Short Stories (aka Mini-Trainwrecks)

Are You a Terrorist?

It was shortly after 9/11, maybe two weeks, and I was trying to get back to a sense of normalcy by getting hammered on a Saturday night.  After the bars closed we all cabbed back to my friend Nicole’s place to continue the festivities.  Tripod and I were starving so we darted across the street to a 7-11 for snacks.  (Well, I darted across the street; Tripod just kinda strolled across, giving the finger to any cars that dared to honk at him.)

We grabbed some nachos and other snacks and went to the register.  The guy behind the counter was the perfect stereotype of a 7-11 cashier.  Now, I must emphasize again that I was utterly wasted and it was not long at all after the most deadly terror attack in our nation’s history.  That’s not to excuse my actions, merely to explain them.  Being a happy drunk, I wasn’t nasty or threatening, I merely asked the cashier as he was handing me my change, “You’re not a terrorist are you?”

I am fully aware that I was out of line.  In fact, if the guy had beaten my drunk ass to a pulp it would have been fully deserved.  But, fortunately, he just laughed and said in that stereotypical high pitched voice, “Oh, no, I am Indian, we hate the Muslims even more than you do!”

Division I Softball

No, this isn’t a rant about fat lesbians bunting and waddling around a two-thirds size diamond.  Nope, this is a story about how we survived having to work long weekends of fat lesbians bunting and waddling around a two-thirds size diamond.

Basically, we got drunk a lot.  Tripod and I would routinely get fucked up the night before we had to report at 6 or 7 in the morning.  Usually, after a couple hours of prep and set-up, once the game was on its way I’d send Tripod out beyond the homerun fence to sleep off his hangover in the grass.  Sometimes I’d have him guard a back gate, where he could sleep in a lawn chair.  The only problem with this plan was that my boss, who was cool as hell, knew we were a bunch of lushes, so he would occasionally show up on a Saturday or Sunday morning just to fuck with us.  One time, with Tripod passed out in the outfield, he spent a good 15 minutes throwing fench fries at him, seeing how many he could land on Tripod’s stomach before waking him up.

One morning Tripod and I were walking up the alley towards the softball field before dawn when we saw a shape sitting on the curb by the main entrance.  It was my girl Country, utterly wrecked but still dedicated enough to show up to work.  She was all decked out in her clubbing clothes from the night before; her great tits were just bubbling out of her top, and her tight black sparkly pants made her ass look amazing.  Trying to suppress my erection, I put her to work until we had the game underway, then I sent her off beyond the homerun fence to sleep it off.  For all I know she was spooning with Tripod out there.  Who says I’m not a great boss?

Down For the Count

I love boxing.  I’m a purist, don’t follow MMA or UFC or any of that crap, it’s the sweet science all the way for me.  And back when I lived in San Diego my roommate Sandpaper and I used to throw some epic fight parties for all the big pay-per-view fights.  I always had to record the fight though, since I would drink so much I never remembered the main event and I’d have to re-watch it the next day.

For one of Roy Jones’ fights I made the mistake of starting my drinking during the early afternoon while I was cleaning up the apartment.  By the time people started showing up I was a mess.  It was so bad I dropped an entire pizza on the kitchen floor.  It was so bad Tripod bet me during the undercard that I would get counted out before either fighter in the main event.

I swear to God, the last thing I remember that night was laying flat on my back on the floor, laughing and struggling like a turtle on its back to get up, while Tripod stood over me like a referee, counting me out.  “Six… Seven… Eight…”

Pitch black after that.  Sometimes I hate that little fucker.

The Big 3-0

My 30^th birthday was the only time in my life I’ve ever thrown up in a bar.  And in my defense, it wasn’t so much that I full-on puked as I just had so many shots in such a short period of time (roughly ten shots in half an hour) that my gag reflex kicked in and refused to cooperate.  With a mouthful of puke/liquor I tried to run for the bathroom but a bouncer spotted me and grabbed me by the arm, sending me out the side exit, where I puked/spit into the garbage can.

The bouncer looked at me and said not unsympathetically “You don’t look too bad, you can probably get into another bar tonight.  I just can’t let you back in here.  Liability and all, y’know.”

That Barstool is a Bitch

Tripod has a little trouble with barstools because of his stature.  Basically, he has to use two barstools to climb up onto one.  I put my foot on my barstool to secure it, then he climbs up the barstool like a spider monkey, eventually sliding his ass across from my barstool to his own.  As he gets more drunk, he becomes more fearless and this process goes a lot quicker.  When we first get to a bar it’s usually a two minute process, but after a few cocktails he can scamper up like nobody’s business.

One night we decided to give a new bar a try.  Tripod knew this girl (we’ll call her Tits McGee) who was just outrageously hot, a typical Southern California blonde with a stellar body, great tan, and a fresh pair of boobs bought and paid for by her loving father.  She was working as a waitress at this bar and so we stopped in to ogle her fake breasts and score a couple free drinks.

We started drinking Long Islands, and Tripod must have been trying to impress Tits McGee because he kept complaining that the bartender was making them too weak.  So, nice girl that she was, she kept telling the bartender to make the next round stronger and never charged us for a double or anything.

After about four of those we were drinking straight alcohol, no mix whatsoever.  I was shitcanned, and Tripod was in even worse shape.  After a trip to the bathroom he came back and tapped me on the side to let me know to get off my stool so he could climb back up on his own.  Well, something went wrong and he knocked his barstool over and went down right with it, landing his stomach and ribs right on the legs.

Everyone in the bar started laughing and I got irate, ready to fight them all.  (Seriously, who makes fun of a midget?  I mean, I’m an insensitive politically incorrect asshole, but that’s just fucked up.)

I helped him up and confirmed that we didn’t think he had broken any ribs.  And then Tits McGee was there, smiling at us.  “I guess the last round was strong enough?”

Needless to say, Tripod never got to fuck that one.

Cheating at Hooters

Tripod and I had a friend who worked at Hooters.  I’ll call her Batshit because she was batshit fucking crazy, but she was fun to hang out with and she had huge double-D breasts that were just mesmerizing.  She was also in charge of MC’ing a trivia night at Hooters.  Because she knew nothing about sports, she asked us to write the sports questions for her.  This, of course, gave us quite an advantage.  So we would come every week to drink beer, eat wings, ogle boobies and play trivia.  More often than not we would win, which would win us free food on our next visit.  It was a great arrangement.

But the most fun of Hooters Trivia was coming up with obnoxious team names.  Our go-to name was “The Bald & The Beautiful;”  me being the bald and 4’4” Tripod being the beautiful of course.  Once we brought a Jewish girl with us to trivia and so we went with “A Hick, A Spick & A Jew,” which Batshit rejected as too offensive.

My favorite team name stemmed from a rivalry we had with another team.  This group of older folks from Mississippi would come every week and they were quite smart for people from Mississippi.  Unfortunately, they were also obnoxious.  The would bring a little Confederate flag to sit at their table, their team name was “Rebel Yell,” and they would hoot and holler whenever they got a question right.  I hated them.  So one day, without consulting Tripod, I changed our team name to “The North Won the War.”  Take that, Johnny Reb.

Skinheads Aren’t Cool

One night I accidentally wandered into a skinhead bar.  Now, normally this wouldn’t be a huge issue for me.  I’m bald, I have a goatee, even a couple tattoos, so I can at least kind of look the part.  It probably wouldn’t take too long for my big mouth to get me a thorough beatdown, jackbooted Nazi style, but my looks should be enough to at least buy me some time to sneak out the door.

However, on this night I was out with a couple girls I didn’t know very well.  And one of them happened to be Indian.  And, of course, she was the one right next to me when we walked in the door.  Half the bar turned to glare at me, and in that moment I realized that I could be in some serious trouble.  Because I was officially a traitor to the race in their eyes.

In defensive mode, my eyes roamed the bar looking for potential threats.  And that’s when I saw her.  Sitting at the end of the bar was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.  No joke, no exaggeration, this girl was the most incredible creature I’ve ever seen on this planet.  Lean and athletic, with a mop of glowing blonde hair.  She had gorgeous blue eyes and a healthy rack despite her petite frame.  She had on a tanktop that showed off her great tan.  And it also showed off the black tattoos she had up and down both arms; not full sleeves, just individual jet-black tats from her wrists to her shoulders.

I was so mesmerized I totally forgot about our lives being in danger.  I turned to the three girls I was with and said, “It doesn’t look that bad.  Let’s have a beer!”

The girls looked skeptical but went along with me.  I went to the bar to order a round and took the opportunity to get a better look at my dream girl.  From closer up she was even more amazing.  I was in love, right there on the spot.  Taking the beers back to the girls, my mind churned as I tried to figure out how to approach her.  The bathroom was at the end of the bar and would give me a good excuse to walk by and get a closer look, and maybe even find an opening to strike up a conversation.

But as I came closer I started to get a better look at those black tattoos.  Right on her upper arm was a large “Duestchland.”  A Nazi eagle wasn’t too far away.  Devastated, I walked by without saying a word.  We finished our beers and got the fuck out of there as quick as possible.

My standards may be low, but I will NOT fuck a Nazi.

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