Now that I’ve been writing this blog for a while I’ve begun to see the pitfalls of being open about how you live. At first, readers think its great that you can be honest about who you are, but the they judge you and make across-the-board assumptions about who you are even though they only know about 1% of your life. Plus, you also get into “You did / didn’t mention me in your blog” drama (Kevin Federline?) or the occasional shitstorms that erupt when people get dissed or even think you’ve alluded to them.
It’s a fucking BLOG!!
OK?
First, I don’t mention anyone BY NAME unless you ask me to. Second, I gladly omit anything that anyone would like to see here. Third, I do exercise a modicum of common sense when I’m composing this digital drivel. Fourth, if it wasn’t for all the controversy surrounding me and this stupid blog:
I wouldn’t even know so many people were reading the damn thing!!!
So, rather than place anyone in the path of oncoming slander, I have decided to do this blog about my nine-day excursion to Amsterdam completely gonzo…meaning, some of these things I actually did, some are complete nonsense. It gives (what my lawyers call) is “plausible deniability”.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, the list:
- I MIGHT HAVE not even gone to Europe at all and sat in my house on a nine day crack binge which culminated in me smoking cat litter off the floor.
- I MIGHT HAVE spend 15 minutes arguing with a fish tank in a whorehouse.
- The fish MIGHT HAVE won.
- I MIGHT HAVE stayed at Mikes Apartment.
- I MIGHT HAVE phoned in terror threat in Prague.
- I completely deny #5.
- No, seriously, I was just joking.
- I MIGHT HAVE threatened send anthrax spores the IAU’s General Assembly scientists in Prague that declassified Pluto as a planet. (see #7)
- I MAY HAVE made sweet love to a psychedelic cow (unfortunately for the cow, there are pictures somewhere).
- I MAY HAVE been involved in a strip dance-off in a whorehouse right in front of (and to the shock and horror of) the Diplomatic Delegation from Korea.
- I MAY HAVE spent more money or re-arranging my travel plans than actually spent traveling.
- I MAY have accidentally discovered that K5Relax is the greatest place on Earth.
- I MAY HAVE spent my entire time in Prague with good Christian Youth Groups and thinking pure thoughts.
- I MIGHT HAVE started a new band (can’t remember the name) with our new hit song “Let’s Get Some Escorts (Escort 911)”.
- I MAY HAVE fallen asleep passed out on an airport bench on a pillow made of Harbio Gummy Bears and missed my flight.
- I MADE some Emo kid cry. (not tough to do)
- Mike in Brazil MIGHT BE Joe Peshi sidelining in porn.
- I MIGHT HAVE attended a Chetch skinhead / ska concert with the new champion of jizz lobbing (Anspermo).
- I MAY HAVE vomited my breakfast into a toilet and Prague and went directly out on a 12 hour drinking binge.
- I MIGHT HAVE missed or rebooked more flights than I actually caught.
- I MIGHT HAVE spent a whole day in Amsterdam gobbling Xanax after Xanax and praying for death because of a serious eye infection
- Mike in Brazil MAY BE the tooth fairy.
- I UNDOUBTEDLY drank “drinkinghard” (hardly drinking?) under the table.
- I MAY HAVE twice seduced a very sexy Euro girl into some delightful infidelities.
- I MAY HAVE gone voluntarily abstinent just like Paris Hilton.
- Pluto MAY spin out of orbit and come crashing through your living room roof.as you read this.
- Europe has the most horrible cocaine in the word and it may have caused number 21.
- I MAY HAVE had a bag of number 27 confiscated from my pocket at some stupid disco in Amsterdam and put into the “Drug” mailbox looking thing (have fun guys – see #21).
- I may have (very expensively), in a drunken 6AM stupor, booked some non-refundable tickets from Prague to LAX backwards and for the wrong month. (Does anyone want to visit Prague in October?)
- MAYBE it is not the best idea to sport t-shirts with pictures of Carl Marx in formerly occupied Soviet territories. The irony gets lost somehow.
- I MAY have made a public promise to stay sober (sans pot and xanax) for at least 7 calendar days.
- I will fail.
I hope that all gave you a giggle! You favorite pill popping, whore-mongering, alcoholic, globe-trotting, (yet honest), Playboy dude.
Jay
I’ve never shied away from giving advice to terrorists in the past; let me once again place my balls on the proverbial terror watchlist by suggesting that Al Queda should use BABY BOMBS to take down the next batch of infidels.
This occurred to me as my gummy bears were confiscated at a security checkpoint in Prague; if you guys used a few babies packing bombs in their diapers to blow up planes — then they would have to confiscate the babies! Meaning no more screaming shitty-smelling rugrat souring your 443.45 / per hour business class seat!
And I’m not saying this for my selfish reasons.
Praise Allah guys!
LOL
So I’m hanging out in this bar in Prague this week and out of nowhere busts in Drinkinghard, Sleazy, Dean from Partyhardcore.com, and some of the Big Sister club. Now I will have to say THAT NIGHT we threw down…the kept the bar open another couple hours just so we could keep bending our livers.
I knew they’d be in town the next night, so we all made plans to meet for dinner and more drinking the next day. So the next day I am calling him and everybody else in the GTS crew and for some reason it seemed like the phones weren’t working.
Me and Dean met about 7PM and tried every number we had for them, SMS, email, left messages, had other people to see if they could reach them…NOTHING.
For a while, we were worried that something might of happened but we figured they would try and reach us eventaully. So, that night me and Dean tore Prague a new ass again till 7AM.
Then Dean tells me (mysteriously) that the next day he gets a SMS from DH saying thanks for the good times ect…which is all good, but at this point I gotta call Drinkinghard(est) out:
DH, if you can’t hang, just admit that you can’t hang. No shame in that. I’m a machine. I’m tough to keep up with….no need to ignore us like a bunch of pesky girlfriends!
This is, of course, all in good fun…I’m just bustin’ balls here.
See you at the rematch.
I was born 9/11/1971, so September 11th 2001 was my thirtieth birthday. Thirty is somewhat of a milestone, and I can remember being a wee lad of eighteen thinking to myself “Man, if I’m ever thirty, the world is going to be a fucked up place.”
Sure enough, it was.
On September 10th, around 6 PM, I was out for a nice ride my on my mountain bike in the late summer afternoon. At the time, I was in the midst of breaking up with a girlfriend I had at the time. She seemed to be a nice enough girl — I was just bored. Fellas, if I can ever give you one piece of practical advice in these columns, let it be this: When you are done with a girl, just be done with her. There is no such thing as “letting her down easy” or “it’s not you; it’s me” bullshit – just break things off like the stone cold pimp you are. Women are like parking spaces, as soon as you pull out, someone else is trying to pull in – whether you want to believe it or not, you are not the last dick on earth. Stringing girls along only causes them to go psycho.
Anyhoo, I was in the midst of ignoring the above advice while my actions with a particularly loony bitch with a speed habit were making my life a living hell. In the previous weeks this girl had overdosed on xanax, gotten in a hit-and-run, and tried to stab herself in my apartment one time, but, luckily I suppose, the resulting scuffle found us both pinned under a flipped upside-down refrigerator and a stone gargoyle knocked her unconscious.
I’ve put up with some loony bitches in the past, but this one took the cake.
That day my cell phone just kept ringing over and over, some fifty-something times. It just so happened that I was biking close to her house. In the past, I’d had luck calming her down if I just talked to her face-to-face, and, at least, it would keep my fucking phone from ringing. So I answered the call and told her I would come over for a minute.
I go inside and tell her everything is going to be alright… blah, blah, blah, yawn, yawn, yawn, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit… and it seems to work. She starts calming down, so I inform her that I had to go because I was meeting some friends to go out for the night. At this, she becomes unglued, starts screaming, and throwing plates at me. I’m like, “fuck this shit” and I get on my bike and start to ride away. It’s about 9 PM and the sun is just going down. I ride up the street a short distance and I can sense headlights coming up from behind me. I turn my head around and don’t even have time to react…
THE BITCH RAN ME OVER WITH HER CAR!
Rather than winding up under the car, fortunately, when the car hit me it knocked the bike out from underneath me. I crashed off the windshield (spider webbing it in the process), and wound up on the ground behind the car. So what does the bitch do next?
SHE SLAMS IT IN REVERSE AND TRIES TO BACK OVER ME!
I manage to just barely roll out of the way of certain death as she threw it in reverse. Rather than face peril in the streets, I run into the backyard of one of the houses on the street and start high-tailing it from backyard to backyard. I was several miles from my house and the midnight hour was drawing near. Here I was at the predawn of my thirties – bleeding, mangled, and hiding in random people’s backyards while almost getting eaten by guard dogs, when I realized that my thirties would not be much different from my twenties.
So I arrive back at my apartment shortly after midnight. I was just going to bandage the scrapes, clean up, go out, get drunk, and find some pussy. Fuck that psycho bitch! I open the door, go to the top of the stairs, and what do I see? The same loony bitch that just tried to turn me into a street pancake is sitting in front of my door coloring in a coloring book! Now how fucked up is that? I grab my keys, try to go in my place without even saying a word, and lock her out. As soon as the door is cracked, she slips through and pulls out a pocketknife. Not knowing if the knife was intended for me or her, I immediately try and wrestle it from her hand. While pulling it away, the knife slices deep into the skin between my first finger and my thumb, and now my thumb is dangling from a piece of skin and this loony bitch is still in my apartment.
So, of course, things are not just going to end there. As soon as that shit happens Ms. Bates runs to the back of my apartment to my room, lays there in my bed, and refuses to leave.
“Ok, this has gone way too fucking far – I’ll call the cops to end this shit. I used to feel sorry for you but I don’t anymore.”
Knowing that I’m on probation, she retorts with, “Go ahead. Call the cops. Before they come, I will beat myself up and tell them that you did it.”
That fucking cunt…
So I spend the next five hours suppressing the urge to go on a domestic violence rampage the likes of which would make Ike Turner proud, trying to reason with this psychopath and get her the fuck out of my room. Finally, after hours of tense negotiations, I convince here to leave around 5 AM. She gets in her car and starts driving it around the parking lot like she was at a demolition derby. Not wanting to attract any more attention from my neighbors than I already had, I take her keys from her and offer to drive her home.
We get to her house where almost twelve hours before this ordeal had begun.
“Baby, you are going to stay here with me tonight, right?”
“Yeah, sure but first I gotta pee.” So I go in the bathroom, open the window, crawl out and hightail it to my friend Mike’s place. Its now 6 AM of 9/11, the sun is just coming up, I’m knocking at his door, and he answers.
“Dude, you gotta let me crash on your couch for a couple hours, I’ve had a really fucked up night.”
“Yeah, sure man.”
So, I lay down exhausted and I’m asleep for less than three hours when I hear…
“HOLY FUCKIN’ SHIT DUDE – THEY JUST FLEW A PLANE INTO THE TWIN TOWERS!!”
I open my eyes and can see on TV – the attacks had begun. Like a lot of people, 9/11 was one of the most fucked up days of my life – I had been run over, stabbed, held hostage in my own home, and our country was now changed forever. Maybe I was right when I was 18 — I was now thirty and the world was definitely a fucked up place.
That was my 9/11.
Hey you…I was walking down Hollywood Boulevard the other night and I saw this dude in a Charlie Chaplin outfit.
I said, “Hey man, nice Hitler Mustache!” and the dude pulls this piece of paper out of his pocket…all pre-written and shit.
The photo turned out great considering it was a camera phone.
