For a while now, after separately spending time with a few of my dearest friends - I started to get the sneaking suspicion that your favorite pre-ejaculating blogger was the human embodiment of a prosthetic penis, as phony as they come.(Get it? Sorry, that's the disgruntled rapper in me - I'm rather opportunistic when it comes to similes) Discovering my new found disingenuousness has absolutely nothing to with the fact that I'm historically a horrible friend who not only breaks promises, is habitually late, and once pursued one of my friend's aunts for the sole purpose of finding out what toothless blow-jobs felt like - it really has more to do with the fact that different people view me completely different ways. Most of the female bartenders in my area who enable my alcoholism look at me as a kind and gentle soul who keeps to himself and has a predisposition for writing and ruining his liver at breakneck speeds - its funny how loathing strangers while getting your drink on makes people assume that you're the shy/quiet type. My childhood friends see me more in a comedic light, a wise-cracking scumbag who will say and do just about anything to get a laugh - like the time I told one of our friends that his shirt was so tight he had to use a shoe-horn to get it on, or when I convinced a very special young lady to let me put a paper bag over her head while we made sweet love. Then there are the friends who can provide first-hand accounts of some of the more heinous acts of violence I have perpetuated, everything from punching a preacher squarely in his jaw, to throwing a gentleman with a leg cast down a flight of stairs.(But since we are all grown men the days of senseless violence are hardly even visible in the rear view mirror any more.) Its not that I alter my personality depending on who I'm with mind you, its just weird that so many people perceive me so differently - and that very fact came to a head recently when all those friends just happened to be drinking at the same bar one night. It was interesting, sitting there listening to my rowdy buddies giggle like catholic school girls as they were told about how "sweet" a guy I was, and all my other friends acting absolutely horrified when they heard a cryptic story about me pushing a wheelchair bound man into rush hour traffic - great, now everyone knows that I'm an asshole.
Bouncer abuse: There is this 22 year old named Terry that I befriended months ago, nice enough kid - he frequents my neighborhood bar, and through a series of about 200 conversations I think that I have accidentally fell into the role of surrogate big brother. To be quite honest, I'm the last motherfucker on the face of the earth who should be giving advice to anyone, but since I'm slowly understanding the differences between "right" and "wrong" - I don't see anything wrong with dropping some jewels on the young man from time to time. Anyway, just like a little brother, whenever I see him he wants to slap-box or do anything remotely close to what my old man used to call "grab-assing" - a pastime that I both reject and denounce like a Farrakhan endorsement. This one particular night I had had enough, picked his ass up and threw him outside - I was playing of course, he knew I was playing, but everyone inside a watering hole that your average American would characterize as a "dive bar" thought we were really fighting. Flash forward to last week, when Terry and I were reminiscing about the incident to his girlfriend - who was also there on the night in question and believed were were fighting as well, the bouncer of the place heard what we were talking about and said "I knew you weren't fighting, because if you were I would have whipped your ass!!" When he said this, he wasn't talking about Terry and I as a collective unit - his words were pointed in my direction as if his mouth had a sniper scope on it. I tried to blow it off, especially since I know that this particular bouncer fancied Terry's girlfriend and this was just his feeble attempt to score cheap "Macho-man" points - so I simply said, "Get the fuck outta here!" and continued the conversation. That's when he countered with, "You're lucky my arm isn't in a sling, because I would show you right now!", that's when Terry and his girlfriend both shook there head as I started at the gentleman itching for a public beating. I said "What did you say?", in which he replied "I said, if my arm wasn't in a sling.." - before he could finish his sentence I started hitting his fractured arm with the same aggressiveness of middle weight boxer pounding a heavy bag the day after a loss. His screams of agony were so high pitched, I'm positive that if we would have stayed around 5 minutes longer we would have been bombarded by all the stray canines within a 2 mile radius. Yes, it was wrong and I apologized yesterday, but at least he now knows that physical impairments can't save you from the most public of ass whippings.
Hitting below the belt: The weirdest part about having a girlfriend is simply maintaining the relationship, resisting the urge to tell her to "stop being such a finicky eater" after climaxing - ignoring my deep seeded desire to tell her mother to stop calling her at 4 A M for the most felonious of reasons, things of that nature. But when it comes to her younger sister, all decorum flew out of the window as soon as I met her 7th "boyfriend" and accidentally belted out "Jesus Christ, who aren't you fucking?!" - so suffice it to say, she now thinks that I'm a piece of shit just like the other 70% of the people who know me personally. Anyway, besides her penchant of burning through more rubbers than a funny-car competition, she's also a local boxer - the fact that she spends more time on her back outside of the ring than inside of it is a testament to how good she is. Well, a few days ago, when we all went out to dinner to celebrate her latest ring victory - she started asking us what her defining boxing phase should be. So I stood up, raised my glass to all who were in attendance and said - "You know what your tagline should be? 'Floats Like a Butterfly, Stings when you pee!'" - lets just say that I was the only one impressed.
Take that motherfucker!: For the longest time, as my bong resin filled brain will allow me to remember, I have always been skeptical about most platonic relationships between males and females. I held the firm belief that there was always one party who wanted to see the other naked, eagerly awaiting that monumental day when the person staying true to the nature of their friendship would come to their proverbial senses - that's why every woman I've ever been friends with knew that I'd be willing to ditch the platonic relationship for 3 fleeting minutes in the back of my muscle car. I went into all that because for the first time ever I have a true platonic friend, she doesn't look like "Refrigerator Perry" either - thus making the friendship much more pure. She's extremely beautiful, so being that no impure thoughts have crossed my cerebellum - lets just say I'm proud of myself, or scared that its just the precursor for me possibly coming out of the closet. That being said, last week, while the both of us imbibed spirits and made each other laugh - a very intoxicated gentleman passed by her and brushed his hand against her midsection. Completely inappropriate, and usually I would have hopped on his ass in record time - but my newfound platonic friendship status rendered me motionless, I was trying to figure out the particular decorum in matters of this nature. Well, the guy apologized profusely and my friend seemed to brush it off - but with each passing minute the angrier I got at myself for not chin checking that son of a bitch.
A couple of days later, when I was taking my dear mother to her doctors appointment, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up some odds and ends. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, I saw the gentleman in question walking to his car - so I stopped my automobile besides his, told my mother to "hold on", and crept up behind the gentleman and put him in an extremely tight sleeper hold. As my mother screamed "What in the fuck are you doing??!!" I let the guy go, but before walking off I gave him 3 or for kicks in the stomach for good measure.(..and for some reason, for the life of me I can't tell you why - I screamed "Riverside motherfucker!") My poor mother, screaming emphatically "Get your ass in here boy!!" - but I found something very curious though, for the first time my mother laughed at one of my random episodes of violence - I'm such a bad fucking influence.