My friends here on the world wide web of deceit, the fellas at Google who run Blogger, have been having massive issues here lately. Earlier this month the whole thing came to a screeching halt for 3 or 4 days. Then this past week, signing into Blogger became impossible, as folks kept getting bounced to the same sign-in page over and over. It's okay today (obviously, or I wouldn't be typing this silliness). What I find funny about the problems with Blogger this month is the outrage from many of the pitiful bloggers who use Google Blogger to post their most inane and often unreadable thoughts to the handful of folks who follow their musings. For one thing, the service is free. And I don't know why these "writers" are so pissed about something free not working for a few days here and there. Reading some of the comments on the Blogger help page, you'd think these folks were being charged like $30 a month or something to post. You'd also think their worlds are ending. As for me, I was kind of excited by the thought of never gaining access to my blog again. What I was gonna do is start another blog, not tell anyone the address to it, and see how long until anyone stumbled onto it. And then figure out who the hell had stumbled onto it and why. That could have gone on for months. I would have enjoyed that. Because while I appreciate all of you who stop by this blog from time to time, and hopefully enjoy it on some pointless level, the audience I'm really writing for is very small. It's an audience of 1 actually. And that 1 would be me...
Speaking of this silly blog, I was chatting with a regular reader of mine who mentioned he'd been going back and reading the posts from the beginning (back in November 2008). He enjoyed them and all (this reader, like others, mentioned the post about Chope as being particularly amusing), but did note that there is a bit of a difference between the posts then and now. And I'm sure that's true. This blog has evolved, or devolved if you like, over the 30 months of its life. The main difference the reader noticed was how completely random he found the older posts. Now, to me the thing is still mainly random nothingness. But, I take his point at face value. Maybe it was even more strange, weird, and completely random back then. I'd like to think it's not too different. But since I'm the one typing this crap, maybe I'm too invested in it to have any kind of objective insight into the matter. Who knows??? But, I only mention all this because I'm about to write completely random paragraphs (or maybe I won't...) that in no way should be construed as being parts of a whole, or a hole. Either way. Whole or hole. It's hard to find a distinction most days...
I was sitting at some awful dive bar on N High Street in Columbus one time back in the mid 90's. It was some white trash jazz joint where pitchers of Black Label were like 55 cents at Happy Hour. While the beer was cheap in the place, the women were also cheap. Most of the ladies who frequented the place, I believe it was called Dick's Den (and I wish I was making up the name, but I'm not - it really was called Dick's Den), were these smelly hippie type graduate students. You know the type, all Feminine Mystique and armpit hair. Not my cup of tea, obviously. The other type of women who frequented Dick's Den were not grad students. They were drunks. Trashy drunks. Those chicks, while terrible, were much more up my alley. Obviously. Skanky service industry working women found me amusing for some reason. It was probably my winning charm...I went into the joint for a few basic reasons. 1) as noted, the beer was cheep. 2) it was about 2 blocks from my apartment. and 3) I enjoyed the jazz music. Okay, enough background, getting back to the story. So, I'm in the joint one Wednesday night. Getting hammered on Black Label and shots of rock-gut Scotch, listening to whatever almost never gets gigs jazz quintet was playing that night. Then to my right sit down 2 British dudes. How the hell they picked out Dick's Den to drop in on is impossible to fathom. I asked the British kids if Dick's was famous in Manchester. Because if it was, it was more famous there than it was in Columbus. Anyway, I got to chatting with these guys and learned they were on some month long tour of the States. You know, staying in hostels, picking up American skanks, and pretending to broaden their horizons or whatever Brits call it. I liked the 2 of them immediately. Why? Because they insisted on buying me pints of Guiness. And after 3 hours of Black Label, Guinness is a godsend. A fucking godsend. About an hour passes and the 3 of us are feeling the alcohol a bit. These Brits get it in their mind to try and pick up some of the local skank talent trolling the establishment. I informed the pair how easily this could be accomplished. All they had to do was pick out a pair of ladies, walk up with shots, make sure the girls' boyfriends weren't around, do the shots with them, chat about nothing in particular in those British accents, and within 30 minutes they'd be back in the alley that runs parallel to High St getting blow jobs. I'd seen it happen. Over and over (my man Neil Young, I used to put that very song on the jukebox at Dick's Den and tell the bartender to turn it up until we all went deaf, and then died...). So, these 2 British kids pick out a pair of big-haired, acid washed jean sporting, skinny-ass skanks and head off to hit on them - Dick's Den style. I thought nothing of it. I didn't even bother to pay much attention to how these Brits were faring with their sure to be head-givers. I'm sure I was sitting there, chain smoking, watching my Reds play a midweek game on the west coast (my man, Leon Fucking Bip Fucking Roberts). Then a dude comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder. I learned he was the night manager at Dick's Den. He asked me if I sent 2 British kids over to hit on the nasty skanks I mentioned a few sentences ago. I said, "Yep." The night manager informed me that the ladies in question were his girlfriend and his girlfriend's sister. I laughed. Evidently what went down while I was watching my man Jose Fucking Blame It On Fucking Rijo mow down the Giants, Dodgers, or Padres was not good. These Brits had managed to get shot down by the girls they approached and when questioned by the skanks why they'd chosen that particular pair of skanks to hit on, said that I told them that the ladies gave blowjobs to every Tom, Dick, Harry, and hairy Dick at the drop of a hat. So, these gals took offense, got pissed at these British kids, went running to the manager/boyfriend, blah, blah, blah. In order to get away from any trouble with the manager and his tough jazz loving running buddies, the Brits threw yours truly under the proverbial bus. It was a short bus, no doubt. After all, we were in Dick's Den for Christ's sake. What happened at that point was that I stood up, told this night manager that I couldn't help it if his girlfriend and her sister were filthy, disease riddled, nasty, reprehensible, and yes, repulsive hos. The guy didn't like that too much. What he did was let me know that I needed to leave the bar. I was happy to go. But not before I let him know how rude he and his bevy of skanks were to these poor British kids for not obliging their dream of getting Midwestern, corn-fed head. He didn't like that too much either. What he did then is called over a bouncer to escort my ass out. And that's a drill I knew. By that point in my life, I'd been tossed out of way better places than Dick's Den. And a few worse places as well. So, I stumbled out onto the sidewalk without any "help," and who do I find standing there enjoying a smoke on a warm summer's night? You guessed it, the manager's girlfriend. She came up to me, grabbed my arm, and attempted to force me into that infamous back alley I mentioned. I was just drunk enough and irritated enough with that manager to briefly consider her offer of I don't even know your name sex in public. But I thought better of that, twisted away from her, and walked to the bar the next block down. It was also a terrible place. But I managed to sit down, order a beer, and enjoy the rest of the Reds game in peace. It was only like a quarter to 12 at the time. The night was still young.
Speaking of Great Britain, our friend Barry was back over there again. I should probably say something about him trying to hit on that old bag, the Queen. But that's too easy. I did notice he had a massive erection when he gave his pitiful toast to her. That's a little creepy...
Okay, I'm bored of this today.
Once again, remember this if nothing else: Men go crazy in congregations, But they only get better one by one
No comments:
Post a Comment