It happens all the time. Whenever a Q-list celebrity like me goes away for a while, people wonder where I’ve gone. For example, everyone was wondering what happened to Dave Chapelle after his breakdown. Don’t forget about Sharon Stone. She was everywhere, then nowhere, and then everywhere, and now she’s nowhere. The list can go on and on; Dick Cheney goes into hiding after any national emergency, Magic Johnson abracadabra’d away after his failed talk show and Sean Connery’s career has been lost for years now. Every major name goes through a phase where they just need to get away. I am no exception. The last time I was seen anywheres on the intranet was 1/12/aught-eight. Heck, the last time I was seen anywheres alive, in the public, was 1997 and 1/2. But never fear, I have proof that I have been alive and well.
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Archive for ‘chad’
Every Saturday, one of us will post a blog post from our past in order to let you really get to know us… and laugh at us. Over the past century or so, I posted many a corny joke. Here are some of my favorites:
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Webster’s Dictionary defines HAPPY as:
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Every Saturday, one of us will post a blog post from our past in order to let you really get to know us… and laugh at us. Over the past century or so, I posted many a small life lesson/observation. Here are some of my favorites:
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Welcome to the long demanded, never reprimanded return of the Tuesday Top Five on Wednesday! Each week (or when I don’t forget), I will present at least one top five list on Wednesday for you to mull over, agree with, disagree with, or ignore completely! It is the Tuesday Top Five because alliteration is always fun. But I present it to you on Wednesday because Wednesday should not be shunned just because its the longest word of all of the days.
My Top Five Current Weaknesses
5. Bears
4. Large Russians
3. Words that begin with the letter x that aren’t xylophone
2. Dakota Fanning
1. Bullets
Honorable Mention: Pain, sharp objects, women
Top Five Nicknames For Someone Named Wesley
5. Wes
4. Wessles
3. Simply The Wes (dun dun dun dun, better than all the rest)
2. Leslie
1. Westicle
Classic Ass #003: Dragons, Magic and Excessive Spillage
on December 15th, 2007Man it’s been a while since anyone has posted. One this week. We must all be busy.
Every Saturday, one of us will post a blog post from our past in order to let you really get to know us… and laugh at us. Once again, as the glue that holds the writing on this blog together, I present you my second classic post. This was a little story I wrote called “Dragons, Magic and Excessive Spillage”.
I wrote this story a few days after it happened. It was so unbelievable, I knew I had to immediately record it. Trust me, everything in this story is true.
So its July, a few weeks after my birthday and I was feeling a little low. Jack diddly was going on; there was a sense of nothingness around me. One day at work, this cute, cute girl named Megan came in to get some furniture through the finance company I work for. In no time, I found myself flirting with her. Now, I’ve been told I am a natural flirt, and I’ve been told I could have an eency weency itty bitty bit of charm, so if *I* am noticing that I’ve turned it on, I think I must be flirting pretty heavy. But she is reciprocating, so I keep going. At the end of our chat, we set a meeting for the next day so she can sign her contracts. The second she walked away, I started freaking out as to what to do. I was obviously smitten. Should I ask her out? Or do I not risk the rejection? The next day, I manned up, showed that ounce of confidence I can have and asked her to dinner.
She said no. She was taken.
BUT, she had someone she wanted to hook me up with. That in itself freaked me out because I had only talked to Megan for about an hour or so up until that point. But she was good looking, and I’m a guy (libido rules all!), so I said ok. Fast forward to date night. My date was a 20 year old 5’5” blonde with gorgeous fake green eyes (contacts) named Jessie Lynn (first/middle, not first/last name) that just moved back in with her parents in Bossier City (from Texas). The game plan was dinner at Ruby Tuesday’s then up the street to the Family Fun Center (think Celebration Station; go-karts, arcade, batting cages, putt putt, etc.). I’ve got a fresh fade; I’m rockin’ the gel; I’m rockin’ the contacts; I’m wearing this cool grey polo with some nice khakis; and dah-lin, I’m oozing machismo. My ounce of confidence has been multiplied by millions. I have a million ounces of confidence. A million. I go into the night thinking “first impression” and “if I fuck up, I’m never seeing her again, so why not have fun with it”. Boy did I not realize how ‘fun’ my night was going to end up.
Dinner started well. We introduced ourselves, I told a few jokes, I had her smiling. My ego, as you could guess, was inflating… until our waiter dropped my glass of water on my shoulder. He didn’t trip, he wasn’t carrying anything other than my glass of water, but somehow on the exchange from hand to table, it slipped out and right on my shoulder. I was doused. But I made a joke, laughed it off and I eased myself, the waiter and most importantly, my date. Dinner continued, and went fine… until, while cleaning our table, our waiter dropped her half-eaten plate all over her. She felt humiliated, especially because she could tell I was holding back a tidal wave of laughter. But I made another joke and eased the situation. Then, I did the cheap-o thing and weaseled out of there with a free meal, due to excessive spillage.
We went back to her place so she could change. She lived right by the restaurant so it was a short drive. I was sitting in the living room, waiting on her, when her parents came home from wherever they were. I immediately panicked, because that was one situation that could turn ugly quick. I was happy that they at least KNEW their daughter was on a date, and I was that guy, because random guy + empty house with daughter (generally) = pain, lots and lots of pain. But calmly, dad sat down on the chair next to the couch I was on, showing no signs of anger or malice. I was a little eased as I began to mentally prepare myself for the stereotypical, as-seen-on-TV “what do you want to do with your life” speech.
Instead, I got magic.
Her dad opened our conversation with “look what I found behind your ear” and pulled out a quarter. I was floored. He began to tell me about the wonders of magic. “Sleight of hand is the most powerful tool any man can have.” He pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket and showed me two magic tricks. I didn’t know how to react, so I just went along with it. Eventually, during the middle of trick #3, Jessie Lynn came down and stopped her dad. She was definitely embarrassed. She grabbed my arm as hard as she could and dragged me outside so we could go. On the way to the car, the conversation went a little like this:
Her: I’m soooo sorry. I think he had been drinking. My dad can be weird.
Me: Yeah, he is a little weird.
Her: You aren’t supposed to agree with me!
Me: Hey now, I only agreed because I know about weird dads. If that was my dad and you, it would’ve been worse.
Her: I doubt it. Your dad isn’t an amateur magician that likes to show off to his daughter’s dates.
Me: No, but my dad is an amateur drunk that likes to do hula dances for his son’s dates.
Her: (laughing) Hula dances? You can’t be serious.
Me: I’m not serious. (pause) He doesn’t drink.
Her: (laughing)
Me: But if he did….. (and I did some sort of drunken hula dance)
(While she laughs, we get in the car)
Her: Thanks, I feel a lot better. You really know how to run damage control.
(And then she kissed me on the cheek)
Me: JACKPOT!
(Yes, I did actually say jackpot out loud.)
——-
We laughed some more and made our way to the Family Fun Center. On the agenda there was go-karts, mini-golf and some friendly competitive arcading. We start with the go-karts. They were fast, fun and she whipped my ass. I don’t know if it was the karts having different speeds (which you know they do) or a natural NASCAR-like instinct that she had, but she lapped me. And I got to hear about that afterwards. But it was ok, cause I had planned on getting my win back at mini-golf. And it would feel oh so sweet…. except she dropped the ultimate bomb on me: “I’ve never played mini-golf before.”
?!? How in the…? How could she have never played mini-golf before!? But, I took that as the perfect opportunity for the classic ‘let me show you how to play’ move. So, still reeking of esteem, I set to slyly use this situation to my advantage. We make our way to the first hole. I did some cheesy ‘don’t stand like this’ poses that don’t really go over well, and hit a nice smooth shot. “See what I did, nice and easy,” I told her. She stepped up to the tee, placed her ball down and got ready to hit. I stood behind her contemplating if I should do the ‘get behind her and show her how to hold the club’ move (cause it’s all in the hips), and right as I was deciding that I’m not THAT cool or smooth, she took a hard back swing…..
Right to the jewels.
I went down. Hard. Fast. I’ve been clobbered in the cahones before, but this clubbing couldn’t have come quicker and more compact. I had a lot of quick decisions to make. Do I curse? Do I grab my little buddy and shake him healthy? Do I ask her to kiss it and make it better? Do I ask for ice? Do I tough it out? Or do I talk in a really high voice to make fun of what happened? I, of course, chose the latter.
After brushing myself off, we finish all 18 holes with me DOMINATING! Unfortunately, every time I tried to gloat, she would make a “don’t make me nut shot you again” comment or gesture. So we had a good time making fun of it.
In a weird moment, as we were heading back inside, some girl shot Jessie Lynn a dirty look. I mean, it was a nasty, filthy look. I thought nothing of it as we headed inside.
So we started arcading. It wasn’t necessarily anything other than us trying to spend another 30 minutes to an hour having fun. We picked games that were simple (like skeet ball) to just get some more potential QT in. All things considered, all wackiness aside, it was going great for a first date. Near the end when we didn’t have any tokens left, we went to turn our tickets in. We had 115. Unfortunately, there was this cute little dragon she wanted that cost 150. Since we didn’t have enough, she decided to just go ahead and save the tickets and give them to her little brother. It was time for her to hit the bathroom and we would head back home. I had a different idea.
I sprinted to the nearest token machine and put a dollar in. I found the classic spin and stop light game (that I wish I could remember what it was called, I know you remember it, it has the little light bulbs that went around and had four stop buttons). I hit 8, 10, 10, 8. I sprinted back to the prize counter, turned in my tickets for the dragon and sprinted to the car to hide it. I don’t know how long she was in the bathroom, but when I walked back inside, she was walking around looking for me. I told her I ran to the bathroom too and we headed out.
When we got back to her place, we sat in the car and chatted. During the middle of a conversation about lord knows what, I reached behind her seat and pulled out the dragon. The look on her face was magical. I knew I was in. I knew the potential that we had there. I thought the night was mine. In fact, the exact thought that went through my head, “If for some reason this actually did end up being the girl I married, what a great story for our first date.” And even though everything was telling me no; even though my natural instinct is to shy away; even though you know I could NEVER make the first move; even though you know how absolutely scared I was; I decided I was going to go in for a kiss. I leaned in, closed my eyes, parted my lips and met her…
Plush.
I had kissed the dragon. What a dejection. My body immediately went numb. After such a wonderful night, I blew it by going against everything I know. I was a moron, I was an idiot. How could I even think that this girl could ever like me? How could I think I had a chance? My best is never even close. I was self-doubting, self-depreciating, self-loating, self-pitying…
“I’m a lesbian.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. But I’m a lesbian.”
“Wait… what?”
“I’m so sorry Chad. That girl that shot us the dirty look, that was my high school girlfriend. She stopped me in the bathroom and berated me because she felt like I was betraying her. And honestly, I felt a little like I was betraying myself. I’ve been a lesbian almost all my life. I’ve had two boyfriends, but never had sex with them. Near the end of high school I just found I was attracted to girls… When Megan set us up, she had been hounding me about trying guys. She’s been my best friend for years, and has always supported me, but she has always tried to get me to try guys. And then, on a whim, she called me up and begged me to go out with you. She said, ‘I found some guy you’ll love. Just give him a try. If you do this, I’ll stop bugging you about it.’ So I had to. I just wanted to get her off of my back… I’m soooo sorry. I wanted to tell you. I should’ve told you, but the night was going so well I—“
“It’s ok.”
We sat in an awkward five second silence until I chimed in.
“You know, at least I can take solace in the fact that Megan thought I could turn a gay girl straight. I mean, that’s a compliment in itself.”
“And you almost did it. I did have such a great time.”
“So did I.”
“We can still hang out. I’d love to be friends.”
“That would be alright with me. I mean, if I need someone to help me hone my drunken hula skills I know who to turn to.”
And she laughed. We exchanged a few more pleasantries; she got out of the car and went inside. I sat for a second in front of her house in silence. It was a helluva night. I drove home, still in sort of a stunned surreal state, not sure what to do next. I pulled up to my apartment, stepping inside, grabbed my bottle of Makers Mark whiskey and poured a glass. For the rest of the evening, I sipped on my glass watching The Office until I fell asleep.
And that may be the craziest, oddest night of my life.
Every Saturday, one of us will post a blog post from our past in order to let you really get to know us… and laugh at us. Gerry thought it was going to be only him posting this, but then he promptly forgot the tradition he attempted to create. Once again, as the glue that holds the writing on this blog together, I present you my first classic post. This was a little story I wrote called “Alcohol”.
Alcohol.
Nausea.
Dehydration.
Humiliation.
Pounding headaches.
Ah, the beauty of a Hangover.
You know how it is. The night before, you start with something light.
A glass of Cabernet at dinner.
A beer.
A couple of shots of Jaeger.
You’re sitting in the bar with your friends talking about the tight ass on the chick you went out with last night, bitching about your Neanderthal boss, staring at the waitress’s ass, having a great time when said waitress comes back, leans over to show you her silicone udders, smiles and offers you another round of poison.
Sure, you’ll have another.
Why not?
You are gonna make it an early night anyway, got to get into the office tomorrow. Just one more and you’ll be in a cab, on your way home with a nice buzz in no time. Might as well make the last one a good one, so you order a nice Scotch.
Just as you’re taking your last sip, he walks in.
He goes by many names.
Tony, Mark, Matt, Bro- whatever alias he chooses for the night, his mission is clear: To get you loaded, stupid and in the worst shape possible.
The sonofabitch is grinning from ear-to-ear, but you know the deal. He’s the heavyweight champion of bad ideas, biting the ear off of any chance you had of leaving the bar in a respectable (or live) state.
Within minutes, you’re shooting the shit and remembering your hazing days. You are discussing one of your employee’s gay tendencies when, what is this? Tequila shots!
You refuse.
He calls you a pussy.
You tell him to shut the fuck up. You can’t do tequila shots!
You have to work tomorrow.
He looks upset and hits you a little too hard for your liking.
You refuse again.
He questions your tolerance.
He insults your manhood.
Finally, he gets desperate. “It’s Patron” he says.
Translation: This round just cost me a good portion of my unemployment, dude.
What can you say to that?
You promise yourself you will be out of the bar in ten minutes, toast Satan himself and down the shot.
Fade to black.
The next morning, you awake to a wet, sticky pillow and what feels like a singeing laser burning your face?
Man, you are hot. Why are your clothes so musty?
You manage to get one eye open and then the other.
You want to get up, shut the blinds and turn on the AC, but something will not allow you to move.
Fear?
Pain?
The pounding of a sledgehammer in your head combined with the burning sensation in your esophagus?
Yes to all of the above.
Unable to learn from past mistakes, and who are we kidding? You have been here before.
You attempt to move. Your head won’t budge. Are you really trying? You think you are.
Again and again, you lift a little and plop your throbbing skull back onto a pillow covered in a gooey wetness you are praying is just drool.
Finally, you give up and close your bloodshot eyes and start praying for recovery. If God will just let you feel better, you swear, you’ll never do this shit again. Oh, and you’ll throw in no more hookers as an added bonus.
You know. This time you mean it.
Really. C’mon, it is an even exchange.
He gets to have you sober and whore-less for all eternity and you feel better.
Wait. What if you are already in Hell? Hell would definitely feel like this! Come to think of it, you are boiling! Feeling like you are about to gag, you start fantasizing about water.
Anything to stop hacking up all of those cotton balls.
Eventually, you roll yourself over enough to fall off of the bed, and after a good half-an-hour of hugging onto the floor while the room took you for a ride, you manage to pull yourself up.
You vomit.
You moan.
You fall.
You cry.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Unable to peel your semi-urine soaked pants off your body and desperate for relief, you crawl into the shower, half dressed and treat yourself to a good ol’ fashioned convict hose-down.
You are just not going to make it this time. You are not as young as you used to be. How did you make it through college?
Eventually you clean your sorry ass up and get dressed.
You order in some eggs, bacon, pancakes, hash browns, coffee and OJ from the Korean deli down the street and agree to pay them their thirty-dollar ransom. You drink your roommate’s Gatorade (you’ll replace it) and lay on the couch, waiting for your greasy remedy.
The phone rings.
It’s Him.
Yeah, you know, last night was nuts.
Yeah, you kind of remember her coming in.
No, you don’t remember saying that.
Or that.
Oh shit, you definitely did not do that.
Suddenly, the wooziness returns and you are told to expect many-a-phone calls where random girls will be calling you a list of names that is reserved for an absentee father.
Yeah, as a matter of fact, your eye does hurt.
You hit who? What? Over a cab?!
You have to go.
This is too much.
You are done with drinking and with him.
It is time to grow up.
You were supposed to work today.
Overtime.
Catching up.
You hang up the phone and your food arrives.
You watch some “SportsCenter” and “Surreal Life”. By six, you are feeling a lot better. By eight, you are back at 100%.
You are playing air-guitar to some Zeppelin when your old high school pal calls.
They are having drinks at the local hangout.
Naw, you’ll pass.
No, you drank last night.
You are just now starting to feel better.
Okay, okay.
“One drink,” you tell him.
“Cool,” he says, “I have to make it an early night anyway, I have to go into work tomorrow.”
Welcome to the Tuesday Top Five on Wednesday! Each week, I will present at least one top five list on Wednesday for you to mull over, agree with, disagree with, or ignore completely! It is the Tuesday Top Five because alliteration is always fun. But I present it to you on Wednesday because Wednesday should not be shunned just because its the longest word of all of the days.
Top Five Weirdest Names (These are real names of real people)
5. Tarquin Fin-tim-lin-bin-whin-bim-lim-bus-stop-F’tang-F’tang-Olé-Biscuitbarrel, British political candidate self-renamed after a Monty Python character. Born John Desmond Lewis.
4. Mister Thorne, named because his mother figured (literally) that he’d become a high school geometry teacher when he grew up
3. Kentucky Fried Cruelty.com, PETA activist originally named Chris Garnett
2. Yorkshire Bank PLC Are Fascist Bastards, (see right side bar at link) Born Michael Howard but changed his name legally after being charged £20 for a £10 overdraft
1. Wolfe+585, Senior, (just click the link) the man with the longest name ever, including his first and all of his middle names beginning with a different letter of the alphabet.
Honorable Mention: Notwithstanding Griswold, Vista Avalon (Microsoft VP’s daughter), States Rights Gist (Confederate general during the Civil War), Yahoo Serious (Writer/Director/Actor from Young Einstein)
Top Five Sexiest Sports Names
5. Irina Slutskaya, Olympic medalist and Russian figure skater
4. Ron Tugnutt, Former all-star NHL Goalie
3. Johnny Dickshot, played outfield in Major League Baseball from 1936 to 1945
2. Dick Trickle, one of NASCARs most famous drivers
1. Chubby Cox, played seven games for the Washington Bullets in 1982 and is the Uncle-in-law of Kobe Bryant
Honorable Mention: Assol Slivets, Olympic freestyle skier
Today, while I was enjoying my sandwich at the local sandwich and meats emporium, an indiscriminate man in his early 30s sat down next to me to eat his lunch.
I thought nothing of it.
Despite my nervous ticks and foul odors, people invariably end up picking me as their hour long lunch buddy. While most of these friendships remain mute, my new companion today spiced it up. “Wow, you look pretty down. Do you mind if I sit and talk with you?” He had my full attention. “I can tell just by looking at you that you’re missing someone, some thing in your life. Whether you know it or not, I’m positive that Jesus Christ can help.” We proceeded to have a 45 minute long conversation about What Christianity Can Do For Me.
Now, I don’t know if I just looked exceptionally ‘down’ or if he had a quota to fill, but it was easily the tastiest lunch I’ve had in ages.
There is a new infomercial fad going around that people are slowly noticing. Chemical sexual stimulants are the new “it” thing to push, promote, and make a dollar off of. We have all seen the commercials with Smilin’ Bob of Enzyte, and the almost uncomfortable situations that the Cialis commercials put us in. At first, “natural male enhancement” was the thing. Now, its no longer that type of enhancement companies are pushing us towards. Now, it’s pheromone enhancement.
Most people have heard of pheromones. A pheromone is a chemical that triggers a natural behavioral response in another member of the same species. There are many types of pheromones. There are alarm pheromones, territorial pheromones, trail pheromones, even calming pheromones. Believe it or not, the studies (both controlled and not) that show that female menstrual cycles align when there are multiple women who spend extended periods of time together, come from the releasing of pheromones.
But, of course, the ones that the marketers are trying to capitalize on are sex pheromones. According to the infomercials, and apparently scientific study, an organ three inches in the nose called the vomeronasal organ detects pheromones and sends a sexual response signal to the brain. There are many products, such as Pherlure, that advertise that their product enhance these signals and increase the amount of pheromones, leading to a higher probably of intimate contact.
Being the fully confident, unabashed male I am, and in a service to Wasabisoft and its researches (patents, loans, actual experiments still pending), I decided to order Pherlure and try it out. Last night, donned in my finest pimp gear, with some sprayed on pheromones, I went to a local bar known to be frequented by students of the college variety. After walking in and sitting down at the bar, I started to notice the strangest thing.
Women were looking at me… and smiling!
I thought, “Wow, this stuff must work.” So, I sat there, played it cool, and decided I would scope the room for the perfect girl to “spit game” at. As I was looking around, I also started to notice that the guys were looking at me too and smiling. Now, my dangle don’t dangle for other dangles., so I was a little freaked out by the looks I was getting. I shook off the weird vibes and found my girl. I tried one of my favorite pick up lines; “Should I buy you a drink or just give you the money?” Depending on the girl, it can get a laugh, or get a slap. This time, it was unfortunately the latter. Oddly enough, she walked away laughing, so I just figured she got the joke late. I decided that it wasn’t the pheromones that time that failed, it was the line.
So, I found another girl. I dropped another one of my favorite lines; “You know, there are a thousand great guys out there, but only a few of us aren’t gay.” Usually a sure fire winner, but this time, I got a disgusted look and she left me. I figured, one more try and then I’m out of there.
I found one that girl and delivered one of the best lines in my back pocket: “Did YOU invite all of these people? I thought it was going to be just the two of us.” I was smooth, charming, just a perfect delivery of the line. She busted out laughing. Yes! I’m in. I thought about the follow up, should I go with more comedy? Should I just introduce myself? Just as I was about to open my mouth, she said…
“You smell like a camel’s ass.”
“What?”
“You smell like a camel’s ass. I smelled you the second you walked into a bar. You out smelled the cigars, beer and drunk in here!”
I left and went home.
So, what did my research come to? Apparently, pheromones smell like camel ass.
You’re welcome.