The Worst Halloween Ever

Well, internet, it's been a long time. Other than that one german guy who keeps sending me the naked lion costume pictures (seriously, who's your PT? you look great. We should never be pen pals.) And a couple people in Russia, you've lost interest in me.

To be fair, I haven't been paying you a lot of attention. I've been writing (gasp) other things.

Like a movie about a homeless guy who kills vampires

I'm sorry to tell you like this. My spybot monitor tells me you already know about all the porn, so this should hardly come as a shock.

But, low and behold, I've come crawling back. Consider this a writing booty call- because I've got a story that MUST be told.

I may have had the worst halloween ever. And not just didn't-get-laid-drank-too-much-may-have-had-sex-with-an-empty-costume-by-mistake bad. More like punched-in-the-balls-by-a-fat-girl bad. Not even fun, if you're not paying for it.

But let me start at the beginning.

I now work at a bar, making a living quickly getting people drugged up and making them feel good.

Like this, but without the healthcare plan

So I was working late this Saturday night, which is when most people went out for Halloween. For those of you from anywhere that's not America, Halloween weekend is when women in their twenties and thirties go out dressed like this:

"I'm a bunny rabbit"

It's the most wonderful time of the year. So, being as nothing turns women on more than the eight inches of wood separating them from the bartender (Bah-ZING!!) (that's super not true) I was looking forward to going out, spending some time with friends, and indulging in some it-doesn't-count-if-your-wearing-a-mask activities, if possible.

So I call my roommate, Beau. Beau has made other appearances in my blog, like here.

Beau says he's at a theater fundraiser, which is like a party where you pay a cover to hang out with people who like to talk about themselves. Actually, it's not like that at all. That's what it IS.

However, this theater fundraiser is ending at 2am. It's 2:05 by the time I get there. I should have to pay the 35 dollar cover to drink Carlo and pretend to be as interested in people as they are in themselves. 

Yayy! 2 girls this time!!! That's twice as many as last year!!!!

But it served as a fine meeting place to launch the rest of the night. So I go with a friend of mine from work, who didn't understand the meaning of "theater fundraiser."

I should mention Beau has SWORN that getting in wouldn't be an issue.

SWORN.

Like this with a "Sw"

Yeah. So, I'm there less than 4 minutes, and haven't taken any of their wine-in-a-box or anything, when a smallish young man in a roman centurion costume asks if my friend and I have tickets.

Me, being clever, responded that I didn't know there was a raffle. He was not amused.

Now, I should explain. To me, this guy looked like this:

Whereas, he must have looked in the mirror and seen this:

In this particular example, I'M THE BLACK MESSENGER DUDE.

Me: Okay then, we'll leave. We thought the party ended at 2.

Him: BLLLAAAAAARRRGGGGG!

He shoves me. I had agreed to leave, and he shoves me. Literally okay, I'll go = shove. What the fuck?

Now, I'm not an angry person. I've also taken Tae Soo Do, Aikido, Brazillain Ju Jitsu, and Krav Maga in my life. That's not a joke.

This was taken a couple of years ago. I've been working out since then.

Lets just say I'm not really easily intimidated, and in the words of Beau, who knows us both I could have "taken him apart." Like legos.

Now, not wanting to fight because some other guy is big and scary is one thing. Not wanting to fight a dude because he's scrawny enough that no matter what you'll look like the asshole is a different story.

It's surprising much more stressful, and I've been in both situations. So, we leave.

When we get outside, tiny centurion decides we have no short-term memory, and invite us to the theater company's next show. No joke.

So we head to a bar, because at this point, I needed alchohol the way Snooki needs the blood of the living.

See? I'm not the only one who sees it.

My bar friend has peeled off at this point in search of less lame things. It's down to Beau and I.

We hit a bar. I get a drink in my hand, and start to cheer up a bit. It's a 5am bar, which means everyone there couldn't manage to close the deal with anyone by 2am, but the pickings aren't bad.

We talk to a few different groups of people, then I notice 2 girls, both cute, sitting across the way, dressed as a policewoman and a prisoner.

This was actually taken from my cell phone.

I alert Beau to the situation, and begin to lead the way across the crowded room.

En route to what might have been a spectacular re-introduction to the art of handcuffs, Beau happens to be accosted by a good looking young lady on the dance floor, who begins dancing not with, but ON him.

Who says chivalry is dead?

Hey! Great. Mission accomplished. Now traditionally, that would leave me with this young woman's attractive friend, in the best case.

It was not the best case. I don't want to criticize the woman I met physically, because I think it would distract from my criticism of her actions. For the purposes of storytelling, however, I need a picture to represent her to you to protect her identity, so here's a completely random image from the internet:

Okay. So, she's not my type. However, as Beau's friend, I'm required to be a good wingman. This is something they teach you in man school. I'm required to distract the friend I'm not interested if it looks like it'll help my buddy get lucky.

Am I painting a clear enough picture?

So I begin to dance with the friend, whom I will henceforth refer to as Crazy. Crazy apparently is having a very good time. So good in fact, that she is rubbing all different parts of her on all different parts of me, which would have been great had I been sure which parts were which (sorry).

At this point, I look over at Beau, and mouth:

Me: You OWE me.

Him (mouthing back): Hells yeah!

Me (mouthing): You don't know what I'm saying, do you?

Him (mouthing back): I totally agree!

So, no help there.

Crazy (you'll learn why she's earned that name in a minute) starts saying things like:

"I barely know you. I shouldn't sleep with you."

and

"Did you know dogs can smell fear?"

I may have made up that second one, but the first one is totally legit.

I was nearing the event horizon, where an object cannot escape the gravitational pull of...whoops. Totally not a weight joke. 

Point of no return.

I pull out my cell phone. Fake a call, disappear.

SHE TRIES TO SNATCH IT, and says: "Don't tell me, you have a girlfriend?"

Now, I'd like to take a moment to point out that at no point did I solicit the attention I was receiving, nor had I previously mentioned anything about a girlfriend.

But hey, I'll take it.

I say, sadly, "Yes, unfortunately I do."

This is where shit gets crazy.

She shreiks, "you liar!" and PUNCHES ME IN THE CROTCH.

True.

Fucking.

Story.

PUNCHES ME IN THE NUTS.

What. The. FUCK! Swear to God, this actually fucking happened.

At this point, my duties as a wingman were over. Mancode ends at a shot to the groin.

I walk over to Beau, and interrupt the amateur lapdance he's receiving.

"Time to go-" I start to say.

But, like a bad fart, Crazy has followed me. 

"Don't talk to your friend about me" she says, yanking me away by the shirt.

"What's going on?" inquires Beau, quite surprised, and at this point a little concerned.

"She hit me in the nuts!" I say.

"Yeah, for lying!" she says, and DOES IT THE FUCK AGAIN.

Twice. Fucking Twice.

Twice. Kind of on me, that time. Shoulda been ready.

I grab her wrist. It was like catching a fat viper. I lean close.

"You are NOT gonna do that again," I say, and walk away to the table where we left our coats.

Beau follows.

"Dude, what happened?" He inquires.

"She's CRAZY!" I say (hence the nickname). 

He explained he thought I was into it. I asked how he could possibly think that. He explained he thought the crazy woman I had met was "Just as attractive as her friend"

Now, at first I thought he was just being a dick, because he got the hot one. Then I realized something about my friend.

I have a couple criteria for being attracted to someone. Chief among them being that they don't resolve disputes by HITTING YOU IN THE FUCKING NUTS. Others are physical, social, or intellectual. I value certain things in a potential mate, which makes them to me, attractive.

For Beau, attractive means OWNS A VAGINA.

"I think they might be sisters."

Then CRAZY decides to apologize. CRAZY and hot friend come over.

Now, internet, I think I should point out that at that point I had every right in the world to say all the horrible things I was thinking. Here's a list of them:

"I was just distracting you so my friend could have sex with your friend."

"You shouldn't have dressed up as a pin-up girl. You would tear the calendar from the wall."

"You may be endangered, and should take appropriate protective action."

I didn't. Because it wouldn't have helped her, or me, really, or the situation as a whole. She wants to apologize, I'll let her. She probably doesn't get out alot, and god knows she's not getting laid tonight.

See? At least I'm making an effort.

She apologizes, then says she has a question. I smile politely, and put on a listening face.

"Why do you want to be with the girl your with?" She says, and puts a hand on my thigh.

OH MY FUCKING GOD. I quickly move away.

Hot friend intercepts me at the other end of the booth. She whispers in my ear:

"My friend is really fucked up, but she really likes you!"

To which I reply, "You know? I got all that! We're on the same page!"

They left to "have a cigarette," leaving Beau and I to mull over my abused scrotum. At least, I was. I hope he wasn't, actually.

But, it was not all for nothing. Beau at least got her phone number. Right? He'd have HAD to. Anything else would be FUCKING STUPID, right?!?!?

First thing on Google Images

Yeah, NOPE. FUCKING NOTHING TO SHOW FOR IT.

I love Beau. He's one of my best friends, but I almost kicked him in the nuts.

"THEN GO FUCKING GET IT!!!" I scream. At this point, people are looking. I distinctly remember seeing hot cop and prisoner-

Remember?

-leaving at that moment. Right then. Because fuck me, that's why.

Beau goes downstairs, and I go to close out my tab. I know when to quit and call it a day. I tell the bartender the story of my night. He's a good guy, and takes it well. He laughs with me, making it feel...well, a little better.

That's what we bartenders do.

And then he told me they LOST MY FUCKING CREDIT CARD. And drivers license.

All work and no play makes jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes jack a dull boy.

At this point, is was a moral imperative for me to get out of the crowded building. Oh my fucking God.

I yelled all the way back to the car.

So yeah. Sometimes life just kicks you in the nuts.

Sometimes, so does a fat girl.

I know I'm not always the kindest in my portrayals of others. I know I'm at times selfish, self involved, impractical, and occasionally a prick just for the hell of it.

But now God owes me one.

Yeah that's right, don't make eye contact.

I believe in karma. I know I haven't done anything that bad. And karma will work for CRAZY as well. I trust she'll get what she's owed.

Not that I'm going to seek justice myself. Wouldn't want to incur the wrath of PETA or those crazy fucking whale wars people.

Hey, I totally know this girl he should meet.

First of all, because I'm hoping someone shows her this post. That would be recompense enough. And karma is a crazy bitch. I believe that.

Secondly, I feel that being able to experience this, and laugh at it gives me perspective.

And that's the real comfort here. Perspective.

Terrible things are happening in the world. People are suffering, and these are my grievances. That's a wonderful perspective to have. I count myself lucky.

Thanks, Middle East.

We are all truly, truly blessed. Even CRAZY. Her too.

Secondly, perspective gives me a second comfort. I'd like to address crazy directly, if I may be so bold:

This may be how you saw the night, at least to start:

But this is how I saw it, the whole time, so happy halloween:

My Computer is Pregnant

Hello, internet.

I'm now bumming you off the rehearsal hall, and desperately resisting the urge to download porn at work, because that's never really worked out well for anyone, and if I'm going to be fired for doing something involving pornography at work, I'd rather be in a participatory rather than observational role, but I digress.

My little Macbook is pregnant. Again, probably all the porn. There are many, many, many people who could be the father. I wouldn't even know where to begin to start.

Basically, my little computer has been chugging along fine since 2006 when I got a new one because my house got broken into (thought process: fuck! 3 years of work from college, toil, growth, all go...oh sweet, a webcam) without issue.

Then my svelt the battery went the way of Axel Rose.

Welcome to the Jungle

Who, as it turns out, may or may not Also be pregnant, also because of porn. Although were I you, internet, I wouldn't go looking for any videos of his impregnation. It's a little like that scene from the second Ghostbusters where Egon falls into the sewer. Here:

It's at around 5:00 in. You'll get the idea.

Anyway, my battery started swelling, maybe because of heat, or humidity, or pregnancy, now I must order a new one. Fine.

Couple of issues. While in Jackson, MI, I don't really have a mailing address, so everything is forwarded through an office, which is then usually forwarded to the actors. Not too big of a deal.

The only problem with this is I don't know how big my computer is. I'm pretty sure it's 15 inches (that's what she said) but unlike a lot of people, I don't keep a ruler sitting around near my computer.

It's just a great picture

So ordering online makes me nervous, because I can't try it out first to make sure it works, and they're not like, UBER cheap either.

My other option is to drive to Ann Arbor (which is not altogether a bad thing), and shop at one of 2, count em 2, Mac stores there.

The only problem with buying anything directly from a Mac retail location is that Mac will literally take your money, roll it up into a phallus, then RAPE YOU WITH THAT SAME MONEY.

Like this, but not in the mouth

Seriously. The batteries there cost a week's salary AND a left testicle. It's awful.

So here I sit, DESPERATELY not downloading porn, at the crux of a decision that could cause a fair amount of aggravation for at least a week or so.

But this is why we blog. To me, this is painful. To you, it's trite, and therefor funny. That's right internet, pain = humor.

Bam.

Amazon, here I come.

Cheers.

To My Loyal Fan

Hello, one dude from germany who reads my blog and keeps sending me naked pictures of himself wearing a Lion mask (you've lost weight, by the way, good work.)

I haven't been blogging a hell of a lot the past two weeks, simply because I've left the comfort of the nest and trekked to a land far north of home to do some Shakespeare for the summer.

Benefits to summerstock

A) Paid housing
B) Little responsibility other than acting
C) Lots of breweries in the area.

Detriments:

NO FUCKING INTERNET.

Right now I'm in a coffee shop downtown, and there's a dude reading this over my shoulder. Yes, I'm talking to you. Stop. It's obnoxious. Visit the fucking site. You can see the address at the top okay he left.

I fully intend to, as soon as the aforementioned internet is installed (I'm told it should be today or tomorrow, but much like Unicorns and a second term for Barack, I'll believe it when I fucking see it).

So internet, in all your sweaty, creepy, lion-faced goodness, you'll have to wait for the following topics (you can consider this my promise to you):

- The Viking Funeral / Corporate Excorcism that took place when I quit my job to do Shakespeare
- Living in Jackson, MI
- How I almost died at a travelodge
- Being without porn for 2 weeks


And many other gems, so stay tuned. I'm sorry baby, I do love you i just, i just, needs some space sometimes, that's all.

Also: FUCK COMCAST. IN THE FUCKING EAR.

Cheers,

On Cleaning

Oh, do I hate cleaning. I'm pretty sure there are 7 circles of hell:

1) You're trying to go to sleep and there's a dog barking
2) Driving behind old people
3) I'm not feeling that creative

....


7) Fucking cleaning

Now, I live alone (and I own a blog. I'm a true statistical anomaly) so I've run a swiffer over the floors once every couple of months, more often when I'm having a new lady friend over.

Now, you may be saying to yourself: once every couple of months? That's gross! I would never sleep with a guy who had such a dirty kitchen!

Yes you would. Many of you have. You don't check the kitchen until the next morning. Ha.

I'm subletting though, and don't really want to give the wrong impression to my new subletter, lest she destroy my couch, bed, and desk in my absence, so I'm truly making an effort.

And the people who do this for a living are fucking saints. I should come and have them do this, so as to further their sanctification.

I just did the kitchen, and my God, let me tell you, I am disgusting. I didn't even realize. If I had checked the kitchen last night, I might not have masturbated for fear I was hooking up with someone untoward, but, I digress.

My swiffer wasn't doing it. Because fuck me, apparently, the wet things didn't want to stick to the bottom of the stick thing, so I did it the old fashion way:

This is something I swore I'd never do, and it's the lamest thing to cross of that particular list.

I cleaned the kitchen on my hands and fucking knees.

Not at all like this, unfortunately

I remember I once was rooming with a group of people for a summer, and one day I came home and Kathleen, a roommate, was cleaning the kitchen floors on her hands and knees.

Like this, but with more "Mommy" issues

I remember stopping in the doorway, afraid she might have fallen and was trying to push herself up with a sponge, or something.

Apparently, I was staring.

"What?" quothe she, wiping her brow the back of her wrist.

I shrugged, afraid to a) question the madness, lest she turn it as a weapon against me or b) step over the now immaculate half of the floor near the doorway.

"Nothing," I managed after a moment.

We stared at one another for a long while, sizing one another up like two rival lions, facing off over the psychological kitchen-cleaning territory. She knew me fairly well, and was just DARING me to say something.

She smirked, the fire of battle in her eyes. I, for fear of it, did nothing.

Sensing triumph, she said, "I'll bet no one has ever done THIS before!" and resumed her scrubbing with vigor.

I might have pointed out that unless you're on the verge of a scientific breakthrough, how often other people gauge in whatever activity you are currently engaging in is a pretty good meter of cette activity's general sanity....but, I suppose you have to pick your battles.

And now, after all these years, you've beaten me, Kathleen. Now at least 2 people have done that. Guess you're only sorta crazy after all.

Cheers.

Sparticus: Blood and Sand Review

A little late, but I just discovered this on netflix. I recently tried to write for http://www.cracked.com a humor website I both read AND enjoy, but turns out they pre-screen their topics, and you can't just write what the fuck you want, and fuck that. So, here's my review:

So, I just watched the new Starz show “Sparticus: Blood and Sand.” And, just like a grieving process, there a seven stages to the experience. Stage one is where I realize how much the fight style is suspiciously like “300”. The second stage is where we realize how much the plot is suspiciously like “Gladiator”. The third stage involves a lot of  getting fairly angry. The fourth stage involves HOLY SHIT THAT’S A LOT OF FUCKING TITS LIKE 30 FREAKING PAIRS OUR TITS CUP FLOETH OVER. The fourth stage involves lots of grunting and eventual shame.

The fifth stage is eating some hummus on the couch in our underwear. There are no sixth or seventh stages.

However, given that Sparticus is just a mixture of 300 and Gladiator with a sprinkle of boobs, we still intend to prove that, like Mac & Cheese and midget pornography, the whole may be greater than the sum of the parts.

Pictured: Synergy

Part 1:

Yah, so here’s just a couple of randomly chosen screen shots from 300 and Sparticus.

All black people with whips aside, Total. Fucking. Coincidence. Like, for SERIOUS guys.

Only difference is in Spartacus, the main dude totally looks like burly Jesus.

Yippie Christ Yay Motherfucker.

Now, one of the ONLY strengths of 300 was it's awesome stylized fight sequences.

Also the leather diapers

The whole movie was basically one big slow-mo surgery lesson with videos of a junior college freshman year acting class’s classics quarter spliced in.

Which worked. And was kind of awesome. No one knows why that guy we think might be Sean Bean talked like a pirate, but you know what? We forgave him.

Yar. I want that fucking ring.

We spent the entire 2ish hours in a boyish, blood fueled daze. Which frankly, we were fine with.

Problem was, there was not a whole lot of plot to speak of. To be fair, a good 45 % of the movie was in slow motion, so you only really had about thirty-five minutes of story to work with.

A good synopsis: Leonidas wants fight Persians. Council says no. He goes anyway. Wife gets boned. Leonidas dies. This is known as the first p0wnage in history.

Besides, Leonidas sounds like a disease where your balls turn into lions. Which is maybe the reason for the diapers.

For your protection.

So along comes:

PART 2

You know who wrote this shit?

Us neither. But we totes IMDB’d it. And it’s David Franzoni. (Still not ringin’ a bell here either.)

Well FYI: he wrote freaking Amistad. Also King Arthur.

We'll just call it even.

And do you know who directed Gladiator? Do You?

Ridley. Shitting. Scott.

That's Who.

So Gladiator has story coming out the freaking BALLS.

That's right. Right there out the balls.

Which is maybe why the plot summaries of Gladiator and Sparticus are about as distinguishable as Mary Kate and Ashely Olsen (though we’d totally be down for a three-way).

However, where the Gladiator fight scenes were awesome at the time… nowadays, with everything augmented digitally, they don’t stand out in a crowd.

Cluster-fuck fu.

On a related note:

Fact: Russell Crowe once straight punched a Bengal tiger in the face because it resembled a paparazzi holding a camera.

Pictured: I totally see it.

So you gotta imagine the Producers’ conversation went something like this:

Bob: Hey, know what made a lot of money? Gladiator.

Steve: Yeah. That’d be nice if we’d made it. We’d have so much Coke.

Bob: Coke out the BALLS.

Steve: Right out the Balls.

Bob: Hey, know what was cool? 300’s fights.

Steve: Hell yeah! I’m wearing my replica leather diaper right now!

Bob: I’m wearing one too, for totally unrelated reasons!

Steve: Hell yeah!

Bob: Hell FUCK yeah!

(They high five. There’s a pause)

Steve: HEY!!! I Know what would be awesome!!!!

Bob: HELL YEAH!! Let’s MIX IT UP BITCHES! It just needs one extra thing!!!!

Jesus, bitches.

Steve: Yeah! Well, maybe two things…

Which brings us to:

Part Three: 

It's not like this is my desktop or anything.

Seriously: There are like a good forty boobs in the first hour of this show. The Show should be called Sparticus: Blood and Tits. Actually no. That sounds like everyone ran a marathon without Vaseline.

Pictured: Health

So, the verdict:

Plot: +8 for awesomeness, -10 for the ripoff: overall, -2

Visuals: +9 for awesomeness, -10 for more leather diapers: overall, -1

Tits: +like, a billion, -1 for lack of more tits.

The verdict: Watchable (for the tits).

Cheers.