dentist and demanded an appointment immediately. The three of us; myself, and the two halves of my tooth, got in the car and sped to his office. When I walked in I just shoved my hand out, sad little broken tooth in my palm and hissed, “Ten years comes around faster than you’d think.” The dentist was flustered and tried to explain to me that, on occasion, accidents happened. You’re right, they do. Like right now I might want to accidentally use one of your those cleaning scrapers to pop your eyeball, then one of your drills to bore a little hole in your skull, and then that spit sucker thing to vacuum out your cerebellum and put it on a fucking tortilla chip. OOPS! Accidents happen!

He kept saying that it was a fluke. I wasn’t convinced. I was prepared for a lifetime of crumbling teeth, and traumatizing nights on the town, where strangers wondered why that hot girl was out with a dude who’d been punked in his smile by the tooth fairy.

NOTE: I have, to this day, recurring nightmares about my teeth falling out. I never once had them before the veneers. I am not joking.

Anyway, he repaired it and, although I lived in fear of another breakdown in structural integrity, it stayed strong for almost 10 years. Then, one day, it cracked again. This time I was more prepared. Distraught yes, but prepared. I always knew this day would come. Sadly, I didn’t have enough money to do what was needed, which was just to get four totally new veneers. So I went and had the halves cemented together once again, figuring I’d get them all replaced when I had the extra cash. Then, a few months ago, a girl I was dating pointed out that I had a crack in my tooth. I said, “Yeah, that’s from years ago. You can see that little line down the middle,” and I pointed to the tooth. She looked confused for a second and said, “No, the other one.”

MOTHERFUCKER!

Now both of my front teeth were cracked. Ironically, this happened at the worst financial time in recent years. So, I did what any normal person would do in this situation…I ate around my two front teeth. Literally, I started cutting everything into bite sized pieces, even sandwiches. If I did bite into anything, I did it off to the side of my mouth. My theory was that, as long as I didn’t touch anything with those teeth, they’d stay intact. Then, one day I was on the phone with Big Kev and felt something weird going on in my mouth. I told him to hold on and reached up to see what was on my tongue. When I pulled my hand away, and saw a half of a tooth, I made one of the most interesting discoveries in the history of cosmetic dentistry….

Veneers break if you talk to black people.

I still have not figured out if my fake teeth are racist or just scared of blacks. I used to dye my hair but the color faded when I saw Asians so I went back to my natural shade. You can’t very well go around avoiding Asians. Particularly if they’re Asian girls wearing schoolgirl outfits.

Ok, so at this point I’ve got two cracked front teeth and no money. It’s a really good spot to be in and I’m pretty happy about it. Times like this make you resourceful. I’d considered getting some Lee Press-On Nails and fashioning them into choppers, but I couldn’t decide if I wanted the American Flag on them or the word “Hot” in glitter. I’m the MacGyver of dental repair. I once created braces, for a poor Cambodian child, out of a Kleenex and the “w” key from an old typewriter.

The aforementioned girl who had aforely mentioned the crack in my tooth, had found me a great dentist, Dr. Douglas Sam, over in Marina del Rey. He’s Asian but like I said, my hair is back to my natural color so there was no risk involved. Dr. Sam had my newly broken tooth glued back together in no time. But he also warned me, it’s time for those old school, George Washington wooden teeth to be replaced before they get termites. The were going to cost $1,050.00 per tooth, for a grand total of $4,200.00. It was time to pull myself up by my bootstraps, and do what any self respecting grown man would do in this situation.

I asked my dad for the money.

Hey, fuck you guys. My teeth are jacked and I’m broke. You think writing these blogs and doing an internet TV show is paying my bills? Granted, I’m ridiculously brilliant, hilariously funny and disgustingly handsome, but even that takes time to monetize. And who the hell is going to pay me to be smart, hot and funny if I have fucked up teeth? Nobody, that’s who. So I went to the man that’s always been there for me. The man that took my mothers virginity in the backseat of a car, impregnating a naive and impressionable teenage girl, and creating what would later become the genius that you know as me. As he has always been supportive of my endeavors, he ponied up the dough. It’s like he was just running a tad behind schedule on child support. Fact is, even as a grown man, I don’t worry about much. Cuz anytime I need something, I can just call him up and he always makes it happen.

Make it happen he did. Yesterday, I went in for the first of 3 steps in getting my brand new veneers. They didn’t actually do too much on this visit. I mean, all they did was give me about 30 shots in my mouth so that my face was numb from pretty much my forehead down to my neck, pry off teeth that have been glued to me for 10 years, grind on my nubs for 2 hours, yank my gums back, put big wads of string under them to create space, shove 3 different disgusting tasting trays of goop in there to create molds, make me drool on myself for an hour, grind on my nubs some more, then glue fake plastic temporary teeth on so I don’t look completely retarded for the next week. Once it was over and the novacaine wore off, it felt like I’d been hit in the mouth with a midget wearing a suit of armor.

Now that it’s over, I can’t wait for phase 2, the color matching. Then, the final step which is to rip off these fake plastic teeth, grind the nubs some more, and put on my new veneers. It’s all very exciting. Maybe this time, with advances in dental technology, I’ll be able to chew harder types of food like Jello, and perhaps soup. But I’m not getting my hopes up, regardless of what Dr. Sam says.

I’m gonna go sip some lunch now and tap maniacally on my plastic temporary teeth. When I return, I’m going to post another blog if you’re interested. Dr. Sam was kind enough to take pictures through every step of the process yesterday.

Who wants to see gross pics of my dental work?????

PLEASE NOTE: Lest you be concerned about my financial situation, this blog is quite a few years old and today I make so much money that sometimes I knock out my teeth just to demonstrate my ability to purchase new ones. Also, I used the term “midget in a suit of armor” before Game of Thrones ever existed.

Part 2: Teeth Don’t Fail Me Now – The Pictures

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More Things That Don’t Exist (Video)

More Things That Don’t Exist (Video)

| February 1, 2012 | 0 Comments

Remember 50 Things That Don’t Exist? Well here are some more. Stop, just stop.

 

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Ant Agonize

Ant Agonize

| January 31, 2012 | 1 Comment

Let me say up front that I like all of my neighbors a great deal. The majority of them have figured out not to try to befriend me, speak to me, or engage me in any manner including, but not limited to, eye contact. The lone retarded gentleman who believes that, because we share the same landlord and parking structure, we are somehow socially connected, at least has the courtesy to be loud so that I can hear him coming and take appropriate evasive action. My living situation is not totally unlike that of the characters in The Walking Dead. My neighbors are zombies who would try to devour my precious time, so I avoid them by sneaking around. Should they catch my scent and try to approach me in a threatening (friendly and conversational) manner, I’d be forced to split their skull open with an axe. Unlike zombies, they seem to have the intellectual capacity to understand this and act accordingly. These people seem to comprehend the dangerous nature of invading my life. The ants, however, do not.

I’ve lived at my current address for approximately 6 months and, up until last week, had never seen a single solitary ant in my neighborhood, much less my apartment. Then, the new neighbor, who we shall call “Ant-agonizer”, moved in upstairs. I believe that someone lived above me prior to this but I was only loosely aware of them. From time to time I’d hear a thud that I assumed was either him dropping a baby or that he owned one of those fainting goats but either way he wasn’t bothering me. Ant-agonizer, however, does not appear to sleep and has somehow made the water running through the pipes in my building appear louder than a goddamn oil pipeline. And I’m pretty certain she turns on the water at least every 30 seconds. For some inexplicable reason, her running the water effects the temperature of my water. In an old building like this, with shared pipes, it shouldn’t seem strange but this never happened with the previous tenant. When I shower, regardless of what time it is, she apparently turns on her cold water full blast in an effort to scald me. I’m confident that third degree burns now cover most of my body except maybe my taint. Perhaps I can finally get on Dancing With The Stars.

The purposeful burning began the moment she moved in, and the ants came shortly thereafter. Coincidence? I think, fuck her.

I’m not necessarily a detective, but I have watched quite a few episodes of First 48, some reruns of CSI, and all six seasons of Dexter in one month, so I’m qualified to deduce the circumstances under which a given crime has occurred. In this particular instance, the first thing I realized is that Ant-agonizer moved in to my building under the pretense of not having any pets. What my naive landlord did not realize was that not all pets are obvious. For example, it would be difficult to hide a dog because of the barking, a cat because of the meowing, or a Mexican because of the mariachi music and truck loads of pregnant teenage cousins. What is not difficult to hide is an ant farm. And this bitch definitely brought an ant farm.

What happened after that, is clear to anyone with a modicum of common sense. Because her new apartment was pricier than her previous abode, she was instantly unable to feed the thousands of tiny mouths that she’d adopted as her own. The incessant wailing from the starving ant colony was too much for her to bear, so she decided to release them. Having previously labeled the ants with a tiny Sharpie so as to be able to identify them individually, she knew she had to remove the evidence that they were her ants. Otherwise the SPCA (Society for the Prevention of C*nt neighbors with Ants) would be all up her ass. This explains the constantly running water. What, you say? How the hell does this crazy chick having a plethora of ants explain why she’s running cold water twenty-four hours a day? Elementary my dear Twatson.

She’s washing the ants.

That’s right. One by one, individually, she is cleaning the ants to destroy any evidence that they once belonged to her. She’s removing the Sharpie marks, her perfume, and any DNA that may have sloughed off her aging body on to those tiny pest pets. Then, as they emerge freshly scrubbed from her tub, she dries them off and sends them down a secret tunnel she’s created between her apartment and mine. It’s really quite genius if you think about it.

An ant leaving a trail of what is clearly soap. A suspiciously CLEAN ant.

Now we have untraceable ants streaming in to my apartment at a rate of about 20 per day. That’s how I figured it all out. It’s not an infestation of ants from outside that create an obvious trail from their entry point to, say, a food source. No, these ants appear individually, strolling nonchalantly across my counter, through the sink, in my bathtub, and even in my bedroom. They’re not foraging for food, because they haven’t gone near anything edible. Is it because they’re not hungry? Of course not. We’ve already established that they’re starving. It’s because they don’t know how to find food, or even that they’re supposed to be looking for it. They’re domestic ants you idiot. The kind that are used to being fed by hand. They’re just hanging around, waiting for me to offer them a roast beef sandwich, or perhaps a Cornish game hen. And because she can only wash one ant at at time, their arrival is staggered. To the best of my knowledge, of which I have none, the average ant farm houses approximately twenty thousand ants. At the current immigration rate, I expect the ants to stop arriving in oh, three years give or take.

You’re probably wondering why I haven’t used ant spray or traps in order to commit mass antocide and rid myself of this headache. You clearly do not know me very well if you think I haven’t taken every possible measure to destroy my enemy. I’m the Machiavelli of apartment A. I’ve used both ant spray and traps, along with bleach infused cleaning fluid, attempted drowning, and the weapon at which I am most skilled, emotional abuse. If condescension killed I’d be the world’s most successful mass murderer. What you haven’t thought through is the fact that each of these ants has obviously been trained to detect and evade all modern methods of attacking their race. The Ant-agonizer must have run what amounts to a terrorant training camp and each bug is like a little Jason Bourne, with survival abilities far beyond that of a typical ant. They are traversing rivers of ant spray, carefully scaling mountains of ant traps, and skirting the deadly force of me wielding a piece of TP with which I would crush them if I could catch them.

At this stage in the game, I’m fully prepared to surrender to the ants and offer them my spare bedroom. I’m happy to invest in extra groceries to feed their tens of thousands of tiny, weird, crab-pincer-like mouths. I’m even willing to stop watching Andrew Zimmern eat them so as not to cause them trauma. What I’m not willing to do, however, is forgive the lady above for forcing upon me a colony of ants who are guilting me into becoming their queen. So, over the next three years, I’m going to break the ants down, turn them to my side and then, when they believe that I am their one true god, I’ll construct tiny little explosive vests and strap a minuscule bomb to each ant. Then one day, when she least expects it…boom. Blown up by an insect with dreams of 72,000 virgins waiting for them in the anterlife.

And I’ll finally be able to take a fucking shower without being burned like an ant with a magnifying glass.

 

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Tweeting of The CNN Debate in Florida

Tweeting of The CNN Debate in Florida

| January 27, 2012 | 0 Comments

I watched the CNN Republican debate in Florida. These are my tweets:

Rick Santorum is a bottom.

“Sorry, I have the pube of a woman that is not Calista stuck in my throat.” – Newt Gingrich

“I have some questions for you Republicanos!” – Juan Epstein’s mother

Speaking of jihadists…we have a question from someone named Hassan.

“I am not programmed to debate Ron Paul. Obama zzzt, bzzt, Obama zzzt bzzzt, Obama.” – Mitt Romney

“How did that Mexican get in here?” – Newt Gingrich

“I didn’t get involved in politics early on. I spent my time counting money & laughing at poor people” Mitt Romney

“Even my wife knows I have no chance to be president so she stayed home to watch Broke Girls.” – Rick Santorum

Mitt Dawg and Newton G about to de-regulate.

“FUCK the fucking Diaz brothers. I bury those cock-a-roaches.” – Mitt Romney and also Tony Montana

“I don’t want my tax dollars used to pay for poor people’s healthcare. You know, if I paid taxes.” -Mitt Romney

“Newt, there will never be a lunar colony on my watch. I just bought the moon.” – Mitt Romney

“Why would we go to the moon? No oil, no one to bomb, no fun at all.” – Any Republican Candidate

The Grand Wizard of this Klan rally looks a lot like Newt Gingrich. #tweetthepress #CNNDebate

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