Hypothetical question. If, upon the previously described Jewish girl's insistance that her daughter wasn't paying attention to what I had to say because she didn't know who I was, I bent down to the toddler and said "Hi there, precious. I'm the guy who made your mommy betray her entire race," does that make me an asshole?
...Oh, I'm sorry, I seem to have mixed up hypothetical with rhetorical. Silly me.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Now Tom Cruise has TWO reasons to hate me.
There are a lot of things that can come to mind when one thinks about the various New Years Eves they've experienced, but sadly, most of them are so overdone that they inspire a nausea comparable to that of your garden variety hangover. Get drunk, take pictures, get laid, though not necessarily in that order. Allow me to establish myself, once again, as being the best there is at breaking routine.
My evening started at around 21:00, after having escaped from the indentured servitude that my employer calls an occupation. I picked up my copilot for the evening, a young man by the name of Cameron, and we started the evening with a pair of New Years mainstays and went along our merry way. We stopped at Jen's, and while the company was more than well enough, there was something missing from the evening. A particular type of music? A specific liquor? Dick Clark? No, my friends. None of the above. This particular New Years Eve, only one thing would sate our mutual inclination.
Chaos.
With that in mind, we immediately start toward Kentucky to meet my brother at his favorite bar. Getting there just in time to see the ball drop on television, we sat for a few moments until it appeared that this location had outlived it's usefulness to us. The people were friendly, docile. Hardly adequate victims. The next bar, however, proved to be a much, much different environment entirely. First of all, a good portion of Matt and I's family happened to be there already, including our brother, their father, our mother, cousins, aunts, ad infinitum. I was beginning to wonder if this were New Years Eve or a family reunion. Matt did little to aid my confusion, as within the first half hour we were already being pushed out the door by a crowd who wanted nothing more than to push us into traffic; his father had decided to court disaster by running his gums, and Matt had reacted the same way he always reacts. Specifically, by attempting to turn Donald the Shit Talker into Donald the Jello-esque Stain On The The Barroom Floor. Long story short, we were swiftly ejected from the premises, but not before your pal Rem got in one last wise-ass remark: "New show every night at 8:00, we're here all week, be sure to tip your waitress!" At that, I bowed, turned to the not unjustifiably hateful ex-girlfriend who was tending bar, winked at her, and was swept away by the half-riot we ourselves had instigated.
Goooooood times.
After dropping those in attendance off who were either A) too drunk, B) too annoying or C) both to continue on, we made our way back to Walton where our...erm, acquaintance, Kaitlyn, starts harping on Matt about how she wants a tattoo. She doesn't know what, but she wants ink, and she wants it tonight. Let me precipice the rest of this story by explaining that, while dumber than a box of cat shit, she is completely, stone cold sober. Knowing that she's Jewish, I, of course, decide to make a mockery of the suffering of God's chosen people and suggest she get twin lightning bolts done on her forearm. Now, before you go nuts imagining the various ways that she could and should have ripped me a new asshole, let me remind you that Kaitlyn is, as previously stated, as dumb as dumb can be without needing a helmet to take a piss.
Exhibit A) She's fat.
Exhibit B) She's hanging out with my brother and I.
Exhibit C) She has absolutely no fucking idea what twin lightning bolts mean.
So, after another ten minutes of deliberation, she decided on getting the tat between her shoulder blades. Just in case you haven't been paying attention, let me summarize the above. Me. And my brother. Convinced a Jewish girl. To get the SS bolts done on her back.
To say the least, even I was a little hesitant to let this happen. I mean, fun's fun and all, but this? This was appalling. This was atrocious. Hell, I'm pretty sure that somewhere in the world this was fucking criminal exploitation of an idiot. Unfortunately, I was too busy exchanging knowing glances with the other three people in the room, Kaitlyn excluded, of course, and trying like hell to stifle the maniacal fit of laughter threatening to deafen everyone within earshot. Hard by itself, nigh impossible when the poor girl winced and, I'm not making this shit up, said "This hurts different from all my other tattoos...it just feels wrong." I'm amazed my tongue didn't start bleeding, or falling off, for that matter.
The trip home, begun almost immediately after the tattoo's completion, was a waking coma by comparison. Some garbage food from Waffle House and the equivalent of a metric fuck ton of laughter made it a tolerable wind down from the night's adventures. I dropped Cameron off, got home, recounted the evening's festivities to my roommate Logan. Logan, for all his worldliness, for all his experiences, for all his knowledge of the workings of the human brain, sat with his jaw hanging two inches from the floor. When I finally finished, he ended the conversation with one question:
"Dude, how do you manage to get an entire race to hate you in less than two minutes?"
Talent, my friend.
Happy New Year!
My evening started at around 21:00, after having escaped from the indentured servitude that my employer calls an occupation. I picked up my copilot for the evening, a young man by the name of Cameron, and we started the evening with a pair of New Years mainstays and went along our merry way. We stopped at Jen's, and while the company was more than well enough, there was something missing from the evening. A particular type of music? A specific liquor? Dick Clark? No, my friends. None of the above. This particular New Years Eve, only one thing would sate our mutual inclination.
Chaos.
With that in mind, we immediately start toward Kentucky to meet my brother at his favorite bar. Getting there just in time to see the ball drop on television, we sat for a few moments until it appeared that this location had outlived it's usefulness to us. The people were friendly, docile. Hardly adequate victims. The next bar, however, proved to be a much, much different environment entirely. First of all, a good portion of Matt and I's family happened to be there already, including our brother, their father, our mother, cousins, aunts, ad infinitum. I was beginning to wonder if this were New Years Eve or a family reunion. Matt did little to aid my confusion, as within the first half hour we were already being pushed out the door by a crowd who wanted nothing more than to push us into traffic; his father had decided to court disaster by running his gums, and Matt had reacted the same way he always reacts. Specifically, by attempting to turn Donald the Shit Talker into Donald the Jello-esque Stain On The The Barroom Floor. Long story short, we were swiftly ejected from the premises, but not before your pal Rem got in one last wise-ass remark: "New show every night at 8:00, we're here all week, be sure to tip your waitress!" At that, I bowed, turned to the not unjustifiably hateful ex-girlfriend who was tending bar, winked at her, and was swept away by the half-riot we ourselves had instigated.
Goooooood times.
After dropping those in attendance off who were either A) too drunk, B) too annoying or C) both to continue on, we made our way back to Walton where our...erm, acquaintance, Kaitlyn, starts harping on Matt about how she wants a tattoo. She doesn't know what, but she wants ink, and she wants it tonight. Let me precipice the rest of this story by explaining that, while dumber than a box of cat shit, she is completely, stone cold sober. Knowing that she's Jewish, I, of course, decide to make a mockery of the suffering of God's chosen people and suggest she get twin lightning bolts done on her forearm. Now, before you go nuts imagining the various ways that she could and should have ripped me a new asshole, let me remind you that Kaitlyn is, as previously stated, as dumb as dumb can be without needing a helmet to take a piss.
Exhibit A) She's fat.
Exhibit B) She's hanging out with my brother and I.
Exhibit C) She has absolutely no fucking idea what twin lightning bolts mean.
So, after another ten minutes of deliberation, she decided on getting the tat between her shoulder blades. Just in case you haven't been paying attention, let me summarize the above. Me. And my brother. Convinced a Jewish girl. To get the SS bolts done on her back.
To say the least, even I was a little hesitant to let this happen. I mean, fun's fun and all, but this? This was appalling. This was atrocious. Hell, I'm pretty sure that somewhere in the world this was fucking criminal exploitation of an idiot. Unfortunately, I was too busy exchanging knowing glances with the other three people in the room, Kaitlyn excluded, of course, and trying like hell to stifle the maniacal fit of laughter threatening to deafen everyone within earshot. Hard by itself, nigh impossible when the poor girl winced and, I'm not making this shit up, said "This hurts different from all my other tattoos...it just feels wrong." I'm amazed my tongue didn't start bleeding, or falling off, for that matter.
The trip home, begun almost immediately after the tattoo's completion, was a waking coma by comparison. Some garbage food from Waffle House and the equivalent of a metric fuck ton of laughter made it a tolerable wind down from the night's adventures. I dropped Cameron off, got home, recounted the evening's festivities to my roommate Logan. Logan, for all his worldliness, for all his experiences, for all his knowledge of the workings of the human brain, sat with his jaw hanging two inches from the floor. When I finally finished, he ended the conversation with one question:
"Dude, how do you manage to get an entire race to hate you in less than two minutes?"
Talent, my friend.
Happy New Year!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)