Girls Are Stupid

Forgive me, this story might not meet the usual standards.

So AT and Pink and I usually go to the same bar on Thursdays. This one group of chicks started talking to us one night. After two weeks of hanging out with these broads on Thursday nights, one approached Pink after I had left. She asked him why I haven't asked for her phone number yet.

Game over.

As soon as he tells me this I know how this is ending. We all do. My dick will be wet. I'm going to fuck this girl and she's going to hate me and herself after doing so. Sounds good to me.

So the following Thursday, at the end of the night, I put the wheels in motion and approach Picasso (because she goes to school for art and is a painter).

Me: So what are we doing this week?
Picasso: Are you asking me out? That's not really asking me out?
Me: What? So you don't want to do anything?
Picasso: But you really didn't even ask me out.
Me: Okay.

[I turn away from her. I don't deal with terrorist tactics.]

Picasso: So wait, aren't you going to take my number?!?!?
Me: Oh, so you DO want to give me your number? You were just complaining that I didn't ask you out.
Picasso: Here, take it. Give me a call sometime this week. It's XXX-XXXX.

I leave the bar. A few days pass. I call her. No answer. She calls me the next day. I don't get to the call. We play tag like this for a few more days. Finally we set something up. We go to a bar and crush beers. Unfortunately I couldn't get absolutely wrecked because I had to drive her.

So we leave the bar and we get to her house. I kiss her. She turns it into a little 15 minute sesh. She's straddling me in the driver's seat. I lift her top off and suck on her boobies. Nice boobies. They've got nice posture.

So it's going pretty well and decide to travel downtown. While slipping my hand down her jeans, she stops me.

Picasso: Looty, I want to but not in the car. I better get going.

Fucking biotch. Her puss lives to see another day.

Fast forward through the usual bullshit that you have to go through with most chicks.

The following week we go to the movies. Nick and Zora's Infinite Playlist. Fucking weak. Went in thinking it'd be really good but what a let down. By the way, can Michael Cera play any other character? But I digress.

After the movie we head back to my parents' basement, or as I like to call it, the spiderweb...once chicks enter, they're stuck until my penis feasts on their insides.

We're making out. Fondling. Petting. Groping. Well, mostly I am.

I slip her the breakfast sausages and she's getting buck wild. I'm working my fingers more than a Mexican day laborer picking grapes off the vine. Her vagina is flowing like Niagara Falls. Creaming all over the place.

Picasso: Do you have a condom?
Me: Yes.

As I pull the connie out of my pocket she has a change of heart.

Picasso: Wait, we probably shouldn't.
Me: Why not?

In my head that exchange looked more like this:

Picasso: Wait, we probably shouldn't.
Me: Why the fuck not you stupid fucking cock tease whore of a cunt?!?!?!?

Back to reality....

Picasso: I just don't trust you yet.

I got news for you, sweetheart, you're never going to trust me. But I do guarantee you will end up fucking me.

But I gotta give it to this broad. She's smarter than most chicks. She should be in a lab somewhere figuring out the cure for cancer...or herpes.

So I continue to fingerblast her for a very long time. Gauging by the pussy juice river that's been flowing down her ass crack, I've estimated that she's cummed about two times during this poke marathon, maybe three. Yet during her little orgasm fest, she hasn't reached for my cock or my balls once. Not fucking once.

This is absurd. I take her hand and place it on my shaft. She starts to rub it. She then moves to unbutton my jeans and slides them off. I'm on top of her now, in somewhat of a pushup position. She's in an all out stroke. It hurt at first but she really picked up on the correct rhythm. She continues for a good amount of time. I throw up one last hail mary.....

Me: We should have sex.
Picasso: No, not yet.

It was worth a shot. She continues to jack my cock for a while. Soon I'm about to blast. I inform her.

Picasso: Where, on the blanket?

Are you kidding? That blanket is like velvet and I'm not crusting it up with my fucking goo bomb. Nice try, honey.

Me: No, on you.

I explode onto her chest. I could've filled a Capri Sun juice bag with that fucking load. No joke.

Fast forward through some more time and bullshit. Said bullshit included the fact I discovered she was family friends with a guy who tends bar on Thursdays and Sundays at this one place and hooks it up big time. The dude will give me a $24 tab for an evening of drinking for three people. Now this is a pickle......fuck the girl and jeopardize the free booze, or don't fuck the girl and keep drinking from the table of plenty. What to do? Now, I've already sprayed a load on this girl. This dude can't even know about that. Do I take it a step further? Take a guess.

She calls me drunk last weekend at 2:30 in the morning. She wants me to come over to fuck her. She tells me her parents are away. I tell her I'm too tired. She's shocked.

Picasso: What?!? I just asked you to come to my house and I'm drunk AND my parents are away. Any other guy would jump at the chance!
Me: "Maybe I'm not any other guy."
Picasso: "Explain this to me. Something must be wrong. Did I say or do something to turn you off the other night?!?"
Me: "No, I'm just really tired."
Picasso: "That's bullshit."

We continue this dance for at least another twenty minutes. She's desperately fiending for my cock at this point, especially after I denied her.

Picasso: "Just tell me what's going on, Looty. If you don't want to hang out anymore, that's fine, just tell me."
Me: "Listen, I don't think we should have sex."

Did I really just say that??? Couldn't have. Wait...Yeah, I did.

Picasso: "Why?"

Obviously I can't tell this girl that I don't want to risk losing a boatload of free beers when her borderline "cousin" finds out I fucked her silly.

Me: "There are several reasons."

This is me stalling.

Picasso: "Let's hear them."
Me: "A) You've got better chemistry with AT. Maybe you two should get involved instead."
Picasso: "But..."
Me: "Let me finish. B) You just got out of a two year relationship. C) I'd hate for Steve-O to find out and have it awkward at the bar. I'd hate to ruin that friendship. D) You just seem more serious than I am. I'm very immature. To put it bluntly, I'm not boyfriend material."
Picasso: " A) Why would I be calling you? I practically had to force my number onto you. B) So what I got out of a relationship? I'm the one who ended it C) Steve is not your friend. D) I'm more serious? You're almost five years older than me and have a job. I'm in college and have no clue what I'm going to do. You're way more serious. Why did you even pursue me if you weren't interested? Just to have sex with me?
Me: "Anybody who gives you free beers is a friend in my book. That's not the kind of serious I meant."
Picasso: You know, you're a real jerk. I had you pegged completely differently. People told me you were a really good guy. You are such a jerk. Honestly, you're a jerk.
Me: "I know. But I was just trying to do the right thing by telling you this probably won't amount to anything."
Picasso: "You're such a jerk."
Me: "I'm not saying it won't amount to anything at some point...just not for now."

We all know that is a brutal lie. This drama continued for close to an hour, maybe longer.

Finally, after I tell her I can't talk about this anymore because she's not understanding and I can't explain it again there's silence. Picasso sits on the phone silent for like thirty seconds. I don't know what to say. I'm waiting for her a-bomb of curses to drop.

More silence.

Picasso: "So are you coming over???"

Girls are stupid.

I tell her I'm too tired. It's not working. She continues to prod me.

My tiny brain can only keep my tiny penis in check for so long. It's like Skywalker squaring off with Vader, with victory going to the one who yields the force best, but this one ends a little differently. In this epic the bad guy wins. I succumb. I tell her I'll be over in fifteen minutes.

I get over to her house and she slips me in the side door down to the basement. We are sitting on a couch and she's telling me how much of a jerk I am. Whatever. Who cares? I can't listen to this broken record anymore. I make a move. Little make out sesh. Groping. Etc.

Gentlemen, we have penis insertion. She's going buck wild. I'm putting on quite a performance. Very unlike me. It's going so well I ponder if it will run longer than Cats. She's creaming gallons of female juices. I blast, which leads me to a thought....

Obviously blasting inside of a girl is better than not. But I hate that you can't get an idea of how sizeable your load is. I think they should make a condom with measurements down the side. Not by the bottom though, cuz that would just be depressing. I'm talking by the tip, the cum reservoir. It's genius.

Anyway, we finish. Cleanup. All of the sudden there's footsteps walking around above us.

Me: "Who is that?"
Picasso: "Oh, that's probably my drunk sister. No wait, those footsteps are heavier. That's my dad."

Argggggggggggggh?!?!?

Me: "I thought you said your parents were away?"
Picasso: "Oh, well my mom went away. My dad's going away tomorrow morning."
Me: "Great. So what's he doing up at 4am???"
Picasso: "Well he's got a really bad back so he sleeps on the couch in the living room. He has a trouble getting up stairs."

She's got to be fucking kidding me.

Me: "Okay well I'm going to have a shit fit if I have to sprint out of your house naked."
Picasso: "He probably won't come down here. He'll probably just yell down. Maybe ask who's car is in the driveway. I'll just tell him it's my ex-boyfriend's. His family has 15 cars so he won't know."

So out of nowhere, Picasso, real bitchy, says to me.....

Picasso: "So do you think you're going to keep calling me or something?"
Me: "Well...I guess not."
Picasso: "But I want you to."

Girls are so stupid.

I tell her I have to go. Go-go gadget stealth mode. she sneaks me out the side door.

Fast forward a few days. My crew is hanging out with her crew at the bar. I'm getting smashed.

We all leave around 3:30ish. I drop a few people off before getting to her house. As she kisses me her hands start to unbuckle my belt and peel my pants off. The kiss ends and she's nosediving like a bomber plane that's just taken a hit.

I tell her that doing this in front of her house probably isn't a good idea and I pull into a darkened parking lot down the block. Good, strong blowie. I fire off a nice warning shot into the back of her throat and she swallows like a good girl.

Immediately following my blast she's back at it again.

Picasso: "I want to make you cum again."

I try to explain that I'm not going to be able to cum again after the first one. I mean, I didn't even get any recovery time. She just suctioned right back onto my already very sensitive, post orgasm cock.

Picasso: "I want to satisfy you baby. I wanna finish you off again."

I cringe at the thought of how raw my dick is going to be tomorrow. I know how bad this can get because PT's girlfriend did this to me senior year of college. The girl was so drunk that she didn't realize I unleashed in her mouth and she just kept sucking through it. That second steamer took her over an hour to finish. It's going to be peeled like a fucking banana in a monkey cage.

I physically try to stop her. She won't let me. I try to tell her. She won't listen.

She sucks me off. And sucks. And sucks. And sucks. And sucks. And sucks me off.

It's taking forever. I ponder the fact that as long as I got blown before each filming, I could easily be a pornstar...If i had a big penis.

This is really taking forever. I have to piss. I tell her to stop for a minute because I have to urinate. I get out of the car. I start to pee...FULLY ERECT. Not very enjoyable. I'm pulling my cock forward so I'm not peeing on my chin. It's got the arc of a rainbow. A pretty urine rainbow. I finish up but can't get a little bit out. That's just what happens when you try to pee out of a stiffy.

I get back in and she's already on my dick before I get my second foot in the car. This girl is a fucking leach. As she does this I close my eyes and try to picture anything that help me get this over with. I'm using every resource in my feeble mind. When I picture Marissa Miller spread eagle with two cheeseburgers covering her tits, waiting for me to eat them as I fuck her and I can't jizz, I realize this may never happen.

I start to face fuck her. I hold her head still and thrust like a jack hammer. No difference. She sucks some more. She then starts jerking me off! Whoa! Does she have a fucking piece of sandpaper in her hand. This is not going to fly. I give her the ten pound hand and she's sucking again.

Throughout this marathon fellatio festival, there's been some light conversation here and there. At one point the following tidbits occur:

Picasso: "You're penis is so nice. It's the biggest penis I've ever seen."

I laugh as this girl tries to placate me.

Picasso: "No seriously. You've got the biggest fucking dick I've ever seen."
Me: "So you've seen one penis in your life?"
Picasso: "Haha, no. You've got a really nice penis. Sex was almost unenjoyable the other night because it's so big."

That's the first and last time I will hear that sentence in a serious manner. A little part of me dies knowing that I didn't have that on tape. Are you supposed to propose to the first woman who says that in a serious matter? I don't know.

But let's get real. My penis is tiny when flaccid. When erect, it's an average length. I'm fucking dying of laughter on the inside as I picture her ex-boyfriend that she always mentions. He must have the penis of a four year old girl.

This has become a mission of mine now. I won't be happy if I have to throw in the towel.

After God knows how long, I finally shoot. Great orgasm but weak blast. I really can't even call it a blast. A miniscule load sort of just seaped out of my eurethra. I drive down the block and she gets out.

As I drive away my penis is absolutely throbbing. I can see it now...it's going to be like pissing samurai swords tomorrow morning. Fuck. I ponder apologizing out loud to my cock.

I pull up to my house. I look for my phone in the car. I find it...along with her phone...and her bra. Ugh. Check my watch.....it's 6:45am. I decide that I need a haircut desperately for the weekend. He opens at 7. I walk down the block and get a haircut. I stumble into work fifteen minutes late. My jewish Hitler of a boss gives me an evil eye and ignores me as I say "good morning" to him. Whatever. This faggot probably hasn't gotten his dick sucked for a total of over two hours in his entire life. I just got it done continuously.

I'M BACK! (again...)

This site was all but dead. Even I don’t visit every week anymore, save for one or two stories that Looty had posted that were gravely amoral, but wickedly amusing. I finished graduate school in May, having written an estimated 300+ pages in 2 years, with about 120 of them coming in the spring of 2008. As you can imagine that’s a lot, and I just could not will myself to write anymore. Also, I ran out of blog topics and it got real nice out – aka drinking outside weather, and we all know how that goes. Well, I have some good news – I am back with lots of stories that have transpired over the last few months. This time around I don’t have any lofty goals of posting every day or 3 a week, but am going to take a new approach – when an idea strikes I am going to write.

So using the school analogy – its going to be a hell of a fall semester for the Drunken Polar Bear. Just a preview of what will come:

Phillies, Fat Girls & a Ride Home from Officer Mike (a riveting tale)
Kenny Chesney – my ultimate wingman…
The rule of B’s…
Bar Golf – the quest for an Olympic sport

So lets give it one more shot. I am on a weeklong vacation through upstate NY and Canada trying not to watch any TV so its either blogging or reading books. Who knows if the actual writing will be good or amusing, but at least it will give me something to do….

Brrr…Beer (enjoy the pic of the girl from Chuck)

Phillies, Fat Girls & a Ride Home from Officer Mike (a riveting tale)

To get people reading the blog again, I had to lead off with one of my best stories. Being a huge Mets fan and friends with many folks who have made the unfortunate choice to root from the Phillies, I try and make it to as many Mets – Phils games as I can, regardless of city. Well, it just so happened, that on July 5th, a long weekend, the Mets were playing the Phils in a nice Saturday night game. Never one to turn down a good tailgate and baseball game, I saddled up the Silver Surfer (Tuna Titan’s car) and headed on down to Philly. And by saddled up I mean – asking Tuna Titan if he wanted to go so I could get a ride down to Philly.

So there are a bunch of us heading down to the game and thus characters in this day-long tale: Myself, Tuna Titan, Trackpants, Trackpants’ little brother, Jesus, Red Rider, Worlds Best Grandpa (WBG) and supporting cast. Truly a ragtag crew. So Tuna Titan and I get to Philly at the predetermined time (around 3ish) to tailgate, and shocker Trackpants is late. Everyone finally shows up, and beers start getting downed like a freshman college basement party with a little cornhole (Bag-O) to boot. As the sun goes down on the city of brotherly love, the BAC of the group goes up. One in particularly rises to the occasion – Trackpants’ little brother who we will call Crazy Legs. Crazy Legs is just as big as a Phils fan as I am a Mets fan, and the Phils were currently a few games up on the Mets so me wearing my David Wright jersey/t-shirt did not go over well on several occasions, but none more hilarious then this:

[Setting: I am playing cornhole, and Crazy Legs being a sprinter is drunk already and proceeds to interrupt the game]
Crazy Legs: DP, HOW DARE YOU!
DP: How dare I what? You’re drunk.
Crazy Legs: HOW DARE YOU WEAR A METS JERSEY. DON’T YOU KNOW YOU ARE IN
PHILADELPHIA GODDAMIT!

This conversation occurred at least 10 or 12 more times in which Crazy Legs tried to get several random Philly fans to kick my ass for being a Mets fan. It even got so bad, that after a Philly home run, and subsequent taunting of me, Crazy Legs was asked by security guards to leave, but WBG was a smooth mofo and got him out of trouble. The rest of the game included a horrendous brawl between about 8 guys that were all over 6 feet and some sandwich called the Schmitter which is fantastic when drunk, but I would never want to know what was in it.

Fast forward now – time to leave the stadium. Tuna Titan and I are on our way out and some girls are handing out large SOBE energy drinks which are like a cheaper version of Red Bull. I ask for two, and she walks four over the car – some excellent jet fuel for the evening’s activities. Fast forward again – we get back to Trackpant’s new apartment, get changed and head out to a bar which was about a mile walk. Having been tailgating and drinking during the game everyone has a good buzz going on, but still feels the need to pound lots of shots and beers – always one for peer pressure I give in. Every time I turn around, Red Rider is handing me some sort of shot – the kind of shot I never turn down. Everyone is drinking, but here is where the hilarity ensues…

Before I go any further I have one waiver – I am not Brad Pitt, nor do I have a six pack, but am in generally OK/bulky shape for mid 20’s, so I call girls fat it is in all jest (and truth). So there we all are drinking and notice two girls playing photo hunt. You know the game where you have to find the differences between the two pictures. Almost every time you play this it is erotic photo hunt and it is comparing two naked girls. So the two girls playing it are nice, but packing a little weight on them. As I glance at the photo hunt I see they are stuck pm one last match they can’t get. I reach in, tap the screen, effectively saving the day. The girls are happy with my advanced photo hunt skills (years of bartending) and invite me to play. Little do they know, that by inviting me, they are inviting the drunkards I came to the bar with. Over the next half hour, me and 3 of the group take over the game and almost crack a new score. When there are no credits left in the machine, we all effectively turn around and talk amongst ourselves. This is where I start getting into trouble.

With a little prodding from Tuna Titan, I feel bad about playing photo hunt with these girls and then just ignoring them when the game is over, so I strike up a conversation with the skinnier/more attractive one of the group. I am drunk, so I have the most confidence in the world. I proceed to talk to the one girl for about 30 minutes in which I am convinced she thinks I am the most charming person ever. The group starts to leave, and in my drunken state I tell Tuna Titan I am going to stay and talk to fat girl because I want to – he laughs loudly as he walks out. Needless to say because I started to sober up (that’s the excuse I am using), and she stood up there was no shot of me going home with fat girl (learned from past mistakes). I walk out of the bar with her and her friend (fatter girl) and we say our goodbyes after which I have a phone # for fat girl – which will probably only be used in case of a drunken emergency. Before the two large ladies disappear across the horizon, I have a fantastic thought, which I did not filter out in my mind…

DP (with a chuckle): [Fat girl], next time I am here will you hook up with me?
FG: Sure, sounds like plan.
DP: Score!

I take this as a victory, laughing wildly as I start the mile walk home. However, it was not an easy walk home. I am good with numbers/address so I knew where Trackpants new apartment was by address and paid attention on the walk over, but was a little drunk and had no clue where to go. Being a guy, I figured I would use landmarks to navigate home, except that everything in Trackpants looks the same and he lives parallel to a railroad which could really screw me up. So I start walking, about 15 minutes in I am worried, because I am nowhere near his apartment, and it is a quick walk. I am starting to get worried, meanwhile it never occurs to me to use my cell phone to call for help.

So keep in mind – it is around 2:30AM, and I am wondering around a quick neighborhood drunk and lost so it is no surprise that a cop stopped me and we had
the following discussion:

Officer Mike: Son, are you OK?
DP: Yea, I am pretty good – yourself?
Officer Mike: Ok, do you know where you are going?
DP: Yea, [insert Trackpants address]
Officer Mike: Ok, so…
DP: But I forgot how to get there.
Officer Mike: Were you out at the bars?
DP: Yes sir.
Officer Mike: [Chuckles] Ok I am going to give you a ride – get in.

I proceed to get in the backseat of the cop car because he has his laptop and a shotgun in the passenger seat – which is badass. Nervous at first, I talk to Officer Mike about the Phils game, the bar and am about to go into the fat girl stories when we get to Trackpant’s apartment. The ride took all of 4 minutes, but if you haven’t ridden in the back of a cop car – it is interesting. There are no seat belts and its hard plastic seats so you are sliding all over the place during turns – like a meaner version of Slip-n-Slide. Even better – when we finally got to the apartment, he had to get out of the car and let me out the backdoor, and I feel
like a cool criminal…

All in all a great night where Tuna Titan and other miscreants stole a large sign in put it in Trackpant’s apartment as a housewarming gift. Awesome and thank you Officer Mike wherever you are for the ride.
Brrr….beer.

The Shadow

Forgive me if this story isn't coherent and/or well written. I didn't go to bed at all the night this story occurred, then went straight to softball and out later in the evening.

So Friday night I crushed some pitchers while bowling and went out afterward. Got home at like five in the morning. With an 8am softball game Sunday morning, I really didn't plan on going out Saturday night. But after sitting in my basement for a good fourteen hours straight, needing to get out of the house desperado, I penciled myself in for a last minute spot start.

I met up with the Croatian Sensation, the Cheeseburglar and Bullet in New Jersey for some random's birthday party at a bar. While at this party I met some broad who went to college with me. Never heard of her, met her or saw her at school. We'll call her the Shadow.

After about fifteen minutes of trash talking my nemesis and the two of us bonding over it, it was clear that she was laughing at all of my terrible jokes and was getting very drunk. The two foremost things I look for in a girl. Now I felt I might be able to capitalize on the situation but had no idea just how quickly.

This next little tidbit might seem very random but keep in mind it ties in to not only the story in a little bit, but also the title. At one point, when the Shadow was talking to the Burglar and Bullet, CS points out the fact that her arms are hairier than both of ours....probably combined. I tell him that given my track record, that obviously wouldn't bother me.

After several more drinks and some other bullshit, we decide to walk down the block to another bar. While at said bar, CS receives a text from the Shadow claiming she wants to make out with me. Of course she does. She has a vagina, doesn't she? I know what you're thinking at this point...let's hope so.

So she comes to join us at the new bar. She's smashed. Shortly after CS and the Cheeseburglar leave, I tell the Shadow I'm leaving and that I'll walk her to her friend's place. We get to the corner outside and she tells me that she doesn't want me walking too far and that she'll be fine. Awesome. I didn't want to walk her home anyway. That was simply a ploy to pretend to be a decent guy, thus getting me laid further down the line. But she won't leave. I can tell she's dragging this goodbye out as long as possible because she wants my piece.

Shadow: "Sooooo......"
Me: "So I guess this is where we make out."

We proceed to make out on the street corner for a good fifteen to twenty minutes. Now I hate being that douchey asshole, Johnny Make Out Sesh, but sometimes it's just gotta be done to lock up some serious tail for the future.

During this sesh, she continues to jokingly ask me if I really live as far as I do, clearly upset at the fact. She probably only asked me 30 times. Obviously, due to her desperation, she wants this to go further. I invite her back to CS and Beemer's apartment. She jumped on the invitation like a black dude dunking.

We get up to their apartment. Once CS goes into his room, we start the making out and heavy petting. I take her clothes off, then my own. Now the Shadow isn't terrible looking but she is chunky. She also does have diesel tits. Usually chicks with her body type have saggy and/or flapjack boobies, but hers were solid. As I do what I do, I start to slip my fingers downstairs and play with her. She throws a flag....offsides. Are you fucking kidding me? Why even come back with me if you're not even going to let me fingerblast you. This has gotten disaster written all over it.

As we're fondling each other and kissing, I keep persisting with the finger fucking. Finally she gives in. Things are looking up. But once again, she stops it after a few minutes. We continue this little dance for a good half hour. For some reason she can't decide if she should be doing this. We all know the answer is 'no' but we also know where this is going. Finally she stops the charade and surrenders her puss to my hand. She's going buck wild.

Shadow: "OMG. Who are you and where did you come from?"

Okay, I may be getting you off with my alien like fingers but you're making it sound like I'm some mythical creature from a far away land or something. I ignore this idiotic sentence and continue my business. Yet two minutes later.....

Shadow: "Who are you? Where did you come from?"

Relax, sweetheart. I chuckle out loud and picture myself magically appearing from a mysterious lamp and telling her that I'll grant her three wishes. God forbid she say something cool like, 'Wow I'm going to cum really hard', or something like that. Is that too much to ask for?

After fingerblasting the Shadow for a long time, she starts to suck my throbbing cock. It wasn't the best blowie, but who am I to complain about a mouth pumping. I tell her that we should have sex. She tells me that she doesn't want me to get the wrong idea about her.

WHAT?!?

It's four in the morning, I've known you for five hours and my penis is in your mouth! I've already got the wrong idea about you. We all know how I feel about this topic and I'll resort to my 'go to' theory......would your father rather see my cock in your mouth or your vagina? I always feel it's gotta be the puss. One day I'm going to write a book about this topic.

So after fucking her face for a while, I blast in her mouth. Very large blast.

Now here's the weird part that I skimmed over earlier. While we were making out and I was fingering her, my face brushed against her chin. The chick had a fucking five o'clock shadow! Not fucking kidding. I felt stubble on her chin! I know you're probably sitting there reading this and not believing me. I FUCKING SHIT YOU NOT. Does she fucking shave or something?!? The amount of time she spent jerking me off and blowing me probably totaled over an hour. Normally this wouldn't be the case but the whole time I just kept picturing her lathering up her face with some shaving cream and going to work on it. I flashed back to CS pointing out her hair arms. I cringed. This girl must shave. I've never felt anything like this on a broad before.

So the Shadow gets up to go to the bathroom. When she comes back she's sniffling a lot. I can't tell if she got a runny nose or if she's crying over the fact that she just blew me. I'm guessing it was the oral.

Come 5:30, I start to go into stealth mode and try to slip all my clothes on while not waking her. Doesn't work. She wakes. She starts to get dressed. I reluctantly kiss her and tell her that I have to take off. She doesn't say anything.

As I'm walking to the train I ponder the fact that I just got sucked off by a girl who can grow a better mustache than I can.

Rubbers....Who Needs 'Em?

So I've been mired in a terrible cold streak lately as I'm sure most of you know. Sure there's been a few make out sessions with fat chicks here and there, but nothing really noteworthy...until this weekend.

I had a family function to go to Friday night. Sitting me in a private room with all of my family members and an open bar is never a good idea. You might as well hand a bottle of sleeping pills and a plastic bag to someone thinking about committing suicide.

So after downing about three bottles of wine at the party, I decide to go out with my brother [Ya Ya], my cousin [Her], her boyfriend [Party Boy], and her friend [Roomie]. I figured it would be a great night to bust out of my slump because I was beyond smashed. When I'm that drunk I'm pretty much willing to do anything.

So when we get to the bar I start crushing Tanqueray & Tonics. I'm in the zone. We're all sitting at a table out on the back patio of the bar. A girl my brother is crushing [Melons] shows up. That makes two couples and Roomie and myself. We are sitting next to each other and begin to chat and flirt more and more as the night goes by as we are ignored during a late night, drunken lovey dovey mush parade by the others. We mock them.

Ya Ya and Melons vanish. Later on we find out they were crushing in her car in the parking lot. He must be taking notes. But at the time we had thought they left. So as the bar is about to close we decide to head to 7-11 to grab beers and head back to my Aunt's house since she's in Europe for several weeks. We're hanging out in the backyard crushing beers and cigarettes. Yes, I was that drunk, smoking cigarettes. We bring the festivities into the basement. Her and Party Boy are tired and head upstairs to go to bed.

Roomie and I are listening to music and drinking. We start making out. A cash register sound goes off in my brain. It's on. She tells me that we should pull the bed out of the couch. I agree. It's doubly on. As I rip all of the pillows and cushions off the couch like a tornado ripping shingles from a roof, a sudden rush of panic, fear, disappointment and blue balls hits me like a shovel. I've got no rubbers! I always carry at least one with me! We're talking about the guy that has a connie in his pocket when he goes to drop a letter in the mailbox down the street. You just never know when some totally desperate-for-cock vixen is going to sidle up to you, lift her skirt and go all spread condor on your ass.

After hating myself for several seconds, we're on the pullout bed peeling each other's clothes off, locked in an intense make out sesh. I decide that I'll have to punt and try to settle for a blow job. Of course there's nothing wrong with a good old fashioned Steamboat Willie, but I don't get to tack another victim up on my resume. Lesson learned. Pack heat everywhere, even if you're headed to a family function.

We're now naked and I'm on top of her. There's some heavy petting involved. We're fooling around, molesting each other. She grabs my johnson again but instead of buffing the bad boy up, she slips it right inside of her...RAW. Me likey.

Christmas just came early my friends, and so will I!

I'm shocked and astonished. I mean, I've known this girl for a long time, but shouldn't that give her more reason not to let me slay her raw dawg???

But I'm also psyched. I haven't had an order of sausage, hold the bun, in ages. Probably a good six to eight months at least. That excitement, plus the extra sensation is absolutely killing my performance. Out of nowhere she says she has to go to the bathroom. God, what luck.

She starts to walk up the stairs. As soon as she's out of sight I jump to my feet. I'm rushed and panicked. I start to run in one direction, than the other. Then I notice the door of the laundry room open. I run through it and look around. Thinking quickly on my feet, I decide to jack off as fast and hard as I can into the sink. I hear water running through the pipes in the ceiling above me. That's the toilet flushing! Fuck! She'll be back any second. I miraculously get the job done. Shots fired! Oh my, what a blast. Probably the biggest of my life. And not just a nice quantity, I got some powerful pumps. No time to bask in the glory...I ninja my way back onto the bed. Back in business. We get back at it and I slip it right in while I'm still hard. I throw down but don't finish again. I don't remember how the session stopped and there's a very good chance I just blacked out on top of her.

We wake up the next morning and she tells me she needs a ride home. I grab her hand and put it on my cock. She starts to tug it. My command center is telling me to launch a second attack so I slip it in again. Terrible performance. At the point where I'm about to climax I pull out and start to finger her. She thinks I'm just switching it up but I'm actually orgasming. But I held the hounds back, didn't fire the shot, so she wouldn't know. I slipped it in again. This time I couldn't keep it hard. Here I am, on top of this chick, with my penis turning into a limp noodle. I mean, it's not completely soft yet but I'd be lucky if I was flying it at half mast. I pump desperately trying to revive it like an EMT pounding on a dying person's sternum. No luck. We've lost him. The combination of previously orgasming and my heart saturated with red wine and gin did not help the cause. I wave the white flag.

As I'm driving her home, which is only a few blocks away, I'm recapping all the events in my head to an Avril Lavigne song that came on the radio. God Avril doesn't get enough props. I ponder why. Who knows. Roomie's been talking but I've been too wrapped up thinking about the aforementioned issues. I suddenly realize I never cleaned my cum out of the sink. It probably got dry and crusty over night. Oh well.

I may have lost the battle...but I did win the war.

Drunken Dog Syndrome

I drink. I drink a lot sometimes. That may not come as a surprise to some. I am coming off 5 straight nights going out and have some minor chest pain, but that is despite the point. Although I haven’t been super polar bear drunk in a while, it is a show when it happens. Like a freight train full of Japanese fireworks, carrying death row inmates, driven by a drunken frat party into a gunpowder factory. Many stories from previous entries cover more on that topic, but I want to share a syndrome I have experienced every since college that has saved my life on more than one occasion – drunken dog syndrome.

Dogs often have a unique ability. When they get lost or are taken far from home, they are miraculously able to navigate back to their home despite overcoming odds and probably a lot of traffic lights. I don’t know if there is a scientific explanation for this and it doesn’t really apply to ever dog, but that doesn’t lessen how cool this feat is. Humans can have some semblances of this ability when driving, but it’s just not that same. However, there are a rare few that have a good case of drunken dog syndrome. These professional drunkards can knock off a bottle of Jack and a 6-pack and still make it back to their home each night. The kicker is most times the drunk doesn’t remember the actual action of getting home, yet they will wake up in their bed the next morning. It’s almost like they have drunken GPS. Here is an example to further proof my point:

So I go out in the city on a fairly normal basis and rely on subways and buses to get home each night. One particular Saturday night I was out with friends and started drinking a lot fairly early. And by a lot I mean enough to kill a small animal – possible a big mongoose. So around midnight, my memory fades and I only get flashes of what went on, but I woke up in my bed the next morning in my PJs. Over the next few days more memory comes back as the booze gets diluted in my brain. At 2:00AM I decided it was time to go home and head on my way. Keep in mind I still don’t remember all of this. What I did smashed out of my mind is impressive any way you slice it. I took 3 subways, a PATH train and walked about a mile to get back to my apartment – not remembering any of it. Now a cab ride and one subway would be easier, but I had to make 3 transfers and get off at the rights tops. I call this drunken behavior a superhuman ability, which is repeated on more than one occasion. I have never not come home when blitzed and always seem to not know how I got home. I stopped trying to figure it out a while ago, and just remained thankful I wasn’t waking up in bus terminals or subway cars.

Thus you could reasonable say that being a drunken dog has saved my life on several occasions…

Note: Keep in mind drunken dog syndrome applies only those who don’t drive because drinking and driving is just fucking idiot and horrible.

Brrr….Beer

Tackling Mascots

Quick hits for this one. I would like to tell you where the idea came from, but I was nowhere near a mascot during this thought so I am pretty sure my mind is a giant carnival. But my point – every time I see a mascot, whether it be Chucky Cheese, a Disney character or the Philly Fanatic I have the primal urge to get a running head start and spear tackle them out of nowhere. If you don’t know what a spear tackle is: you get a running start and about 5 feet away from your tackle object, you jump going fully horizontal to the ground hoping to hit the person so hard in the middle of their body that one of their kidneys turns to dust and you shatter 9 ribs. Essentially this kind of tackle pulverizes your body, but is hilarious. A good example of this is seen in Old School during the hazing scene when Will Ferrell runs and spear tackles “Spanish” into a fountain.

So yea – every time I see a mascot I want to spear tackle them. It’s not that I don’t like these characters, but I think something is built into human DNA, probably mostly in men, that triggers violent urges when an 8ft colorful cartoon character is within 20 feet. It may be some pent up anger from watching too many childhood cartoons like Barney, Looney Toons or Darkwing Duck (boo yea on that one!). I think it is a justifiable action because it is fucking hilarious. I bet many guys have this same urge, but have never acted upon it. Therefore, men of the world, I say go for it and tackle the Toledo MudHen or the Chatanooga Lookout because aggravated assault (only a misdemeanor) and a night in jail are way worth it.

Note: The only exception to this rule is Mr. Met. He is awesome because he head is enormous and he has a hot wife – Mrs. Met.

Brrr….Beer

Goldfdish & Barracudas

So I come to work this Tuesday having enjoyed the long holiday weekend and find all internet and email is down in my office. I spent a good part of the morning catching up on some stuff, but its lunch now and since I can’t get to any type of Internet I am going to rattle off blogs for the remainder of the afternoon. Don’t worry I have been writing things down on bar napkins, post-its and even my hand as creativity has come back to me in the last week.

So what are we talking about this Tuesday? Fishes. That’s right – not the little cracker versions (although they are the coolest snack food ever. I finished off half a bag of zesty nacho yesterday), but the kind swimming in the sea or your local fishbowl. So a good friend of mine who is in a good relationship was talking to me the other day, and through my normal distorted thought pattern another theory started to develop on sex for single people and those in relationships. Of course, what would a drunken polar bear theory be without animals or some far-fetched analogy…

When it comes to sex, those in relationships are like goldfish. I know it sounds crazy, but just hear me out. Whether it’s a regular goldfish bowl or a more elaborate aquarium fish get fed on a daily basis. You come home from work, grab the pellets or flakes for the fish and drop them in the top of the tank. The fish go crazy and snatch up all the food. After a while they even may know what time of day to expect the food (kind like a simpler version of Pavlov’s dogs salivating when the bell was rung). Fish in tanks have to do no work for their food and get fat and happy eating their fish food. Being in a relationship is the same thing. If you are in a relationship you don’t really have to work for sex, and it may not come daily for some, but it still is pretty much guaranteed and you don’t have to buy $14 martinis and pretend to be interested in the girl to get it. You come home for work or just do a movie night and you have a good chance at getting some. This constant stream of sex makes you just as fat and happy as the goldfish. Although there have been no studies, I guarantee with all the polar- bearness I have that guys in relationships get fatter because they don’t have to work for it anymore. Even those couples that are a little freaky/kinky/exotic are still like fish in tanks, but are more like fighting fish or those exotic fish you pay $80 for to look cool. No matter how many colors or stripes they have, they still live in fish tanks.

However, when it comes to sex, those single folk are like barracudas. Barracudas are some of the most wild, badass fish in the ocean. They roam the seas and have to work for their food. No magical pellets or flakes for them – they hunt for their daily feed and are in fierce shape. When a barracuda sees its dinner it goes into attack mode flying at its prey while avoiding all the obstacles of the sea. If the barracuda is not stealthy, smooth and fast it doesn’t eat. Even when fisherman drop chum (that bloody fish cocktail used to attract fishes), they still have to be careful not to got caught. Being single looking for sex is just like being a barracuda. Replace the sea with bars and the prey with women. Once a guy has found a girl that is attractive, he must be quick to beat out other guys, yet has to be smooth so the girl doesn’t think he is a big jackass. If he is not a good hunter he is going to get any for a long while. Whereas fish die if they don’t eat, single guys slowly turn more and more desperate until they turn into asexual beings. Also, just as a barracuda has to avoid being caught when fisherman drop chum in the water, single guys have to be careful too. Often a group of girls will dangle their one hot friend in the bar in hopes of attracting a group of guys – only to find out later that the group of guys has been trapped by ugly girls.

So to close – what kind of fish are you???

Brrr….Beer

Indy vs. Bond: Bring on the Duel

So it’s a huge week. First week of no school…like I am done forever. But more importantly Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skill comes out. Now its very rarely that I get excited for a movies and plan to see it a couple of weeks in advance, but Indiana Jones was basically my boyhood idol and still is. So here I am excited for the movie release. They are running marathons non-stop on all of the cable channels. Suddenly when I got home from work today I realized I hadn’t seen the first movie – Raiders of the Lost Ark – in something like 10 years. Therefore I threw it in the DVD player and here we are. Indy just escaped the giant rolling rock and is dodging arrows from natives.

It got me thinking (and by me I mean someone else proposed this). Who is better Indiana Jones or James Bond? I think they are both some of the most badass guys I know, but here goes the 11 round battle royale...

Clothing
Bond: Tuxedos, sharp and sleek and always perfectly fit
Indy: Worn down pants and cargo shirt, leather whip, revolver, leather jacket and the trademark Fedora hat
Winner: Although tuxes are great, nothing ever tops Indy's get-up

Fighting Ability
Bond: Knows how to fight in every manner it seems from karate to ass whooping
Indy: King of the good old fashion right hook
Winner: Bond does it all on the fighting front and takes this round

Weapon of Choice
Bond: Walther PPK-7 with silencer
Indy: Whip and revolver
Winner: Anyone can fire a gun, but wielding a whip as your only weapon most days? Indy takes this round.

Smarts
Bond: A world traveler and expert in gambling and all classy things
Indy: Professor at a college in CT, with a PhD and an expert archelogist
Winner: Indy's got the super smarts on this one. Hell, Short Round calls him Dr. Jones!

Ladies
Bond: He sleeps with every hot girl both evil and good. It is just amazing how easy it is for him
Indy: He has a main squeeze in each of the three movies
Winner: Bond takes this one by a mile - the notches on his belt are more numerous and hotter

Gadgets
Bond: Cars that shoot fly, motorcycles that shoot rockets, boats that become submarines. If you can think of it, master gadgeter Q can make it.
Indy: Um, revolver, cars?
Winner: Bond by a 4 miles (which he probably covers in 40 seconds in his nuclear-powered Vespa scooter...hahah)

Villians
Bond: Evil organzizers the world over and also a lot of pissed off Russians
Indy: The Nazis, crazy slave-driver who rips out people's hearts, the Nazis again
Winner: Its a close one, but two separate bouts with the Nazis gives Indy the edge

Humor
Bond: Always has some witty lines stashed away fro his female conquests of vanquished villians
Indy: Brings a gun to a sword fight, laughs at the women he eventually beds, and has jokes ready for everything
Winner: Again its close, and its probably the dry humor of the Brits, but Indy gets it

Theme Songs
Bond: Universally recognized songs and different for each movie
Indy: Dah duh da daaa - everyone knows those first four notes
Winner: Indy by a landslide

Body Count
Bond: Who the hell knows, but he has to kill at least 100 bad guys per movie with every sort of gun, bomb, missle, and sometimes even his own bare hands
Indy: More of a humanitarian and fan of the knockout, his body count is probably only 20 per movie
Winner: Bond by lots of dead bodies

Sidekick
Bond: He travels and works alone because he is sooo good at what he does
Indy: Various minor characters, Short Round, and his Dad (Sean Connery)
Winner: That little tike Short Round puts Indy over the age

By a 7-4 score Indiana Jones emerges triumphant over James Bond. Maybe I am biased because the new Indy movie is coming out next week and may change when Bond's new movie comes out, but I am sticking with Indy on this one

Country Music & Atlantic City

This one is going to be fun. Like lots of fun to tell. Last minute trip to AC came up and it was f’ing fantastic. Now although I didn’t text myself at regular intervals like I did for St. Patrick’s day I have clear recollection of my entire night. Without further ado…

Background: So my good buddy Trackpants called me at the beginning of last week with tickets to Gary Allan at the Hard Rock down in Atlantic City. Now Gary Allan is one of the most badass country musicians ever. He is from legendary Bakersfield, California and easily has over 10 tattoos all of which are awesome. After all the traveling over the past week or so I was really reluctant to go down and stay in yet another hotel and probably blow some more cash in a casino. Luckily those reservations lasted all of just one day.

3:00PM: Leave work and lots of emails and phone calls with hopes of country music and lots of booze

3:33PM: Get on NJT train to Trenton

5:40PM: Arrive 35 minutes late in Trenton and miss my connection to Philly, making me really late

5:54PM: Get on a SEPTA train for Philly with arguable the angriest commuters in the world. Apparently every train was late or running way behind. There was lots of cursing and such. I found it amusing as I typed away a memo on my laptop.

6:35PM: Finally get into the Philly train only to find Trackpants and PT (another new character is the story) are running way behind because Trackpants forgot he was driving a rental car and had to swap his out at the airport – what a Goddamn moron.

7:10PM: Finally get picked up and make the trek to AC

8:30PM: 2 trains, one traffic-filled drive and 5 and a half hours later and I am finally in AC. Too bad the concert starts at 9PM so that really didn’t leave much time for pre-gaming or so I thought. The three of us check in and speed-drink 3-4 Knight’s Head Light beers in 25 minutes. Good thing I can still pound them back and this beer is horrible.

9:20PM: Finally get to the concert to find the opening act, Jypsy, is 4 girls who play violins, sing and all other musically stuff while wearing really tight, colorful, short gym clothes. Their music is ok, but their outfits are better.

10:00PM – midnightish: The concert was unbelievable. Beer was tough to get at first, but great concert and get this – they filmed a music video for his new single at the concert which makes it that much cooler. Maybe I will get credited in the music video for rocking out – probably not.
Some time around midnight: I got separated from Trackpants & PT and got stuck behind two women on a really long escalator. So there I am riding along and Trackpants & PT are making such faces at me on the ground that these two women have to ask me who the two jackasses are waving at me. Needless to say one girl is very hot, while the other looks like a tranny. It was quite an amusing encounter and we later had sandwiches with them.

Midnight – 2:30AM: Texas Hold Em against the dealer at the Wild Wild West Casino for a while. Easily the most depressing casino in the world. They play old country music which is slightly amusing, but the clientele is utterly demoralizing. These people are on their last dime and gambling it all away. I proceed to break even, yet grow very angry because the drinks they are serving are watered down and tiny. I get up from the table to go visit Trackpants who is playing at a $25 Blackjack table. While standing next to him, he proceeds to go 11/14 racking up somewhere in the neighborhood of $500 in winnings while playing a lot of money on each hand.

2:30AM- 4:00AM: I am kind of drunk, but Trackpants is up $500 and PT netted $200+ on the craps table so we go to the bar to celebrate. I wasn’t that drunk, but the bartender flagged me anyway because I stuttered a little bit – oops. I think she just didn’t like me because I was having a good time.

4:00AM – 9:00AM I think?: Trackpants & PT finally decide to listen to me for once, and this just happened to be when I was having an inclination to play poker. So we go to Bally’s and hit up the no limit Texas Hold’Em tables. Now I play a fair amount of poker and can safely say I am little better than average, but keep in mind we have been drinking and I have been up almost 24 hours. So about the first two hours I am killing this table, taking pots while bluffing and go from $100 to somewhere in the neighborhood of $300-$400. I am smiling and pounding Red Bull and vodkas and quite a rate. Now I feel I must describe the table crowd so you can get an accurate picture. It is early Sunday morning in AC at a no limit poker table and all the players are guys in their 20’s. One guy is reading a book, others have headphones, one guy was drunker than I, and two guys were just huge jackasses. One guy, sitting to my left was f’ing awesome because he told me jokes and laughed every time I won a hand. Ok – back to the story, so its now about 6:40AM and I am thoroughly drunk and bleeding money by the $5 chip. I am so drunk that I am thanking the guys at the table for letting me play with them. The rest is a little hazy, but I busted out. I have now been up a long time and am exhausted. PT went back to the hotel and it took me two hours to get Trackpants up off the table so we could head back to the hotel.

9:30AM: Trackpants and I stumble into the hotel laughing and drunk as families are checking out. Check out time was noon, so we can get a couple hours of sleep before checking out. I walk into the hotel and faceplant onto my bed – I have been up 27 hours and probably have a Blood-Bull Level of 0.08

2:30PM: We all wake up way way way past the checkout time. We rush to get our shit together before we get charged another night. I am massively hungover

4:30PM: I get back to the Philly train station less than 24 hours from my last visit. I contemplate taking the SEPTA/NJT train back home, but decide to fork over the extra $23 and take Amtrak. I feel like a sheik traveling through Dubai with the comfortable seats on Amtrak.

7:10PM: After a transfer over in Newark and a PATH train ride, I finally make it back home, down $312, still somewhat drunk, probably with a heart-murmur from caffeine and not regretting any minute of my trip.
Brrr….Beer

I'M BACK!

OK – I am back. This was the longest span of blog posting, but I have been doing some traveling [I am currently in a Lincoln Town Car on my way home from work because I have been getting killed at work]. Now although I love blogging from the road there was no opportunity at all, but let me give you the numbers breakdown on the last week and half:

Flights: 4
Flights that were 22 minutes long: 1 and it was shorter than my normal commute to work
Airport bars visited: 3
Super 22 ounce beers drank: 6-8
Nights in a hotel: 5
Hotel or flight upgrades: 0
Flight delays: 3
Colleges visited: 2
Beers drank during college visits: 15-20
Graduate paper pages written: 28
Allergic reactions to pillow cases: 1
# of times getting lost running around Michigan State U: 1
Visits to Potbelly’s (the greatest restaurant ever): 4 in 3 days

Now this is no excuse for not blogging and I know there are people who travel every week, but I am a Polar Bear and we don’t go anywhere that far so it was a bit hectic.
I was thinking about going straight into my post, but I figured I would break them into two because then I get to use yet another picture of a scantily clad girl in a costume that is vaguely related to, at best, my posting…so keep reading

Brrr….Beer

Training Men

So I am riding in the elevator today about 4PM down to the bodega in my building which, despite its ridiculously small size, has ever major food snack I can think of. On my way down in the elevator I am minding my business and reading the news screen they have in each elevator. Yea – we are that high tech in our building. So there I am reading about some political crap about Obama or Clinton and here is the conversation between three mid 20’s women behind me:

Girl #1: [To girl #2] Big plans for the weekend?
Girl #2: Yea we are going to a craft fair and a farmer’s market and then to dinner at my parents. (I kid you not these were her exact words)
Girl #3: Wow, he [the bf] really agreed to that?
Girl #2: Yea, I have him well trained
Girl #1: Yes you do.


Ok – it was a short conversation and before I go into a tirade let me offer a point of clarification. I am a normal mid 20’s run-of-the mill quasi-chauvinist so get ready…

Trained? Seriously, I understand the concept and that women use it in conversation when referring to boyfriends, fiancés and husbands, but I take major issue in this. Now I bet you are going to think that I am going to go off and say that we aren’t dogs and can’t be trained. That’s just bullshit and we all know it. Guys are trained all the time. Women are good at it, mostly because they withhold sex and other fun activities until guys change their behavior. It’s like Pavlovian experiment with a modern twist. [Pavolv was the guy who rang the bell and dogs would salivate because they expected food…] Now to side with the women for a brief instance, I totally agree that all men should be trained at some point. You women help us grow up and learn that there are more things in the world than video games, beer, sports and cheeseburgers. Thank you for that in most instances, but here is my issue. Why can’t we train you???

If it were ever brought up in conversation – “training women” – it would be called sexist. Well how come it isn’t the same for women trying to change men. It’s a goddamn double standard. But let me use a little example to further clarify my point:

So Girl #2 has trained her bf mentioned above to attend a craft fair, farmer’s market and dinner with her parents. I am going to go out on a limb and say this bf will not enjoy this, unless her parents celebrities or bar owners. Regardless, the bf goes on this day of no-fun because he probably is very fond of his gf and she has “trained” him. Ok – still with me? Lets switch it around. It’s one week later, and the gf/bf’s apartment is now full of fresh fruits and vegetables (farmer’s market) and weird midget Swedish dolls (craft fair). It’s a big sports day and the bf wants to go to a baseball game and then hit up the bar with his friends later on to make a night of it. Because he is probably in a serious relationship, he wants his gf to come along. She squirms and pleads and makes a big deal of it, not wanting to sit through a boring baseball game or go out and pound beers at a place that isn’t a lounge. The guy has tried, by women’s standard to “train” his gf but she uses every excuse in the book [possible even ‘that time of the month’] to get out of it. It just ain’t fair.

So there we have it – women are far more resistant to “training” than men because they can always say no to sex, and thus they can control men. It just not that fair that our libidos are always going and we have no will power. Men aren’t [the majority of the time] asking women to go to a strip club, just a night out or to watch a football game. A little concession would be nice now and then..
Disclaimer part II: If you have made it this far you realize I am about as stereotypical as possible. There are always exceptions to the rule and girls who embrace these typical manly activities are awesome because they understand what really motivates men. In other words this tirade of a post was aimed at the majority of women…

Brrr….Beer

Eat My Brains.....Gain My Knowledge

Alright so unfortunately I haven't hooked up with any broads in several weeks. I know, it's a little troubling to me too. Most people feel that the worst part about this is that they don't get to hear some crazy story. I think the worst part about this is that I have to self induce my orgasms. Actually that's not the problem, I'd still be doing that anyway. It's that my forearm has to put in double duty.

I almost feel bad about not having a story. I say almost because I'm a self centered asshole who has never felt this thing I hear about called "guilt". So here's what I've decided to do for all of my loyal readers, all six of you......I'm going to shed some light on every day life for you guys, because obviously that's what you need. You need a creep like me to say some of the things that you've been thinking. So here's a few points that I feel need to be made..........

I hate smokers. They're usually assholes when it comes to blowing their smoke in your fucking grill. Do you know who I hate more? I hate douche bags who claim they're allergic to smoke. I was in a cab over the weekend and there was a sticker on the partition that said, "No smoking - driver allergic". Oh, really? You're allergic to toxic smoke that causes lung cancer, emphysema and cardiovascular disease, among other things? That's like someone saying they're allergic to bullets or being stabbed. Fucking assholes. I'm allergic to rancid Middle Eastern body odor that smells like week old cat piss. You don't see me putting stickers up about it.

Why do people make fun of someone when they pick their wedgie? Someone didn't want their underwear riding up their ass and therefore remedied the problem. Wouldn't that make you gay if you did want that shit all up in your crack and didn't pick it? Obviously it's a lot harder to spot someone not picking their wedgie so you wouldn't be able to make fun of them for it as easily. I thought about this when I was on the subway Friday and got a wedgie. I picked it. A girl saw me. At first I panicked. Then I realized that, what the fuck do I care, I'd be a tool if I wanted to walk around like there was something in my ass. Fuck her. Right then and there I mandated it reasonable for all mankind to pick wedgies.

If you're a dude who walks into a bathroom and there's empty urinals but you choose to piss in a stall anyway, the planet immediately should and will believe that you have a tiny penis and that you're a homosexual. Hey, if you have a tiny penis and are a queen or just want to be thought of that way, go for it. But if not, piss like a burly man in the urinal. I witness this all the time and wonder why dudes constantly do this. I even see this done when the urinals have walls for privacy! What are you fucking six years old? You can't tinkle if someone's nearby? No one's gonna look at your tiny dick so I don't know what you're so afraid of.

That's it for now. I'll add on if I think of anything else that I need to comment on or judge. Until then, I'll be hoping to stick my penis into another victim so you don't have to put up with this kind of bullshit.

Bachelor Series: The Wild Wardrobe

So lets get back to the bachelor series. What was once a vision of grandeur – ie: a series on the typical life of a bachelor has resulted in only one post – ie: the bachelor six pack of eats. Today’s challenge – the bachelor wardrobe:

One caveat before we get started. I am not stylish in the least bit. Never have I admitted to being stylish either. But on the whole, I don’t think many bachelors claim to be. So lets go over a typical week on bachelor wardrobe:

Monday morning – crawl out of whatever you sleep in. This could be scrubs, old lacrosse shorts, a 20 year old t-shirt or commando. I really hope the commando crowd washes there sheets a lot. Now its time to mosey on over to the closet. Gotta go to work and not look like and ass. Pants – check. Shirt – check. Do they match? No? Now repeat that process like 5 times and you have a real outfit. Since its Monday you have all of your top shirts back from the dry cleaner. You look snazzy….until your sleeves are rolled up 15 minutes into the workday

Monday night – get home. Your shirt is most likely wrinkled and gets tossed into the magical dry cleaner pile. Bachelors just don’t wash their shirts – its like us actually caring about the Sex & the City movie coming up. Pants are way more expensive to dry clean so you use criteria to judge them. No blatant discolorations or stains or funky odors and you are good to go. Let’s also say you exercise on a daily basis (in a dream world) you toss on some gym clothes and off you go.

Repeat this process Tuesday and Wednesday and you don’t have anything too exciting.

Thursday – yea that’s right. You saved your one “cool” or “stylish” shirt because its happy hour time after work. The hot new girl in marketing is really going to notice you in your awesome shirt when you are packed into a bar with 80 other dudes wearing the same shirt. Either way you wear it, it gets spilled on, and the dry cleaner has to give the special cleaning.

Friday – casual Friday at work means jeans and a dress shirt or polo. If you don’t work at a place that has casual Friday then your job sucks, you need to quit and find something cool to do like lifeguarding. On Friday, I adopt the Zach Morris (Saved by the Bell for you dopes living under a rock) code of dressing, mixed in with a little Don Johnson from Miami Vice. Nice jeans, dress shirt and a blazer. If it’s the spring or summer you sub in a polo in some pastel type color. Now that’s as stylish as I get.

Friday night – if you are a real booze hound you go out straight from work and can pull off the Zach Morris look and translate it into going out clothes. If not, you will look like a jackass wearing a suite and tie at a tiki bar at 1:00AM on a Friday. Now Friday night and Saturday night are essentially the same going out process that is drastically different from when girls get ready. Lets say you are meeting a group at 11:00PM at a bar.

- 8-10:30: watch local sports team and drink some beer
- 10:30: realize you have to go out that night and contemplate getting dressed
- 10:37: you need a beer and might as well get dressed up to go out. You grab whatever jeans are easily within your grasp and make some attempt at style by grabbing a dress shirt to go with it. Dress shirts go well all year long so its easy. Walk out into the living room and unless your roommate friends tell you that you look horrible or some other disparaging remark you are good to go…
- 10:45: slam another beer and head out
- 12:30: girl gives you a complement on your striped shirt which is almost identical to half the shirts other guys are wearing in the bar…she must really want to sleep with you…oh yea

Saturday day – wake up, possibly hungover, and really hungry. This is where guys really differentiate themselves. You are going to bum around for a while, the clothing choice here is crucial. It can be trackpants, shorts or scrubs, but always a hoodie or old-tshirt.

Sunday day – same as Saturday, unless its football season and then you gear up for the game.

Week is over and you repeat the cycle. After re-reading this post, I found it as amusing as having 4 wisdom teeth pulled, but then realized this was educational for you the reader and me as well. Writing this down shows how little the average bachelor actually thinks about what they wear during the week. There are obvious exceptions to the rule, but we are nowhere near as OCD as women, but women also have all sorts of clothes that I don’t get.

Finally – jeans and a t-shirt rock – that’s all. Stay tuned for a riveting blog about penguins…

Brrrr….Beer

Welcome Spring! - Part II

…on to the much anticipated Part II of the series. I have the Mets game (they are down 3-1 to the Cubs) blasting in my headphones and typing furiously at work like I am going to town on a memo. So lets talk a little bit about bar patios.
The weather is warmer. Clothes are getting shed. That familiar squeaking of flip flops reverberates everywhere. Spring is here. Just as spring is signaled by some digging through their closets for spring clothes, bars embrace a different ritual. Instead of freeing breasts and legs for the world to see, they open their restaurant to the street. Those giant bay windows in the front crack open and tables are thrown out on the sidewalk. Now as always, you are asking – “DP what do I care about restaurant patios for?” Excellent question, but allow me lecture on the importance of bar patios.

Bar patios are awesome. If you are lucky enough to grab a table on a nice Thursday, Friday or Saturday you have the ultimate seat to the most revered hobby of all NYC’ers – people watching. That’s right – people watching. You sit there and silently or out load, judge everyone who walks by. In my case (and for almost every other mid 20’s guy) judging is strictly based on a physical attributes. Yes, as a group we are extremely shallow, but you should expect absolutely nothing less. And combined with the spring clothing choices of women you could not get a better scenario. But for you nerds out there, here is the mathematical formula to break down these awesome nights:

Sunny 70 degree weather + bar patio – leaving work earlier x alcohol = the ultimate objectification of women as they walk by.

In some cases, and more probable as the night goes on, people watching turns into a distorted beauty pageant. As the beer flows like water and the sun sets, women watching isn’t enough to quench the unending thirsts of hungry men. The hobby now escalates into a new game. As women walk by numbers are shouted out or conferred upon to the group. If a woman is a 4 or 5, it is muttered quietly to the group. If she is in the 8-10 range it is shouted as a compliment. After a couple more rounds, all numbers, regardless of value, are shouted – because everyone in the group is drunk. But there is a way to win this game. Think of it as the way you earned gold stars back in 1st grade for coloring in the lines. But instead of coloring in the lines you are trying to pick up women as they walk by. Here is how you score it:

Get a girl to stop and talk to you – 1 star
Get told off by a girl – 2 stars
Waitress is so amused by your game you get a free round – 3 stars
You get drunk enough to hold up napkins with #’s rating each girl – 4 stars
Get a hot girl to come in and sit down – 5 stars
Get two hot girls to come in – 6 stars
Twins(need I say more) – 7 stars
Recruit other tables to play the game – 8 stars
Take home a girl from you picked – 9 stars
And the 10 star, ultimate, superlegendary point-achieving accomplishment only achieved once in history:

A Swedish volleyball team is on a tour of NYC and they happen to walk by your particular bar as you drink outside. Despite the language barrier you manage to communicated that all the girls in the group are 8’s or higher. These girls so flattered come into the restaurant and drink with you for the rest of the night. All single guys go home with a Swedish girl because they find your American “accent” charming. You are instantly recognized as the greatest contributor to the history of mankind and proclaimed ultimate winner of the bar patio game known simple as “Numbers & Stars”

Brrr….Beer

Welcome SpringI - Part I

Ok folks, I have wrapped up my Master’s thesis or at least wrote enough for them to let me graduate. In summary, and thanks to Microsoft Word counter, I wrote in the neighborhood of 65 pages and over 14,000 words. Yet not one line of that monstrosity contains the creativity and sheer joy of blogging. Without further ado, back to it…

So for most of you, the weather has warmed up in the last week or two. Spring is here, although a bit late and as schizo as Britney Spears – its here. And with spring come two great seasonal changes. Bar patios and skin. Let me elaborate as always…

Winter can be a bitch some years. This particular year’s had to be one of the shittiest winters on date. Not because we had a lot of snow. This winter lasted from November until the first weeks of April. It was cold, miserable and cloudy. As a polar bear you would expect I love the cold weather – and I do. But this winter was a giant tease – more so than Becky who wouldn’t put out on prom night despite the Banker’s club you were slipping in her drinks all night long (ohhh!). This winter, it only got really cold for a few days. You know the days when your nuts freeze off if you are outside for more than 5 minutes. I love that in the winter. The other part of winter that makes it great is snow. If you don’t like snow then you are fucking diabolical and I will have my friends the Penguins take care of you. We have like 3 days of snow this year and no real big snow storm. But I digress…

Mother Nature has finally won the battle and freed us from the grips of that cranky old bastard – Father winter. And with the warm, chocolate-cookie type embrace of Mother Nature and spring comes warm weather. All it takes is that one Thursday or Friday where the sun is blazing in the sky and the temperature rock climbs up the thermometer higher than Stallone in Cliff Hanger (great movie). With this first unofficial day of spring all those working men and women in their 20’s go diving into their closets for the long-forgotten spring wear. For men this equals golf shirts and khakis – maybe linen pants for those ultra trendy guys. But who cares about them. This blog makes it a point to objectify women at least once per blog. As my fashion knowledge is limited to jeans and t-shirts I don’t know what the hell the names are of the spring clothes that women wear, but their awesomeness should be lauded.

After a long winter of sweaters, funky pants and long skirts there is a glorious reemergence of breasts and legs. Its like they fought hard, avoided getting shanked in the shower, bribed the parole board and have broken out of prison. And their release could not signal spring any better. Its like women forgot they had breasts and nice legs which get them things in life. It I had those abilities I would dress skimpy all year long. Either way, the increased skimpiness of women due to skirts, halter tops and any other piece of clothing that uses the same amount of cloth as a dish towel is f’ing great. This shift in fashion makes every man happier. Even though 99.8% of the guys won’t have a chance with these women, they know that the regular stream of eye candy is back and they have gotten their golden ticket back to the Willy Wonka factory.

Just figured I would share some favorite examples to the women out there:
- Anything that shows cleavage – that’s a no brainer
- Skirts – don’t you want to show off your legs?
- Jean shorts – you instantly get idolized a Daisy Duke
- Halter tops – its hilarious that you insist on wearing these because you have to readjust yourself every 10.2 seconds. Guys don’t wear pants that restrict our “boys” do we?
- The ultimate trifecta – stiletto heels, short skirt, and a halter top

Part II – Bar patios – coming tomorrow because Sportscenter is on

Brr….beer

Are you really that perverse DP?

Ok - I had announced it before, but I think I need to send out a little reminder note to everyone because I know you have been thinking lately:

"Drunk Polar Bear - you have become one dirty, perverse son-of-a-bitch lately. Fish Taco, Ace, Mother Teresa of Hooking Up, and Chesty??? This shit is revolting!"

Ok - so I have another contributor to this little blog and he is 837.4x more peverse than the normal human being. However, his stories are legendary, and if you can get around the occasional gross sexual reference they are quite amusing. He is Looty and although you have to scroll down to the bottom of each story to see if its him, maybe that keeps you on your toes...

My absence from regual blogging (due to a Master's thesis) will end tonight with a brand new post for you...

Your artic friend,
The Drunken Polar Bear

PS: Marissa Miller picture - a little something to brighten your day..

Tacos, Anyone?

Alright everybody. Does everyone remember the story from a while ago about the girl who I used to work with who blew me and it took me forever to get her dirty puss juice smell off my fingers? I will refer to her from here on out as Fish Taco.

So Fish Taco calls me out of the blue on Friday night. I haven't spoken to her since she gobbled my load. I knew immediately that she was definitely going to blow me again, possibly going to fuck me. So we make plans to meet up. I hang up the phone and I proceed to jack off twice. I do this for two reasons.............

1. If I only get a blow job out of the deal, the pleasure will last longer for myself and she will have to suffer longer.

2. If by chance we do fuck, I will put on a performance.

So we meet at this lamo place. It's basically like the Mexican version of TGIFriday's or the Olive Garden. I'm embarrassed to be there in case I might see someone I know.

As we might recall, Fish Taco doesn't look good anymore. But she does have a "go get 'em!" spirit going for her. I order one of the larger beers to dull any last senses that remain with my body. It comes in a giant goblet which was fitting, for me. As we start talking, of course every word out of my mouth is a terrible, totally lame, dirty joke and she eats it all up.

Fish Taco: "You're trouble, you know that?"
Me: "Yes."
Fish Taco: "But that's why I called you."

Yes, I know. It's like the bad writing of a soap opera that's been on 15 years too long.

Fish Taco: "So where are we going to have sex?"
Me: "Ummm....I don't know."
Fish Taco: "I want to sleep over your place but you live with your parents."
Me: "Yes, I do. I don't know if mommy would enjoy witnessing that the next morning."
Fish Taco: "I don't want to have sex in the car. Can we get a hotel room?!?!?"
Me: "Whatever. I'm really not too concerned with it."

Fast Forward........at this point we've met up with AT and Sensor at this dive bar by their houses. The whole night she's telling us that she just broke up with her boyfriend of three years the other day. This is obviously going to be a lay up.

Shortly thereafter, she's juggling my balls and jerking me off under the table. Me likey. Sensor spots it and starts to laugh and make faces at me when she's not looking. At one point, she turns away and he starts doing the Arsenio Hall fist pump.

AT sends me a text message: Your fly is open

Yeah, obviously. How does he notice my fly open but not the girl's arm inside of it moving around?

She goes to get another round. He tells me my fly is open. Sensor explains to him that she's playing with my cock and balls. We all laugh. She comes back with beers. We finish them. They know what's about to go down and tell us that they're getting up early in the morning and have to go. We leave.

As we get to the parking lot, Fish Taco's desperate meter has skyrocketed off the charts.

Like a little girl leaving the carnival, begging daddy to go on the ferris wheel one more time, her eyes light up and she grabs the sleeve of my shirt, nodding 'yes' as she asks me, "OMG! Can we please get a hotel room?!?!?".

Now we all know I love a pathetic girl more than the next guy but this is just downright pitiful.

We get in the car and her face is lunging at mine like a fucking asteroid at mach speed. I can't avoid it at this point. She's making out just like Tall Chick does...trying to rip your face off with their lips. You'd swear these chicks didn't fucking eat if you saw them make out but didn't see their bodies. I pull my penis out to divert her from my lips. She feasts on it for a good 10 minutes. But she keeps stopping to talk about getting a hotel room. This is obviously something she's never done and she's very excited about it. I picture her telling all of her gross friends the next day over lunch that "WE TOTALLY GOT A HOTEL ROOM!", thinking that it might sound all Sex and the Cityish.

I tell her to keep sucking. She tells me I'll have to wait cuz she wants to get a room and finish. I tell her fine but to stop off at the gas station because I need a case of beer.

We get to a gas station. I pick up a case of Coors Light bottles and some more rubbers (I only had two and figured I'd need more since the two jack off sesh's). We go to the hotel which was right next door. She puts the room on her plastic. I only have $40 on me at that point so I tell her that we'll stop at an ATM the next morning and pay for half of the room (The room was $220 + tax).

We get up to the room. I crack a beer. She tells me that she'd like to drink and have a cigarette before we fuck because she's really nervous and hasn't slept with anyone but her boyfriend in the last three years. After I stop picturing what kind of a tool this guy is I tell her that's fine by me. I needed to get a little drunker anyway. Yet as we both agree to this, she continues to make out like a hyena and pushes me on the bed.

Me: "I thought you wanted to drink more."
Fish Taco: "I do." [While slobbering all over me]
Me: "Okay, well let's have some more beers."
Fish Taco: "Let's go in the bathroom so I can smoke a cigarette, there's a smoke detector in here."

I grab another beer so I can start some double fisting. Head into the bathroom. She lights up her cigarette and I grab a seat on the toilet.

Fish Taco: "You're not going to shit, are you?"
Me: "Ummm......no."

I take my johnson out of the slit in my boxers. She gets on her knees and starts feasting on it between drags on her cigarette. I squeeze my balls out of the slit. She starts sucking and licking them.

Me: "Why don't you lose those boxers?"

Fish Taco peels my boxers off and completely dives into my asshole upon doing so. Her face is wiggling and slapping around between my ass cheeks like a frantic fish out of water. She's swirling her tongue around and slurping up whatever coodies lurk in my rectum. At one point, she's actually penetrating my ass with her tongue, in and out.

Probably the most glorious thing I've ever felt in my life. Remember those little scrub brush guys on those Tidy Bowl commercials? It was like there was an army of microscopic scrub brush dudes doing the waltz on my dirty asshole.

She continues to rotate from my cock to my balls to my smelly rectum for about 45 minutes to an hour. Now here's the problem. I can't fire off a shot right now not only because I jacked off twice (which was the purpose) but also because she took her top and bra off. Her tits were saggy and her nipples were mangled. They were weird, maybe her boyfriend used to chew on them or something.

So she tells me that she's ready to go inside. I put a rubber on. I remember thinking that this would last forever. I was spurting 3 minutes later. As I told her I was about to cum, she screamed not to. I did. She lost her shit. She continued to bitch, whine and yell for the next 15 minutes about it being "not fair" and what have you. I told her to calm down and relax and that there would be more to come. She would not stop. Finally I told her that maybe she should be sucking my balls to get my dick hard instead of complaining.

Fish Taco: "I'm not going to do that. What am I, your bitch?"
Me: "That's fine."

Fast Forward to thirty seconds later......slurp, slurp, gobble

Yes, that's the sound of her going to town on my nuts.

Girls are so stupid. You bitch and whine that you didn't get off. I tell you to get my dick hard. You refuse but know you've got no other option. Checkmate.

I put another connie on and start fucking her again. Now my dick is raw. It's throbbing at this point. I know I won't be getting off any time soon. I pounded her beat up puss for at least an hour, probably more. Now here's what transpired during this sesh...............

At one point I must have hit her spot. She's squealing like a pig.

Fish Taco: "That is the spot! I am going to cum! Keep this up, Looty! I just came! I just came right then and there! OMG!"

I continue to pump but switch positions. She's riding on top. She's getting rowdy again.

Fish Taco: "Slap me in the face!"

I have one of those Scooby Doo moments in my head............. Argh?!?!?

Not knowing what to do, I ignore her request.

Fish Taco: "Slap me in the face!"

So I do. Lightly.

Fish Taco: "Like that but do it fucking harder!"

Thwack!

I can just picture the flashing lights and sirens now.

Fish Taco: "Slap me again, you know I like it rough!"

Um, no actually I didn't. But now I do.

Thwack!

Let me tell you something. If you've never bitch slapped a girl while your cock was inside her, it's very empowering.

So I'm back on top at one point and I'm doing something right again because she's getting weird.

Fish Taco: "I'm going to cum! Keep doing that! OMG I just came right there! Do you feel how wet I am right now?!? That's because I came!"

This is bothering me.

So I'm still fucking her but I'm getting tired. My heart is going to pop. I get on my side and instruct her to do the same. I slip my penis in and rotate her slightly so she's on face but her body's still on its side. After telling me to choke her, and me obliging, she's about to cum again. Yes, I said choke. She's screaming. The headboard is bumping.

Fish Taco: "Talk dirty to me."

You have to be kidding me.

Me: "You like that cock?"
Fish Taco: "Yes, you are so deep right now. OMG do you know how deep you are?"

Not that deep, I've got a small penis.

Fish Taco: "Keep talking!"

Right now, after all of the bizarre happenings, I'm struggling for something dirty to say but realize anything will fly.

Me: "Are you my bitch?"
Fish Taco: "If this is being your bitch it is so worth it!"

I laugh in my head at how pathetic this girl is. Seriously.

Finally I can't last anymore. I'm dying. I tell her to get on top. She starts to climb on top but facing me. I tell her to face the other way. She obeys and starts to bounce. I reach for my phone and start snapping pictures. One problem. It's darker than it was in the bathroom so the pictures aren't coming out. I keep deleting them and trying to get a worthy photo to send on to everyone.

She must have heard me pressing buttons. She turns around.

Fish Taco: "I fucking knew it! You were trying to take a picture! You're such an asshole! I know all the stories but still! What are you going to do, tell all your fucking friends?!? You're not a real human being! You have no heart!
Me: "What are you talking about? My mom texted me asking where I was so I just responded saying I was sleeping at a friend's place."
Fish Taco: "Bullshit!"

She scurries into the bathroom where her clothes were and gets dressed. While in there, I delete all my text messages, especially the pix messages I sent of her eating my ass WHILE she was eating my ass. The last text in my phone is to my mom declaring, "Not sleeping home 2nite". I'm golden.

She comes out of the bathroom and I show her the text to my mom. I think she's bought it. Haha. But she continues to tell me that I'm not a real human being. I agree with her, I am not human.

Fish Taco: "That's a front Looty and you know it! Don't use that front!"

This dumb bitch said it, I just agreed with it, yet I'm using it as a front. This continues for way too long. I already know I'm heartless.

Fish Taco: "Well I don't want to sleep here and I'm sure you don't so let's go, I'll take you home."

I start filling my pockets with as many beer bottles that will fit and crack open a roadie to hold in my hand. Not a word in the elevator down. She wouldn't even look at me. The whole thing was very comical. So the elevator opens and she's power walking like fucking Oprah. I can't keep up with her. She's gone, out the back door of the hotel.

I stay in the hotel and ponder calling a cab or sleeping there. Five minutes later she calls me.

Fish Taco: "Let's go. Are you coming? I'm not going to leave you here, Looty."

I go outside and get to her car. I take all the beer bottles out of my pockets so I can sit. She starts driving to my house but continues to tell me that I'm not human. At this point I'm not responding at all, I'm just smirking at the whole thing.

She will not stop. Finally I can't hold it in. I burst out in hysterical laughter. I'm balling. She's mortified that I'm finding this funny. How could you not???

Fish Taco: "You know what? Fuck you! Get the fuck out of my car!"

I'm still laughing as she pulls over. I pick up the bottles. I leave the car door open as I put them back in my pockets. I decide to leave her door open. Fuck her. I start walking.

Fish Taco: "The least you can do is close my fucking door asshole. Close the fucking door!"

I don't even look back and keep walking. She holds her horn down for about thirty seconds. I keep walking. She closes the door and peels off. Did I mention she lives two hours away and doesn't know how to get home? Yup. The idiot lives in no man's land and forgot to bring her navigation system with her. Whoops!

I'm walking down the street. It's after 4am. It's totally silent. All of the sudden I here a loud POP! I start sprinting, not knowing what it was. Gunshot? Firecracker? As I'm running down the street I realize my tush has more breathing room. One of the beers in my back pocket slipped out and exploded.

So it took me about an hour and a half, maybe more, to get home from where she kicked me out of the car. It was 35 degrees out and I didn't have a jacket, just a long sleeved golf shirt. If I didn't have the 5 beers to drink I would have been in a world of hurt.

So after it was all said and done, here's the box score......

1 tossed salad, 4 bitch slaps, 2 choke holds, 5 rubbers, free hotel room, 20 beers and an hour and a half walk home.

Fish Taco, everybody.....Fish Taco.