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Zuldane
RealPoor Guru
Joined: 11 Oct 2002
Posts: 4057
Location: At sea.
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 Posted: 12/07/05 - 02:01 Post subject: A tale of mystery and poop
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The following tale is a true story that happened to me at approximately 1:30pm this afternoon. All events are described exactly as they happened. The location was the University of Tennessee Library 2nd floor bathroom.
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So there I was in the bathroom waiting for something to happen in the toilet. I really hate public restrooms because you are almost guaranteed to have a visitor during fecal expulsion. Sure enough, my visitor was right on time so that I could lose all privacy and become very uncomfortable.
He rushes into the stall beside me. I'm thinking "Man, is this guy serious? There are 3 other toilets to pee in." But wait, he's turning around. This guy isn't here to pee. Did his feet just disappear? This mother f****r just lifted his legs up.... I swear it wasn't half a second after this guy plopped himself on that porcelain rest area that I heard two turds escape from his butt. His legs still suspended.
About 30 second passed by and all I heard was a few sprays of pee. His feet still were not low enough for me to see them. I'm picturing this guy beside me having his legs either bent up with his knees at his chest, or straight out like he's on some kind of kayaking diarrhea adventure. Then he starts grunting and rips two high pitch farts, which tell me that his butt is being squeezed to the max.
At this point I had lost all desire to make #2 happen. I got up, washed my hands, dried them.....and this guy's legs are still suspended in mid-flight. I never did see him come out of that bathroom. I can imagine one day this guy will marry a very beautiful girl who loves him. Then soon after she will walk in on his dark bathroom secret and file for divorce. I feel sorry for his friends, who may not know of his bathroom thrill-seeking expeditions occurring in their own homes.
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Xieroth
RealPoor Sensei
Joined: 17 Oct 2002
Posts: 1902
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Posted: 12/07/05 - 02:05 Post subject:
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wtf
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Spiritz
RealPoor Sensei
Joined: 11 Oct 2002
Posts: 1969
Location: Huntington Beach, CA
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Posted: 12/07/05 - 02:59 Post subject:
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Lol that was comedy. Well told story.
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Booker
RealPoor Guru
Joined: 12 Oct 2002
Posts: 2562
Location: Corvallis, Oregon
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Posted: 12/07/05 - 05:00 Post subject:
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lozzletoff sir, i cant put into words the amount to which i laughed from reading this.
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That Lumberg Guy
RealPoor Guru
Joined: 23 Jun 2005
Posts: 3790
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Posted: 12/07/05 - 08:28 Post subject:
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motherface
RealPoor Guru
Joined: 12 Mar 2003
Posts: 3407
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Posted: 12/07/05 - 09:30 Post subject:
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Reminds me of this old classic (supposedly true):
| Quote: | Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar.
Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you-in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated.
Perhaps a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble.
There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern.
Unfortunately, that was not to be.
After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wirecutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall.
In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.
I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances.
There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat.
Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the p**s stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall.
Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex.
And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch.
What happened next was so quick that the exact sequenceof events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.
In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus.
Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since s******g will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death.
My attention was thus diverted.
At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar.
In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be.
Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the s******g was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed.
OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting?
One bends over.
So I bent over.
I was still sitting on the toilet, though.
Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles.
Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.
In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no f*****g toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically.
I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next.
I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had p****d just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help.
Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately.
Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.
The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned.
Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation.
Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions.
He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels.
Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife.
I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little b*****d kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.
When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom.
I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.
The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten. |
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kireol
RealPoor Master of Posts
Joined: 02 Aug 2003
Posts: 9517
Location: Royal Oak, MI
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Posted: 12/07/05 - 10:10 Post subject:
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zuld sir. your brought the funnayyy!
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Xarpolis
RealPoor Guru
Joined: 15 Oct 2002
Posts: 2884
Location: Philly, PA
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Posted: 12/07/05 - 10:36 Post subject:
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That's a lovely story, but I need to post one of Tucker Max's delight's.
This one will both thrill and chill you. He owns.
The Austin Road Trip
Intro: The Steak & Shake Bond
Early during my third year of law school I was sitting in the library with my crew of friends, skipping class and trading stories about our summers. At first, I was the center of attention having just come off the summer of The Tucker Max Charity Auction Debacle, but PWJ quickly trumped me.
He told us a story about a gentlemens' club he frequented in Dallas; a place far different than the common strip club, "The first time I got a lap dance there, I was kinda reticent about touching her, but the stripper grabbed my hands and put them on her tits. During the second dance, she turned around and basically dry humped me for the entire song. I didn't get a third dance, but if I did I could have all but have had **** with the girl. She was SMOKING HOT and wasn't even close to being the best one there. And the very best part: $5 cover charge and $2 bottles and wells."
After initially calling b******t, PWJ finally convinced us that this Lost City of Cibola did exist. We were greatly excited. JonBenet summed it up, "And I used to think there was a bright line between a gentleman's club and a brothel. Now you're telling me it's just gray..."
This place was called Baby Dolls, and going there became our Holy Grail. We immediately planned a trip to Dallas. At the outset, all ten of us were in. But as the departure date loomed closer, some of the group started taking dives.
-GoldenBoy bailed because he had just returned from a week long trip to Russia and didn’t want to be apart from his fiancée for so much time. I won't say anything bad about this, because he married her, and I really like her, so I guess this turned out to be a good decision. If you’re into the “responsibility” thing.
-Hate decided to go on an interview. Unlike me, he was upset about not having a job.
-Brownhole is basically a p***y and a sycophant and was afraid that being arrested with us would ruin his political career. None of us are sure how he even got in the group.
-Credit was dating a girl who SlingBlade once referred to as “The most evil demon-s**t in the long history of female chicanery and deception.” Credit is a spineless coward and wanted to keep dating her, so he begged off the trip.
-JoJo made the same decision he makes whenever he sees a bunch of crazy white boys run off to get in trouble--he went the opposite way (see e.g., [url=http://www.tuckermax.com/archives/entries/the_night_we_almost_died.phtmlThe Night We Almost Died[/url] and The TuckerFest Disaster [coming soon])
-JonBenet had the most ridiculous excuse. Instead of going on the trip, he flew to Boston with his girlfriend, a friend of Credit's demon-s**t, to look at apartments. TO LOOK AT APARTMENTS--not withstanding the fact that he wasn’t moving there FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR. There is a reason he is now an outsider.
That left only four travelers:
-PWJ had lots of important legal things to do. Luckily he follows his penis around like a divining rod, so he promptly cleared his schedule.
-SlingBlade's busy schedule included drinking alone in the dark and j*********f to his Star Trek Limited Edition Seven of Nine poster. He was solidly in.
-El Bingeroso had already planned a trip to visit a friend in Austin so he combined his trip with ours, and then got his fiancée some sort of shiny trinket to distract her from his new plans.
-I was able to squeeze the trip in between outings to Chapel Hill involving **** and drinking, interspersed with some drinking and ****.
On a crisp Thursday night in early October, SlingBlade, PWJ, El Bingeroso and I began our journey to Dallas. We would soon become known to the State of Texas by our historical names: Pestilence, Plague, Hunger, and Death.
Our first stop was a Steak & Shake somewhere outside of Charlotte, where we bonded with each other by recounting tales of our f****d up youths. I recalled a childhood colored by parental instability, multiple divorces, re-marriages (seven between my two biological parents), step-parents, constant relocation and emotional pain. No one cared about my problems, because they had already read about my father's most recent divorce in Time magazine, and didn't need any more details to know I was f****d up.
PWJ told us of an awkward youth being the son of an Army Colonel, where his Styx jean jacket and obsession with all things vehicular could not make the Kansas yokels overlook his abnormally misshapen egghead and triple digit IQ. Popular, he was not, but since none of us are his normal dim-witted naïve teenage girl prey, we didn't care. While his age (3 years older than us) gave him a wisdom and maturity that none of us yet possessed, under this composed and compassionate exterior, PWJ could be the biggest snake of the group. The fact that he grew up smart but a social outsider, forced him to learn game the hard way and also planted a devious retributive mean streak. Even though he is more often than not the voice of reason to the group, he is also the one who will manipulate an 18 year old into **** with lies and deception.
SlingBlade regaled us with tales of his emotionally distant, risk-averse and over-protective parents, who split time yelling at him and cloistering him in his room. His was a youth spent with action figures as his friends and a Nintendo as his baby-sitter. He also told us perhaps the most defining story of his life: He and his high school girlfriend, the love of his life, went to different undergrads. He spent the first semester of college passing up on **** with every girl who approached him (and there were many) because he was naïve and in love and didn't want to cheat on his girlfriend. She did not possess the same integrity, so she cheated on him. A lot. And didn't tell him until he went down to visit her and noticed that guys kept coming by her room, asking what she was up to later that night. SlingBlade does not deal well with emotional pain and as such he is now bitter because he imputes her cuckoldry on all women.
But it was El Bingeroso who stole the show. He grew up in a very small town in Nebraska, with about 700 people, one Dairy Queen and one gas station. He remembered his father making his brother and him run timed 100-meter races against each other. At age 6. When he got to elementary school he was fat and would constantly eat paste, so the teachers just assumed he was retarded and put him in the Special Ed class. He was in the Special Education program until age 8 when they finally gave him an IQ test, realized he was a genius, and moved him to the gifted class. He was actually upset about leaving the sped class, because he liked the coloring and frequent snack times. He also told us about the time he and his brother, then aged 9 and 11, watched from the locked car while their dad beat up a mugger, nearly killing him by repeatedly smashing his head into the hood and fender, spraying blood all over the car [I have subsequently met El Bingeroso’s father, and believe me—he is not a man to cross. I have a healthy and robust fear of him].
But what really distinguished him from the rest of us was that he was truly in love and actually had a stable life. Even though he was a partier like the rest of us, he loved his fiancée, was totally committed to her, and was very excited that he had finally convinced her to wear a French maid outfit to the Duke Law Halloween party.
Day One: Baby Dolls
We arrived in Dallas on Friday afternoon. After a quick nap, we went to an early dinner at some Mexican place in Deep Ellum and then across the street to a roadhouse-type bar designed for yuppies. Both Pabst and Guinness on tap. Metrosexuals dressed in brown Lycra as far as the eye could see. I immediately hated everyone.
We get two pitchers and decide to play table shuffleboard. Barely into our first pitcher, I notice two girls checking us out. A hot blonde [Blonde] and a decent red-head [Redhead]. They stare at us for about ten minutes. I want to have **** with the blonde, so I start things off:
“You gonna come talk to us or just stand there and stare?”
They accept my invitation. I stare at the tits on the blonde. They are nearly flawless, and quite seductively exposed. The girl knows what she’s doing. Despite my nearly forensic examination (she doesn’t notice--I am a pro at this), I keep the conversation moving along nicely until d*****s El Bingeroso decides to f**k everything up:
Blonde "So, what brings you guys to Dallas?”
El Bingeroso "We came to go to a strip club.” El Bingeroso is engaged and a c**k-blocking j**k. Thanks a*****e, I didn’t want to f**k her or anything.
Redhead [kinda pulling me aside as El Bingeroso keeps talking to Blonde] “Did you really come to Dallas to go to a strip club?”
Tucker “No, no. We had a week off from law school, so we came to visit some friends, hang out, that sort of thing. El Bingeroso just wants to go to a strip club he heard about.”
Redhead “Do you like strip clubs? Those places are gross.”
Tucker “Yeah, they are kinda gross. But my friends really want to go, so what can I do? I don’t know anyone in Dallas. Besides, I like naked breasts.”
Redhead “You can stay here…hang out with me.”
Tucker “Yeah, maybe.” I could also watch reruns of Alf on Telemundo. That sounds like just as much fun.
El Bingeroso tugs on me, “Dude, you might want to get in on this.” [He turns back to the blonde] “So, you think you want to come to Baby Dolls with us?”
Blonde “I’ll come to the strip club with you guys; I want to see some big titties.”
Tucker “Have you ever been to Baby Dolls before?”
Blonde “Yeah, I auditioned there once.”
DING DING DING DING!!! JACKPOT!!! Call the pit boss, we have a big winner!
El Bing “Do you like girls?”
Blonde “Of course.”
Excellent. All we need is 70’s music to start playing and we’ve got a porno in the making.
I glance at the other end of the table. It’s our turn, but El Bingeroso and I haven’t thrown the pucks for ten minutes. SlingBlade is glaring at me with his standard half-bored, half-disdainful, “Another w***e?” expression that he always gives me when I start talking to random girls. I motion for him to come down to our end of the table…and then I see PWJ.
Great Holy Jesus--it looks like he fell into Kentucky Fried Movie. He is talking to a woman with a leopard cowboy hat on over platinum bouffant hair. Her make-up looks like it was applied with a shotgun. She has on tight orange hot-pants, which she obviously brought from her last job at Hooters. Around her waist is a belt, and there appears to be a toy gun holstered to it. She was probably very attractive in 1986. Now, she’s in the death throes of a losing battle against time and fashion irrelevance.
Tucker “Dude, what is PWJ talking to?”
SlingBlade “I don’t know…some w***e. She squirted him with her water gun, and off he went. She has big tits…Cupid has spoken.”
Fifteen more minutes of bullshitting, and the Blonde is sealed up. She is into the Baby Dolls excursion, and the inevitable girl-on-girl action. Unfortunately, her caveat is that she wants Redhead to come with us, who is not at all enthused at the prospect of going to “one of those places.”
I am presented with a logistical nightmare: I want to f**k Blonde, who is throwing her cooch at El Bingeroso. The only way she is going to Baby Dolls is if Redhead comes. Redhead is in love with me, but does not want to come to Baby Dolls. El Bingeroso is drunk and no help. So what do I do?
Here is where taking econ classes about game theory at the University of Chicago helps out with real-life game. This is a classic example of the Prisoner’s Dilemma; if I keep paying attention to the Blonde and try to capture my small chance to f**k her, I will probably fail and then I get no p***y, and the group gets no l*****n action at the strip club, because neither will come with us. Everyone loses. But, if I take one for the team, ignore the Blonde and instead seal up the Redhead, I can get both to come with us to Baby Dolls. This means that I probably won’t f**k the Blonde, which decreases my personal happiness, but I will give the group the best chance to maximize the situation, by getting two girls to come to a strip club with us. See--even Tucker Max can be altruistic. If it suits him.
Tucker “Redhead, come on, let’s all go to the strip club. It’ll be a good time.”
Redhead “Don’t go to a strip club. You know those girls don’t care about you.”
SlingBlade “That’s not true. They sit on my lap and tell me they love me.” SlingBlade usually chooses the funny joke over the smart play. And this folks, is why he gets no p***y. Well…that, and he has no confidence in his game, thinks all women are cheating s***s, and is scared of emotional commitment.
Tucker “Thanks a*****e. Why don’t you go watch Deep Space Nine and leave this to me. d**k.” I pull Redhead away from Captain No p***y, “Come on sweetie. It’ll be fun. Your friend wants to go.”
Redhead “I don’t want to go to that place. It’s gross.”
Tucker “Yeah, I know. But I’ll be there, we can hang out together. We’ll let them,” motioning dismissively at my friends, “look at naked women, and you and I can just hang out. Together.” I actually reach out and put her hands in mine.
Redhead “Why don’t you just stay here. With me?”
Tucker “Yes, let’s stay together…at the club.”
Redhead “But I don’t want to go to a strip club.”
Tucker “But I want to go. With you…us…together.”
Redhead “I don’t like it there.”
Tucker “Have you ever been?”
Redhead “No…”
Tucker “Then how do you know you won’t like it?”
Redhead “I know what they’re like. They’re gross.”
Tucker “I tell you what: If you and Blonde come with us, I promise that you and I can sit in a corner somewhere and stare into each other’s eyes, completely ignoring everything around us. It’ll be romantic. We’ll be so busy staring into each other’s eyes we won’t even see what’s going on.”
Hearing these words, I nearly threw up in my own mouth. She paused and contemplated.
Redhead “No…I don’t want to go to a strip club. I just can’t.”
This is just f*****g great. Even I have my limit, and that ‘staring into each others eyes’ b******t was it. I gather the five of us around, minus PWJ still talking to the broke-down redneck Kim Cattrall, and offer an alternative:
Tucker “How about this: I stay here with Redhead, and you guys take Blonde to Baby Dolls? It’s like a trade.”
El Bingeroso and SlingBlade like this idea very much. Redhead loves the idea. Blondie doesn’t. She may be a drunk idiot, but she’s neither drunk enough nor idiotic enough to go to a strip club in the company of three complete male strangers without her friend.
There goes an hour of my life I’ll never get back. w***e.
SlingBlade and El Bingeroso tire of this, go fetch PWJ away from his water-pistol packing cow-w***e, and start to leave. Redhead is trying to convince me to stay at the bar with her. She is almost pleading with me. Before I know it, my friends are already walking out the door.
I make my way to the door, Redhead still attached to my arm like a lamprey. I try to make a cost benefit analysis: Probable hook up and possible **** activity with Redhead, or definite nakedness but little chance of a hook up at Baby Dolls. I need to pin Redhead down on our late-night activities.
Tucker “Are you going to hang out with me later tonight. I mean, are we going to hang out after we leave here, like at your place?” My tone of voice is not subtle.
Redhead “I don’t know if I can; I have to be up at 7am.”
Tucker “7am? For what?”
Redhead “A Young Life meeting.”
Tucker “I have to go catch up with my friends.”
I streak out of the bar before she can even change her facial expression. [Aside: Young Life is a fundamentalist Christian youth group that preaches all sorts of other ridiculous pabulum, like abstinence and whatnot. I got blue-balls so many times in middle and high school dealing with those girls--NEVER AGAIN.]
In the car on the way to Baby Dolls, PWJ explains:
Tucker “Dude, who the f**k was that woman you were talking to, and where did she get her uniform, at a Whores-R-Us closeout sale?
PWJ “I don’t know. She works there. She had a toy water pistol in her belt…is it wrong that that turned me on?”
SlingBlade “She WORKS there? I guess no one cares if she spends thirty minutes talking to you. Apparently her job is to degrade herself and chat up pasty thimble-headed geeks.”
PWJ “You don’t understand…that’s not the best part. I learned her philosophy of dating: ‘Don’t fish off the company pier, and don’t f**k your friends. I’ve tried both plenty of times and it never works’…OH YEAH…I nearly spat out my drink when she told me that she has cats rather than kids because, and I quote, ‘you don’t go to jail when you get your cats high.’”
We decide that we are starting to like Texas. Baby Dolls does nothing to derail our crazy train.
Baby Dolls should be the model from which all strip clubs are cast. The neon glow from its trim-molding and signage can be seen from miles away. A huge pink one-story stand-alone building rising out of a sea of asphalt with pictures of nearly naked girls on the 4-story billboard looming over it from the parking lot. The entrance is two huge wooden doors adorned with brass fixtures and two NFL linebacker-sized bouncers. It is covered by a pink awning that extends up the walk about ten feet. The huge oval main stage is flanked by an enfilade of four smaller side stages, each with a brass pole reaching from floor to ceiling. Mirrors cover every wall and extend to every ceiling. Two full bars, and two beer bars are staffed by a phalanx of female bartenders and cocktail waitresses. And MOST importantly: it's all nude. No pasties. No g-strings. No crotch tape. Nothing between you and the naked, nubile flesh of attractive women…except dollar bills. The girls were hot beyond hot. Dozens of incredibly beautiful and **** women, each giving smiles that convey the sincerity of a single mother with rent due.
At age 24, this was my Elysium.
Two dancers come over almost immediately after we sit down. The hot one is at least 5’10”, blonde bobbed hair, smooth, almost creamy skin, and gorgeous fake breasts. Perfectly round and sitting high on her chest. She sits on PWJ’s lap.
Stripper “So what do you do?”
PWJ “I’m a law student.”
Stripper “Wow. . .so do you go to SMU?”
PWJ “Not exactly . . .I go to Duke.”
She gives him a blank stare. A few seconds later, one can almost see the flicker of candle-light in the thought bubble above her head.
Stripper “You mean Duke, Duke?”
PWJ pauses and chuckles, “Yeah, Duke, Duke.”
She gives him a doubtful face, “Oh, like I’ve never heard this one before. Let me guess, you went to Harvard for college.”
PWJ “Well, no, not exactly . . .”
PWJ went to Princeton for undergrad. I stop paying attention because as much as I love beauty, I hate stupidity, and seeing the two combined p****s me off. Plus, I need to start drinking and her nipples aren’t spouting vodka.
I find a cocktail waitress and begin drinking. Combatively. I’ve driven 16 hours for the specified purpose of going to this strip club, and I’ll be damned if I get here and nothing happens. To help achieve this end--getting drunk and making something happen--I make friends with our cocktail waitress, Liz. Gentle readers, let me explain something to you:
It is an almost universal rule of gentlemen’s clubs that the cocktail waitresses are more fun to talk to, and more apt to f**k customers, than the strippers. They are not as pressed for time, so they will banter more. The limp-dicks that overtip the strippers usually don’t tip the cocktail waitresses at all, so attention to a cocktail waitress will get you much further than attention to a stripper. Plus, they tend not to be high or drunk on duty, whereas strippers are almost always in some altered state, so conversation with them can actually accomplish something. The funniest thing is that they always think they are better than the strippers; in their mind there is a bright line separating them from the women who actually take their clothes off, thus it is usually much easier to get a cocktail waitress to go home with you. Strippers are jaded, abused, used-up; they hate men, and usually for good reason. The cocktail waitresses are far less defensive. They are so used to being ignored or looked through, that when you do pay attention to them, they respond to it. Some innocuous flirting and a good first tip to Liz gets my friends and me a constant, uninterrupted stream of drinks and a flirtatious hottie hanging around us. Read and learn fellas. Back to the action:
SlingBlade gets one of the hottest girls in the club to give him a dance. Before she takes his money, she tries to talk to him, and actually seems genuinely interested, not just stripper interested. This probably has something to do with the happy confluence of his sarcastic, standoffish sense of humor and the inability of her step-father to show her any affection growing up. So what does SlingBlade do? Does he flirt with her? Does he at least try to exploit this situation? Of course not. He places his finger on her lips, patiently explains that he, “would rather mainline Drano” than listen to her for another second, and commands, “Less talkie, more boobie.” The kid has problems.
Apparently, something about PWJ just says “sucker,” because another stripper comes up and puts her hands over PWJ’s eyes, coyly whispering something erotic in his ear. She is UGLY. Her face looks like it lost a frantic battle with a Garden Claw. The woman is literally missing some teeth. I can’t tell for sure, but I think she has a tattoo tear on her left eye. I motion to him by making a cutting gesture across my throat and yelling,
“Dude--she is unattractive. Bottom of the barrel. Needs to put her clothes on and learn how to type. Don’t do it! YOU’RE A YOUNG MAN!”
He doesn’t get my warnings in time. She sits on his lap. PWJ tells her he doesn’t want a dance, but she says it’s okay, and remains on his lap talking to him. I wonder, out loud for everyone to hear, if the zoo knows they are missing their three-toed sloth. She is not pleased. f**k her, it’s not my fault she looks like Adrian Brody with saggy tits.
PWJ ignores me and continues engaging her in conversation. When I hear her say, “Yeah, I had two hearts tattooed on my hips, but then I got pregnant and carried my son on my left side. Now this one looks like a tomato,” I get up. I’d rather fellate a hot curling iron than listen to another minute of her w***e-ramble.
I saunter around flirting with waitresses and bartenders and strippers, double-fisting vodka and sodas…and then it happens: I see El Bingeroso’s future wife. It’s not actually her; THAT would be a story, but she looks exactly like El Bingeroso’s fiancée. It’s spooky. I immediately walk over to where she is and stand there, waiting for her to finish the dance she’s giving to some random guy. He’s less than pleased. Whatever buddy, you’re wearing a Detroit Red Wings jersey to a strip club, you obviously suck.
I give her enough to pay for two dances for El Bingeroso, and then an additional ten dollars. I tell her that she has to tell him her name is “Kristy” [his fiancée’s name], and to answer to nothing else. I point him out, and she walks over, and introduces herself.
“Hi, I’m Kristy. Dinner is on the stove, baby.”
After what seems like only ten minutes, I glance over, and she’s just sitting there talking to him. Fine, maybe she’s just warming him up. A few more minutes, same scene. I’ll be damned if El Bingeroso doesn’t get my money’s worth. He’s the type that would pay her more not to dance, thinking it would violate his relationship or some such b******t. I walk over and interrupt El Bingeroso in the middle of a story I had heard the day before,
El Bingeroso “Yeah, I was fat when I was a kid. You know how kids jeans at K-Mart came in three different sizes, Small, Medium, and ‘Husky’? I had to buy Husky.”
Tucker “El Bingeroso, what the f**k? Is stripper-fiancée going to dance for you?”
El Bingeroso looks confused. “What are you talking about? Dude, she already did both dances, she’s just hanging out now.”
Maybe I’m drunker than I realize.
I find Liz and ask her how many drinks I’ve had. She looks at me with the same look El Bingeroso gave me, “Tucker sweetie, what are you saying? I can’t understand you.”
I guess I am f****d up.
I try to stagger back to my seat when a very hot, voluptuous stripper grabs me by the belt loops and pulls me towards her. She has a skin tight tiger-stripe body suit that is virtually painted on her. To say that her breasts were spilling out would be to imply that this outfit covered them at some point. Her J-Lo booty smiles at me, and I smile back. It takes me a few seconds to find her eyes. The gobs of silver glitter eye shadow smeared on her face make it difficult to locate them quickly. She says something to me, but I don’t understand it. I pretend to listen for about 3 minutes, then I interrupt her:
“If I were dating you, I’d never leave the house. I’d never even leave your general vaginal area. Unless it were to come on your face.”
She thinks I am funny. She really wants to give me a dance. I tell her I am a starving lawyer, and can’t afford one. But there is something about her. Maybe it’s the lighting, maybe it’s her aggressive attitude, maybe it’s her ghetto booty, maybe it’s her 36 DD fake breasts pressing against me…maybe it’s the 3 margaritas, 6 beers and 15 vodka clubs, but she just strikes me in that right way.
I guess she saw the acquiescence in my eyes, because without any further deliberation, at least that I can remember, she drags me back to a secluded booth in the rear of the club and starts dancing. By this time, I’m so drunk I even know I’m drunk.
Another great feature of Baby Dolls: The strippers encourage you to touch their boobies. I exploit this privilege ruthlessly. I grabbed both her beautifully fake breasts full on. I was kneading her tits so hard all I needed was a little water and some active dry yeast and I could have made bread. Towards the end of the dance I was actually trying to pop the saline implants. Those things are pretty durable.
Finished, she snuggles herself up against me, breasts right under my chin,
Big Tits “Do you want to go somewhere…more private?”
Tucker “Yeah…sure…for what…?”
Big Tits “If we get a champagne room, we can do anything we want.”
Tucker “Anything?”
Big Tits “Anything.”
Tucker “OK.”
Big Tits “It’s 300 for the room, plus usually about 100 dollars more. Depending…but you’re cute.”
Tucker “So…400 total?”
Big Tits “Uh huh.”
I pause and contemplate. Somewhere milling around my frontal lobes I can vaguely recall a moral dilemma I might have with this situation…provided I were sober enough to recall what exactly the tenets of my ethical system were. Or even what an ethical system was.
This drunk, I could only consider price. Thank you University of Chicago economics classes.
Tucker “I’ll give you 20 dollars.”
Big Tits laughed. “No. It’s 400, baby.”
Tucker “Okay…22 dollars.”
Big Tits “Well, you’re cute and funny; I’ll do it for 350.”
Tucker “25.”
Big Tits “325?”
Tucker “No, just 25.”
Big Tits “I have to give the club 100 to get the room for an hour.”
Tucker “I can’t last an hour…I’ll give you 28.”
This went on for at least 10 more minutes before we finally settled on a price.
$55. For a half hour.
I could write a book on negotiation. And as drunk as I was, you can believe she earned her $5.
When I found my friends, two hours and $55 later, they were out in the parking lot eating sloppy joe’s they bought from a guy selling them out of the back of his Chevette. Needless to say, they were aghast. But in my vodka-addled brain, I had a defensible position:
“Dude, I had to. How could I pass up a bargain like that?”
Ok, this story is running *WAY* too f*****g long for me to copy & paste. Just check out Tucker's page itself. Scroll down this story till you see "
Day Two: The Texas State Fair and The Embassy Suites Story" in bold.
http://www.tuckermax.com/archives/entries/the_austin_road_trip.phtml#281
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Tura
RealPoor Guru
Joined: 29 Oct 2003
Posts: 4865
Location: Raleigh, NC
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Posted: 12/07/05 - 10:50 Post subject:
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lirl! 2 good stories.
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halfbent
RealPoor Guru
Joined: 11 Oct 2002
Posts: 2944
Location: Kentwood, Mi
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Posted: 12/07/05 - 10:55 Post subject:
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| kireol wrote: | | zuld sir. your brought the funnayyy! |
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