Ruben is my favorite gay guy. Why? Because he's just a normal dude who likes wiener.
The last time I saw Ruben was this past Tuesday. We met up for lunch after a while of not seeing each other. So much has happened since the last time him and I got together. But one thing remains the same - Ruben loves men. So much in fact that his new favorite motto is "Respect the Cock". A saying made famous by Tom Cruise in Magnolia is now Ruben's life creed. He must have caught the flick on HBO prior to our lunch.
We had planned to have lunch a few weeks ago but weren't able to hook up until this past Tuesday. I let Ruben know that I was available and he texted me the address of where to pick him up. I hopped in my car and headed to a lunch that would change my life once again.
When I arrived at Ruben's job, he was outside waiting for me. This guy never ages let me tell ya. And that was the first thing I told him after giving him and nice man on man, chest to chest, groin on groin hug. The kind of hug no straight man should give another but I find fun to give to my buddy Ruben. I am always up for giving him a cheap thrill. Does that make me gay? Nah. Well perhaps just a bit.
He gave me directions to this place he had told me about when we planned on meeting originally. When he told me about this place he said:
"Dude we have to go to this Mexican restaurant by my job."
"Is the food good?"
"Yeah the food is good AND it's owned by two midget women. Well I think they are midgets....they are very small and speak with those creepy Munchkin Land voices. Dude WE HAVE TO GO!"
"I dunno man. Midgets kind of creep me out."
"Dude!"
"Alright let's go..."
We get to the restaurant and I don't see any midgets. Just a table full of sherriffs and a Mexican soccer game on the television. I felt a little at ease knowing that the midgets weren't going to be serving us that day. I was sitting across from Ruben as we looked over the menu and then I saw his eyes light up and he smiled and said:
"Dude they are here!"
As he finished saying that I heard it...a tiny high pitched voice speaking Spanish. I didn't want to turn around and look but I had to. So I tried to be as inconspicuous as I could. I guess part of the experience of this place was seeing these midgets. I made my not-so-obvious turn and took a gander and what I saw was amazing. These ladies (I believe they were grown women) were not midgets at all. They were smaller than midgets! They were literally Little Women. Like the book but smaller. I watched this YouTube video on Sunday about a dwarfed mini horse...these were dwarfed midgets. I could have put them in a shirt pocket. This is when Ruben told me his dream:
"Dude....you know what I would want to come back as if I were given the chance to do it all over again? Like if I could choose what life to live?"
"What's that?"
"I would want to come back as a midget."
"Why would you want that dude??"
"Because, then I would be cock height."
The End
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Friday, February 4, 2011
Revenge of the Tanga
I want to thank Oh-Day for passing up on the leopard print tangas that Ernie had so thoughtfully purchased for him that Christmas. I am pretty sure that sometimes Oh-Day thinks back to that night and says to himself, "Aye papi, I chud ef kept dose tangas". After that night, those tangas were welcomed into my underwear drawer next to my silk Animaniac boxers. Now the question was, when and where could I wear them.....
We had arrived to the hotel on Friday night. A bus full of young men and women looking for an "experiencia religiosa" in Mexicali. The men had two rooms to themselves, across the hall from each other and the women the same. We all got ready and headed to the venue where we would find ourselves in shock and awe. This was where we would meet the greatest speaker since Hitler - El 1-2-3 Kid....... ( http://dylanpatan.blogspot.com/2008/10/el-1-2-3-kid.html )
After the madness which was "El 1-2-3 Kid", the whole youth group headed back to our rooms for some pizza. Not just any pizza, Mexican style pizza. What is Mexican style pizza? Well in Mexicali, it means instead of pepperoni, you get chorizo and instead of marinara sauce, you get refried beans. My butt had an "experiencia peligrosa" that night.
The next day, I woke up and went to the restroom and had an epiphany. This weekend would be the weekend where Oh-Day's rejected tangas came out of hiding. Why did I pack them? Why not pack them! While everyone was still waking up, I was in the restroom changing into my newest and most favorite garment.
I walked out of the restroom in my leopard tanga and woke everyone up by putting my leg up on the bed and thrusting my hips while I called their name.
"Wake up Conrad....." (thrust thrust)
"YOU'RE SO GAY!"
"Wake up Pungu...." (thrust thrust)
"Yummy."
The more I thrust my then tiny hips, the more laughter ensued. I thought I was the funniest guy ever in my itty bitty undies. All the guys in my room were laughing as I did very questionable dance moves that Oh-Day would have been all over.
Word had gotten across the hall of my attire and I was summoned over by the guys in that room. I skipped across the hall in a fancy girlie manner, wearing only my leopards. As soon as I got to the door of the other room....SLAM!....CLICK. I had been locked out. So I ran over to my room.....SLAM!......CLICK. Locked out. Now, I wouldn't have minded except for the fact that the cleaning lady was headed toward our rooms. I was trying my best to hide in the small doorway that lead to the rooms only to hear the guys saying, "Let me look...hahahahah...". They were taking turns watching me squirm through the peep holes in the doors.
They refused to open the door and the cleaning lady was getting closer and closer. I thought to myself, "Well, it's not that bad. It's just the cleaning lady. She might get a little thrill." Then, from behind the cleaning lady I can see the Pastor of my church's daughter and another Pastor's daughter. At that time they were about 11 or 12 years old. A very impressionable age for a young pastor's daughter. In a loud whisper I begged to be let in but it was too late. All three ladies had seen me in all my glory. I will never forget the look in each of their eyes....
Cleaning lady - Lust
Pastor's Daughter 1 - Disgust
Pastor's Daughter 2 - Perversion
Finally I was let in and I hurried to close the door before I could get pushed out in to the eyeing den. The laughter continued until I was fully clothed.
I never wore the tangas again after that. I had them burned at a bonfire a few years after that. Only the memory of them remains. In my heart and in the minds of two not so innocent pastor's daughters and a cleaning lady.
We had arrived to the hotel on Friday night. A bus full of young men and women looking for an "experiencia religiosa" in Mexicali. The men had two rooms to themselves, across the hall from each other and the women the same. We all got ready and headed to the venue where we would find ourselves in shock and awe. This was where we would meet the greatest speaker since Hitler - El 1-2-3 Kid....... ( http://dylanpatan.blogspot.com/2008/10/el-1-2-3-kid.html )
After the madness which was "El 1-2-3 Kid", the whole youth group headed back to our rooms for some pizza. Not just any pizza, Mexican style pizza. What is Mexican style pizza? Well in Mexicali, it means instead of pepperoni, you get chorizo and instead of marinara sauce, you get refried beans. My butt had an "experiencia peligrosa" that night.
The next day, I woke up and went to the restroom and had an epiphany. This weekend would be the weekend where Oh-Day's rejected tangas came out of hiding. Why did I pack them? Why not pack them! While everyone was still waking up, I was in the restroom changing into my newest and most favorite garment.
I walked out of the restroom in my leopard tanga and woke everyone up by putting my leg up on the bed and thrusting my hips while I called their name.
"Wake up Conrad....." (thrust thrust)
"YOU'RE SO GAY!"
"Wake up Pungu...." (thrust thrust)
"Yummy."
The more I thrust my then tiny hips, the more laughter ensued. I thought I was the funniest guy ever in my itty bitty undies. All the guys in my room were laughing as I did very questionable dance moves that Oh-Day would have been all over.
Word had gotten across the hall of my attire and I was summoned over by the guys in that room. I skipped across the hall in a fancy girlie manner, wearing only my leopards. As soon as I got to the door of the other room....SLAM!....CLICK. I had been locked out. So I ran over to my room.....SLAM!......CLICK. Locked out. Now, I wouldn't have minded except for the fact that the cleaning lady was headed toward our rooms. I was trying my best to hide in the small doorway that lead to the rooms only to hear the guys saying, "Let me look...hahahahah...". They were taking turns watching me squirm through the peep holes in the doors.
They refused to open the door and the cleaning lady was getting closer and closer. I thought to myself, "Well, it's not that bad. It's just the cleaning lady. She might get a little thrill." Then, from behind the cleaning lady I can see the Pastor of my church's daughter and another Pastor's daughter. At that time they were about 11 or 12 years old. A very impressionable age for a young pastor's daughter. In a loud whisper I begged to be let in but it was too late. All three ladies had seen me in all my glory. I will never forget the look in each of their eyes....
Cleaning lady - Lust
Pastor's Daughter 1 - Disgust
Pastor's Daughter 2 - Perversion
Finally I was let in and I hurried to close the door before I could get pushed out in to the eyeing den. The laughter continued until I was fully clothed.
I never wore the tangas again after that. I had them burned at a bonfire a few years after that. Only the memory of them remains. In my heart and in the minds of two not so innocent pastor's daughters and a cleaning lady.
Monday, January 3, 2011
The Gift That Kept Giving....Nightmares
First of all, Happy 2011 to all those of you who still read this blog. I know I have not kept up with it as often as I should but you must know that when I write a blog, I write it with the hopes that those of you who still read it, enjoy it thoroughly.
As you all know, Christmas has come and gone. Yes it's Christmas. It's not "the holidays". The only other holidays I will acknowledge are Hanukkah and Festivus. I refuse to be politically correct about Christmas. Anyway, without digressing any further, this Christmas, was a great one. Not just because my whole family was here at my house, enjoying each other's company and fighting while playing board games, but also because this year I received some of the best gifts ever. I remember the best gift I have ever received and it was one that was not even meant for me.
Let's go back to the early millenia again....
It was time for our annual church youth Christmas dinner. This year we were also having a gift exchange. A few weeks prior to the dinner, we all chose names from a hat or box and were then instructed that the limit was $10 for the gift. By the time the drawing of names was over, every one had already exchanged with each other who they had chosen.
As the night of the Christmas dinner/gift exchange came upon us, we all hurried to get the gifts we should have bought many days prior. I remember going to the nearest dirt-mall with a friend named Ernie and I can't remember who else but he was definitely there because, well, you'll soon find out.
The dirt-mall had the gifts Ernie and I were looking for and fit into the $10 budget we had been given. Now the real question was, would they fit the situation we were about to encounter?
It was dinner night and Ernie and I had our gifts in hand. We were anxious to find out who had chosen our names and also anxious to give our gifts to those people we had chosen. I was more anxious to see what Ernie's gift receiver would say once they opened their gift. His receiver would receive more than he had bargained for.
We were having dinner at one of Downey's most illustrious Italian restaurants. Sure you won't find it open anymore but back then it was top of the line. Italian food made by Mexicans. Can't beat that right?
Once dinner was over, the gift exchanging commenced. Not only were gifts exchanged, but so were fake smiles as people realized what they had been given. I think I got a pair of Solo jeans from the same dirt-mall Ernie and I had been at. I was not happy but exchanged my fake smile accordingly. Then it was Ernie's turn to give the person he had chosen their gift.
Ernie had chosen a guy who we all suspected (and still do) to be a closet homo sexual. I say this only because, well, the guy is probably the most feminine guy I have ever met. From his mannerisms to the way he speaks. We all wonder when he will finally admit he likes men. It will happen soon. And when it does, no one will be surprised. I will call him Oh-Day. Anyway, when Oh-Day opened the gift Ernie had bought, every one began laughing out loud (LOL was not popular yet). Ernie had taken it upon himself to buy our eventually-to-be gay friend a three pack of bikini underwear. Not just bikini but leopard print.
Out of the mouth of gays....
"Pero yo no uso tanga..." ( You have to say this with a gay accent. Come on, you know what a gay accent is...)
PLOPs all around.
Oh-Day then proceeded to throw them back in their wrappings and leave them on the table. Ernie then decided it would be ok to ask Oh-Day to model them. He refused. I was quick to jump on those leopard print bikini briefs. Why? I have no idea. I too "no uso tanga" but I thought they would be funny to wear.
Best gift I ever received. Sure they were meant for Oh-Day but they were up for grabs when he refused to try them on as per Ernie's request.
These "tangas" probably gave Oh-Day nightmares of being mocked for his gayness. He was a innocent bystander. Just a gay guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. They would give another innocent bystander nightmares in the years to come.
Wrong place at the wrong time seems to be the motto for these "tangas"......
As you all know, Christmas has come and gone. Yes it's Christmas. It's not "the holidays". The only other holidays I will acknowledge are Hanukkah and Festivus. I refuse to be politically correct about Christmas. Anyway, without digressing any further, this Christmas, was a great one. Not just because my whole family was here at my house, enjoying each other's company and fighting while playing board games, but also because this year I received some of the best gifts ever. I remember the best gift I have ever received and it was one that was not even meant for me.
Let's go back to the early millenia again....
It was time for our annual church youth Christmas dinner. This year we were also having a gift exchange. A few weeks prior to the dinner, we all chose names from a hat or box and were then instructed that the limit was $10 for the gift. By the time the drawing of names was over, every one had already exchanged with each other who they had chosen.
As the night of the Christmas dinner/gift exchange came upon us, we all hurried to get the gifts we should have bought many days prior. I remember going to the nearest dirt-mall with a friend named Ernie and I can't remember who else but he was definitely there because, well, you'll soon find out.
The dirt-mall had the gifts Ernie and I were looking for and fit into the $10 budget we had been given. Now the real question was, would they fit the situation we were about to encounter?
It was dinner night and Ernie and I had our gifts in hand. We were anxious to find out who had chosen our names and also anxious to give our gifts to those people we had chosen. I was more anxious to see what Ernie's gift receiver would say once they opened their gift. His receiver would receive more than he had bargained for.
We were having dinner at one of Downey's most illustrious Italian restaurants. Sure you won't find it open anymore but back then it was top of the line. Italian food made by Mexicans. Can't beat that right?
Once dinner was over, the gift exchanging commenced. Not only were gifts exchanged, but so were fake smiles as people realized what they had been given. I think I got a pair of Solo jeans from the same dirt-mall Ernie and I had been at. I was not happy but exchanged my fake smile accordingly. Then it was Ernie's turn to give the person he had chosen their gift.
Ernie had chosen a guy who we all suspected (and still do) to be a closet homo sexual. I say this only because, well, the guy is probably the most feminine guy I have ever met. From his mannerisms to the way he speaks. We all wonder when he will finally admit he likes men. It will happen soon. And when it does, no one will be surprised. I will call him Oh-Day. Anyway, when Oh-Day opened the gift Ernie had bought, every one began laughing out loud (LOL was not popular yet). Ernie had taken it upon himself to buy our eventually-to-be gay friend a three pack of bikini underwear. Not just bikini but leopard print.
Out of the mouth of gays....
"Pero yo no uso tanga..." ( You have to say this with a gay accent. Come on, you know what a gay accent is...)
PLOPs all around.
Oh-Day then proceeded to throw them back in their wrappings and leave them on the table. Ernie then decided it would be ok to ask Oh-Day to model them. He refused. I was quick to jump on those leopard print bikini briefs. Why? I have no idea. I too "no uso tanga" but I thought they would be funny to wear.
Best gift I ever received. Sure they were meant for Oh-Day but they were up for grabs when he refused to try them on as per Ernie's request.
These "tangas" probably gave Oh-Day nightmares of being mocked for his gayness. He was a innocent bystander. Just a gay guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. They would give another innocent bystander nightmares in the years to come.
Wrong place at the wrong time seems to be the motto for these "tangas"......
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thanks for Giving Me a Chance
As I sit here at the Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, Arizona, I have faint memories of the last time I stepped foot in Phoenix. I was sitting in as lead guitarist for Garaje at a show they were having in Tempe. What was ironic about sitting for Garaje was that all the guitar parts I was playing had been partly created by me yet I was their guest. Anyway that is a whole other topic. Let us not live in the past but live in the now. The air is crisp and fresh today. It reminds of being naked on a balcony before the Garaje show....again, I digress.
I have been here since Wednesday night. I had promised my sister that I would spend Thanksgiving with her and her family here in the big AZ so here I am. Or here I was to be exact. I have dreaded coming to AZ for the longest. I am not a big fan of deserts and heat. Argh, just the thought of extremely hot weather makes me moody. LIke a fat woman in desperate need of pie. Luckily, the weather here these past few days has been exceptional. A solid 70 degrees during the day and a chili yet bearable 45 degrees at night. I have absolutely not complaints about the weather. In fact, I would have to say that, after these few days of Arizona living, I like Arizona. Dare I say, I REALLY like Arizona. The not so wild blue yonders have given me a new perspective on desert life. That was until......
I have a buddy who smokes. I thought it would be cool to bring him home some authentic Indian cigarettes from an authentic Indian reservation. I thought that would make for some interesting conversation and give me a lead in the "better than you" friends department. Anyway, I asked my sister if she knew of any Indian cigar shops that I could visit so I could get the loot. She, being the good Christian woman she is, said she didn't know of a specific cigar shop but she would help me find one. Sure enough, as we were driving back from the airport, there were a few shops to choose from.
We pulled into the first one we saw and I got out of the car. I walked in. Hope and a little excitement filled my tiny heart. I opened the door and was greeted by the friendly attendant.
“Do you have any Indian cigarettes?”
There was a short pause.
“No we don’t have any”
“Do you know where I can get some?”
“No I don’t”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I walked back to the car. I opened the door and sat down, and shut the door. With a sad look on my face I looked at my sister and told her they didn’t have any. She was a little perplexed to find out that there weren’t any Indian cigarettes at the Indian cigar shop. I suffered from the same perplexity. We continued to the next cigar shop.
“This one better have Indian cigarettes.”
My sister just smiled so as to say, “Nicotine is addictive and causes cancer you fool.”
She is a swell little lady.
I walked in the cigar shop with my fingers mentally crossed and my toes physically crossed.
“Do you have any Indian cigarettes?”
The guy behind the counter looked at me and replied with a tad of cynicism,
“Indian cigarettes? Don’t you mean native?”
Native? Is that correct? I thought to myself?
“Um yeah, Native. Sorry.”
He laughed as he turned around to get me a pack of Arizona’s finest.
I racked my brain trying to remember if I had been taught to call Indians, Native Americans as I paid for my Native cigarettes. Not one memory came to mind. Well one did but it had nothing to do with the difference between Native and Indian. I remembered being in the 4th grade. I had a friend named Wesley Sweetwater. He was an American Indian. I want to say he was from the Cherokee Tribe. I could be mistaken. I might just be that that is the only tribe I can remember from growing up. Anyway, I remember his mother coming into our classroom before either spring break or summer vacation and letting us know that Wesley would be doing a tribal dance at an Indian gathering. Wesley got made fun of for the longest time about that fateful day. That’s my only memory of Indians or Natives.
I was glad that the Native guy selling me the cigarettes didn’t tomahawk me or cast a folkloric spell on me that would turn me into the 2010 version of Teen Wolf. I would be Not-So-Teen Wolf though.
Happy Thanksgiving Natives.
I have been here since Wednesday night. I had promised my sister that I would spend Thanksgiving with her and her family here in the big AZ so here I am. Or here I was to be exact. I have dreaded coming to AZ for the longest. I am not a big fan of deserts and heat. Argh, just the thought of extremely hot weather makes me moody. LIke a fat woman in desperate need of pie. Luckily, the weather here these past few days has been exceptional. A solid 70 degrees during the day and a chili yet bearable 45 degrees at night. I have absolutely not complaints about the weather. In fact, I would have to say that, after these few days of Arizona living, I like Arizona. Dare I say, I REALLY like Arizona. The not so wild blue yonders have given me a new perspective on desert life. That was until......
I have a buddy who smokes. I thought it would be cool to bring him home some authentic Indian cigarettes from an authentic Indian reservation. I thought that would make for some interesting conversation and give me a lead in the "better than you" friends department. Anyway, I asked my sister if she knew of any Indian cigar shops that I could visit so I could get the loot. She, being the good Christian woman she is, said she didn't know of a specific cigar shop but she would help me find one. Sure enough, as we were driving back from the airport, there were a few shops to choose from.
We pulled into the first one we saw and I got out of the car. I walked in. Hope and a little excitement filled my tiny heart. I opened the door and was greeted by the friendly attendant.
“Do you have any Indian cigarettes?”
There was a short pause.
“No we don’t have any”
“Do you know where I can get some?”
“No I don’t”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I walked back to the car. I opened the door and sat down, and shut the door. With a sad look on my face I looked at my sister and told her they didn’t have any. She was a little perplexed to find out that there weren’t any Indian cigarettes at the Indian cigar shop. I suffered from the same perplexity. We continued to the next cigar shop.
“This one better have Indian cigarettes.”
My sister just smiled so as to say, “Nicotine is addictive and causes cancer you fool.”
She is a swell little lady.
I walked in the cigar shop with my fingers mentally crossed and my toes physically crossed.
“Do you have any Indian cigarettes?”
The guy behind the counter looked at me and replied with a tad of cynicism,
“Indian cigarettes? Don’t you mean native?”
Native? Is that correct? I thought to myself?
“Um yeah, Native. Sorry.”
He laughed as he turned around to get me a pack of Arizona’s finest.
I racked my brain trying to remember if I had been taught to call Indians, Native Americans as I paid for my Native cigarettes. Not one memory came to mind. Well one did but it had nothing to do with the difference between Native and Indian. I remembered being in the 4th grade. I had a friend named Wesley Sweetwater. He was an American Indian. I want to say he was from the Cherokee Tribe. I could be mistaken. I might just be that that is the only tribe I can remember from growing up. Anyway, I remember his mother coming into our classroom before either spring break or summer vacation and letting us know that Wesley would be doing a tribal dance at an Indian gathering. Wesley got made fun of for the longest time about that fateful day. That’s my only memory of Indians or Natives.
I was glad that the Native guy selling me the cigarettes didn’t tomahawk me or cast a folkloric spell on me that would turn me into the 2010 version of Teen Wolf. I would be Not-So-Teen Wolf though.
Happy Thanksgiving Natives.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Sports 101
I have always said that women's sports are not really sports. Well at least the real sports like basketball and football. I mean there is a lingerie football league because no one wants to watch 300 pound behemoth women play center. Not even women want to watch that. In fact, I just threw up a little thinking about that. Women should honestly stick to the pretty sports like gymnastics and tennis. Where their femininity can shine via short tennis skirts or leotards. Then again, I think of Serena Williams and I start thinking about that female center behemoth. Oh no, here comes the vomit. I mean, Serena is not ugly but she has the body of a heavy weight boxer. Sorry Serena, but you while perfecting your back hand form, you are losing your female form. But I digress.
I guess the reason for this short escapade into the mind which is mine, is that as I am sitting in the cafeteria here at mighty Cerrote College, I could not help but eavesdrop onto a conversation being had by a group of Falcon athletes, one of which is a female basketball player. Of course she is dressed with huge basketball shorts, huge hoodie sweater, and sandals over socks. If you are going to be a female athlete, at least try to dress like a woman, not a 12 year old cholo in training. Anyway, this guy sitting there was telling a story about a high school girls basketball game he went to.
"The final score was 8 to 2!"
"What?"
"Yeah nigga, that shit was the funniest thing I had ever seen."
Then boisterous laughter broke out to which I softly joined in on since I was clearly not part of their athletic crew even though I am quite the athlete. Well not so much.
I love women. They make the world go 'round. I mean without women, I would not have been born. The mere thought of that is an atrocity. I am just saying, women are meant to be praised for their beauty and femininity. Here we are in 2010, and I see more men-looking lesbians every day. Where did we go wrong? That is another thing I don't understand, if you are a lesbian, and quite possibly hate men, why do you try so hard to look like a man? That is like Jews purposely trying to look like Hitler or watermelon missing at a Sunday afternoon barbecue in Compton.
Like John Lennon sang, "Try to see it my way, do I have to keep on talking till I can't go on." I guess we can work it out....eventually.
I guess the reason for this short escapade into the mind which is mine, is that as I am sitting in the cafeteria here at mighty Cerrote College, I could not help but eavesdrop onto a conversation being had by a group of Falcon athletes, one of which is a female basketball player. Of course she is dressed with huge basketball shorts, huge hoodie sweater, and sandals over socks. If you are going to be a female athlete, at least try to dress like a woman, not a 12 year old cholo in training. Anyway, this guy sitting there was telling a story about a high school girls basketball game he went to.
"The final score was 8 to 2!"
"What?"
"Yeah nigga, that shit was the funniest thing I had ever seen."
Then boisterous laughter broke out to which I softly joined in on since I was clearly not part of their athletic crew even though I am quite the athlete. Well not so much.
I love women. They make the world go 'round. I mean without women, I would not have been born. The mere thought of that is an atrocity. I am just saying, women are meant to be praised for their beauty and femininity. Here we are in 2010, and I see more men-looking lesbians every day. Where did we go wrong? That is another thing I don't understand, if you are a lesbian, and quite possibly hate men, why do you try so hard to look like a man? That is like Jews purposely trying to look like Hitler or watermelon missing at a Sunday afternoon barbecue in Compton.
Like John Lennon sang, "Try to see it my way, do I have to keep on talking till I can't go on." I guess we can work it out....eventually.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Balls Out
I am home right now watching the Clippers attempt to win their first game of the young NBA season. As I sit here and watch in agony as the Clippers slow give away their 20 point lead, I can't help but let my eyes wander to my dog Jack, who is laying in between the television and myself. It's either the fact that he just farted and it smells like a burning, shyt-filled baby diaper that is turning my attention towards him or the fact that he is wearing a "cone of shame" as Ed Noir called it. Yesterday morning was the last time Jack saw his nuts. They are now property of the nearest landfill. I should have had the vet bottle them up for me so I could bronze them and hang them from the back of my lifted truck. Oh well, maybe I next time.
Jack's nut loss reminds me of a time when I........
The year was....some time in the mid-late 80s. My family and I were headed on our second excursion to Ecuador. Were we missionaries? No officially, but for some reason, every time we went to Ecuador (and every time my parents go now) we would take an extreme amount of luggage filled with American treasures for our less fortunate kin. Sure it was clothes from the sale rack at K-Mart but it was new and from California.
We got to the airport 4 hours early as usual. My dad is a real stickler when it comes to flying. He thinks that the earlier one gets to the airport, the better. Keep in mind friends that this was pre-9/11. There was no official, real need to be at the airport so early for these international flights. Nevertheless, there we were, at LAX with 4 hours to spare.
Back in the day, people who weren't scheduled to fly, were allowed to go all the way to the actual terminal to say goodbye to their loved ones or good riddance. Our entourage included all of our Californian family members. When I say all, I mean like 20 people at the airport with us to bid us adieu. It was almost like a family reunion.
On this fateful night, our parents decided to dress my brother Jazz and I in matching outfits. Why? I have no idea. Perhaps they felt that making us wear the same clothes made us look more high class or wealthier? I have never seen the Trumps or the Hiltons dressed alike. Oh well, that is something I will never understand.
Jazz and I were bored of modeling our argyle sweaters and khaki pants for our aunts and uncles so we decided to go on an excursion through LAX. We had nothing else to do for the remaining three and a half hours we had to spare after checking in. We recruited three of our cousins to come with, and we were off.
An airport is quite the playground when you are a youngster. There's tons of places to run around and be mischievous. There's elevators to joyride in and escalators to mess around on. My brother, cousins, and I had found a secluded spot with two of the biggest escalators we had seen all night, to call our playground. We would race up the escalator going down and visa versa. We had found a mechanical playground to kill the leftover time and we were loving it.
After a few times up and down the escalators in reverse fashion, I had a Newtonian idea. As a young boy, I always wondered what would happen if I sat down on the escalator steps and rode them all the way to the bottom. I figured I would get to the bottom and slide right off. This was my hypothesis and on this night, before my brother and cousins,e I would put my hypothesis to the test.
I started off on the top of the escalator and sat down on the first moving step. With hope in my eyes, I let this mechanical beast take me down to my brethren. I did not worry about getting my khakis dirty by sitting down on these steps which had seen the soles of many souls. All I cared about was getting to the bottom and sliding off and hearing cheers from my family waiting below. As I approached the bottom of the escalator, I could see the anxiety and interest in the eyes of Jazz and my cousins. They too were probably wondering what was going to happen once I reached the bottom, and my throne-like step disappeared under me. We were all about to find out.......
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
I got up as fast as I could. I could feel the fresh night air on my then hairless butt as tears began to run down my cheek.
"Oh my god!" Jazz's voice shrieked as he saw my gluteal damage.
My K-Mart khakis had gotten caught in between the step going under the ground and the teeth-like end that awaits at the bottom of every escalator. My hypothesis had failed. I did not slide off as I had anticipated and there I stood, with my pants and underwear ripped to shreds along with my little butt. The tears looked like claw marks that could have been made by a lion. This was one lion's den I did not survive. My cousins tried to keep their snickering to a minimum but I could faintly hear them as Jazz tried to console me and keep my calm.
"What are we going to do?" I asked in dire despair. "If mom and dad see this, they won't let us go to Ecuador!"
"Relax" Jazz replied, "I have an idea."
Jazz had me remove my sweater and tie it around my waist. I wiped my tears on my little oxford shirt as we walked to the nearest restroom.
"Look, keep the sweater tied around your waist until we get on the airplane." Jazz said in his calmest voice. "Don't show mom and dad until we are up in the air. There is no way they can get mad once we are already flying."
"Ok" I whimpered.
"And stop crying or else they going to know something is wrong." Jazz added.
His plan worked to perfection. With my sweater tied around my waist, there was no proof of the atrocity that had just occurred.
My ass was burning from the blood and open wounds that were left behind. But I sucked it up like Jazz had told me to do. I did not want to ruin our vacation.
Once we were in the airplane and up in the air, Jazz cued me that it was safe to tell our parents what had happened. I walked over to where they were seated and with tears welling up in my eyes, pulled my backwards apron off and showed them my butt. My mom slightly freaked out. As did my dad. I was then taken to the onboard restroom and changed out of my bloodstained khakis and after a few kisses from mommy, I was fast asleep dreaming of my next hypothesis to test....
"What would happen if I jumped of the back of a moving truck...."
4000 miles later, I found out
In the movie Mallrats, Brodie said it best:
"Listen, not a year goes by, not a year, that I don't hear about some escalator accident involving some bastard kid which could have easily been avoided had some parent - I don't care which one - but some parent conditioned him to fear and respect that escalator."
I could have lost my balls that night. Instead, I lost some blood and a good pair of khakis.
Jack's nut loss reminds me of a time when I........
The year was....some time in the mid-late 80s. My family and I were headed on our second excursion to Ecuador. Were we missionaries? No officially, but for some reason, every time we went to Ecuador (and every time my parents go now) we would take an extreme amount of luggage filled with American treasures for our less fortunate kin. Sure it was clothes from the sale rack at K-Mart but it was new and from California.
We got to the airport 4 hours early as usual. My dad is a real stickler when it comes to flying. He thinks that the earlier one gets to the airport, the better. Keep in mind friends that this was pre-9/11. There was no official, real need to be at the airport so early for these international flights. Nevertheless, there we were, at LAX with 4 hours to spare.
Back in the day, people who weren't scheduled to fly, were allowed to go all the way to the actual terminal to say goodbye to their loved ones or good riddance. Our entourage included all of our Californian family members. When I say all, I mean like 20 people at the airport with us to bid us adieu. It was almost like a family reunion.
On this fateful night, our parents decided to dress my brother Jazz and I in matching outfits. Why? I have no idea. Perhaps they felt that making us wear the same clothes made us look more high class or wealthier? I have never seen the Trumps or the Hiltons dressed alike. Oh well, that is something I will never understand.
Jazz and I were bored of modeling our argyle sweaters and khaki pants for our aunts and uncles so we decided to go on an excursion through LAX. We had nothing else to do for the remaining three and a half hours we had to spare after checking in. We recruited three of our cousins to come with, and we were off.
An airport is quite the playground when you are a youngster. There's tons of places to run around and be mischievous. There's elevators to joyride in and escalators to mess around on. My brother, cousins, and I had found a secluded spot with two of the biggest escalators we had seen all night, to call our playground. We would race up the escalator going down and visa versa. We had found a mechanical playground to kill the leftover time and we were loving it.
After a few times up and down the escalators in reverse fashion, I had a Newtonian idea. As a young boy, I always wondered what would happen if I sat down on the escalator steps and rode them all the way to the bottom. I figured I would get to the bottom and slide right off. This was my hypothesis and on this night, before my brother and cousins,e I would put my hypothesis to the test.
I started off on the top of the escalator and sat down on the first moving step. With hope in my eyes, I let this mechanical beast take me down to my brethren. I did not worry about getting my khakis dirty by sitting down on these steps which had seen the soles of many souls. All I cared about was getting to the bottom and sliding off and hearing cheers from my family waiting below. As I approached the bottom of the escalator, I could see the anxiety and interest in the eyes of Jazz and my cousins. They too were probably wondering what was going to happen once I reached the bottom, and my throne-like step disappeared under me. We were all about to find out.......
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
I got up as fast as I could. I could feel the fresh night air on my then hairless butt as tears began to run down my cheek.
"Oh my god!" Jazz's voice shrieked as he saw my gluteal damage.
My K-Mart khakis had gotten caught in between the step going under the ground and the teeth-like end that awaits at the bottom of every escalator. My hypothesis had failed. I did not slide off as I had anticipated and there I stood, with my pants and underwear ripped to shreds along with my little butt. The tears looked like claw marks that could have been made by a lion. This was one lion's den I did not survive. My cousins tried to keep their snickering to a minimum but I could faintly hear them as Jazz tried to console me and keep my calm.
"What are we going to do?" I asked in dire despair. "If mom and dad see this, they won't let us go to Ecuador!"
"Relax" Jazz replied, "I have an idea."
Jazz had me remove my sweater and tie it around my waist. I wiped my tears on my little oxford shirt as we walked to the nearest restroom.
"Look, keep the sweater tied around your waist until we get on the airplane." Jazz said in his calmest voice. "Don't show mom and dad until we are up in the air. There is no way they can get mad once we are already flying."
"Ok" I whimpered.
"And stop crying or else they going to know something is wrong." Jazz added.
His plan worked to perfection. With my sweater tied around my waist, there was no proof of the atrocity that had just occurred.
My ass was burning from the blood and open wounds that were left behind. But I sucked it up like Jazz had told me to do. I did not want to ruin our vacation.
Once we were in the airplane and up in the air, Jazz cued me that it was safe to tell our parents what had happened. I walked over to where they were seated and with tears welling up in my eyes, pulled my backwards apron off and showed them my butt. My mom slightly freaked out. As did my dad. I was then taken to the onboard restroom and changed out of my bloodstained khakis and after a few kisses from mommy, I was fast asleep dreaming of my next hypothesis to test....
"What would happen if I jumped of the back of a moving truck...."
4000 miles later, I found out
In the movie Mallrats, Brodie said it best:
"Listen, not a year goes by, not a year, that I don't hear about some escalator accident involving some bastard kid which could have easily been avoided had some parent - I don't care which one - but some parent conditioned him to fear and respect that escalator."
I could have lost my balls that night. Instead, I lost some blood and a good pair of khakis.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Don't Call It A Comeback...
Yes I know, I have been gone for an entire year and though some of you have missed my ramblings, I am almost certain that the rest of you who haven't, are probably living your lives post-dylanpatan-ism. Nevertheless, I feel it only fair to the blog world that I restart my blogging career. Sure my stories my be a bit on the farfetched, fictional side but they are all in fact, like our latex friend the condom, about 97% effectively true. So sit back, relax, and strap on your seat belt, while I take you on a few more journeys called "the Dylan Chronicles".....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
