No re-entry – you’ll have to be happy trolling the glory hole.
Mmmm winter. Time to party in the student ghetto. Pod knows of a cozy little bash. Ever the nonchalant one, he sidles up to all the pretty girls at school as if he’s known them forever. Phid, on the other hand, has more of an end game approach. He gets more, earlier; Pod’s are more loyal down the road. They brought you because: you’re buds, there’s more than enough to go around, you can be wingman for both and maybe one of the babes has a desperate friend or an appropriately low standards.
I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm and the inevitable pinhole burns
Now all down the front of my favorite satin shirt
I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers, I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain
Got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains…
Pink Floyd, Nobody Home
Or, you’re the owner of a chain of greasy fried chicken joints (with accessible marquee signs) and some shittastic “family” restaurants. You’re not getting any from the wife, your kids are brats, and you need somet action for the weeknights, before crawling into your pampered 1979 Continental Town Coupe (“a future collectible”) to impress the crowd at church. (And get some fake forgiveness.)
For you, it’s the 1977 Corvette. Top of the line performance from an American car. Style and luxury. What you don’t realize now is that the car will kill you. It may be because car + booze + tree = fail. Like so:
The infamous flat-out/DUI on Sheffield. Where the real estate agent who sold you your house DUIs his Corvette around a tree at about 90 mph about 100 yards from your house. Interrupting you in mid-grope in the dark at the one and only party in your basement. Bummer. Oh, and too bad about the dead guy, too.
It may also be because your Bible-thumping hides your secret life fucking your confidential Italian secretary in the booty call apartment you rent for her in the next town over. Divorce seems like a better choice than telling God “You can’t fire me! I quit!” (suicide), but whatever. Your choice, man.
I blame the ‘Vette, because polyester and fiberglass are more real than Tony Manero or a God you fear and lie to.
…and it shows. Your rolling creamsicle ads come in lots of different flavors
Possibly the flavor is Sour Apple
Black and topless like hookers named Apple
The color of 8 barrel air cleaners
Him: Reddened, like it’s engorged.
Her: Stop looking at my boobs or I will take this microphone and Casino Royale your personal BJ quest into oblivion.
Like the flavor of popcorn. Or showers, one supposes, since it seems to invite being pissed on.
(It’s possibly a Mosler)
Dollars or giant penises? They will take both, please.
Ahh, overcompensation. Lemon, like “pucker up”? Not subtle. Banana, to go with a long hood and side exhausts? You think it says long and hard. She’ll think yellow banans are already starting to go soft and are hours away from rotting. Also, gasses – pheww – watch out.
…just drop the bonnet on an Aston, regardless of color. While it does say, “I’m fucking desperate,” it also says “old money” and jacuzzi suite at the Wynn. Whadda you got to lose.
Even if you’re a door knob, driving old Vegas says “yeah baby” in that ever so right sort of way.
What a stupid piece of shit song, right? Well, it’s also nostalgic (in a pathetic, demented sort of way).
- first time I heard it was at the FSK house
- (at a Phi Sigma Kappa kegger – big surprise)
- The Romantics were from Detroit. Detroit music was cool – WLLZ (Whole lotta Led Zepplin) WRIF (Baby!), Motown (as I learned later). Even Ted Nugent (pre-insanity) compared to the tighty whitey repress your inner weirdo nature of my location
- I could tell anonymous frat girls that I liked them, because it was in the lyrics.
- No, it did not get me laid
- Neither did getting messed up from Budweiser, FWIW, although I sure felt cool.
Despite what your drunken penis-brain tells you, that hot redhead who reminds you of Louise (Padlock’s girlfriend) on the hysterical historical geology road trip to Niagara Falls is NOT hot for you. This is not the first time you will confuse a girl that talks to you with one who is interested in you.
It’s a really simple distinction – the first one is usually real.
Anyway, she’s just trying to get you out of the room so another couple can hook up.
Don’t worry, you DID offend her. And, no, she doesn’t have any cigarettes you can bum at 3 am, but pound on her door for 10 minutes just to make sure.
- Tickets to Founders Day Banquet: $20
- Ride with some goof named Al: Free
- Getting a semi-hot date you have absolutely no chance of scoring with 40 minutes before the party starts?: $20 (for the tickets, dipshit). You can get shot down for free anytime you want, and pretty much every time you don’t want.
- Cheesy award from Scott (which you keep for 25 years) because you at least didn’t go stag, thereby beating the over/under : Obviously priceless.
The pic is from a different banquet, although the girl in the red dress could very well have been my pity date from the award. ^^
Yeah, this could totally not be the worst idea ever.
From: Effects Hazards [mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org]
Sent: Sat 2/24/2007 2:46 AM
To: Wink Dinkerson
Subject: How are you? My name is Ekaterina.Hi!
How are you? My name is Ekaterina. I from Russia, city Cheboksary. To me 28 years. I shall tell to you about myself a little.
I corresponded with the man from the your country before. His name Mark. He is rom your country. We had a long correspondence and Mark wanted, that I have arrived to him in the your country that I have seen what life there. We have together submitted the statement on reception of the visa in your country! Mark spoke, that will help my in our meeting. I thought, that have met on the Internet the love.
I and Mark made the big plans for the future, but in a flash all has changed. From the moment of submission of the statement for the application of the visa has passed 5 months. For these five months there was for what I least waited. Mark informed, that his former wife has returned to him and lives together with him. Soon they should get married. And now in Mark plans there is no me. I wrote to him some times after that, but Mark have wished me only good luck in the further searches worthy men and have told, that our ways miss. And in
October to me there has come the invitation in embassy behind reception of the visa.
In the beginning I wanted to throw out the invitation in embassy. To me it was sad, because my dreams were failed, I have nobody to fly in the your country. But my uncle have dissuaded me from resolute actions and
have told, that else there is a chance to find worthy the man and to use the visa to a meeting with him. I well know English and practically I have visa your country. My uncle speaks, that it really solves
Approximately in 7 days the visa will be ready, and I should go to Moscow behind reception of the visa. I write to you because in my heart there is an empty seat. I do not search rich or poor. I search careful and
responsible man which wants to enjoy a life together. Is this person you? I think, that I ask not much. I have told to you a little about my life. I have told not all about myself, but it will be easier to me
to write about myself if you will ask questions which interest you. I have told to you my history, and now I shall look forward to hearing from you with impatience. Write to me! I shall send you more phot0 in
the following letter. I wait you answer. Ekaterina.
P.S. I shall answer with pleasure if you write to me on:email@example.com>
See? Never believe what you read.
No one I know was ever near Wrigley. In other news, never trust a fucking camera phone. One day’s CYA photo is the next day’s “beyond a reasonable doubt.” You have been warned.
But not by me. I wasn’t there. If I was, I didn’t say anything to you about it. If I did, it wasn’t that. If it was, you knew I was talking about space aliens and not any property crimes or disorderly conduct of any sort whatsoever on or about August 2, 2006 in the vicinity of Clark and – uh, nevermind.