One Night Stand With A Pig

I'd say this wasn't one of my finer moments, but I can pretty much attach that disclaimer to damn near every incident I blog about, and this one doesn't disappoint.

So here it is:  I was nearing the end of my drinking.  I was on the down slope of a failed business manufacturing racing go-karts (yeah, that's a thing) and a long-term relationship that practically combusted.  So I was in a really good place emotionally.  I went back to bartending, and when my shifts would end, I would take my tips and donate them to neighboring bars, and in exchange those bartenders would get me drunk.  Commerce is a beautiful thing.

So there I was, at my favorite local wine bar (because wine bars are way more sophisticated than bar bars, and I liked to delude myself into thinking I was some kind of classy lady) when I stumbled into a real sick puppy.  By that I mean he had a reputation for being an animal with a voracious appetite for all matters of sin.  (Also, he was no puppy, being close to 20 years my senior).  I didn't know him well, but I didn't not know him, and that night, I had a hair up my ass to get to know him better.

Here's why:  somewhere during the course of the evening I heard he had chips (our cutesy word for ecstasy).  A quick bit of backstory about my recent breakup:  it ended in infidelity with a non-gender specific prostitute on Craigslist and a case of the Clap so, you have to understand, I was living in a purgatory of numbness.  Now add bankruptcy to the mixture.  So I jumped at the opportunity to feel - anything - and chips were all about feeling good.  Good was better than bad, and bad had been my residence for a year.  More accurately, it was as if The Nothing from The Neverending Story had devoured my spirit.  So I drank.  A lot.  And fueled by liquid destruction, I had all the justification I needed to excuse the following series of poor choices:

1) I made contact.  This was the worst move I could have made, because it was all down hill from there.  This guy had a bit of money, so one glass of wine turned into a magnum, which turn into a proposition, which turned into...

2) A cab ride to his place, where upon I decided to turn up the heat with a sexy strip tease, but my lack of coordination wouldn't allow it.  I stumbled around like a freshly born calf, barely aware of the two THUDS my silicone "chicken cutlets" made when they hit the ground after being released from my bra.

3) I proceeded to round third and head for home with this ass clown, despite the news that he "couldn't find" any chips.  Yet again, I was in a situation I was way too sober to be in, but far too drunk to get out of.  I felt claustrophobic beneath him, looking up at him as he struggled to get his rocks off, grunting like a wild boar; and just as his asthmatic thrusting was about to launch me into an anxiety attack, he collapsed into a hyperventilating heap beside me and fell asleep.  If only he had died.  But the real cherry on top of this shit-show sundae was...

4) The ride back to my car the next morning.  It was worse than any walk-of-shame I could conjure up:  he threw a helmet at me and told me to hop on the back of his motorcycle.  Great, one more fucking hog I had to ride before I could get away from this guy.  But at that point, I was so ready to get the hell out of there, I didn't care.  I didn't care that I could only find one chicken-cutlet.  I didn't care that I'd be out in the open, on full display for the world to see me with him as we rumbled into town on his unreasonably loud Harley.  I mean, I wanted to kill myself, but I didn't care.  I saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and that light was a shower and a warm bed.

Have you ever heard of incomprehensible demoralization?  Well I was becoming all too familiar with it, so I can tell you from experience, it's the shittiest place to be - way worse than "bad."  I don't recommend it.  In fact, I suggest avoiding it at all costs, and the best way to safeguard against it is to have full control over your faculties at all times.  Unless you want fodder for your own blog.  Then, hey, bottoms up.

There is a strong possibility this was my FB post the morning after the above incident. 

Weddings: aka, Another Excuse to F**k A Stranger

My "I'm available" face.  Also why I should never be a Bridesmaid.

Generally, weddings are a shit show of prurient gestures and advances.  They're a celebration of the coming together of two unfortunate bastards punching their times cards and retiring from "the game," and somehow that act of surrender promotes an atmosphere of free-love.

Alcohol and I have always had a natural proclivity towards salacious behavior, so for me, weddings were like the Serengeti: full of tasty Gazelles ripe for my inner lioness to devour.  At least, that's how I like to recall them.  Realistically, I was probably more like a wounded Zebra (no where near as majestic or graceful as a Gazelle) in a room full of Cheetahs (or the likes of any other unfaithful animal).

Weddings are similar to Halloween in the sense that they're both comprised of parties filled with drunken sluts; the obvious difference being that at weddings the girls start out pretending to be pure as the driven snow, but at the end of the night, the line separating the two is indistinguishable.  Now, at the time, I thought I was "getting lucky" - I had the kind of track record at weddings that would put John Beckwith and Jeremy Grey to shame.

I retract that statement, because it just makes me sound like a dirty, filthy whore.  I was no where near the number of weddings they were in attendance of.  Nor was I as smooth.  (Or as fictional, for that matter).  Regardless, four particular instances come to mind, which I will share with you now:

*For the record, a "real wedding" consisted of one at which copious amounts of alcohol was consumed (on my part).  I have since attended weddings, sober, and they are a nothing more than arrogant, braggadocios snooze-festivals.  But I digress.

1)  The first wedding I attended as an adult was at a winery.  Theoretically, this would be very convenient for me.  What was inconvenient, however, was the ignorance of youth - I was 20, new to alcohol, and hadn't yet mastered the elusive "maintenance."  If there was a "line," I blew right past it.  As luck would have it, this was the Holy blissful nuptials of my parents' best friend's daughter, so mom and dad were right by my side to peel me off the ground and drive me home.  Literally.  I was so wasted by dinner my parents had to escort me out the back in an attempt to hide me (aka: their embarrassment), and take me far away from any discerning guest.  Their biggest mistake was leaving me to stand on my own while they brought the car around, because by the time they pulled up, I was making out with the gravel parking lot.

How is kissing the ground getting lucky?  Technically I wasn't unlucky.  Moreover, this incident sets a tone for future weddings to come; a) that I was drunk and b) that my parents were in attendance.  It just unravels from here.

2)  The next wedding I went to was much more "successful."  It was the ceremony of my mother's best friend's 19 year-old son, and I was inspired to act just as dumb as they apparently were for pissing away their youth.  I caught a lift with my parents and made the three hour drive to the event - a responsible move on my part because I knew I'd be imbibing in a few dozen celebratory libations.

I made it through dinner (yay!) and thank God I did, otherwise I wouldn't have seen him cuttin' a rug on the dance floor.  Not only did he have moves that would put Jerry's kids to shame, he had a British accent - a real panty dropper.  I'm painting a Monet for you, cuz from far away (and through beer goggles) all of this looked really good, but up close it was a big 'ol mess.

Ironically, it was the 19 year-old groom (sober - by default, because he wasn't old enough to drink at his own wedding - and clear headed) who handed me the red flag: "Stay away from Roger.  All he wants to do is f**k you."  First off, I eat red flags for breakfast.  Second, DING DING DING!  Thank you Captain Obvious, that's what I was going for.  Not all of us are trying to get married, you little freak.  (His bride wasn't even pregnant at the time.  They got married young cuz they were "in love."   Weirdos.)

The part where I showed real class was when I told my mom and dad that I would not be needing a ride home with them, cuz I would be accompanying my new friend.

#SaveMeFromMyself

3)  Moving right along, I found myself in Pismo Beach a few years later at a wedding I was invited to by my best friend (who later made me a bridesmaid in her own wedding. See above pic.)  She asked me to be her wing woman, and I never turn down an opportunity to be of service.  Her cousin was getting married, or something like that, and all I cared about was that it was far the hell out of town and an opportunity to hook up with someone I'd most likely never see again in my life.

A bit of back story: my high school boyfriend and I kept up a "friendly" relationship that extended into my twenties.  Now, there's really no good way to spin this, so I'm just going to say that at his behest, I may have shared a certain skill set I possess for oral copulation with a friend of his.

Fast forward to Pismo, where as fate would have it, this "friend" just happened to be a wedding guest. (To say "it's a small world" is the goddamned understatement of the century.) I felt cockblocked, to say the least.  Not to mention a little dirty.  How was I to proceed without looking like a total hooker?  The logical answer, of course, would be to hook up with him again.  Though, what a fucking bummer, cuz I was really looking for something new.  After all, variety is the spice of life.  What a waste of mileage.

4)  My favorite wedding conquest, to date, was with "Clark Kent."  That's what I called him, because he had steely eyes, dark hair and black-rimmed glasses, a muscular build beneath his suit, and also because I have no idea what his real name is.  I met him at the wedding of the brother of the bride from wedding #1, so the pressure was on for me to keep it together.  There would be NO gravel parking lot debacles this time.

By now I had a few weddings under my belt, and knew that my plus one had to be a friend who was fun, but didn't upstage me.  I wasn't interested in competing.  I needed a Best Supporting by my side, and she really pulled through.  If there was an award I could have bestowed upon her, I would have, because this bitch snuck into my bedroom the next morning as Clark and I laid in bed to CLEAN MY ROOM so he wouldn't be repulsed by my pig pen when he woke up.  Now THAT is a fucking good friend.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Clark had me at double windsor knot - that is to say, using his tie, he placed it around my neck and taught me how to tie one - and that's where it stayed all night, long after I lost every other article of clothing.

Of course because he was the only wedding hook-up I was interested in ever having call me again, he never did.  My karma finally caught up with me.  Sure, there would be other weddings, but they all fell short of my sordid evening with Kent.  I searched phone booths before resigning myself to the insides of bars, and found other action figures to spend time with, but never a super hero.  Booze will betray you more than men, but it took a while for me to piece that together.

Compliments of the Bride.  I'm so grateful I have friends willing to remind me of how classy I was.

Quittin' Time

Four years ago today I had the worst hangover of my life, physically and emotionally.  After more than a decade of rippin' and runnin', I was toast.  It was fun, then it was fun with problems, then it was just problems - if you consider passing out in your parents' living room with your dress hiked up to your waste a problem.

And you're not wearing panties.

Which your mother points out to you the next morning (aka: Thursday) in the photo she took of you… Right before showing you the video she captured of you trying to stumble your way to bed.

(Also you're 30 and still living with your parents.)

And that third bottle of wine you thought you didn't touch?  Come to find out you managed to polish that off, too.  Pretty impressive, considering you opened it in a blackout, which is nothing but unmitigated skill.

And by "you" I mean me.  So that's when I decided it was time to quit.

Drunk Dial Disaster

Piggybacking off the "my brother caught on fire" entry, thought I'd lighten up the mood with this little anecdote.

During the time my brother was in the hospital, my parents were living in a hotel in San Diego and I was drinking a lot in HB.  I knew they had a few things on their plate, so when I crashed my Jetta into the side of my boyfriend's house one drunk afternoon, I decided not to tell them.  What they didn't know wouldn't kill them.  See how thoughtful I am?  Besides, my boyfriend was in construction, and he was more than capable of repairing the hole I put in his house.  The hole in the bumper of my car was another problem, entirely.

You see, on weekends I would drive down to UCSD Burn Center to visit my fam and the crispy critter.  In a futile attempt to hide the damage I had done to my rear end, I was always careful to back into parking spaces.  I played it off as being "so LA."  I thought I was pret-ty clever, until one day when my mom asks me if there's anything I want to tell her?

That's the LAST question I'm ever answering truthfully.

I lie and say of course not; I play dumb - whatever could you mean, mom?  I'm an Angel… And that's when she whips out her cell phone and plays back a saved voicemail, from me, to the effect of:

Holy shit!  I hit his house!  Oh my God, I'm so drunk!  HahahahahahahahaBURP.

That's right - I drunk dialed my mom after running my car through my boyfriend's house while her other child was laid up in the hospital awaiting skin grafts.

I'm an asshole.

ONE NIGHT STAND WEEK: *SUBMISSION* - A Premarital Mess, Vegas Style

SUBMITTED BY XX, LOS ANGELES

Nothing says "hot sex" like Vegas. Whether ushering weekend flings down a corner Chapel aisle, or breaking-up relationships, Sin City never disappoints when encouraging poor decision making.

This is one girl's story:

blog.deltavacations.com

Vegas, 2009. My friend and I are hanging at a chill bar in the MGM Grand, expecting to have a "tame" Friday before a more raucous Saturday, but bitch, please - when does that ever happen in Vegas? So we end up meeting this group of handsome English gents, and start drunkenly wandering around the casino with them, having a grand ol' time. My friend gravitates toward this one guy, while this other cute guy (we'll call "British Chris") became my buddy. It's Vegas, so we didn't get into personal details... though my friend's guy kept repeating, "This guy is like my brother," about British Chris. Okay, so they're close. Luckily so are my friend and I. So I didn't think much of it when we each started hooking up with our respective Englishman in side by side queen beds in their one hotel room. Just a little strategic use of the comforter and it's like you're in separate suites! 

Then I hear the hotel room door slam. I look out from the covers, still mid-hook up, and we see that my friend and her guy have left the room. British Chris suddenly has a look of terror on his face. "Shit!" he says. "Stay here." He throws on some pants and hurries out of the room. Now I, thoroughly confused, do not "stay." I throw back on my dress and heels and head for the door. But when I open it, there was British Chris with a bloody face - and not bloody in the English sense of the word. Bloody as in I'm definitely NOT kissing that anymore. 

"My future brother-in-law just punched me in the face," he says. "I think I've just ruined my entire life."

Oh. So that's what you meant when you said, "This guy is like a brother to me." Got it.  

I just blankly stare back at him. I mean, he's an idiot. Really, hooking up RIGHT NEXT TO YOUR FIANCEE'S BROTHER?? But he knew his fate was sealed. He gave me a sweet kiss and said, "See you in another lifetime." And I just shrugged and walked across the Strip at 7am, an innocent bystander to some English wedding that will never happen, hoping they didn't pre-order too much bangers and mash for the occasion. 

Vegas. At Night. Through tears.

My Last Sunday Funday

Wanna know how to stop traffic? Launch yourself, head first, over the handle bars of your bicycle in front of a car or two. That usually does the trick. And make sure you're not wearing a helmet.

To effectively pull this off, it helps to be drunk.

With any luck, you'll be able to walk away with a mild concussion, or just look like you spent a Tuesday night with Chris Brown.

Circa 2008

Same… '08 sometime

My Hawaiian Rapist

Have you ever had to pick the cop who raped you out of a line-up? Me neither, but I totally almost had to.

Allow me to digress: the year was 2003. I had recently familiarized myself with cops as I was fresh off my first (and only) DUI the previous week. A little R and R and a dozen Mai Tai's seemed just what the doctor (definitely not the judge) ordered. So, accompanied by my BFF, off to Hawaii I went.

*Side Note: If you're looking for a partner in crime, don't bring the chick with a boyfriend on vacation. Not only are they a real wet blanket, they leave you unsupervised to gyrate some unholy dance moves while they're glued to a phone talking to their life-ruiner.

Meanwhile I'm out to dry, thinking I'm the hottest seductress that Moose McGillycuddy's had ever seen. I may as well have had bullseyes for nipples and a big flashing arrow pointed at my cucaracha cuz Officer Roofie was all about it.

So it comes as no surprise (in hindsight) that the Roofinator just happened to be available to give me a lift home at the end of the night. At first he insisted his buddy take my friend so he could have me all to himself (listen, I'm like Gumby when I drink. In other words, I'm pliable. I'm not exactly putting up a fight), but I was able to slur my resistance.

Off we sped, seated three deep in the front of his patrol car. The road to Kaanapali from Lahaina is long and dark, and I was getting thirsty. Fortunately, my hospitable driver offered me a sip from his Starbucks cup - which was filled with beer, the sweet nectar of the night. It was just the drop I needed to push me over the line from, "I can stand" to "sohaeneone ahold awa mya haaiwr…"

I was pushing buttons, playing with his siren, laughing, throwing my head back, giving him my sexy eyes. In his professional opinion, he decided what we needed was more alcohol (so I would lose my shirt and my friend would lose the stick up her ass.) He stopped at a liquor store and we grabbed a twelver.

He seemed genuinely surprised when we parted ways. (I am genuinely surprised we ever reached our destination.) My friend grabbed the beer as he coaxed me to "take a drive" with him, and when it occurred to her I was actually contemplating taking him up on his offer, she grabbed me, too. For all I know, the guy was proud of his Island and just wanted to share it's majesty with me… at 3 AM.

The moral of the story is: On second thought, bring the chick with the boyfriend on vacation. Odds are she'll probably end up saving your life, or at the very least, your vagina.

Reuters

RIDICULOUS LINK: Drunk French Teens Steal Llama from Circus

Hi. I want to be friends with you.

http://now.msn.com/drunk-french-teens-allegedly-steal-llama-from-circus