Things to (or not to) say to women
Albany, this past weekend. The stage was set, people's birthdays were occurring, people's birthdays were on the brink. Tons of people born within a week, who can even stand it? To celebrate the sheer lunacy of that many days of birth I decided it best to get a room downtown at the Hampton Inn, it was a classy move on my part, and I highly recommend you do the same when you get a chance, it really completes the experience.
For the sake of the principle parties involved, the bulk of my night was spent in the company of this guy, that guy, and the other guy. That guy and I showed up to this guy and the other guy's apartment around 7 or so, we had some delicious pizza, watched some hardcore tapes (wrestling, you dirty birds) and then Steve Maley and I headed over to Beth Wallace's/Chrissie's region for Beth's birthday, I was bored, because I was driving and could not drink, so I moped and then we left, because I was moping about the place (more accurately I was sitting in a chair listlessly). So Beth, Matt Woody, Stacy Woody, and Sven Maley went downtown, where I checked into my room and made my hair up real nice nice. While waiting in line to check in a group of four gentlemen were in front of me, doing the same. One of them was nice enough to turn around and offer the advice "make sure this asshole doesn't punch you in the face," I think they had a few too many schmitz-gays, they lacked balance and clarity of thought and speech, all the same, that was nice of him to volunteer such pertinent information.
So with keys in hand we set off for the pearl, where we met other members of the birthday party, and were soon joined by this guy, that guy, and the other guy. There were some beautiful babies in the pearl, and that almost made up for the bagillion dollar drinks they offer there, which I must buy (in order to have a good time). For a while I even suspect I had a little something going with one of the girls that bring drinks to people, that is until I turned around to find that guy touching her face, "looking for freckles," or some other such nonsense. Note to people all throughout the world, unless you are a faith-healer, a dermatologist, or have express consent, do not touch a chick's face as some sort of "move." I mean that chick looked like she had just found out she was on a blind date with the Son of Sam, only more nervous about the whole deal. So that was that, and this guy and I soldiered on, as that guy, and the other guy went to some other bar, not really sure what went on over there, but I had a pretty good time at the pearl, and then this guy and I went over to pure, I believe the place was called pure, I believe it used to be something else, I've been there before when it was something else, yea.
pure has a cool bar, and they charge slightly more than a bagillion dollars for drinks, so that's gotta be saying something, I'm just not sure what it happens to be saying. Anyhow, that guy and the other guy decide to meet up with us at pure, I think this was a ploy by them to avoid jail-time, as the other guy seemed to have beef with a bouncer and a law enforcement officer over the application of the word arbitrarily to the phrase "re-admittance into the club." Again that guy stuns the bartender by offering that she "looked miserable," she did not enjoy that one bit, nor did she enjoy that guy's response when she asked him what he'd like to drink and he merely stared at the back of his hands as he stretched them out on the bar, I believe it was code for you look miserable, she didn't get it- I didn't get it. So after a quick drink that guy heads back out into the street, and is subsequently seen hustling past the bar en-route to the hotel, with a large pizza in hand, and determination in his eye. By the time the other guy and this guy catch up with him he is on the corner, with an empty pizza box, and the look of a shark mid-feeding frenzy. The other guy was not happy about the state of affairs, those current, and those having just recently occurred, and expressed his frustration to a couple of young ladies, one lovely, the other so-so as they were passing by. Which brings us to our key phrase and topic of this missive, to you the reader.
Never say, "yea keep making faces you fucking cunt." Chicks do not dig that, again unless they expressly consent to you saying that to them, which I only know one girl who might enjoy that, and she doesn't really count. The results were not good, if not totally expected as well. Luckily I have the reflexes of a cat, and stepped in to grab one of the now irate young ladies as she made her first charge to smack the life out of the other guy. Needless to say, having now been thwarted in their attempt at physical retribution, the ladies let loose a stream of man-hate that rained down furiously upon the other guy; the question of whether or not the other guy did in fact have a girlfriend was raised, the topics of the other guys hair-style, fashion decisions, as well as his sexual proclivity were also touched upon, in a most direct and engaging manner. All the while begging the question, "what the hell just happened?" You see, the phrase "yea keep making faces you fucking cunt," happened, and the cardinal rule with that phrase, especially when being used against a girlfriend, or wife, or ex-girlfriend, or police officer, is never say it within hearing distance by the party you wish to offend, unless you are one of three things: 1.)Pimp enough to not give a fuck 2.) Above the law like Big Ernie McCracken or 3.) So hammered that you can't count to three, and wish to get smacked, maced, or possibly shot, in the face by a chick or a law enforcement agent. I learned this valuable lesson while in Albany this weekend, though I had my suspicions about it's truth for a long time.
PART II
As you may or may not know, I've been super busy with work, so let me give you a run down of what's been going on with all of that:
Cool: Seats in Busch Stadium, nice ballpark, apparently baseball heaven or some other such nonsense, though I know it's not true, baseball heaven is in Iowa, Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones told me so.
Lame: The drive from St. Louis to Cincinnati, that's some flat land out there, and unless you stop to eat in Terre Haute, Indiana at the Cracker Barrel they have hidden there, you're not gonna have a fun time.
Sucky: The pillows in Hampton Inns, they are all like Buck Fernalld's corn-husk pillow, only on steroids, I feel like my head is on fire, because it gets enveloped by these damned things, and you all know I only like to sleep when it's mega-cold.
Ridiculous: The he-she that propositioned me in Cincinnati, apparently they ask you if you have change, and when you say "no I don't have any money please go away from this place immediately" they take it to mean you want something and then they reach into the car and squeeze oranges in your lap. "Dude, get the hell out of here" is what you really have to say if you want them to stop bothering you. Though I suspect "yea keep making faces you fucking cunt" might also have had the desired effect.
And finally:
If you have the marbles, watch this video: http://thatvideosite.com/view/2634.html
It's Hasselhoff doing secret agent man, and you can't sign off of it in disgust until you see his two vicious kicks. Because they are vicious.
For the sake of the principle parties involved, the bulk of my night was spent in the company of this guy, that guy, and the other guy. That guy and I showed up to this guy and the other guy's apartment around 7 or so, we had some delicious pizza, watched some hardcore tapes (wrestling, you dirty birds) and then Steve Maley and I headed over to Beth Wallace's/Chrissie's region for Beth's birthday, I was bored, because I was driving and could not drink, so I moped and then we left, because I was moping about the place (more accurately I was sitting in a chair listlessly). So Beth, Matt Woody, Stacy Woody, and Sven Maley went downtown, where I checked into my room and made my hair up real nice nice. While waiting in line to check in a group of four gentlemen were in front of me, doing the same. One of them was nice enough to turn around and offer the advice "make sure this asshole doesn't punch you in the face," I think they had a few too many schmitz-gays, they lacked balance and clarity of thought and speech, all the same, that was nice of him to volunteer such pertinent information.
So with keys in hand we set off for the pearl, where we met other members of the birthday party, and were soon joined by this guy, that guy, and the other guy. There were some beautiful babies in the pearl, and that almost made up for the bagillion dollar drinks they offer there, which I must buy (in order to have a good time). For a while I even suspect I had a little something going with one of the girls that bring drinks to people, that is until I turned around to find that guy touching her face, "looking for freckles," or some other such nonsense. Note to people all throughout the world, unless you are a faith-healer, a dermatologist, or have express consent, do not touch a chick's face as some sort of "move." I mean that chick looked like she had just found out she was on a blind date with the Son of Sam, only more nervous about the whole deal. So that was that, and this guy and I soldiered on, as that guy, and the other guy went to some other bar, not really sure what went on over there, but I had a pretty good time at the pearl, and then this guy and I went over to pure, I believe the place was called pure, I believe it used to be something else, I've been there before when it was something else, yea.
pure has a cool bar, and they charge slightly more than a bagillion dollars for drinks, so that's gotta be saying something, I'm just not sure what it happens to be saying. Anyhow, that guy and the other guy decide to meet up with us at pure, I think this was a ploy by them to avoid jail-time, as the other guy seemed to have beef with a bouncer and a law enforcement officer over the application of the word arbitrarily to the phrase "re-admittance into the club." Again that guy stuns the bartender by offering that she "looked miserable," she did not enjoy that one bit, nor did she enjoy that guy's response when she asked him what he'd like to drink and he merely stared at the back of his hands as he stretched them out on the bar, I believe it was code for you look miserable, she didn't get it- I didn't get it. So after a quick drink that guy heads back out into the street, and is subsequently seen hustling past the bar en-route to the hotel, with a large pizza in hand, and determination in his eye. By the time the other guy and this guy catch up with him he is on the corner, with an empty pizza box, and the look of a shark mid-feeding frenzy. The other guy was not happy about the state of affairs, those current, and those having just recently occurred, and expressed his frustration to a couple of young ladies, one lovely, the other so-so as they were passing by. Which brings us to our key phrase and topic of this missive, to you the reader.
Never say, "yea keep making faces you fucking cunt." Chicks do not dig that, again unless they expressly consent to you saying that to them, which I only know one girl who might enjoy that, and she doesn't really count. The results were not good, if not totally expected as well. Luckily I have the reflexes of a cat, and stepped in to grab one of the now irate young ladies as she made her first charge to smack the life out of the other guy. Needless to say, having now been thwarted in their attempt at physical retribution, the ladies let loose a stream of man-hate that rained down furiously upon the other guy; the question of whether or not the other guy did in fact have a girlfriend was raised, the topics of the other guys hair-style, fashion decisions, as well as his sexual proclivity were also touched upon, in a most direct and engaging manner. All the while begging the question, "what the hell just happened?" You see, the phrase "yea keep making faces you fucking cunt," happened, and the cardinal rule with that phrase, especially when being used against a girlfriend, or wife, or ex-girlfriend, or police officer, is never say it within hearing distance by the party you wish to offend, unless you are one of three things: 1.)Pimp enough to not give a fuck 2.) Above the law like Big Ernie McCracken or 3.) So hammered that you can't count to three, and wish to get smacked, maced, or possibly shot, in the face by a chick or a law enforcement agent. I learned this valuable lesson while in Albany this weekend, though I had my suspicions about it's truth for a long time.
PART II
As you may or may not know, I've been super busy with work, so let me give you a run down of what's been going on with all of that:
Cool: Seats in Busch Stadium, nice ballpark, apparently baseball heaven or some other such nonsense, though I know it's not true, baseball heaven is in Iowa, Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones told me so.
Lame: The drive from St. Louis to Cincinnati, that's some flat land out there, and unless you stop to eat in Terre Haute, Indiana at the Cracker Barrel they have hidden there, you're not gonna have a fun time.
Sucky: The pillows in Hampton Inns, they are all like Buck Fernalld's corn-husk pillow, only on steroids, I feel like my head is on fire, because it gets enveloped by these damned things, and you all know I only like to sleep when it's mega-cold.
Ridiculous: The he-she that propositioned me in Cincinnati, apparently they ask you if you have change, and when you say "no I don't have any money please go away from this place immediately" they take it to mean you want something and then they reach into the car and squeeze oranges in your lap. "Dude, get the hell out of here" is what you really have to say if you want them to stop bothering you. Though I suspect "yea keep making faces you fucking cunt" might also have had the desired effect.
And finally:
If you have the marbles, watch this video: http://thatvideosite.com/view/2634.html
It's Hasselhoff doing secret agent man, and you can't sign off of it in disgust until you see his two vicious kicks. Because they are vicious.
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