I realized the thumbnail post was a mess, we did a massive overhaul…check it out here:
http://www.jays-xxx-links.com/links/tgp.html

Despite all of my self-abuse, I do have a healthy side. I ride my bike 7 miles to the gym every other day and work out for about two hours.

A big problem being an owner of a decent bike in a metropolitan area is theft. In the last three years I’ve had three bikes stolen and each time I’ve replaced it with a progressively bigger bike that moved up in tandem with progressively bigger bike locks. Trek became Gary Fisher and now Gary Fisher is a Cannondale. Now my lock of choice is the Ongaurd Brute Bitbull…a lock which is so big and burley I need to carry it around in a backpack.

A few days ago I am walking out of the gym in the middle of the afternoon with my keys in hand ready to unlock my bike. To my surprise, when I reach the bike rack, some black dude is shaking the bike like he’s possessed in a vain attempt to exorcize it from the pole.

So I walk up, “Let me show you a trick to get that off faster…”

He steps back, I swiftly unlock the Pitbull, snap it back together, and swing the business end of it straight into his jaw. Stunned, he steps back. Blood spatterings and bits of teeth cover Wilshire. I’m a little in shock that I had fucked him up so bad. I already had the lock poised ready to strike again, so I brought it down on his head in a second and even more wicked blow.

I don’t even think that he knew what had happened. By this point the various people meandering around the streets of the Miracle Mile were starting to stare as some skinhead fuck was beating the life of some poor black crackhead, so I threw the lock back into my backpack and bounced.

When I got home I washed the blood and bits of flesh off of it.

Originally Written: Saturday, April 05, 2003

For misplaced, yet upwardly mobile souls, there are places worse than the ATL. However, there are far better places for stratospheric social climbers, like my compatriots and me, to be stuck at on Friday night than lowly, local shit-kicker bar, The Highlander. You see, we exist in an unfortunate state of social limbo, within which we have too much money and infamy to socialize with our commoner friends, but not enough money or style to be buying out the VIP room at the Crobar in South Beach. You see, we ARE ballers — just one step beneath the pretentious upper crust of society — but it still is most likely that any of our “normal friends” will not have enough cheddar to make it to the titty bar three nights a week, like we do. Maybe there is strength in numbers; maybe misery loves company – who knows? Either way there MUST be some kind of network within which the Moderately Successful can meet other Moderately Successful people to end the stagnation and loneliness of this social purgatory.

It was one boring fall evening in 2002 that me, Jeremy from Nashville Pussy, and Paul were all sitting around, bored stiffer than 18 year olds on Viagra after the prom. We decided there has to be something better than this! I mean, we are young, semi-famous, somewhat successful, intimidatingly good-looking, with a few bucks in our pockets – we deserve better! We ain’t P-Diddy, but among the crowd we run with, we are most surely local celebrities of the highest order. Every night, hanging around the same scumbags, looking at the same three of four tired-ass bitches we’ve already run up in many times, and occupying one of the same three barstools our asses have been parked on for a year, and the year before that, and the year before that. Obviously, we were moving on while our plebian friends were fast becoming too lame for us. Still, at the same time, we must retain our punk rock sensibilities by refusing to “sell out,” (plus, we don’t own enough nice clothes to make it past the door guy and hang with the elitist uptown snobs).

So what is a nigga to do? The answer: find more people like us. That’s right — we can’t be the only muthafuckers trapped in this unfortunate social dilemma. We had to find more people stuck in this same rut, form a secret order, and begin recruiting. So, much like the founding fathers did in 1776, we sat down at a table — drunk with resolve — and drafted a charter by which like-people can come together to take the doldrums out of our middle-of-the-road existence. On the back of a punk rock flyer we pulled from the wall of the bar, we scrawled the 10 original commandments of The Order of The Moderately Successful Club. Written in such a way as to separate the wheat from the chafe, the commandments are intended to provide us access to better quality pussy, more exciting leisure activities, exotic international travel, and to ensure that all of our drugs are nothing but the finest Schedule One Narcotics. Through the years, this mere skeleton of a document will become clouded with bylaws, amendments, bad interpretations, misguided revisions, and foreign translations. The original meaning will be lost through time, while the original members will move on to form more secret, more exclusive organizations that will insulate us from our mediocre demons of our past! But for now, this will suffice.

The Order of the Moderately Successful Club goes as follows:

1. Must have some form of GLOBAL RECOGNITION for something you are doing — be it in print, recordings, film or even the Internet. And no, your Geocities homepage, the classified ad in the “desperate singles section” of the paper, and your hair band demo from the 80’s DO NOT count!

2. Must have $300 of disposable income, which on any given night, you could squander on drugs/booze/strippers/whores and lose no sleep over.

3. Your level of fame must be at least to the point where other people will spend money on you just say they “hung out with you”.

4. Women between 80 lbs. and 400 lbs. are automatically included in group activities, though, of course, they can never be actual members. On a side note, the 400 lbs. top-limit was enacted to accommodate a certain charter member with a proclivity for the larger things in life. New members are not encouraged to experiment with wide loads – only experienced professionals should be throwing around that kind of weight.

5. Must have had sex with prostitutes in at least three different countries. Amen.

6. Must have done drugs with at least one famous person, but preferably more.

7. Must be tired of the same ole’ same ole’ and be driven by a desire to create a panacea for the boredom of moderate success.

8. Must have some form of self-promotional merchandise. This is very important, and is a likely stumbling block for prospective members. T-shirts, records, hats – hell, even a fucking keychain with your face on it will qualify.

9. Must have spent at least a cumulative $5000 dollars on lawyers during your life.

10. In an ironic twist of fate, the sheet of paper containing the 10th commandment was lost. What it said has long since been forgotten, but since we need an official sounding even number, I will make my first amendment and address the current needs of the group: Sexual predators like the Moderately Successful move quickly and exhaust the supply of local snatch-o-la at a furious pace. We need to be surrounded with better pussy! Therefore, you must be driven by the all-encompassing desire to bust creamy loads of hot man spackle in newer, fresher, hotter bitches’ teeth on a nightly basis. Sound good?

If you or someone that you know thinks they pack the gear so serve in our beloved corps – if you truly believe you deserve to be among the Moderately Successful, email me at jay@occash.com, and we’ll determine if you are indeed cut out for our most semi-prestigious organization. Until then, see you in the middle!

Peace,
Jay

For some reason, Homeland Security krunk that trusty terror alert to Orange this week and has specified Las Vegas as a possible target. If credible, here is the proof that Al Qaeda is indeed starting to slip. Don’t accuse me of giving advice to the terrorists, but, come on guys, attacking Vegas is just fucking retarded.

Sure, Las Vegas offers large crowds, with the opportunity to slaughter tons of infidals, but just who do you kill anyway? A few blue-haired one-armed bandits, Wayne Newton, and Carrot Top. Other than that, you’ll only be offing blackjack dealers, hookers, and reprobates.

You would be doing the United States a favor.

No, Jihad’s chance to destroy western scum pigfuckers does not lie with suicide bombers; what the terrorists need is suicide builders. Imagine the body count you could rack up if you built more Vegas’s! Think about it: a single strike would kill a quite a few people, but if you teach folks to die, you can count on them drinking, hookering, gambling, and drugging their way straight into open graves for years to come.

The sweet irony: You would be wasting Americans with the very vices that you claim to detest. Even better, death will come slow and prolonged — not the boring instantaneous expiration of life you’d get from a mundane plane crash. We’re talking agonizing deaths at the hands of vicious habits, addiction, and STDs. Once built, you guys can just sit back and enjoy the show. Maybe, you could even make a cool reality show for Al Jazeera for it — yeah, that would be tight! Just think how perfect the world would be: Sit back, relax in the desert with towels on your head, chopping bitches’ clits off, and sodomizing camels while the Western World plunges into ruin. You guys would make Allah proud!

I’ll have to admit that I wasn’t that exited to attend this year’s Phoenix Forum. The hype about the show was over the top, there was going to be millions of people there, and I had just returned from some pretty disastrous webmaster outings, but I will have to say…The Phoenix Forum fucking rocked! It was one of the best webmaster shows I’ve ever attended for business, philandering, and fun.

It’s like a week later now…so let me run up some of the highlights:

Wednesday – After less than one day at home — get on a plane to AZ and head to Phoenix. Southwest loses my luggage. I have to pick it up on the next flight. After, I run by the Mission Palms. I meet up with Scotty from Adultplayersclub / Ass Munchers and Alli from Topbucks / Big Butts Galore and head for the strip club. I bring some chick back to my room, give her the Smegma Tsunami, and call it a night.

Thursday – Wake up. Drop the Tsunami again and head down to the party Scotty is throwing at hooters with some of my boys from Wantedlist. I’ve always noticed there has been an excess of hot bitches in Tempe, but I swear – now its getting totally ridiculous. The city of Tempe should give whiplash insurance for neck injuries sustained spinning your head around to see all the hot snizz milling around. I start getting hammered real early in the day, watch some naked dodgeball, and check out this rock party hosted at a bar down the street. I meet this hot girl from Spain (that will be my future ex-wife – lol). Go to my boy Dee’s (Gagonmycock.com)party up in one of the Suites.

Blackout.

Friday – The day starts out much like the last…hooters, dodgeball, a killer party at the library hosted by Paycom and Wegcash (Desparate Latina Sluts). The party is loaded with hot snizz – I am completely wasted out of my head, we wander back to the hotel and go to some suite parties. We wind up downstairs at Dee’s room again the night seems like it is slowing down, but then…

We are doing a little blow. There are these two sisters (paternal, not black) and they are asking where more coke is. We take them back to our hotel. As we are doing the lines – one of the sisters starts dancing around, the other starts grabbing my cock and telling me how horny coke makes her. Next thing I know I am banging one of the sisters on the bed while the other sister is blowing my friend. We get finished, do a few lines and SWITCH SISTERS! While the second one is bobbing my knob, the phone rings in the hotel (it is like 11AM by now) - a cab was here – the sisters put back on their cloths and say, “We gotta get to the airport…our husbands are waiting for us!!”

Indeed, classy ladies.

Then, as quickly as they were here — they were gone. Me and my buddy just sat at the table looking at one another. How do you top that?

That’s was Epic.

Saturday – Wake up at 5PM feeling like smashed assholes. Go to a dinner sponsored by my buddies — shit after the two sisters….why and I even bothering writing any more of this blog?

We coke-closed two fucking sisters! How hot is that?

Long live the Phoenix Forum – see you again next year.

The next morning I completes another GFE with my girl and we took the 2 hour trek back to San Jose. Since Varius from iWantyou dropped the ball on his GFY blog, I will post his account of that night, as it is a pretty decent one:

Tuesday - After having a harder time waking up than usual (due to the real long Monday night partying!), I sludged over to my computer thinking to myself “Ah, finally tonight I can relax”, as I dove into my work.

Then, I got a call. It was Rob from XonDemand. I thought to myself “oh no! not more partying!!”

He and Bob, plus XXXJay and Airek, were finally coming back into the city from Jaco. They wanted to come down to checkout our offce and grab some dinner after. Sounded cool, I figured maybe they were dead as well so it’d still be an early night.

Well they showed up, got the tour of my dungeon, took some pics of “doing business” to justify the trip and then we went out to dinner with Michael (IwantU), IwantU_Jennyfer, IwantU_Rosalia_lara and I along with three of our office girls (Susan, Mau and Vanessa). We went to a nice italian place that everyone seemed to enjoy; the best part was how an 11-person tab including some drinks, desserts, appetizers and main courses came out to only about $170 - these are the real Costa Rican prices, not Jaco’s Gringo Tax that some of you may have participated in Mike had to leave early so left me a deadly weapon with which to pick up the tab: his black card Mouhahahahaa.

Rosalia and Vanessa headed home, leaving us with 8. We tried to come up with a decent place that would have people on a Tuesday night, and found one called El Sultan. It happened to be student night (I think), so beers were 60 cents (pitchers at $2.25!) all night long. Unfortunately it was WAY overcrowded (hrm university kids and cheap alcohol, who ever though that’d work ) so we only had one round of beers (thanks to Rob for the entrance and Jay for the drinks - I think - sorry if it was Bob or Airek but I can’t remember eheh)

On to the next spot, where they were having a free Raggae/ton/hip-hop party. Big thanks to Rob and Bob for leaving their tab open for us

*One of us* was involved in some dancing contest on stage (no, not me) and kicked the other guy’s ass! Can you guess which guy it was??? Soon, Susan had to leave, so we were down to 7. I was feeling wrecked (tired not drunk), but figured I could stick it out a little more.

On to Friends we went, a bar next door that was also packed. Again thanks for picking up the entrance tab guys As they weren’t giving out beer or most drinks to our free drink tickets, I introduced Bob to Guaro - he liked it. We introduced Jay and Airek to some girls we knew there, and they just went wild

Jen, Mau and I eventually left, but we knew we were leaving them in - well ok maybe not “good” hands LOL - but in some female hands.

Great night even though I was drained, thanks to everyone who was there!!

We wake up the next moring, my girl completed the GFE by giving me a morning shot of pussy — meanwhile, and I can hear Eric and his girl in the shower.

The girls comes out saying, “My pussy is broken, es El Burro!”

Now my and Eric aren’t bad…we both can fill some Gold Labels (Magnum Condoms), but these girls see more dicks than Hanyens Underwear. There’s no way our cocks are that big…or are they? Perhaps not…she was probably doing was using a time tested Lazy Hooker Techniques (LHT). Yeah, it seems brotha are packin’ these days…but there is no way that these girls can be for real about it.

So, we spend that night riding ATVs through the mountains of Costa Rica and then we are left with what to do with the night. We were starting to get sick of the whoring. We were going to go out, have some Sushi, and GO ANYWHERE but the Beetlebar.

We all go downtown get some sushi, mill up and down the street and look into all of the dead bars. Nothing going on here, looks like the Beetle bar is happening.

“Fuck the Beetle Bar…it’s a burnout scene”, was our mantra.

We go to a couple of other bars get charged 80 USD for a coupe rounds of drinks, talk to some putrid / annoying / geeky American “surfer” chicks from the Midwest, and then decide that there is no excaping the gravitational force and wind up back at the Beetle Bar…. (see below)

Scarey, huh?

Where we begrudgingly hired a few escorts and tried to show them a little romance by taking them to the The Monkey Bar. On the floor, I bust into one of my pattened “throw me a word” freestyles and lay down some serious break dancing moves. Sometime during “the worm” my wallet spills open, my colones, my dollars, and my credit cards go flying everywhere. Miraculously, everything is returned to me by the locals except $180 bucks I had…oh well, I was lucky to not lose that.

Till then THE HOOKER I WAS WITH gave the money back to me. Somebody, better call up the Catholic Church…a bonified miracle just happened! She had played a great long game…she was going to get nailed that night. It seemed like Eric was starting to make some progress with two civilians until the appearance of the level 5 clinger / hooker from the night before came in and wanted another night with the “El Burro” for some reason (Cockblocked).

In the meantime, Bob and Robb both wound up on acid somehow and me and Eric split with our tricks. That night, we decided to make our own WFR by breaking into the room next to us for some romance.

Apperantly, no matter how y0u try and fight it… in Jaco Beach there are two thing you can do on a weekday night:

Go Mongering or Nothing.

Good stuff.

I wake up and knock the bottom out of the girl from the night before one good time more. This was the day that most of the people would be leaving, but me and Eric pretty much had the whole resort to ourselves. I sleep most of the day and when I get up I run into the other two toxic twins, Bob and Rob from XOnDemand.

We go downdown determined to find a good mongering experience. At this point Eric hadn’t been to the Beetle Bar yet. The Beetle Bar is a whoremongers paridise – just a relaxed beacjh bar with millions of Latina hookers in it that classic rock blasts from the stereo all day and night and the mongers crawl to and fro like zombies in The Return of The Living Dead for days on end.

We hang out and get really wasted. Those guys pick up 4 hookers for themselves and me and Eic grab 2. We went back to the room and duel-mongered and both got the GFE. The chick I grabbed was a pretty hot, busty gir from the Dominican Replic. Apparently, over at Bob and Robs room two hooker split eachother lips, the room was flooded, along with other various assorted mayhem.

Maybe it was a good thing our girls were in a rush to do business.

A great mongering experience to say the least.

Saturday: That day we were supposed to go on the pirate hooker cruise, but when we found out that we’d be stuck on a boat all day, hungover as fuck, with a bunch of girls that weren’t even hookers (the aka: Models) we decide to pass. I am sitting at the resort, eating lunch, and I look down the end of the table and I can see my friend YNOT Bob sitting there talking to a these guys casually. The sign some papers, shake hands, and the other guy says to me.

“Guess what?” Bob says, “I just bought a mountain!”

So that afternoon, me and the owners of (Topbucks – who makes all of these awesome porn sites), Ponopoushers (who makes these awesome porn sites) Bob and a developer take a ride up and check it out. Very, very, impressive.

I thought this was something Bob had been reseaching for a while, but no. This was his first time in Costa Rica and he had only seen the mountain the day before.

I like this guys style.

That night we cruise down to Playa Hermosa for a party DJAirwreck (Ragecash) would be deejaying. The party is at a dope club on the beach. At the party I am introduced to a guy that only refers to himself as “the captain” who was the esteemed author of the Secret Hooker Algorithm (TSHA).

Erics DJ’s two songs and then tosses his record into the sea. Now that’s punk rock!

Earlier that day I had warned of the impending cum tsunami that would fly in the direction of the first chick that could actually make me blow a load of man spackle…see — in the days prior, I had been boning a bunch of sluts, but due to a lot of condoms, CIHS, and a lot of alcohol – I had never really blown a nut. Whatever bitch did finally make me nut would have to face a 30 foot cum tsunami roaring toward her face!

I wind up hooking up with some awesome civilian pussy (well maybe partially civilian, she was porn talent)….we go back to her room and we fuck like champions.

The tsunami was unleashed – widespread reports of power outages, flooding, and mysterious patches of thick leche run rampant among the natives.

Here is a picture Gary from Latincash / Wet Latina Girls thought he could bribe me with…but there is no shame in my game:

Grand fucking slam.

Friday – Brutal hangover #1. We take a bus to Jaco beach. On the way we stop at alligator creek to witness the worlds largest (and laziest alligators). They lazily lap up the raw chicken we are hurling directly on their heads from the bridge above.

After about three hours we make it over to the Jaco Fiesta and start drinking hard. At the resort, they are thowing a little party on the patio with the second most stuck up bunch of girls outside of the whore at Del Ray: The Hired “Models” (can I put that in a big double quote?). The guys at iWantYou were cool enough to make sure the rod-to-cod (RTCR) wasn’t totally out of whack…the only problem is the girls were pretty much stuck up and didn’t talk to us really at all.

By 10PM Eric gets so drunk he passes out and me and another friend decide to go out to dontown Jaco to do some mongering.

First Stop: The Beetle Bar. Within seconds of being there I am accosted by a really hot blonde and a friend that did seem to be showing some hooker chemistery, but cut very quicky to the “Vomos”, plus unsure about the Lame Hooker Threesome (LT3) so I decided to wait and shop around for just the perfect purchase. As I strolled trough the bar, I found it quite pleasent that the hookers kept grabbing my dick to try to increase their conversion ratio. There were a lot of mongers in the house doing some pretty vicious “speed mongering“, so if I waited to long I would lose my pick. I decided to take my chances.

After a while, my friend gets worn down and decides to slip into speed monger mode and closes a deal. I decided that maybe it would be more fun to get a civilian that night, so I slip down the road to the monkey bar to see what’s happening. All I found was a ton more hookers mixed it with a few locals, so I moved back to the Beetle Bar and find the better half of the two girls from earlier.

“What’s your problem, no gusta sexo?” she says to me.

“Me gusta sex, y no gusta tu amiga” I replied. (I like sex, but not your friend).

So we leave and go back to the room where Eric is still passed out in oune bad. Here, I am violating rule #1 of the 10 Hooker Commandmants: always keep a Whore Friendly Room (a WFR). He wakes up for a little bit and I say:

“Sorry about this, it’s gonna get ugly in here.”

This chick is pretty hot. We are talking about a 7 or so. We start boning and it winds up to be some CIHS. No GFE.

Eric wakes up. We do a couple rockstar lines of some fine-ass devil’s dandruff, I spend an hour or so babysitting my friend trying to convince him he’s not going to have a heart attack, and crash the fuck out.

Strike 2 in Costa Rica.

Thursday: Arrive in San Jose for a bash put on by the good folks at Iwantyou.com (the oldest and most populated with real chicks dating site out there) and meet up with my partner in crime (and the other half of The Toxic Twins) DJ_Airwreck (Sleepassault / Ragecash) that night. They throw a party at the local titty bar that night (Tango India). We hang out for a little bit, but then decide it’s time to get straight to the mongering.

As being a person who enjoys voluntary copulation with hot chicks in my non-monger life….when I go mongering I like to get the hooker sex as close as possible to the monger sex as I can. That requires the elusive GFE (Girlfriend Experience) in order to avoid CIHS (Cold Impersonal Hooker Sex).

We take off out of the strip club and head for the most overrated whorehouse in Costa Rica: The Del Ray. The Del Ray seems to be the choice of mongers in San Jose, but I’m not sure why. Make no mistake about it — The Del Ray sucks and should be avoided. It could be that the monger to hooker (M2H) ratio is damn near 1-1. These sluts act like a bunch of mini Paris Hiltons, but maybe worse — at least Paris puts out!

There was no time at all to determine Hooker Chemisry because if you said one word past when they asked “Vamos?” they were off to another guy. I was horrible. These bitches were stuck up. We were in a whorehouse, with money, and were ready to pay and…

We couldn’t get laid!

It was pathetic!

We hang out there for a while and I finally decide I am going to take whatever the first girl is that feigns any kind of interest. I wind up picking up a 5 and bringing here back to the hotel for some CIHS.

Strike 1 for Costa Rica.

This one goes back to September of 1999. I was fresh out of prison, on probation, dealing cocaine, and out with a group of fellow Virgos to celebrate our collective birthdays. At Trader Vic’s, we had a copious amout of Suffering Bastards, Mai Tais, and assorted
rum drinks when our drunkenness brought us to The Clermont Lounge. I have often described the Clermont Lounge as “walking into a David Lynch movie”, but that night, we strolled into Atlanta’s version of Blue Velvet and found none other than, Oliver Stone.

He was sitting at a table with two bodyguards. We are arguing back and forth as to whether it is really him or not. At the time, I had a girlfriend; she was quite something: tall, Brazilian, with an English accent and big boobs. We were supposed to get married one day. Yeah, right. Anyhoo, rather than have one of us guys going over to bug him, we thought it would be better to send the busty English bird — she got up and sat down with him while we watched from across the room…

Yep, it was him alright – Oliver Fucking Stone.

So she brings him by our table, we shoot the shit with him for a while, where I am clearly introduced to him as her boyfriend, before she goes back over to his table and they continue chatting. It was becoming clear to me that Oliver was becoming quite enamored with my woman. No biggie, it would be cool to tell everybody tomorrow that we were hanging out with Oliver Stone at the Clermont.

If she was the bait – so be it.

It gets toward closing time, Oliver has joined our group and asks what was going on after the bar closed. We decide to do some afterhours shit at my friend Shane’s house. Oliver and his bodyguard follow us over to the house; they drop him off and leave. Oliver is back on my girl like a mosquito to a blood bank. I was starting to feel like Oliver was getting a bit disrespectful, but fuck it — he’s just an old fossil. A few times, I attempted to join in on their conversation but get rudely ignored.

Ok, Whatever.

At the time, I was in the midst of a dilemma. I was making my living as a coke dealer, but I felt my girl had a wee bit of a coke problem, so we made the mutual agreement lay off the weasel dust. Yeah, I know…what a stupid idea — it’s like suffocating someone, holding a bag of air, and charging them to breathe.

Hindsight is 20/20.

After a while, I leave the room and when I come back; they are both gone. I walked into the hall and by the bathroom; where I can here keys jangling, noses snorting, and a British accent saying, “Don’t tell my boyfriend about this…” Then, while lurking in the darkness at the end of the hall, I see them both walk out.

This was getting out of hand. It was time to check Oliver’s ass, but how best to do it? No point in kicking his ass. He’s an old fart. I had to do something though, I don’t care who the fuck he thinks he is – the pompous bastard.

Then it hit me.

I go in the bathroom, lock the door, and pull the massive bag of boogger sugar I was slinging out of my pocket. I chop out a line that would choke Scarface and snort it in one go. I was gacked off my face.

It was time to exact my revenge.

Without warning, I plop down on the couch between Oliver and my ex. It was Showtime! Now, keep in mind, I am taking mercy on you, o’ fine CJ readers, by paraphrasing what followed. Trust me, for very one word printed here — five came out of my mouth that night.

It was glorious.

“Hey Oliver, Hey Oliver…you do movies, right? I got this idea for a film! It’s about these guys who are in college and are living in this house on campus and are selling weed. One day, this crazy Irish guy shows up on their porch and just sits there — all creepy and shit. These guys have weed in the house, so they are like totally afraid to call the cops. Well, he just loiters there on the front porch for days; not saying a word and really bugging these kids out. So you know how he’s on the porch and he’s Irish, right? They start calling him Patty…Patty O’ Furniture!”

Oliver stares back blankly.

“Dude, do you get it? Patty ‘O Furniture!! Doesn’t that fucking RULE?!”

Oliver continues glaring back, barely able to hide his annoyance as I continue:

“So, one night they have this keg party at the house, and, you know, Patty O furniture is Irish, so he likes to drink! Right? Then, all these frat boys crash the party and drink the keg dry. So, Patty o’ Furniture gets pissed as shit when the alcohol runs out and flies into a psychotic rage and starts butchering the frat boys with an axe. Then, more frat boys arrive with more beer; Patty massacres them all and drinks their beer. Then the other fraternities send rescue parties to discover the fate of the first two groups and he wastes the rescue party! By the end of the movie, Patty o’ Furniture has killed every frat boy in town. Wouldn’t that be fucking great man? Making a movie about a drunken Irish serial killer slaying frat boy after frat boy? Fuck yeah. So, if you want, you can help me with it?”

Oliver responds, “That’s great. Now get the fuck out of my face you asshole.”

“No, wait dude, that’s just part one!” I say, grabbing hard on to his sleeve in cocaine frenzy. “Part Two is Patty O’ Furniture Goes to Vegas. So anyway, Patty o’ Furniture is in Caesars Palace playing some blackjack. You know how, like in Vegas, as long as you are gambling — they keep bringing you free drinks, right? So, Patty has been playing for a few hours when he starts to loose. As soon as he has no more money, they have to stop bringing him free drinks, so he goes nuts and starts slaughtering waitresses, blackjack dealers, and old ladies playing slot machines. The police seal the casino off and Patty o’ Furniture is forced to flee. He runs further and further into a secret hidden labyrinth in Caesars Palace. All along, the cops are hot on his trail as he winds further and further back into the catacomb. Eventually, he reaches a dead end, where a secret ceremony is going on. In the room is an altar with a virgin tied to it, Wayne Newton is singing showtunes backwards in Latin, and Sammy Davis is standing before the alter of sacrifice with a dagger giving praise to the mighty Infernal Lord Lucifer. Patty realizes that he has reached the end of the line and runs, attempts to take cover behind the altar but is mowed down in a hail of gunfire and dies right on top of the sacrificial virgin! And that’s how the second movie ends…”

By this time, Oliver’s face is turning red and his blood pressure looks like it’s about to go off the chart. He is so angry he can barely speak, and I don’t give him the chance…

“Ok, Oliver…you know how Patty o’ Furniture dies on top of that virgin at the end of my second movie – right?”

He starts screaming at me, “Will you get the fuck out of my face? NOW!”

Undaunted, I forge ahead, “Well that leads into my third movie: PART III: THE SON OF PATTY O’ FURNITURE…”

At this point Oliver snaps and pulls some exacto knife thing out of his pocket, and starts running about the house trying to stab me with it while yelling, “I’LL CUT YOU, I’LL FUCKING CUT YOU! YOU BASTARD — I’LL FUCKING CUT YOU!!”

It was, truly, one of my defining moments.

With that, I left the party. Fuck Oliver Stone! He’s a dickhead. When he makes a picture of my life, it’s gonna be a porno movie.

How to completely defrag, optimize performance, and rid your laptop of all viruses, worms, spyware, and malware without any type of RAM upgrade or software in just a few seconds:

Also: Removes annoying monitor glare from your screen too (well, not really).

Quick message to whoever the assholes that wrote Spy Sheriff and NT Authority\System Shutdown shit…there’s a special layer in hell being reserved for you right now. It will be the 27th layer and will be three times as hot as the rest of hell, but with no air.

I will be there to meet you assholes. You’ll notice me because I will be the guy pouring acid into your faces while holding a bag of air and charging you to breathe! Ya’ fucking bastards! Go back to slaying Orcs with your broadsword / working on your resistance to lightening — you fucking geeks!

And stop fucking up our computers…we have porn to publish!

On a side note: Hewitt Packard noticed a slight increase in laptop sales in the Los Angeles area.

The Springer thing was an interesting ride. It all went down at the height of Springer-mania in 1998. I had a friend who was a scout for Jerry Springer guests. He says to me, “Jay, you are a ham – you should go on the Springer Show.” I said, “Sure.”

A few days later, one of the Jerry Spinger producers called me and said that they wanted to cast me for a boyfriend who was jealous because their girlfriend was posing for Playboy or some shit. I told them that I was not the guy for the part, but if they wanted a pimp, a drug dealer, or any other kind of scumbag — I was their man. They asked me to send in a headshot and when they got it, they agreed — I looked like a total scumbag.

A few weeks later, they call me and want to cast me as a pimp who will not let his hoes out of servitude until they pay back the money they owed. I accepted this role. A few weeks after that I am holed up in a motel room in downtown Chicago with a friend of mine and a bunch of people I didn’t even know whom were all going to be on the show with me.

This was back when Jerry was still showing all of the fights — my friend and I agreed that we were not going to fake it and would really try to kick each other’s asses. The show taped on Monday and we were in Chicago from Thursday till then rehearing for a few hours a day in the hotel room with the producer — but, really, most of that time was spent at various bars in Wicker Park District getting hammered.

Monday came around and we had to be at the studio at 9AM – we had all partied all night and hadn’t really slept at all. I didn’t bring any decent clothes, so they had to rush me to a mall just and hour before they show taped to buy me a brand new Armani suit. I looked pimp as fuck. Right about then reality started hitting me – hey, I’m not an actor…I’m not a pimp…what the fuck am I doing here? I was actually pretty nervous.

When the show started taping, I sat backstage and watched the girl who was supposed to my prostitute do her thing. When Jerry was asking questions she actually started crying…it was great! She set me up so well. When I went out to play my part as a pimp, I was still pretty nervous. I just went out, acted like the biggest asshole bastard you’ve every seen (not a big stretch), and when I saw I was getting a reaction from the audience I just started dominating and talking mad shit. My friend came out, we beat on each other, talked about slapping hoes, and the show ended with me doing a big improve monologue about how pimpin’ ain’t easy. It was pretty classic.

The episode aired on Halloween 1998 (which was a Friday) – when the ratings came out on Monday…it was the first time Jerry had ever beat Opera in the ratings. The Springer Show was thrilled to death, needless to say — they were now the #1 daytime talk show and they had done it on my episode. My first show actually wound up being the highest rated Springer episode of all time. By Monday afternoon I was getting a call to come back and shoot more shows. I wound coming back and shooting 2 more shows playing the same character for them which both went over really well.

After I did my shows, the producers cut the guy who originally got me on and started calling me to get guests for the show. In the next few months I had gotten half of my scumbag and stripper on the show. During that same period, I started getting followed around by all of the news media and undercover reporter dudes that were trying to be the first to break the “Springer is not real story” – (I mean, seriously, why don’t they just do an expose on how there isn’t an Easter Bunny?) – It was surreal. I never talked to them though.

A few weeks later 20/20 was the first to break that story with another “fake” group of guests. The Springer People made the producer that I worked with the scapegoat for all of the “fake” episodes and said that it was all the actions of “one rouge producer”, but that was all a bunch of BS. Everyone on the Springer staff, including Jerry, knows the shit is bogus – hell, I even wore one of his Armani suits because, at $2,500 a piece, they were too expensive to get ripped up in brawls. Do you think Jerry couldn’t notice that?

Castles made of sand, fall in the sea…eventually…

It was a fun ride while it lasted.

That was the Springer Incident.

Ahh yes, silent girl – probably the biggest romantic mistake of my entire life — one day, I am sitting at my house when this friend of mine calls me. He said he had met these two girls that wanted to meet me because they saw the Springer Show. I went down to the bar where they were at. Both of the chicks were pretty hot. One was talking to me and the really hot one was sitting in the corner quiet and just laughing a little. I think my friend was trying to pick her up — so he gets up from the table, I slide over to her and start spitting game at her.

She says, “I h-h-have a-a-a speech i-m ped-iment…” (aka “I have a speech impediment”)

I felt a little weird, but there was no denying this girl was smokin’. We go back to my house, watch some Southpark, do a couple bong hits, and then I drop them back off. Just as she’s leaving “silent girl” grabs me, starts making out with me, gives me a piece of paper with her phone number on it, and shows me a naked picture of her.

A couple days later I call her — let me tell you that was a very odd phone call…seeing as she can’t really talk and all. I say, “What do you want to do?” and she says, “M-m-moovie…” (“movie”) – so, we go see Godzilla, come back to my house, and next thing I know — my nuts wind up ding the windmill! Pretty sweet!

The sad part was the reason she had the speech impediment was she had been in a car wreck, they fucked up when she was in the hospital with the respirators, and it damaged only the part of her brain that dealt with speech. She could write a perfect and very articulate email. Actually, it really sucks for her, but enough of the sentimental shit…you know what that meant for me?

I had a hot as fuck, nymphomaniac girlfriend that couldn’t talk! Whoa, my pimp hand is strong!!

I think she was kind of pissed at me in the end because about a year later, when I was out with the other girl at a concert, she snuck up behind me and ripped on of the earrings out of ear – she stood there holding the bloody ring just looking like she wanted to scream at me…

If she could.

That was silent girl.

Saturday, September 28th 2002: A Day That Will Live in Infamy

10:00 AM – The day began harmlessly enough: shooting tequila and smoking Mexican dirtweed over steaming, nearly sanitary plates of chorizo and tacos at a local cantina in the sleepy Mexican town of La Salinas, about an hour south of Tijuana.

11:30 AM – Vomit profusely.

12:30 PM – Though perfectly satisfied by lazing on the beach all day with a with a keg of Dos Equis perched on the lounge chair beside me, I am inexplicably cajoled into donning a funny shirt and physically exerting myself on the golf course, an activity I’ve only done once before.

12:31 PM – First beer consumed on course. Spirit livens.

12:35 PM – One of our “party” steals a bottle of cheap tequila from the snack bar, “allegedly”. Much laughter and merriment ensues.

4:00 PM – Second case of beer finished. B.A.C. officially exceeds par for the course.

4:25 PM – In a two-sport super event unheard of since Bo Jackson, golf meets motocross to seriously damage the undercarriages of two $4000 golf carts. Let’s keep that between us.

5:22 PM – Vomit profusely.

6:00 PM — Things take a turn for the ridiculous, as a member of our foursome, heretofore known as Iron Man Tucker, in a blaze of beer-assisted idiocy, jumps on to the roof of my moving cart and does his best impression of Teen Wolf, before being promptly launched 15 feet into the hard metal side of another cart. We captured the events on video, but, regrettably, our cameraman had an unexpected surge of humanitarianism, causing him to lay the camera down and miss the key footage of Iron Man colliding with the earth. Rest assured, he’ll be hogtied and beaten with reeds for that infraction. Regardless, much laughter and merriment ensued.

7:30 PM – After multiple such incidents of sporting tomfoolery, we are escorted through the last 3 holes by security. We were on golf probation – how shameful. Bring on the merriment, and yes, the vomit too.

9:00 PM – Back at the house on the beach, time is dragging, the beer is long gone, and only one last hope for a good time remains. Our errant cameraman redeemed himself in grand fashion. He had a copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s Hell’s Angels, upon which he had dropped an undetermined amount of acid (how apropos) almost a year ago. Unsure of whether the tricky liquid would still be effective, we decided to eat the entire page for good measure.

11:00 PM – The mission was a failure. The acid is no good.

11:03 PM –Hmmm… I think the wall is looking at me.

11:12 PM – You know, I never noticed the how big the pores on Rick’s neck are – and why are they pulsating like that?

11:21 PM – Sweet Mother of Fuck! I’m tripping my goddamned balls off!

12:00 AM – Shit, the hallucinations must be kicking in, because I’d swear about a dozen Mexican police cars and two paddy wagons just pulled up in front of the cantina.

12:01 AM – Run. Run quickly.

12:05 AM – Ok, so now we’re hiding from the federales in a large cactus on the beach, I’ve got enough acid in my head to send Timothy Leary into a permanent psychosis, and I’m fighting the urge to blow an economy sized can of pre-mixed Nestle Quik all over the inside of my shorts. A baby bung gopher escaped, but, luckily, I managed to close the floodgates behind him. Let the gopher work his way down your leg, Paul, and make its way into the dark, anonymous cactus. Be discreet, and no one will be the wiser. Yes, you are a fucking smoothie, Paul.

1:30 AM – Feces contained, and no longer trying to communicate with the wart on my finger through ESP, we worked up the courage to trundle down the beach and see what was to be seen. Being in the middle of Nowhere, Mexico, expectations for anything other than a night of psychedelic-induced star drooling were low, which, quite honestly, I was content with. Vomit profusely.

2:00 AM - Holy shit, we just walked into a rave on the beach. No shit, thousands of Mexican ravers in sparkling pants dancing to four different pounding DJs while a $50,000 laser and visual light show blasted over our heads and out into the Pacific Ocean. I’m not much of a raver (junglist, breakbeat, electronica kid, or whatever-the-fuck they want to call themselves) but this was an impressive setup, especially with a head full of acid. I wondered if perhaps we might be able to find more drugs.

2:04 AM – Found drugs.

2:30 AM to 7:00 AM – A total blur.

7:30 AM – Leave the rave and wander back to the town we were staying in, where we proceed to plunder the last remnants of any stray liquor bottles we could find – mostly at other people’s homes. You’d be shocked how, at this hour of the morning, almost any combination of alcohol can be palatable.

8:30 AM – Vomit profusely.

10:00 AM – Drive into town with a frying pan full of weed, find a restaurant, and eat tacos and drink until passing out. Vomit profusely in sleep.
Twenty-four hours, hundreds of drinks, one soiled pair of Joe Boxers, a few hundred dollars worth of drugs, four livers, and countless lost braincells later, the circle completes itself.

Viva Mexico.

Just in case you haven’t noticed…

MY BLOG HAS BEEN HACKED

The last blog we had back up was from 10/28…we are trying to import everything else back in now.

Sorry about the inconvience…more and the crazy story of the hacker will come soon.

You can catch up on all of the GFY drama here and here.

So we wake up around 5 in the afternoon in a pool of my own blood. Apparently, during the “night” my liver had made a prison break. I only know this because I there was this note next to my bed:

Yeah, we had been bending it pretty hard, but then it dawned on me: It was Sunday, and probably the busiest driving day of the entire year back to LA. I’ve already learned my lesson about trying drive back to LA from Vegas on a Sunday…we only had one choice:

Another night in Vegas.

Fortunately, dinner that night would be on Naughty America (Naughty Office / American Daydreams) at this sushi place in the Venation called Tsunami’s. You would think that after all of the bad press about real tsunamis were getting — they might change the name of the resturant to Calm Waters…but hey — I ain’t PC!

At dinner our BAC had already started skyrocketing from the “shock and awe” of sortie after sortie of Sake Bombs!

My homeboy Dr. Airwreck has got us on the pestlist (guestlist) for the hottest spot in Vegas on Sunday: Light at the Bellagio. What’s with all of these one word club names? Plush, Rain, Ice? I’m wondering when club owners are going to empty the dictionary and will be stuck naming the clubs things like Stink, Lettuce, or USB.

What a gay trend.

A few times during the week I had been texting this wickedly hot black stripper that I had met the last time I was in town. This girl was serious business. We are talking, not a dime, but a 9 at least. This girl was serious business. I’ve long had a weakness for the sistas. The last time I was in town I was laying down my A-Game-Stripper-Macking skills of this girl and doing a damn fine job. One of the great things about Vegas is the 24-hour strip clubs, but also one of the disadvantages is also the same thing. It gets pretty to find yourself in a Mexican Standoff with a stripper whose shift does not end until 8 or 9AM. I lost this last time, but what I’d fight another day.

For this, I implemented some 8th level-mega-mack skillz…

I remember making fun of the other guys in the titty club and calling them the AFCs, Hoy Paloy, ect…that is called in the PUA community as demonstrating value. I figured I could close this deal another day so I got her number and left her some positive reinforcement (an object that is attached to you that evokes a pleasant memory) – it was a napking that said, “AFCs, Hoy Paloy, pleabians, and had a bunch of childish drawings on it (I’m serious).

Before I went to Light I text messaged her with one word,

ME: “Plebians”.
HER: “Hey you, are you in town?”
ME: Yeah, meet me at Light, we have a table.
HER: OK, I’ll be there.

We all went to Light. It was pretty decent. The hour had gotten late so I started working this Latina chick to a decent degree of success.

Then…

HER: I’m on the dance floor.

So, I blew off the Mexican chick and hooked up with the black chick. She was definitely hot. So we wind up going back to the Venitian and I used a cocaine close to lure her back to the Orleans. I had to make sure Chris stayed over at the Orleans long enough for me to close the deal, which I managed to do by around 9AM.

Five minutes after our romance, Chris stumbled in.

Before we passed back out…

“I need to keep the room for and extra night.”

“OK, that will be 80 bucks.”

You gotta love The Orleans!

To be continued…

OK, so I wake up the next morning trying to continue the “romance” from the night before in the sink of our bathroom.

Again, I am triumphant.

It was Saturday, and after three days of being at the AVN – it was about time that we actually saw the fucking AVN! So we brave hellacious traffic of South Las Vegas Boulevard, scramble to find parking (the Venitian parking is sold out – who saw that coming?), we stand in line with the AFCs / Hoy Paloy / Plebians to finally get onto the