The "Breakdancing" Story
There's a reason my wife tells me that I should not be allowed out "unsupervised".
A number of years ago, while still lodged firmly in the grasp of
Corporate America, a few colleagues and I decided to have a night of
laughs and drinks. It just so happened that on this particular Friday,
my blushing bride was out of town for the entire weekend. And that was the first mistake I made.The second mistake I made is as follows:
I jumped feet first onto the "let's get the weekend started early" bandwagon.
The original plan was to leave work, hit happy hour. have a few drinks, and
then move on to the comedy club for a few laughs. A simple evening of
fun and frivolity, and then off to bed.
But of course, one of the geniuses that was leading the group thought it would be a good idea to ditch out early and hit the first bar early. Normally, when faced
with such a dilemma in the movies or on TV, you would see a little devil and a little angel representation of yourself pop up over your shoulder. They would duke it out, make their case, and the better argument would win out.
Well, I never gave either of them an opportunity to materialize, much less say anything. I just nodded my head, grabbed my coat, and out the door I went in search of the evening's first beer.
We headed across the street to the mexican place for beer, shots, and plenty of free chips and salsa. At three o'clock in the afternoon.
After the first basket of chips, I decided it would be a good idea to leave
my car in the parking lot and get a ride home. However, I did not think
far enough in advance to get my car keys out of the car. More on that
Time to get heading to the comedy club. Most of that was
a bit of a blur for me. I'm sure I laughed like a coked-up hyena, but I
really don't remember. I know that I definitely had more drinks though.
After all, it was a 2 drink minimum. And I always go above and beyond
in regards to that.
And just when I thought it I was safe and
would soon be in the warm embrace of my bed, one of the women in the
party decided that it would now be a good time to go dancing.
Did the devil and angel appear over my shoulders for this new twist to the
planned events of the evening? Hell no they didn't. Much louder than
was probably socially acceptable, I'm sure I voiced my opinion that
this was a fan-freakin'-tastic idea!
My enthusiasm for the upcoming dance-a-thon was unmatched. We made our way to American Pie. Just so happens that one of the local radio stations was there that night, playing their version of "Fear Factor".
2 of our party had made their way to the bar, found drinks for everyone, and chilled. I, with a fresh budweiser, made my way to the dance floor, solo. One of the other women entered into the faux "Fear Factor" and was eating crickets. Not really sure what happened to her boyfriend.
This is the point of the story when everything goes downhill.
Never let me near a dance floor when I am obviously severly inebriated.
Apparently, I had watched the movie "Breakin'" one too many times and thought that I could actually breakdance. No pop-lockin', windmillin', or robotin' for me though. No. That would not properly showcase my skill.
In my drunken stupor, I realized that the only way for the public to become truly aware of how skilled I was in the art of breakin', I would have to do "the worm".
And do "the worm" I did. Masterfully I might add. At least for the first few moments. I was wormin' my way across the dancefloor
when my bravado caught up to me. Instead of my arms or chest hitting
the floor and propelling the rest of my body along, my chin hit the
solid wooden floor.
I popped up quick-like, hoping that no one
had witnessed my dancing debacle. Unfortunately for me, I was wearing a
white t-shirt that evening. And as soon as I was back on my feet, the
blood starting pouring out of the gaping hole in my chin.
I was totally oblivious to this fact though, as I turned to face my
friends, dance superiority blinding me to what had just happened.
From the looks my friends were giving me, something had gone terribly awry. I was ushered into the bathroom to assess the damage and get cleaned up. It was the moment
that I looked in the mirror and saw first-hand what that damned dancefloor
had done to my face that I was able to react. Only it wasn't my mind
that reacted, it was my body. And my body did not like what I had done
to it. My body told me, in no uncertain terms, that it was time to stop
acting stupid and get home.
And how did my body tell me this, you might ask? By violently expelling everything that was in my stomach. Once that was done, the realization that I had craked my face open became abundantly clear.
Thankfully, I had big brother Gary there at my side. He got me cleaned up. But not
before the bouncers at the club kicked us out. Apparently they thought
I had been fighting and wanted me out.First time I've ever been kicked out of a club without throwing a punch.
Although I'm sure I required stitches, I refused an emergency room treatment,
instead opting for the safety of home. (This is a running theme)
Remember how I left my keys in my car? In the parking lot? 40 miles from my house?
So once I was delivered at my front door step, I had no way of getting
inside. We had to break in. Don't remember much of that though.
What I do know is that I've got a nice little scar on my chin to remind me
of the situation. But that's why I grew the goatee, nobody sees the
scar, so nobody asks how I got it. And had I not just written it all
down for you here, it would have never been known.
Deep Fried Goodness
One of my favorite parts of going to beach, aside from the sand, sun, bikinis, and beverages, is the deep fried goodness that is pizza sticks from Dodges
There's something so soothing about this particular food item. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it has always had the ability to make me feel better. Whether it was physical (hangover) or simply a bad mood, these magical sticks of pizza were always able to help turn that frown upside down.
Recently, a few friends of mine went down to the coast and were kind enough to torture me with pictures of my favorite food stuff.
It's like going to a strip club as opposed to a brothel, you can look, but you can't touch. Very frustrating.
chose a domain name carefully
All of these are legitimate companies that didn't spend quite enough time considering how their online names might appear ... or be misread.
These are not made up. Check them out yourself!
1. Who Represents is where you can find the name of the agent that represents any celebrity. Their Web site is www.whorepresents.com
2 . Experts Exchange is a knowledge base where programmers can exchange advice and views at www.expertsexchange.com
3. Looking for a pen? Look no further than Pen Island at www.penisland.net
4. Need a therapist? Try Therapist Finder at www.therapistfinder.com
5. There's the Italian Power Generator company, www.powergenitalia.com
6. And don't forget the Mole Station Native Nursery in New South Wales,www.molestationnursery.com
7. If you're looking for IP computer software, there's alwayswww.ipanywhere.com
8. The First Cumming Methodist Church Web site is www.cummingfirst.com
9. And the designers at Speed of Art await you at their wacky Web site,www.speedofart.com As sent by Raj
Redneck Man's pick up lines
1) Did you fart?
cuz you blew me away.
2) My Love fer you is like diarrhea .
I can't hold it in.
3) Do you have a library card?
cuz I'd like to sign you out.
4) Is there a mirror in yer pants?
cuz I can see myself in em.
5) If you was a tree I were a Squirrel,
I'd store my nuts in yer hole.
6) You might not be the best lookin girl here,
but beauty's only a light switch away.
7) Man - "Fat Penguin!"
Woman - "WHAT?"
Man - "I just wanted to say something that would break the ice."
8) I know I'm not no Fred Flintstone,
but I bet I can make yer bed-rock.
9) I can't find my puppy, can you help me find him?
I think he went into this cheap motel room.
10) Yer eyes are as blue as window cleaner.
11) If yer gunna regret this in the mornin,
we kin sleep til afternoon.
and.... the best for last!
12) Yer face reminds me of a wrench,
every time I think of it my nuts tighten up.Number 5 is my favorite. I laughed til there were tears.A gem from the Eldest Whittington
What won't they print?
I was under the impression that newspapers were meant to be informative, possibly even entertaining. Sports, politics, weather, local happenings, letters to the editor, etc.
Webster's definition of newspaper
seems to agree with me.
However, I don't believe that the Salisbury Post
feels the way I do.
Sunday's edition featured an "article
" posted by a "free-lance writer" on the front page of section F (the Lifestyle section) that was basically news of this writer's 2 sisters' engagements and how different the 2 sisters were, speculation about the types of ceremonies they would have, blah, blah, blah.
I can't believe that this passed for "journalism".
I also can't believe that this has chapped my ass to such a degree.
I'm pretty sure that most papers have a section devoted to the announcement of engagements, weddings, births, etc. And typically, much like a classified ad, you have to pay the newspaper to post such a thing. But in this case, the writer was the one financially reimbursed for her words.
An "article" of this nature is not "newsworthy" to anyone other than family and friends of this writer.
That's what we have the internets for. Send an email. Post a blog.
But to get paid to write about it? To be prominently featured (photo as well)?
Maybe I'm just jealous. Maybe I want my fifteen minutes of local fame.
Maybe I should should just call myself a "freelance writer" and see if the post
wants any of my articles about my family and friends.
Nah. I still think that it was a waste of ink and paper.