Not the inside of a giant's mouth

This is a macro-drunkro-accidento-shot of a couch in a strip club.
My friend T-- likes strip clubs.
I don't like strip clubs.
My friend was down from out yonder in the woods and wanted to shit it up in the bright lights and big city... and he wanted to go to a strip club.
We went to a strip club.
First we spent three hours at Tony's drinking Pabst, him huffing the bartender of the evening (she did smell good), me contemplating ordering that hot dog that was behind the counter. I knew it was the same one that was there when I was in up in this piece about a year ago. It was probably the same one as when I first discovered the place, about eight years ago.
Neil Diamond on the juke. Some Chicago. A little Stevie Wonder. Old career alcoholics holding down the fort. A forgotten Cappy slap in the bathroom on the paper towel dispenser.
Good times. I do love me some Tony's.
Then it was off, drunk, into the "entertainment district". Some guy was stamping hands for discounts to get into Spyce, so we got stamped and ended up in Spyce. It may always be a dollar to get in for all I knew, the stamp just a shrewd and brilliant plan to get drunk guys to feel like they're saving some bucks. Either way, the price was right, so in we went.
We walked in and found a couch to occupy. The music didn't suck and I soon realized that in a strip club, women get totally naked. In a gentlemen's club, they keep their unders on. I also discovered that there are some awesome underwear that exist for women.
Anyhoo, we got in a round of shitty beer and watched the show. Well, my friend did. I put every ounce of my not sober attentions into the one tiny TV screen that was up on the second floor, right under the DJ booth. There was some sports thing on. I don't like sports, but I'd rather watch sports than naked women. Why that TV was there, I have no idea. Maybe it was for the dancers to look at while they danced. Whatever the case may be, thank God for that tiny TV.
Don't get me wrong, a naked woman is a beautiful thing to behold. But the idea of being in a room with a gaggle of other drunk dudes salivating over some naked ladies has always seemed weird to me. And I never feel like they get tipped enough. In a fair world, they'd get $100 just to walk in the room. $200 to smile and pretend like they didn't hate you. And $500 to take their top off for a second.
I don't have that kind if money, so I don't go to these places. And even if I did have that kind of money to burn, it'd still be weird for me.
But T-- loved it, and when I was forced to look away from the TV, I did see some lovely women with great underwear being all smiley and gymnastic.
My friend also likes to fuck with me, so he was chatting with random dancers that came through the room and he sat one next to me. Cute, glasses, tiny, seemed sweet. So i told her that she should go talk to someone else.
T-- was trying to buy me a lap dance. I could think of nothing more uncomfortable. She was persistent. So was I. I wasn't looking at her as were were having this interaction. She followed my gaze to the TV and asked if I liked sports. I said no. She asked why I was watching them then. I told her that this was not my idea of fun.
Eventually she left and my buddy had a good laugh. Two more beers in, more ladies talking to T--, more me staring at the TV. One that he was talking to climbed over him and said hi to me. I said hi, and that she would be better off talking to my friend. She asked why? I said that she was pretty and sweet but this wasn't going to happen and that I was skint on cash so I would understand if she went elsewhere. My neck hurt from looking up at the TV for so long. She said T-- bought me a lap dance. I said, "Thanks. He can have it". She looked back at him. He laughed, she shrugged, and turned back to him to keep talking.
Fuck. Strip clubs make me a wreck. I'm glad we were only there for three fucking hours.

Your Dick is a Joke

Hasenpfeffer homie How You Say needed a title for a collection of break up letters. Here's my suggestions. Hopefully s/he finds something better.

1) For a Dude, You Sure Are a Bitch: Break Up Letters From You to Me

2) Yeah We Had Fun, But I Hate You Now

3) I WILL File a Restraining Order

4) We Don't 69 Anymore

5) I Hate You More Than You'll Ever Hate Yourself

6) I Had to Get Drunk to Say Goodbye

7) I Faked All My Orgasms

8) Let's Forget This Ever Happened

9) You Can Tell Your Friends That I Cheated On You...Cuz I Did... With Your Friends

10) I Never Loved You

11) Paper(cut) Heart

12) You're The Worst Boyfriend I've Ever Had: Smart Words From Smart Women

13) The Fact That You've Been Inside of Me Makes Me Want to Chop My Vagina Off

14) Leave

Any other ideas, people?

Black Atlass!

I was just meandering through the internet and came across this guy Black Atlass. I suggest you go here, in a timely manner, and get his EP:
https://soundcloud.com/blackatlass/sets/the-black-atlass-ep
Or if you're reading this later on down the line, just google his name.
Smokey, murky, sexy, candle-lit coolness. It's neat that no one that is famous right (Lohans, Kardashians, Hiltons, Biebers, etc) does anything worthwhile, and cats like this are buried. Can we work, as a country, to fix this? Please?

Try Not to be a Pain in the Ass, Please

[Sound of cord plugging into electric guitar, amp on, quick feedback burst]

“OK, I got a song I wrote for you. You ready?

[strums Em chord, screams (in key, of course. I’m not a monster)]…

“YOU GOT THE PRETTIEST FUCKING EYES THAT I’VE EVER SEEN,

AND, THE THE THE…

[you hold up a hand and make a disgusted face]

Huh? Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I was screaming. It’s just that I got a little carried away and it’s a loud song, but I wrote it for you and…

Wha? Yeah, I know you don’t like the language.  I’m sorry, it just came out. When I think of you…

Whu? Yeah, I know. Yes, yelling and swearing aren’t good manners, I am aware of this, it’s just that…

Yeah, I know but if you’d just give me a sec…

Whu? Oh come on! Jesus, every time I try to compliment you, you do this. Yes, every damned time. You don’t even acknowledge the fact that I’m trying to be nice, you just correct the presentation or change the subject. Yes, you most certainly do. I…

No, it’s...

Just wai…

You know what? I just wanted to tell you that you had pretty eyes, it’s as simple as that. And you couldn’t accept it. So now…

No you listen to me, dammit… No. Seriously!

You still have pretty eyes but enough is enough. Why can’t you just take a fucking compliment without deflecting it?

Really? Look, I know I’m dumb and sloppy, but opening up to you isn’t easy to me, and every FUCKING time I do it you shit on it. Do you not want me to be nice to you? No, really… should I just stop?

Yeah, I know I’m upset. Cuz I’m sick of this shit. You know what? Fuck this noise. You don’t want what I have to give, so I’m done giving it.

Don’t touch me! No! Back the fuck off! Yeah, this is what happens. I’m outta here.

Dick.”

To Be Read in Your Best Barry White Voice

“Yeah girl, imagine this: You and me in matching leopard skin thongs. No, not leopard print… leopard SKIN. Yeah baby, that’s right… What? No, the skin itself doesn’t have the pattern; I think that’s just on the fur. Yeah, they’re really just grey thongs, but consider the source. We’re like wild cats stalking one another. What? No… look, just shut up and listen.
No, I didn’t mean “shut up”, I just meant…
[fall out of Barry White voice and into normal, not-sexy voice]
Look, I’m trying to make a special thing here. I’m sorry.
Your… no? No, turn off your phone. Come on, really? Fine, text your mom first then turn the thing off… tell her I say “Hi”.
OK, done? No, you don’t need to check your Facebook. Really? Would you just… Look, I put a lot of work into this so could you please just turn the phone off for one hour? Please? OK, thanks.
No, you’re beautiful, baby. OK, now listen, I’m setting up some sexy shit here. Alright, where were we?
[Resumes with Barry White voice]
Oh yes, we’re in our matching leopard skin thongs (why are you making that face?) and then we’ll climb onto the back of a giant stuffed Grizzly bear. Yeah it’s real. But get this: the back is hollowed out and it’s a waterbed. That’s right, uh-huh, and there’s an alpaca fur blanket thrown over it, like a snowy peak on top of our water-filled, four-legged ride to sexy time.
No, wait! Forget that. It’s not a waterbed. It’s a motherfuckin’ hot tub! Oh hell yeah, girl. Climb up onto and into my Grizzly bear hot tub. Uh-huh, aaaaaaalright. You comfy? Here’s a glass of wine, red… like the passion that’s filling up this room like a tornado of… a tornado uuuuuuuuuuv… shit, I can’t do analogies. The room is just full of passion, you’ll have to take my word for it.
What? No, it’s OK to have a glass of wine in a hot tub. You won’t die. Trust me, a glass is fine. You just can’t get hammered.
Oh, what’s that? You spilled a little on the bear’s head? It’s OK, it happens to the best of us, don’t fret. See, the bear is dark colored, so the stain won’t even show (there goes my deposit).
Now slide over here and let me put my arm around you. I’ll turn the jets on and we’ll bask in the glow of my 106” flat-screen television as it plays a fireplace scene, all crackling and warm.
Yeah, it’s weird, I know, but I’m not allowed to have fires in my apartment. What’s that? Don’t worry about how I got it through the door. Just enjoy. I even plugged in a few hair driers and have them aimed at us to mimic the heat of a real fire. You feel that? Nice, isn’t it? All warm and soothing like your body against mine. Damn, girl. You, me, Barry White on the stereo, leopard skin all up on our junk, and a hollowed out Grizzly bear are all we need to…” [insert ring tone, maybe Sweet Georgia Brown]
You look down, a little embarrassed.
I look up, lips pursed and a little irritated.
Ten seconds of Sweet Georgia Brown kill whatever mood there may have been.
[revert to normal, everyday, talking to mom voice]
“Go answer it,” I say, resigned to failure.
You spring out of the Grizzly bear and answer your phone.
“Hello? Oh hi, mom! What? No, nothing. Just watching TV. Sure I can talk. What’s up? Oh I DID watch the Bachelor last night! Can you be-LEEVE what the bitch said? Oh my God!”
I turn off the jets, set my glass on the bear’s head, and crawl out of the water. Then I grab the bottle of wine, turn off Barry White, turn on some Squarepusher (we’ll go with “Big Loada”), and go sit outside to watch the cars drive by. That leopard skin thong was uncomfortable anyway. What really hurts is how much I spent to rent this Grizzly bear hot tub from the Outdoor Store.

The Sense You Made

Early Autumn, late night,
One of the last handfuls of pleasant evenings,
 Springwater sesh, pens aflutter, over-pumped ink making One think
“Really? OK, glubs next time”
Crooks of fingers gone blackface and incriminating.
The smells of leaves and rivers and moonlight.
Crickets and frogs chiming in twixt Burial tracks.
Their sounds, these smells,
this empty,
moonlit trail

A lonely moth pulls into the beam of my bike light,
Races and paces me for an erratic few moments,
Then casually throws itself into the spinning spokes of my front wheel,
Presumably now left to a crippled and slow death in my wake,
On the trail.
Considering the scarcity of traffic at this late hour,
I’m inclined to believe that God needed
that particular moth dead for a very good reason.
And I am the bringer of Godly justice
and unblinking wrath.

Beyond that duty,
Three glasses of wine have afforded me the luxury to
Appreciate the serenity and solitude of this late night,
Middle of nowhere as I pull over,
Turn off the lights,
And piss into the dark. Alone.
My mind refreshingly free from thoughts of zombies
And being raped to death by hobos.

All of this
Reaching back into my mind
and forcing me,
once again,
to miss the sense you made.

Elephant Gun

After years of this, of nurturing an elephant in the room, we were fucking around in a bar, as usual, having some drinks and laughing about this and that, and, as usual, we got to the point where bets started being made. I’m not much of a bettor. She lives for them. So it goes without saying that lady trumps man and the bet was on.
“You can’t make me cry. There’s no WAY you could pull that off.”
“I bet you twenty dollars I can make you cry right now.”
Her face furrowed into a dubious challenge. One eyebrow up, one down, lips pursed in a playful “whatever” curl.
“Fine. Let’s see what you got.” She started to take a pull on her beer but stopped in mid drink, mouthful of bev, waving free hand and mumbling an “Mmmmm! Mmmmm!” sound until she swallowed. “But you can’t hit me! That’s not fair. No violencing.” She inhaled, and I’m guessing here, to kill a burp or a hiccup that was rising up due to her interrupted drinking.
“Don’t worry. I know you don’t cry when I hit you… you whine. And since you do that every twenty minutes it wouldn’t be a challenge. No, I bet I can make you cry.”
“OK, dick, bring it.”
So I took a drink, phrased it again like I had a million times before in my head, stepped up to the plate, and shot that elephant in the face, the elephant that had wanted nothing more to kill me for all of these years. Though to be fair I had been feeding the fucking thing all this time knowing damn good and well that it wanted nothing more than to maul me in front of a circus tent full of paying adults and their idiotic, spoiled children.
“OK, I’m going to ask you a question and I bet you answer with a “no”.”
“What? That’s absurd. I can’t promise to answer how you want me to without knowing the question.”
“Look, this is a bet. Do you want to win or lose twenty bucks? It doesn’t have anything to do with anything gross or challenging. Just say “no” as a response to my question. That’s my dare. And I need the twenty bucks to pay for this tab.”
She looked at me, head slightly askew so she could read me at an angle, to try to figure out what I was up to.
“Fine, OK,” she said hesitantly.
“OK, thanks. Alright, you ready?”
“Sure, do it,” and I sensed a slight tinge of apprehension in her voice because she knew as well as I did that there was something that needed to be put down like a sad, old dog. She also knew that I was an emotionally retarded, hyper-sentimental fool who felt too much about too little on most days and that, to rewrite a famous quote, I could take a sad song and make it sadder.
“OK, here’s my question:” and I looked down and into my left elbow-pit, observing the soft whiteness of it, the tenderness and vulnerability, and the question spilled out:
“Will you ever love me the same way that I love you?”
My hearing, never good to begin with due to loud concerts and giant headphones, became muffled due to an avalanche of awareness and fear that soon, in nanoseconds, any and all good cheer would be gone for the night; the plans for a pinball competition would be put on the back-burner for Lord only knows how long. This sucked because I had very few people in my life that enjoyed playing the pinball.
I looked up from my elbow bend, up and to the right of her face. There was a painting of a matador pulling a matador pose, presumably right after the bull had run through his red cape and out of frame. That bull, the one that was never painted, probably felt like a fool. I could sympathize with said unpainted bull. Of course, that bull didn’t volunteer itself for that game, so it probably felt more cheated than the fool. I knowingly put myself here.
Then my eyes tracked to the left on the way to a blank spot on the wall, but on the way noticing her head, in all of its loveliness, etched in a different way now, just her forehead, a furrow of a sharp pain in the heart. Her eyes welled up and she shook her head a little bit. If you were sitting at the next table you wouldn’t have even noticed it.
“Don’t…”
My eyes welled up too; killing elephants is a rather traumatic experience, I’ll have you know.
“No, I didn’t ask you to say, “Don’t”, I asked… dared, you to say, “no”.” My voice was tight, my chest sore, my uvula was even a bit tender.
A tear fell down her face; she was looking into my eyes. A tear fell down my face too. I was looking back to the bend in my elbow. She knew that even without being tied to having to answer this way that it was the truth.
She mouthed the word “No” and I felt everything break, again. Which as much at it sucked, it meant I could finally start rebuilding.
We were never the same after that moment. I mean, we were still friends, and after the trauma of the situation faded things were, for the most part, fun again, but yeah, it was never the same.
At least I won that bet. Twenty dollars never tasted so sad.

I.E.D. Heartbomb

And this whole time, for over a year now, I had wanted to see her again; just a glance, anonymously, from across a street or from a window. Just to update the memory files. I didn’t want to interact, really, since I could bring nothing good to the table except for a reminder of how fucking stupid I am.
So it comes to pass that I did get to see her, accidentally, at an art gallery thing downtown. I knew it was her from the sound of her laugh, the way she held herself, her shoes, that particular shine to her hair that I was so familiar with, and all of my longings to just see her again, to see her million dollar smile, reared up and kicked me in the heart. That desire that I had harbored for so long turned to queasiness, fear, and shame. My pulse rocketed up, sweat appeared, I got a little tunnel vision, and I told my friends in as few words as possible that I would meet them at the bar up the street, to take their time. I had to get out of there before she saw me, and considering my condition it was a miracle that I somehow managed to pull that off.
I firmly believe that if there was video surveillance footage of the incident, all silent and grainy, black and white with a running time stamp at the bottom, you’d see me see her, then there’d be a beat, then I’d just disappear into a small cloud of idiot, leaving a puddle of stupid and shame behind. Well, not really a puddle; just a misting, a barely noticeable condensation on the windows.
I got my vision back about a block later and regained some of my senses. Hands shaking, heart quaking, I had to sit down, feet in the gutter, and take a second to get my shit together.
Sitting there on that curb I felt just as selfish, assholish, and fucked up then as I did when I had shit the bed the last time I saw her.
On that big Cosmic Report Card in the Sky, there’s a massive “F” on mine. I also failed math, but strangely I got a “C+” in English so things can’t be all that bad.

Thee Archives of Failure, Episode 1: OkStupid

I found this one laying around from a Cupid session a few years ago. It’s probably the quickest I’ve ever shit the bed, and I’m still not sure why it went awry. I thought I had this one sewn the fuck up, but after one e-mail I get bowled over with the dreaded Tumbleweed of Silence.
Tell me if you can see what went wrong. Names have been changed to protect… well, no one. I just thought these names better fit the piece. Enjoy!

GraspingAtStraws0243:
A Cliff Claven-type who throws gang signs (what set you claimin'?!), has an insanely specific spirit animal (would it break the bond if it were eying a pineapple?), and subscribes to the cult of the Oxford comma. Psh, ladies like you are a dime a dozen [as he swoons, biting his bottom lip].

OutOfYourLeagueXOXO:
I knew I was a big old fat cliche. Bummer. Will change status to more exotic things like "I like shopping!" and "puppies are cute!".

GraspingAtStraws0243:
That wins the Best Message Ever award? Sheesh, I apologize for all the men before me that have set the bar so low.
As a gentleman and a smart ass I feel it my duty to offer up some sort of reparations for this failure on the part of my gender. These days reparations typically come in the form of a drink, usually of the "adult" variety, but that is flexible.
To be sure that this isn't some crafty ruse to get you to go out on a date with me, I can just leave ten dollars with your name attached to it at the bar of your choice.
However, if you chose to accept this payment in person, face to face, I can offer tips to make your profile not so big, fat, and cliche-ridden. We can "pimp" your profile, if you will (Secret tip #1: Be sure to mention that your iPHONE is one of the six things you couldn't do without. Guys like to know that for about 40% of your time together your face will be softly underlit by the romantic glow of the screen).
Mull over this offer, ma'am, and get back to me at your leisure.
Have yourself a lovely day and a beautiful evening.
Yours in sincerity and shame,
daniel q. [ampersand] alyosius jones junior, jr. esq XII

Now before you say “You may have gone ‘too much, too soon, sir'”, anyone who knows me knows that this verbose and idiotic response is so fucking Me that I could copyright it and not a court in the land would blink. So I’m just being me here and… oh… oh yeah, OK. I see. Now that I’ve typed it out I can see the problem. The brutally reflective surface of Text on Screen just cleared this up for me.
Alright, so I’m a jackass. Either I need a serious Personality Overhaul or I need to just learn to love the Tenga Flip Hole. If the thing had a neck I could bury my face in and a body to spoon I’d be cool with it, but it lacks these necessary elements.
Shit…

Bulleit Kentucky Whiskey Bourbon Review

I’m not gonna get fancy with this one. Here is my first reaction:
“Soap? Bourbon?
Soap…? Bourbon…?
Soap. Definitely soap.”
Yes, it has a quick, up front, hit ‘em in the nose taste of soap that disappears almost immediately. If your tongue blinked, you could easily miss it. But my tongue did not blink, and once I noticed the soapy taste, that was that. Much like walking in and seeing your mom eating your dad’s ass, things can never go back to normal after that information is processed. (Don’t get me wrong, it’d be reassuring to know that after all these years your parents were still getting freaky, but at the same time, it’s something you don’t really want to know… you know? Man, talk about a double-edged sword.)
I’ve ordered Bulleit this a few times in bars before this Quest for Flavour started. Since I hadn’t refined my pallet at all and I wasn’t doing any sort of side-by-side comparisons (and I was probably drunk) I didn’t really notice the flavor. It was just whiskey to me. I got it cuz I felt the need to branch out and the orange label popping off the amber liquids appealed to my color fetish. Also, ordering “a bullet, neat” sounds kinda badass.
While I still love the way the bottle looks, I’ll just stick with drinking Palmolive since it’s cheaper than this AND it softens hands while cleaning dishes.

Tullamore Dew Irish Whiskey Review

I can review this whiskey with one word, a word that I’m guessing the last three dates I’ve been on could review my presence and performance on said dates.
“Meh”. (All blame falls on me, this I realize. Self-inflicted, Sensible wounds make for bad company).
As in, it wasn’t great, it didn’t suck, it was nothing to write home about, and on a scale of 1 to 10 (-1- being “like talking to a box of dead squirrels”, -10- being “we finger-blasted each other in the back of an El Camino (yeah you read that right, she got to the second knuckle on me too), and -5- being “the greeter at Wal-Mart seemed pleasant enough”) it came in at a solid 4.2.
Much like those last three dates, the taste of this whisky caused nothing spectacular to happen in anyone’s mouth. If I walked into the bar and saw this sitting there, lonely on a stool reading a shitty paperback, and after a quick but thorough inspection I found that no one named Jameson or Maker’s was in the room, I’d sit down and have a stilted conversation with Tullamore. We’d start talking about the weather within about ten minutes, which is always a bad sign on a date, I’d pretend I had to pee after eleven and go bomb the bathroom with whatever pen happened to be laying around (hypothetically speaking, of course. People who do that in real life are dicks), then I’d make a casual-ish exit and never go back to the bar again just so as to avoid having to repeat the experience.
To summarize, you could do a lot better (easily) and you could do a lot worse (equally simple). At about $26 a bottle, save yourself eight bucks and go the Kilbeggan route.
Simply put, there is no secret magic in this bottle. Move along, folks. There’s nothing to see here.

Half-Dreamscape # Monsieur Satan, 16. 2. 2012

It’s about 3 AM and I half wake up to murmurings outside my window, which considering where I live isn’t anything strange. I’ve heard fights, puking, promises of hard sex, breaking glass, screeching tires, laughter, screaming, cars bumping other cars in sloppy attempts at parallel parking, and a whole slew of other things that make living here so fun.
But right now is different. It’s unnaturally still out. Even my asshole upstairs neighbor who likes to listen to Metallica at this hour is mum.
The murmurings are rising and falling, and they’ve got a phlegmatic hue that makes my gag reflex activate (my only weakness, mucous-based sounds and sights). The cadence tells me that words are being spoken, and it’s clearly a monologue as it keeps on going and I can just feel that there is only one person (?) out there. Like the atmosphere isn’t impacted enough for two people. You know what I mean, like when you walk into a room and you can tell that someone is there? Not for any reason other than you can feel it in the air, as if the molecules are pressed together a little too tight for just you to be there.
Anyhoo, I can’t make out the words but the sounds are accented in a way that makes me think it’s French. Not that I can tell if it’s a language at all, but the syllables are hitting in ways that just feel French.
So apparently I have some sort of phlegmatic, French-speaking demon outside of my window. There was no way I was going to look, so I just stayed in bed wondering if it was going to sense, in the way that I did, that I was alert and aware of whatever incantation was happening outside my window.
And that made me casually realize that the sad little chain on my door that is supposed to make me feel secure wasn’t going to stop anyone, or anything, from getting in here if it, they, s/he wanted to.