Post of the Year?

Hard to believe it’s been a year that I’ve been blogging here at Single White Alcoholic Seeks Same.  It’s been a lot of fun, although I must admit I got a little depressed when I realized I didn’t have enough stories of my own to keep it going without branching out my subject matter.  (In retrospect I should have spaced out the drinking, swearing and fornicating stories a little more.  Oh well.)

In perusing my site stats, I’ve been surprised to find that by far my most viewed blog was How Rambo Saved the World.  All those good stories about me getting shitface drunk, swinging and missing repeatedly with the ladies, and apparently what people really want to read is my somewhat-right-of-Attila-the-Hun political ramblings.  Who knew there were other Cold War buffs out there?  I sure never meet them; people look at me like I’m a fucking weirdo when I refer to them as “commie pinko bastards.”  (I always mean it in the nicest way possible…)

The secret of my success

But who knows, maybe in the next year I’ll start writing more about violence and war.  After all, man cannot survive on sex and booze alone!  Maybe if I try really hard I can get CAIR (the Council on American-Islamic Relations) to label this page a hate site!

Hey, you gotta have goals!

This post is dedicated to the memory of Theo Van Gogh, murdered for speaking the truth about Islam.

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Channel Your Inner “Ugly American”

I considered just re-posting my Memorial Day Weekend blog for this 4th of July, but then I thought “What kind of example would that set?”  This is the birthday of our great nation.  Writing something blatantly offensive and nationalistic is the very least I can to honor my country.

So, in that spirit, I’ve made just a small list of ways that you too can honor the greatest country on earth.  I would suggest you make a drinking game out of it with your friends; whoever checks each of these off your list first gets a free drink from the rest of the group.

Here’s the list:

–Find a Canadian person and complete at least two of the following: 1) Refer to Canada as “America’s hat.”  2) Talk mad shit about the Vancouver Canucks losing the Stanley Cup, thus extending Canada’s Cup-less streak to 18 years.  Make sure to tell them that Canada’s prized goalie, Roberto Luongo, was the third best goalie in a two team finals.  And 3) ask them if the western Canadian provinces will really try to join the United States after those pesky French Canadians secede in Quebec.

–Start a “U S A!  U S A!” chant for no reason whatsoever in a wildly inappropriate place, like church or the grocery store.

–Wear a blatantly patriotic and offensive T-shirt.  Here are a few suggestions, courtesy of thoseshirts.com:

–Watch A Few Good Men and tell everyone around you how Jack Nicholson is the real hero of the movie.  If anyone tries to argue shout them down with one line: “You can’t handle the truth!”

–Make fun of soccer.  Mercilessly.  The only exception: It’s ok to watch the women’s World Cup under the pretense that you’re cheering for America, even though we both know you’re just hoping some chick will rip her shirt off again.

–Include the word “fucking” when mentioning any other nationality.  Fucking Russians, fucking British, fucking Chinese, fucking Mexicans (although you should be careful with this one in most parts of America).  Fucking Irish, fucking Germans, fucking Brazilians, fucking Egyptians.  Try it, I think you’ll find it’s a lot of fun.  Fucking French, fucking Nepalese…

–Drink American.  No imported beers, no Polish vodkas, no Caribbean rums.  For one weekend you can consume American booze.  I recommend Tito’s Vodka or Budweiser’s new patriotic cans.

–Have sex with an American girl.  I know a lot of people bag on Americans, call us fat and lazy and all kinds of other shit, but I still say American girls are better than any other nation’s females. Australia isn’t far behind, but at least on this one day you can do the right thing and bang an American chick.

–If for some reason you absolutely must have sex with a non-American girl (like if you’re married to a foreigner, if you’re a gigolo, or if it’s last call and you’ve struck out with all the American girls), make sure they know you’re only “planting your flag” as conquest and in honor of the greatest nation on earth.  Be sure to tell them this before, during and after sex.

–Go to a Civil War reenactment and treat it like a sporting event, cheering madly for the guys in Blue.  Mock and taunt anyone with a Confederate flag like you would your worst sports rival.

–Spend an obscene amount of money on fireworks.  Then start blowing shit up.

–If anyone dares to criticize any of your showings of patriotism accuse them of being a communist.  If you’re sober enough to form coherent sentences you can use the proper wording: “Are you, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”  If you’re not sober enough to sound erudite and sophisticated (and I’m hoping you’re not), simply screaming “COMMIE!  COMMIE PINKO SCUM!” will be more than sufficient.

–Ladies, wear a patriotic bikini to make us all stand at attention.

–Order a pizza with extra bacon and have it delivered to your local mosque.  (Disclaimer: this could be a hate crime where you live.  I do NOT advocate breaking any laws.)

–Play poker with your friends.  Poker is the ultimate American card game.  It was invented here, perfected here, and is as much a staple of the Wild West culture as cowboys, guns and hookers.

–Put flags on everything.  Fly them from your porch, your car, your boat, your dog.  Use tablecloths, napkins and plates with flags on them.  Paint your face, slap on fake tattoos.  Put flag stickers on everything, whether it belongs to you or not.

–Enter an eating contest.  There are few things more American than wanton gluttony.  But, if you do, you must beat any and all foreigners in the contest.  Even if you’re up against the great Kobayashi.  So be careful with this one.

–Start a fight with a foreigner.  Any foreigner.

–Ladies, give a serviceman and/or veteran a blow job.  Double points if he’s a complete stranger.  Quadruple points if he’s been wounded or disabled.  This one isn’t even a joke.  It’s the right thing to do.

–Go out of your way to be the very essence of the “Ugly American.”  Be loud, rude, abrasive and, above all, drunk!

God Bless America.

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 30th 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.

Heroes & Villains

I know you’re all probably getting sick of hearing about Osama Bin Laden and the “War on Terror” by now.  And I promise I will get back to stories of booze and boobs tomorrow, after this one last, final rant on our war with Islam.

The “War on Terror” did not start on 9/11, 2001.  And it did not end with Osama Bin Laden’s death.  If you’ll permit me just a couple minutes, I’d like to take you on a very quick journey through recent history.  Below are a few people you should never forget:

— John O’Neill.

John O’Neill was an FBI agent obsessed with the threat of Al Qaeda long before most of us had even heard of the terrorist organization.  Starting in 1995, when he helped capture one of the leaders of the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, he spent the next six years tracking Al Qaeda and Bin Laden and sounding the alarm about the threat they posed.  In a sad irony not even Hollywood could have dreamed up, after O’Neill left the FBI due to disagreements over the handling of the USS Cole investigation, he took his next job in August, 2001, as head of security at the World Trade Center.  He died less than three weeks later in the second tower on 9/11.

For the complete story, read the New Yorker article here.

— Leon Klinghoffer

Leon Klinghoffer was a retired American businessman, confined to a wheelchair.  A peaceful man, with no ties to the military or any form of law enforcement, Klinghoffer was on a cruise with his wife for their 36th anniversary aboard the Achille Lauro when it was hijacked by a faction of the Palestinian Liberation Organization in October of 1985.  (16 years before 9/11.)

During the hijacking, Klinghoffer was singled out for being both an American and a Jew.  He was executed, shot in the head and chest, and both he and his wheelchair were thrown overboard off the coast of Syria.

The leader of the hijacking, Abu Abbas, escaped prosecution for his involvement in Klinghoffer’s murder by fleeing through several communist countries before finally settling down in Iraq.  There he was sheltered by Saddam Hussein for almost 20 years before finally being captured in 2003.  (Don’t ever say Saddam and Iraq weren’t involved in terrorism.)

— Robert Stethem

US Navy Seabee Robert Dean Stethem was aboard TWA Flight 847 in June of 1985 when it was hijacked by members of Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad.  (Isn’t it funny how the same groups that were hijacking planes twenty-some years ago are now passing themselves off as legitimate political parties in the “peace process” with Israel?)

Stethem was singled out by the terrorists for being an American serviceman.  They beat him, tortured him, and finally shot him in the head and threw his body on the tarmac of Beirut International Airport.

One of the hijackers, Mohammed Ali Hammadi, was caught two years later in Germany, attempting to smuggle explosives.  He was convicted of Stethem’s murder and sentenced to life in prison.  However, he was paroled in 2005.  In June of 2010 he was killed by a US bomb near the Pakistan-Afghan border.

— Imad Mughniyah

You should never forget Imad Mughniyah either, but for far different reasons.  One of the worst terrorists ever, Mughniyah was behind more attacks and murders than we can even begin to fathom.  Just a few of these include the aforementioned hijacking of TWA Flight 847; the bombing of the US Embassy in Beirut in 1983 (sixty-plus killed); the Marine barracks bombing, also in Beirut in 1983 (241 Marines killed); and the bombing of the Isreali Embassy in Argentina in 1992 (29 killed).

Mughniyah evaded capture much longer than Osama Bin Laden, but eventually he also met his demise.  In February of 2008 he was killed on the street in Damascus, Syria by a car bomb exploded as he walked by.  It is still not known whether he was assassinated by Israeli intelligence or by a rival faction within the incestuous world of Islamic fundamentalism.  But as long as he’s dead that’s all that matters to me.

And there you have it.  Three heroes and a handful of monsters.  Don’t forget any of them.  Notice two of the heroes were murdered long before Osama Bin Laden ever came along, long before Al Qaeda was a household word.  And notice none of the monsters had any direct links to Bin Laden or Al Qaeda, and yet each of them died quite recently right in the middle of the “War on Terror.”

This war isn’t over.  Not by a long shot.

Just 1.6 Billion to go…

-Osama Bin Laden (upper body injury) will not return to the game.

Too bad we had to be all respectful and bury his body at sea and in accordance with Muslim traditions.  He sure didn’t observe any such respect to his victims.  We should have wrapped him in bacon and strung him up in front of the World Trade Center site.