“scott peterson” 1989 band real name brian

 

freddie mercury was he a homosexual

 

ex is drinking a lot

 

how to say fuck me in Russian

 

no email response love rejection

 

asian how to grow a beard

 

fucking a dog on the beach

 

i was the whore at the bachelor party

 

std testing for koreans

 

growing up gotti in bahamas

 

hungry moose topless

 

gentlemen’s crotch pics

 

taste of semen

 

the meaning of “she was asking for it” in terms of sexual harrassment

I know that you touched on this earlier, but I wanted to give you yet another fantasy that you can masturbate to.

Things that I learned from this article:

1) My childhood sucked.

2) April 27, 2002 was one hot night for a group of teenage boys.

3) Never marry a woman named Jennifer Miller.

Also, she had sex with a group of teenage boys and only got 25 days in the clink? What the eff? Can you imagine how long you would be in jail if you did that to a group of young women? If it was only 25 days of you being ass raped it might actually be worth it.

• Current monies in bank account: -$1,673.23 (I have a $2000 overdraft, so that means I have $326.77 until I get paid later this week.  Well, technically I owe the bank almost $1700 and have nothing, but thank god for overdraft)
• Current debt owed (including student loans, credit card debt, and computer left to pay off): $29,304.14
• Amount spent per month on debt and rent (not including food, booze, entertainment): $1,899.58
• Scale, 1 (least fucked) to 10 (most fucked), of how fucked I am financially: 8.6

On Tuesday I was walking around Union Square when I randomly saw a girl I slept with five years ago.  I was just minding my own business, rocking out to my iPod, when I saw this woman and thought, “Hey, that girl looks like Stacy.  Hmph.”  Upon closer inspection, I said to myself, “Holy shit – that is Stacy!”  Of course, I didn’t approach her, because after our dance of love I stopped speaking to her entirely and haven’t spoken to her since.  This is probably because I had a girlfriend at the time, but really, it was a long time ago, so I can’t definitively make that call.  Also she was a terrible lay – it was like fucking a mannequin that had been microwaved in an attempt to replicate normal human body heat (I’m sure she said of me “It was like fucking a rug with a pen cap sticking out of it”).

Anyway, when I got home, my encounter (or lack thereof) with the old flame prompted this exchange between my roommate Brian and I:

Me: “Dude, I randomly saw this girl I slept with five years ago on the street.”

Brian: [pondering for a few seconds] “You mean, like, she’s homeless?” 

No, Brian, “on the street” does not mean she’s living on the street.  Although to be honest, if she was in fact homeless I probably would have approached her, because I’m guessing she would have put out for me again (“Hey Stacey, why don’t you come back to my place and get warm?  Then I’ll make you a turkey sandwich if you let me take pictures of you slow dancing in my bathroom in the nude.  Well, you can wear a goalie mask, but otherwise completely nude.”)   

But the whole thing made me feel old.  I saw someone I slept with five years ago?  That’s kind of a strange thing to happen to someone as young as me.  However, I am 25, so I guess I am getting old.

I don’t know – I have no idea where I’m going with this.  All I know is that I’m getting drunk tonight and nothing can stop me.  So let’s just move the hell on… 

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

I despise when bloggers have parts of their blog like “What I’m Reading”.  I’m sorry, but I don’t give a fuck what you are reading.  What’s even worse is when what these bloggers are reading are esoteric, dense academic works, ostensibly saying, “Hey everyone – look how smart I am!” 

Now, having gotten that out of the way, of course I’m going to tell you what I’m reading.  Hypocrite?  Sure.  Closet Annie Lennox fan and borderline pedophile?  Totally.  But do I call it like I see it?  Hells yes.  

Two books you have to read: 

1) LA Diaries by James Brown (no, not the Godfather of Soul). 

The publisher’s description tells you all you need to know:

Plagued by the suicides of both his siblings, heir to alcohol and drug abuse, divorce, and economic ruin, novelist James Brown lived a life clouded by addiction, broken promises, and despair. Beautifully written and limned with dark humor, these twelve deeply confessional, interconnected chapters address personal failure, heartbreak, the trials of writing for Hollywood, and the life-shattering events that finally convinced Brown he must “change or die.”

You know, some light reading.

Hear me now: I read a lot.  I’m not bragging, but I don’t have much to do and so I spend a lot of time in bed, slowly dying, reading books to pass the time.  I’m not saying I read smart books or that I am smart, I just don’t really have a lot of friends and I don’t like tv, unless it’s “Cold Case Files” or “Friends”. 

And this book actually made me cry – twice.  I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a pussy, but it really got me.  Sure, maybe my former therapist might point out that I see a little of myself in the main character, to which I would reply, “What?  I’m sorry, but I wasn’t listening”, but I don’t think that’s the case.  It’s just very powerful stuff and definitely worth a look. 

(I moved from this book to a book called Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, the story of a drug-addict who works in a homeless shelter and his difficult relationship with his alcoholic/failed writer father, who is homeless.  Jesus Christ.  I ask my friends to call me every once in a while to check up on me this weekend because the outlook isn’t very rosy.)

2) The Evil BB Chow and Other Stories by Steve Almond

I actually haven’t read this book yet – it will be arriving at my apartment at some point today, thanks for Barnes & Noble’s same day delivery in Manhattan – but if it’s anything like Almond’s previous works (My Life in Heavy Metal and Candyfreak), than it should be most excellent.  More details to follow after I’ve checked the book out myself, but go on and buy it.   

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

I’m thinking about starting a weekly section of this post called “Email of the Week”.  This is because I get a lot of really good emails from you all, as well as a lot of good feedback when I write a post answering your emails.  I like to hear what you think and there is no comments section on this blog (it’s my site - if you want to write something on the web, get your own site) so email is the only way that you can get in touch with me and share your thoughts or what you look like without pants. 

However, I am a very lazy man and it’s hard to me to categorize and keep up with your emails.  I feel like I’m going to try to do better at this, but I’m most likely talking out my ass.  Odds are very good that this is both the first and last installment of “Email of the Week”. 

But, if you have a dilemma, a comment, an idea, or even a good story, send it along to me.  I should warn you that I probably won’t think your story is funny, so focus on the dilemmas, comments, and ideas instead.

Our first ”Email of the Week” (I’m already sick of writing it) comes from Joe in Williamsburg, Brooklyn:   

i have this idea that for five minutes i wasn’t going to tell anyone about because they would steal it and become rich, etc. but fuck it, i thought maybe you could just expand on it a bit.

you know how in typical porn there’s the action sequence and then at the end the dude jerks a load on the girl’s face?  yeah.  i figured you were with me.  well anyway, what if the guy was like, “i’m gonna bust this in your eye, so you better close them.” and so she closes her eyes and the dude holds a fucking air horn up to her face and lets out a blast.  i mean seriously.  that would be porn i would buy and watch right in front of my roommate (a girl) because it would slip out of the pervey porn category and in to the comedy genre.

even better is that after you’ve done a few of those tricks, you could get the girl to hold a jar of marbles or an urn or something that she is sure to drop when the porn horn sounds.  there could be other shit too, i guess, like a real slobbery St. Bernard starts licking her face or dump some ice water on her, all whilst expecting a gizload.

i don’t know.  what do you think?

Wow – now that’s fucking funny.  I don’t really know how I can expand on it because it’s really all there.  I think it works because it’s universal – every porn scene ends like this, and it’s probably the dumbest moment of the whole porn clip.  No girl wants some dude to blow it in her eyes, but at these moments the women say shit like “Give it to me baby!” and “I want it on my face!”  The visual of a guy saying “You want it? Then close your eyes” and then taking giant bucket of ice water and throwing it on the chick has kept me laughing since I’ve read this email.  Or the guy saying, “You want it?  Well then hold this giant vase filled with marbles and I’ll give it to you” – it’s brilliant.  Simply brilliant.   

So thank you Joe from Williamsburg for our first “EOTW” (there – that’s much shorter).

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

Six Songs:

I love Boston.  I should clear this up now, you know, before I go on and bash it here. 

I lived in Boston (or more specifically, Chestnut Hill and Brighton) from the fall of ‘97 until the spring of ‘01 when I went to Boston College.  And it really is a great city.  There’s just something about it – it’s small, yet cosmopolitan; it’s a great sports town; there are a lot of beautiful women; it’s got a very comfortable feel to it that’s hard to describe.

But if there’s one thing that I learned this weekend it’s that I’m officially becoming a New Yorker.  With all due respect to Boston and my hometown of Philadelphia, which will always be #1 in my book (in the same way that my first-born son, though retarded, will always be my #1), New York is the greatest city in the world.  It’s really that simple. 

And I learned this more than ever this weekend in Boston.  Below are five quick reasons why NYC is better than Boston (and Bostonians, remember: I love Boston.  Seriously.  So don’t send me any mean emails.  I just haven’t got time for the pain).

I have never been maced in New York City.  On Friday night, I got into Boston at about 10:15, and shortly thereafter my friends and I went to party.  The party was fine – standing around, drinking beer, talking to a drunk Russian guy who I’m pretty sure was hoping to kiss me, ogling women, thinking about talking to women, not talking to women, getting scared when having to talk to women in the bathroom line, etc.  Standard, really.

The party was in Cambridge and my friends live in Dorchester, so we had to take a cab home (more on this later).  We split into two cabs, so my buddy Joe and I shared one.  Our cabbie was an Arab guy who was VERY angry.  I’m not saying that all Arabs are angry – hey, I love the Arabs just as much as the next guy – but this particular Arab guy was very upset and while talking into his phone said “fuck” about 850 times.

Because he was wrapped up in his cursing, he missed our exit.  I can’t remember the specifics because I was pretty messed up, but it took a LONG time for us to turn around.  Anyway, because he missed the exit, he stopped the meter, and having to do this made him even more upset.  This anger manifested itself in his driving, as he was doing 60mph through tiny (and not so tiny) winding Boston streets.

While speeding through the streets, our cabbie almost accidentally ran over a group of Asian kids.  Actually, I’m not sure if the word “accidentally” applies here, because under oath I might have to admit that it looked pretty intentional.  So as the cab speeds past these Asian kids who are diving out of the way, one of them karate kicks the cab (I swear to god I’m not making this up – I’m not this creative). 

The cabbie, hearing the thump of the kick, drives the cab maybe twenty feet before stopping it and getting out, and starts to go after the Asian kids (there are maybe four or five of them, about 22 years-old).  The Asian kids see the cabbie yelling and coming after them, so they run at him.  He dives back in the cab and closes the door, calling over his radio for the cops to come as the Asian kids stand outside the cab karate-kicking its doors and trying to punch in the window.

Meanwhile, my buddy Joe and I are in the backseat, drunk out of our minds, in hysterics.  We see these nerdy looking Asian kids doing ninja moves on the fucking cab, while this angry Arab driver screams in a thick accent, “You mother fuckers!  You mother fuckers!” and is calling for police over his radio.  Comedy gold. 

After a few seconds the Asian kids back away, and it looks like it’ll all be over in a few seconds.  However, the cabbie gets out of the cab and screams after the kids (again, in a thick accent), “Hey faggots!  Yes – you faggots!”  The Asian kids then come running back and the cabbie runs to get back in the cab.  Just as he’s trying to close his door, one of the Asian kids pulls a can of mace out of his jacket pocket and maces the SHIT out of the cabbie.  I mean, the mace looked like water pouring out of a fire hose, and it must have been going for a good four or five seconds, right in this guy’s fucking face.

[And really, what 20-something guy carries mace?  What a pussy.]

So now Joe and I are screaming, laughing, with tears running down our eyes (two things to remember: we’re wasted and this is happening in the middle of a busy downtown Boston street).  I don’t think I need to explain why.  As the Asians scamper away, the cabbie, hunched over and coughing, puts the cab in drive and starts driving after the Asians.  At this point I think to myself, “This is never going to end – and I fucking love it.”

Suddenly though, I feel a little tingle in my lungs.  I start coughing a little, as does Joe.  Then the tingle turns to a burn, then the burn turns to “HOLY FUCKING SHIT SOMEONE LIT A GARBAGE FIRE IN MY LUNGS!”  Joe and I each push open our doors and stumble out of the slowly moving cab, falling to the ground and rolling away.  Lying on the street, I can still see the cabbie hunched over at the wheel, driving crookedly after the Asian kids, who are now starting to disappear down side streets and alleys. 

Though it burns like a mother fucker, Joe and I are still laughing.  Tears are still pouring down our faces, though at this point it may be because of the mace.  It takes us a good five-ten minutes to recover while walking away from the scene, and finally we get another cab and make it home.      

Now I have been out and about in New York City, and in many cabs with angry, crazy-driving Arab cabbies, but never while in NYC have I been (partially) maced.  NYC 1, Boston 0.

(I promise the next reasons will be much shorter.  It’s not every day that you see a gang of Asian youths mace your middle-aged Arab cab driver and so I wanted to share, because I want to share everything with you – everything.  Yes [pointing to my crotch], even this.)

Last call is at 1:30am.  This is a big downer for me.  Often in NYC, I don’t even leave my apartment until after midnight, when I’ve had the proper amount of time to enjoy a bacon pizza and a liter of vodka and poop at least twice.  Sure, maybe this is the reason why I don’t do so well with women I meet in bars – because my eyes are at least partially closed when I talk to them and all I can think about is the delicious bacon pizza waiting for me at home and how bad I have to piss.  But on this past Saturday night, my friends and I were drinking and at 9:30 I heard, “Alright, everyone should finish up because we really need to get to the bar.”

Go out at 9:30?  What the fuck?  Entirely unacceptable.  After 1:30, you can’t get a drink in Boston.  Bars in NYC close at 4am.  NYC 2, Boston 0. 

The public transportation system sucks.  Just about every week I bitch about the NYC subway system.  It’s gotten to the point that I have a terrible commute so often that I’ve stopped writing about it, because I have something to complain about every 3 days (like this morning: one hour, five minutes to work). 

However, say what you want about the NYC subway, but at least it’s running 24 hours a day.  The Boston’s “T” stops running around 1am.  And the bars closes at 2am.  So have fun getting home, jerkoff.

However, since NYC’s system sucks in itself, we can’t award a full point here: NYC 2.5, Boston 0

Boston is so damn sprawling.  NYC is a big city, but it’s fairly manageable.  It’s made up of the five boroughs: Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and Staten Island.  And the streets in Manhattan are numbered (for the most part).  Even if you’ve never been to the city before, if you’re at 23rd & 2nd you can pretty easily figure out how to get to 66th & 5th.  And I always like to say that if you’re in Union Square or Times Square, you are a $10 cab ride from anything you could ever possibly want (baklava, cocaine, stuffed animals, hookers, a sporting goods store, etc), 24 hours a day. 

Boston, on the other hand, does not work that way.  First, Boston proper is very small, and none of my friends live there.  Instead, they live north, south, and west of the city in places like Southie, Dorchester, Somerville, Brighton, and Cambridge.

This makes getting around a real pain in the ass, especially when the bars close.  Like I mentioned, the T stops at 1am.  And, unlike NYC, cabbies in Boston have the right to refuse passengers based on where they’re going.  For example, when you stumble out of a bar at 3:30 in the morning and you need to get to Brooklyn for a terrible BJ from the fat chick you’re hooking up with at work on the sly, you’re cabbie has to take you there.  For them to refuse to because you live in Brooklyn is a violation (I know this for a fact – I threatened to report at least three cabbies a weekend my first year in NYC when I lived in Brooklyn). 

Boston cabbies can refuse service based on location.  The result is that you can flag down several cabs before one finally agrees to take you where you need to go.  And by that point you’re so drunk and grateful to the cabbie who does decide to take you back to Dorchester that when he asks if he can come up to your place to take a couple of pictures, you acquiesce because it’s freezing out and you’re so glad to be going home.  And when he starts running his hand through your hair when you’re sitting on the couch, you let that slide too; as he reminds you, he didn’t have to bring you all the way back to Dorchester – he knew you were special.  And, long story short, when you wake up the next day walking funny and feeling dirty, you have no one to blame but yourself and the fact that if the damn city wasn’t so damn sprawling you wouldn’t have this problem in the first place.

NYC 3.5, Boston 0.

Everything closes early.  When my friends who don’t live in NYC ask me if I like living here, I usually say, “I’ll put it this way: the McDonald’s delivers 24 hours a day.  So yes.  I like it very, very much.” 

And boy, does living in New York City spoil you in this respect.  At any time of day, if I want onion rings, I can have them delivered to me.  If it’s 3:15am on a Sunday and I have a hankering for pierogies and a vanilla milkshake, 30 minutes later they will appear at my door.  If it’s 1:30 in the morning on a Tuesday and I decided to have a little Jason Party in my apartment and get shit-housed by myself and I run out of beer, I can make a quick run to any of the five bodegas in a two block radius and pick up a six pack of my choosing.  And god damn do I love it.

Not so in Boston.  Beer isn’t sold in bodegas and only recently did the entire state of Massachusetts allow beer to be sold on Sundays (now package stores are open from about 12-5 on Sundays).  If you plan on getting drunk and you want a pizza when you get home, you’d better be in by midnight, because that’s when most places close.  After that, you’re rooting through the kitchen cabinets making sandwiches of hamburger buns and processed cheese slices (which were surprisingly delicious). 

Final score: NYC 4.5, Boston 0.

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

But still, as I mentioned, I love Boston.  It’s just that now that I live in NYC, I love Boston a little differently.  It’s like when you’re in high school and you’re dating a girl and you think you two are going to be together forever.  Then you go away to college and meet a new girl who totally blows your mind and you break up with your high school girlfriend (but still stay friends with her).  Meanwhile, you’re madly in love with the new girl, even if she is really high maintenance and makes you spend all sorts of money on her.  And occasionally you’ll go home and see the high school sweetheart and have fun and maybe even feel a little something for her, but you know that you made the right choice with the new girl.  Because, even though she can be a total bitch sometimes, you know that deep down, if you asked her to fuck you in a cab, she would do it and wouldn’t think twice about it.

God I fucking love analogies.   

However, as I present his email and the correspondence around it, I ask you to bear with me.  It’s going to be hard to format this, because it’s a series of emails between Tyler and some ladies and Tyler and me, so it’s kinda hard to lay out.  But stick with it, and I think you’ll enjoy it.  I know I have, and Tyler is, for all intents and purposes, my new hero.    

About a week ago, Ty sent me this email:

An idea for a future post might be something on bachelor parties…Jason’s Guide to the perfect one…a follow-up to your best selling dieting guide, of course.

As now is the time that friends are getting plucked off one by one, I’m sure there are a lot of us out that could use some help.

My friends and I are throwing a surprise one this weekend, and kicking around the strippers vs. strip club idea. To put some feelers out, I decided to post a craigslist ad…and I was shocked at the response. Some of this stuff is great…(see transcript attached.) not as many pics as I would have liked, but what can you do. There is a full nude in there, granted she does look like an 18 year old runaway. But beggars can’t be choosers….

Feel free to use any of it on your site…well, maybe don’t publish the photos, until I can verify that these girls aren’t computer literate and can track my ass down.

-Tyler

It’s a hell of an idea.  Bachelor parties are quickly becoming an important part of the post-collegiate guy’s life.  I’m going to be the best man at my buddy Steve’s wedding in May of 2006, so I’ll have to plan one myself within the next few months.  I think I could have taken Ty’s idea and really ran with it and produced a top notch post. 

But then I saw that “transcript”.

Well.

The transcript is a seven page word document that contains responses to Ty’s ad and some pictures.  I don’t think I need any jokes here, because everything pretty much speaks for itself (seriously).  First, we’ll start with Tyler’s craigslist ad [for those of you who don't know, craigslist is an on-line community, kinda like the classified section of your local paper, where you can find anything and everything]:

Looking for 1-2 fun girls to help entertain a small bachelor party of professional men (age 25-29.) This is kind of a last minute thing being thrown together for this coming Saturday night. Will probably involve a bar crawl, and some partying in a limo.

Please send description and photos if you are interested. Thanks!

Tyler was opting to go for the strippers idea as opposed to he and his buddies going to a strip club.  This makes sense: while strip clubs are easier, safer, and guaranteed, a real fucking rock star party would never be held at a strip club – they’d get women to party in the limo with them.  Kick ass.

The first series of correspondence is from a girl named Vicki.  Her first email to Tyler went:

Hi,

I dont know if youre looking only for a professional, but I would be interested in this. It might be a little kinky, but I like the idea of entertaining a group of guys.

I am 24 years old and 5‘5‘ 103 lbs with blonde hair, and a 34a-22-34 figure. My photo is attached. I have a friend who might be able to come too, and we stripped and did a bi$exual show together for my ex-boyfriend.

I dont know what price to charge but from what I see here on CL I think $200 might be fair. The agenda is up to you…Im a great dancer, or willing to jump from a cake, or frosted and licked clean, or whatever. Im your s*xy slut for the night.

-Vicki

Silly Vicki messed up attaching her photo, so she quickly fired off another email:

Hi,

Sorry, I think I might have messed up the attachment. Hopefully it works this time. I sent you two. Hope you like them!

I’m down with whatever you want to do. I’ve never done this before either, but I’m happy to go along with your plan. I can just get naked and chill out, or I’ve seen lap dances and I’d like to see how far I can turn on a group of guys. I also have no problem with any touching you want to do, if that’s your preference. It’s all a big turn-on for me to be a performer for you.

Do you mind if I ask to see a photo of you, or some of the guys who will be there. Since I’m not a pro, I’m kinda doing this for fun and I’d like to do it with guys I find hot. If you’re not comfortable with that, there is also a turn-on in stripping for total strangers.

-Vicki

Oh Vicki – such an understanding young woman.  Though she asks for some pictures, she is sensitive to the situation and admits that it’d also be a turn-on to strip for strangers.  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Exhibit A as to why I don’t want to have any daughters.  None.  No thank you. 

Tyler, gentleman that he is, wrote back:

Hey. Thanks for the pics, you are very attractive.

Understandable that you’d want to see pics of us. I’ll send you a link to my Friendster profile. There is a pic under my profile of the 5 main guys who are throwing this thing, including the groom.

-Ty

I should take this time to interject to say that Tyler was being, ahem, generous when he called Vicki attractive.  Maybe it’s me, but I don’t really like that “I’m built like a 14 year-old boy and my mother drank heavily while I was in the womb” look.

At any rate, Vicki’s reply:

Hi,

I’m glad you think I’m attractive. Let me know if you’re leaning toward using me, and when you’re planning. Also tell me the ideas you have for using me.

If the price is a problem, I can be flexible. I’m sure there is alot of competition, and they probably have bigger boobs! :-) But remember, I’m willing to work it much harder! To tell you the truth, the whole idea of this is getting me pretty turned on, and if it’s not going to work out with you guys, I think I’m going to try to find another party.

Kisses,

-Vicki

P.S.– Which one is you, and which is the groom?

Now dearest Vicki is really going all out for the job, saying she’s “pretty turned on” and “willing to work it much harder” (no word on what “it”, that which she is willing to work, is, but I’m guessing it has something to do with her heiney).  Tyler wrote back a short innocuous email, and Vicki replied:

Happy Fucking St. Patrick’s Day – I’m sick, for the second time in two weeks.  Sweet.

In a way, it’s a good day to be sick, what with basketball and steriods on CSPAN and St. Patty’s Day.

But in another way, it’s bad to be sick, because I am dying.  Seriously.  I’ve spent the morning laying on my bathroom floor, half over the toilet, half in the shower, convulsing.  And I’m supposed to go to Boston this weekend (leaving tomorrow) but the only way I can see myself getting on a bus for four hours is if I have a large bucket and a lot (repeat: a LOT) of diapers.

AND it’s St. Patty’s Day and I don’t think I can keep a beer down, since I’m having trouble keeping air down.  Damn it all to hell.

So thank you Lord – You are going to pay for this.  Big time.

Send some good health and wishes my way, because I’ve been looking forward to this Boston trip for a long time and would really like to make it. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been upright for over two minutes now and I’m starting to get whoozy.  Be sure to have a pint of Guinness for me because I can’t.

Fuck.

• Properly use the word “vitriolic”.  Bonus points if you do so in relation to music, specifically his favorite song.

I am out sick today, so I got nothing for you, unless you are interested in vomit and the runs.

Well, I have this (safe for work, but volume needed).  If this doesn’t either make your day or change your life, you are a robot.

Seriously, how much do you think it would cost to get Mr. T to come to your birthday party?  I’d say $2,000, not including airfare and accommodations, so at most you’re looking at like $3,000.  Get 100 people to throw in $30 a piece and viola – you have Mr. T at your birthday party.

Remember, my birthday is July 17.  You have been warned. 

(Thanks to my buddy Dan for the link)

This weekend I went home to Philly because I had my 8th grade twelve year reunion.

Yes, I’m serious.

I know it’s unorthodox to have a reunion for your junior high class, let alone a twelve year reunion, but don’t be a dick.  Besides, I’d go to a fucking KKK meeting if it had a buffet and four-hour open bar for $40.    

And to be honest, I was a little nervous.  Well, maybe “nervous” isn’t the word – “horny” is probably better.  Of course the horniness doesn’t have anything to do with the reunion, but because I can’t stop thinking about Keira Knightley in “Pirates of the Caribbean” in that corset, exposing her heaving bosom.  Good lord.  She’s way too thin for me, but when those boobies are popping out, they nearly drive me to murder.  But I’m getting off track here.

I was anxious about the reunion.  In grade school, I was a nerdy chubby kid who always had a crush on a girl who wanted nothing to do with him.  Of course, nothing has changed in this department, except now I drink a lot of beer. 

And reunions are inherently a strange, anxious-inducing experience: you’re in a room with people who you haven’t seen in years (in this case, having last seen them when you were 13), a lot of alcohol, and a DJ.  Weird, weird shit.

The idea was hatched a few months ago when I was emailing with my friend Christine, who was actually my date to our 8th grade dance.  I said something to the effect of, “Man, it’s a shame that we didn’t have a ten year reunion, because I would have loved to brag about how much money I make to all the girls who rejected me in grade school.”  Christine, bless her heart, then took it upon herself to organize a twelve year reunion.  So now you’re filled in.

And my friends and I were looking forward to it (yes, I’m still good friends with many of the people I went to junior high with; it’s a neighborhood thing that’s hard to explain to people who didn’t grow up in a city).  My buddy David, who went to Jacksonville for the Super Bowl, bought something like $300 worth of fireworks down there which we planned to set off sometime between 4am and 6am the morning after the reunion.  Our plan was to re-enact what we did on the night of our 8th grade dance twelve years ago: get drunk at my buddy Wick’s house, shave his head, throw rotten fruit at cars, and light fireworks (except Wick is now bald, so we couldn’t really re-enact that).  And yes, we are all 25 years old.  Some of us even have girlfriends and ambition.  Not me though – I have back hair and $20 worth of pot on me at all times.   

For months, I’d been getting emails from my friends saying, “This is gonna be out of control” and “You’d better be ready to drink”.  And, for me at least, the results were disastrous.  It’s going to be hard to describe what happened, because, frankly, I don’t remember much, but I will do my best.   

First of all, and I’ve written this before, “Jason Mulgrew” and “open bar” do not mix.  I’m serious, so serious that it’s not even funny.  I’ve been to a lot of open bars in my life, but each time I go to one, it’s like I can’t believe that the alcohol is free (or in this case, already paid for).  “Like a kid in a candy store” is not an accurate metaphor, because a child, not matter how much he likes candy, does not physiologically need candy to make him happy, sexy, and complete.  “Like a coke head in a cocaine factory” works much better, except it’s not funny at all and to my knowledge there are no such things as cocaine factories.

Adding to the dangers of the open bar was the fact that they served little beers at this event – instead of your standard twelve ounce bottles, they only had eight ounce bottles.  An eight ounce bottle of beer is the size of a monster shot and can be drank in about three or four sips.  My dislike of unnecessary movement has been well-documented both on this site and by independent film crews, so the entire night I double-fisted, drinking (or at least holding) two beers at once.  About an hour into the event, the bartender would see me approaching from across the room and would have two open lil’ bottles of Budweiser on the bar waiting for me.

My friends and I had a couple of beers before going to the reunion, which was held at a catering hall, to loosen up a bit and because apparently free beer for the next four hours simply wasn’t enough.  About six of us walked in together, so as to escape any awkwardness.  After checking our coats, we headed straight for the bar.   

And to be honest, it wasn’t nearly as weird as I thought it would be.  It was actually nice to see everyone, including the three teachers who taught us in 8th grade.  Things were going well. 

Because I consider myself the greatest toast and speech-writer of all time, I wrote a small speech to give at the reunion on the train ride down to Philly.  Of course, no one asked me to write or give a speech and I never actually did give the speech, as that would have required using one hand to hold the microphone and thus I would have need to put down one of the two beers I had in my hands at all times.  I contemplated lying and saying that I gave the following speech, and telling you all that when I was finished I was cheered by the men and fellated by the women, who all happened to be dressed as mermaids, but unlike other websites that describe being a degenerate twenty-something, we here at JasonMulgrew.com are committed to the truth (zing!).  Here’s the lil’ speech:

St. James Davis had severe facial injuries and would require extensive surgery in an attempt to reattach his nose, Dr. Maureen Martin of Kern Medical Center told KGET-TV of Bakersfield. His testicles and a foot also were severed, Kern County Sheriff’s Cmdr. Hal Chealander told The Bakersfield Californian. 

Really, is there anything better than doing nothing and getting something in return?  I know I’ve written about this before, but hard work is for chumps.  “There’s nothing more satisfying than working hard for something and accomplishing it” is a line for immigrants and the easily manipulated.  I’ve never thought after working hard for something, “Yes, this feels great because I spent a lot of time and tried my hardest and I did it!”  No, I think, “Thank fucking god I achieved because I spent so much fucking time on this stupid goal.  Fuck.”

 

On the other hand, what’s better than doing nothing and still accomplishing?  Not too much (that doesn’t involve nudity or drugs).

 

God I fucking love myself. 

Everything was great.  I didn’t bother to call to get my grade for the class, mostly because I didn’t know how.  So I continued on feeling good about myself until a week or so later when a moment of sheer boredom overtook me and I gave the Registrar’s Office at Hunter a call.  They directed me to the automated system, and as I entered in my student ID I waited in joyful anticipation for the grade.  I figured there was no way I got less than a B+ on the final, more likely an A-, possibly even an A, since history as an academic discipline is predictable like that.  Meaning, when you’re taking a history test and answering an essay question,  you know if you know it.  Not only that, you know what level you know it.  Often in college, I’d be writing an essay during a test, thinking, “Well, that first essay I did was horseshit, but I think I bs’ed ok around it, and the second I knew really well, so I’ll probably get a B+ overall”. 

And then I heard it.  Overall grade for the class: B-.  Meaning I had to get something like a C+ on the final.  Meaning I don’t get any credit for the class because I didn’t get a B.  Meaning I just wasted about $900, all for nothing. 

Well.

I was floored, and even offended.  I’m going to sound like a real pompous asshole here (which I undoubtedly am), but how the fuck did I get a B-?  I took thirteen history courses at BC and never got a B-, and yet I got the lowest grade of my academic career at some shit, glorified community college?  Before getting my new job I was planning on going back to school full-time for my Ph.D. in history (so that I could sleep with busty young co-eds), and the schools I were looking most closely at were Penn, BC, BU, NYU, and Harvard, and I get a fucking B- at Hunter?  Again, ???

Prior to this ass-whupping, I had been on the fence about continuing with the degree because of the “I’m po’” reason.  After this though, there was no debate: my ass was done with academia.

And to be honest, I have no regrets.  The money I saved by not taking more classes I was able to waste on vodka tonics.  I’m able to read leisurely again, something I couldn’t do while taking a class because I always thought, “Man, I should really be reading for class.  Also, what’s that smell?  Oh, it’s me and my ass.”  I have no stress about anything, except for my hypochondria and constant fear of a heart attack.  My life is much, much better now. 

So what did we learn?

• Grad school is for losers
• College is cool, but only because you get to live on your own and underage drink
• I got way more ass in college than I do now
• You are always as smart as you think you are and any academic shortcomings or failures are not your fault
• Bacon and BBQ sauce make everything better

• “Seriously, who’s your all-time favorite pope?  I like Clement VI.”  (Tuesday, 8:48pm)
• “Yeah, to me, sex is just a game.”  (Thursday, 10:11pm)
• “Why don’t we go back to my place to listen to some Terence Trent D’Arby?”  (Thursday, 11:49pm)