That's pretty good.

Me and my buddies once killed a small black snake, wrapped a string around its head and tied it to the inside of my neighbors mailbox door. Then, we waited.

The poor dude bout had a stroke when he opened his mailbox and that snake jumped out at him.

http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/?p=2647

For a Few Months, I was Known Around Town as “The Guy with the Dog on His Roof”

So roughly a year ago, I ran into an old friend of mine that I hadn’t seen in a while and we had the following conversation:

Friend: Hey Rico! Long time, no-see dude! How have you been!?!?

Me: I’ve been breathing, I guess. How about yourself?

Friend: I’ve been AWESOME! My kids are growing up and I am having a blast! So where are you living now? Are you living in town?

Me: Yep, I own a house on the East side of town.

Friend: Oh yeah? Where’s that???

Me: I own the house that always has that dog running around on top of the roof. That is where I live.

Friend: Ohhhh, ok!!! I know EXACTLY which house you are talking about. My wife and I drove by a couple times and saw that and we laughed our asses off about it. That’s freaking hilarious!!! You always have a ton of cars in your driveway, right?

Me: Yep…that’s the one…my garage door is acting up and I can’t get my cars in there.



*** This was a real conversation. No joke. As you probably noticed, this guy knew exactly where I lived, not by me disclosing my address, but by describing my place as “the house that always has that dog running around on top of the roof.”



So for a few months, I was known around town as “the guy with the dog on his roof.” EVERY town has one of THOSE guys, right?!?! Yeah…I didn’t think so. This stupid shit only seems to happen to me. Is it just me, or do I have some of the most atrocious luck with some of the pets I have owned? I don’t ever witness any dogs running on any other peoples’ roofs. Why is there one running on mine? And if you’ve followed this site, you probably know that this dog is far from the first pet we’ve owned with strange tendencies/behaviors. You may recall the posts; “My Dog Loves the Smell of Her Own Ass,” “My Dog Hates Mullets,” “Meet the Hamburglar,” “Meet the Cat Who Pooped and Peed on My Crotch, Snarflebunz,” “50 Nifty Puns about the Buns of Snarflebunz,” etc. All of these are examples of posts about some of the pets I have owned that turned out…strange…and in most cases, didn’t work out for us.



So for a few months, I owned a dog that I couldn’t get to stop jumping and running around on our roof. Her name was Pippy. Here’s the story:



One night in the Summer of 2013, I had to run some errands in town and didn’t return to my house until it was dark outside…it was probably around 10:00 PM. Many things were weighing heavily on my mind at that time; school, my kids, work, wrestling, the Kansas City Chiefs training camp and roster moves, this blog and whether I should keep it up or take it down, hotel reservations for Lollapalooza, student loans and how I’ve ruined my life by digging myself into the depths of debt with them, my future, etc. Ya know, the regular stuff that I am always pondering and/or worrying about. I worry all the time about this shit…way too much.



Driving home, I was in a trance that was at a level presumably classified a small notch or two above full-fledged highway hypnosis. I was functioning in doing what I had to do, going through the motions, but my mind was elsewhere…in deep thought about whatever. I pulled into my driveway, grabbed the grocery sacks in my front seat and exited my vehicle, all while remaining in the “heavy thought” trance that had handicapped me since I began driving home.



When I began walking towards my front door, I remained in this trance until something abruptly forced me out of it by frightening me to the point where I thought I was going to have a heart attack. When I was roughly 10 feet away from my front door, I heard a deep, intensely loud and ferocious growl. Whatever it was that was growling at me, sounded like that MGM Lion that you see/hear growling before movies pumped with steroids with the volume at the theater set to the maximum times 10. It was LOUD…and it was SCARY….And it sounded like it was coming from 5-10 feet above my head, so therefore it was CONFUSING. I briefly thought to myself, “what the hell!!!?!? A lion hasn’t escaped from any zoos and made it’s way to my house, has it?!?! And if so, this lion hasn’t been trained to freaking fly, has it??? For that growl sounds like a lion that is hovering 5-10 feet in the air!?!?!”



My fear-induced, knee-jerk reaction was to run the hell away…so I did…I ran all the way through my yard and into the street and stood next to my mailbox, which is right next to the neighbor across the street’s driveway. When I was able to calm down a bit, I began looking towards the sky, which was where I heard those terrorizing growls coming from. This is what I saw:

http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/wp-conten...of-300x225.jpg

It was Pippi, barking and growling like a freaking grizzly bear. Pippi was a 10 month old female white boxer dog that resembled a pit bull. We had purchased her the night before on a site that I am not fond of when it comes to pet-searching, called Burlington: Buy, Sell, Trade on Facebook. I take that back, WE didn’t purchase that dog. My wife did…without me knowing about it. She knew that if she asked me if we could get a pet she fell in love with because she saw a pic of it on Burlington: Buy, Sell, Trade, that my reaction would be, “hell no! That is where we got the Hamburglar, Snarflebunz and those two English Terrier/Boxer mixes that tore our basement up!!! We will only end up just getting back on that site and trying to sell the dog to someone else because there is ALWAYS a catch when it comes to Burlington: Buy, Sell, Trade pets. There is obviously a reason why their owners are so adamant to get rid of them for such low prices or in many cases (in Pippi’s case) FREE!!! There is ALWAYS a catch with animals on that site!!!”



And I DID say that to her, possibly word for word… after she had already purchased the dog and brought her home. Her response to me was this:

http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/wp-conten...rusty-time.jpg

"Duh Joshua. This one is different. It is soooo cute. Plus your favorite dog in the world is a white boxer just like her. The owners say she is a good dog and the reason they are giving her away for free is because their son was the primary caregiver and he just moved."

I would have rebutted with something along the lines of, “if this primary caregiver raised such a good dog, why didn’t he take the dog with him when he moved out?!?” I didn’t say anything, though. I knew it was a fight I would not win and I had no dog in the fight, matched up to this dog Krystal brought home that I knew was likely to be a disaster waiting to happen.



So I entered my house, my face stained red with steam surging out of my ears. I was pissed. “ANOTHER pet with issues purchased via Burlington: Buy, Sell, Trade. Unbelievable!” I thought to myself. Krystal was sitting on the couch. I asked, “so how long has this new dog been on our roof and how the hell did she get there?” She replied, “I don’t know, I just let her outside to go potty and when I went inside, I heard a bunch of plopping around on the roof, followed by scratching on our window.” Krystal then pointed at the living room window and motioned for me to look outside. There she was…Pippi was staring right at the window and when she noticed me, she began scratching at the window profusely while barking and growling.

http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/wp-conten...-by-window.jpg

This is the view outside my living room window. This is where Pippi would camp out on the roof immediately after being let outside to go potty. She knew we were there, so she would scratch at the window to ensure that she had our full attention at all times…She ended up tearing the webbing of the entire screen and cracking the window.

After one day of owning this dog, she had discovered a way to jump on top of the roof and had scratched a gash into the screen of our living room window. We were not off to a great start with Pippi. And things never improved. She continued to do it. And I couldn’t stop her…she was way too quick and seemed to know that I wasn’t going to chase her on to the roof to get her down. She was also bull-headed and regardless of how many times I had scolded her and begged her not to jump on the roof, she would still do it. It seemingly became part of her routine when she was let outside. As soon as the door opened, she made a bee line to the ledge of our deck and jumped from the deck to the roof…and that was her playground outside. Here are a couple pictures of Pippi in the act of doing this:

http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/wp-conten...ng-on-roof.jpg

This is in reverse when compared to how she actually got on top of the roof…this is a picture of her stepping down. However, with this pic, I think you probably get the drift of her roof jumping tactics.

http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/wp-conten...-from-roof.jpg

And to make things worse, she became cocky about it. She knew we couldn’t stop her. Right when she would jump on top of the roof, she would turn around and start barking at us…as if she were taunting us.

Then she began making some substantial damage to our house, primarily our roof. She started out by clawing and scraping all of the windows, ultimately ruining every screen and cracking a couple of the windows in the upper level of our house. She also started scraping the shingles off the roof so she could chew on them. To top things off, despite the fact that she had a nice, decent sized fenced in back yard that she could use as her personal playground and toilet, she chose to use the bathroom on top of our roof. After a couple weeks of owning Pippi, our roof was littered with numerous piss spots and dog poop nuggets. People driving down the freaking street would be able to notice that I had dog shit all over my roof. How is that for classy?



This dog was a major problem.



After a few weeks, not only did my neighborhood notice that this had been going on, but the entire town seemed to know about it. I couldn’t go anywhere without somebody approaching me to talk to me about it. The gas station, the restaurant, the grocery store, the barber shop, the post office…everywhere I went I would have people approach me and ask, “hey Rico, did you that your dog has been jumping on your roof?” This question always annoyed me, not only because I had someone asking that exact question 10 times a day, but also because I’d sit there and think to myself, “HAVE I NOTICED THAT MY DOG CONSTANTLY JUMPS ON MY ROOF?!?! SERIOUSLY?!?! HOW DUMB DO THESE PEOPLE THINK I AM FOR IT TO EVEN BE REMOTELY POSSIBLE NOT TO NOTICE THAT MY DOG IS ALWAYS RAISING HELL ON MY ROOF AND GROWLING AT AND SCARING EVERY INDIVIDUAL WHO WALKS DOWN THE STREET BY OUR HOUSE?!?!?!” Most of the time, I responded unenthusiastically, “yes, I have noticed…we are trying to find a solution.” However, sometimes for fun, I would act like I had no idea what they were talking about and would respond with, “WHAT?! MY DOG HAS BEEN JUMPING ON MY ROOF?! I DIDN’T KNOW THAT!!!”



About 3 months after we brought Pippi home, we began searching for a new home for her. The breaking point came when I woke up to my doorbell one morning and when I walked downstairs to open the door, I was greeted by a cop who had received a complaint from a woman who was walking down my street with her toddler who alleged that she was growled at by a pit bull on top of my roof. To start, I explained that the dog wasn’t a pit bull, but a boxer and that while she sounded like a rabid Grizzly Bear when she growled at people walking by, she was just silly and wouldn’t harm a kitten. I also ensured that I was looking for a solution to the problem, which at that point was finding a new freaking home for Pippi. Problem was, it was difficult to find people who hadn’t caught wind of the roof-jumping, crazy dog Pippi in my community and our surrounding area. About everyone around the area was aware that my dog would jump on the roof of my house and terrorize people walking by our house as well as vandalizing our house via breaking windows, eating shingles and shitting/pissing all over the roof. Therefore, no one wanted her. It seemed borderline impossible to find someone willing to take her…for free.



We finally found one guy who is the father of a guy my wife works with who lived out in the country and seemed a bit interested. He was a bit lonely and wanted some company. We pressed him hard to take Pippi and he teeter-tottered around with the idea for quite a while prior to committing. It took him about 2 weeks to make the decision to take Pippi.



Unfortunately, during that final 2 week stretch in which we were pressing Pippi’s future owner to accept her, another Pippi-induced tragedy occurred which temporarily caused a large percentage of my neighbors to be upset with me for a few weeks. Right in the middle and at the excruciating peak of an awful heat wave, the air conditioner for my house chose an absolutely perfect time to stop working. For 3 days, my house did not have air conditioning during a stretch where the temperature did not fall below 95 degrees. My two young daughters, my wife and I all had to stay with my grandma and aunt who lived down the street from us from the time our air conditioner stopped working until someone was finally available to come fix it. While we were gone, Pippi had to stay outside on a chain in the shade under a tree. This was the coolest spot on my property. It was more hot inside the house than it was outside the house. I planned on stopping by and checking on her once every couple hours to make sure she had food and water and was ok.



I had tried chaining Pippi to this tree before in an attempt to prevent her from jumping on my roof, but this was a failure, for immediately after I put her on her chain and began walking away, she leaped in the air and almost cleared a nearby tree branch. If she would have cleared this tree branch, she would have accidentally hung herself, which would have been awful…Pippi was a personal problem for us, but she was nice and meant well…I didn’t wish the dog any harm. Therefore, I spent a couple hours configuring the leash/chain in a manner in which it would be impossible for her to jump over the branch. This ultimately proved itself to be ineffective.



Pippi was restrained to the cool shade for a day. When I came to check on her at around 11:00 am on the second day, I noticed a couple of my neighbors giving me some unpleasant looks when I exited the vehicle. I was confused. Many of my neighbors were outside, for the community wide garage sales that were being held that morning. Roughly 80% of my neighbors were hosting garage sales that morning. I noticed that if my neighbors weren’t giving me the stink-eye, they were staring at me. Something was up…and I had a feeling that it was probably somehow affiliated with Pippi. I hoped she was safe… I didn’t want anything happening to her while I was gone, making me come off as a negligent pet owner. I went to the back yard, to the shady spot underneath the tree that Pippi was tied to. No Pippi in sight. “How in the hell did this happen?” I thought to myself. Then I looked down at the chain. Pippi had tried escaping the chain with such force that she actually managed to break the freaking thing. A chain link was just torn to shit. I figured Pippi was on the roof…she wasn’t.



I began worrying about Pippi. So she escaped…and if she wasn’t on the damn roof of my house, where the hell else would she be? I walked to my front yard. Many of my neighbors were still staring at me with strange, mostly angry expressions on their faces. I approached my next door neighbor to the South and asked if he knew what was up with the dog. He informed me that my neighborhood was upset with me because while they were trying to host their garage sales, Pippi had jumped on top of the roof of my house and barked, snarled and growled at anyone who attempted to attend any of the garage sales in my neighborhood. Pippi had managed to negatively affect the attendance of the garage sales in my entire neighborhood due to instilling fear into the souls of the customers who walked by my house. Potential garage sale customers purposely avoided garage sales near my house because they were scared shitless of the beast that resided on my roof.



And it gets worse. My neighbor informed me that after about an hour after the garage sales began, Pippi actually became excited to the point where she jumped off the roof and began chasing a couple of people with their children down my street and jumped on them enthusiastically while simultaneously licking them…this was after she had growled at them like she wanted to eat them and steal their purchased garage sale items.



I was mortified. No wonder my neighbors appeared as if they wanted to impale me. I then looked at my neighbor and asked, “well, where did Pippi end up going?” He looked at me with an apprehensive expression on his face and said, “well Rico, that’s the bad part. After Pippi chased a bunch of people down the street. She took off in a dead sprint and ran right into your house.” “Into my house?” I asked. “That isn’t even possible. I didn’t leave any doors open.” My neighbor slowly lifted his hand up and pointed at my basement window. It was shattered. The freaking dog, in a dead sprint, ran right through my basement window. She ran right through the screen AND the glass window and was presumably inside tearing the inside of my house up.



I panicked and thanked my neighbor and quickly ran into my house. The house was trashed. Pippi seemed to get her paws and/or teeth on every single item in my house. The furniture was messed up, the blinds were torn apart, the carpet was ruined at the edges, the baseboard trim had been tampered with, clothes were everywhere, etc. The worst part of the house was the kitchen. She tore out a corner of the floor. She toilet-papered a few rooms in my house and sprinkled the TP decoration with my wife’s tampons that she ripped out of their packages. She managed to open the refrigerator and cupboard doors, sample every food item that wasn’t canned and she seemed to have mixed all of these food items together on the kitchen floor. She was in the kitchen, chewing on my Swiffer when I found her. Instead of putting her tail between her legs, she acted as if she expected that I would be happy to see her and she immediately started jumping on me and licking me. This dog was not very intelligent. I didn’t know what to do…I didn’t know how to act around my neighbors, I didn’t know where to begin cleaning my house and I had no idea how to try to get through to Pippi in terms of her being a bad dog.



A few days later, we dropped her off at her new owner’s house. This guy had spent a week or so, building a dog house for her. I only saw her one time after we dropped her off there. We drove by his place once and guess what we saw her doing? You guessed it, she was standing on top of her dog house, barking at us while we drove by on the highway.



We kept in touch with this guy to see how she was doing. The guy freaking loved Pippi. His place was evidently a more compatible environment for her. He went as far as saying that he had never loved a dog so much and that he would never own another dog in his life that wasn’t a boxer (something that I used to and sometimes still say…I love boxers when they aren’t totally insane). Pippi brought a lot of joy to his life and I assume, she was happy there. Good fit.



With that said, this guy and Pippi went on to live happily ever after… Until Pippi was mauled senselessly and killed 8 months later by a large truck that was driving down the highway. Which made us all sad… really. As mentioned, she meant well.



Pippi: Long gone, but will never be forgotten. Crazy bastard.

http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/wp-conten...1/dog-meme.jpg

boxers are all crazy, and i own one soon to be two.

What do ya want to hear. I have hundreds
2am Tornado, fishing on the Muddy MO.2015
Defying death with Bugs, Grand Lake of the Cherokee 1995
Last Dukes of Hazord jump,Bugs Pontiac 1986
Bigfoot,Ford Land Missouri 2006
Five head Manning Gar 2014
Party cove Video 1,2,3,4,5 & 6. 1994-2000
Knife fight 72nd & Dodge 1986
Fist fight US airborne 101st, lossing effort.1990.
Police get my Marijuana night before Elways last SB.1999
Piss in losers beer. He drinks it. 1989
Weekend with Jill Kelly & Tabatha Stevens. 1998
Tornado 1975
Bell bottomes & plad. 1974-1979
Atari..Xmas 1980
Losses Bolded Name IN Avitar. Chiefs Planet 2015

atari story please

I plugged the dam thing in about 5 years ago. It worked fine for a few minutes then popped the breaker & burst into flames.

I'd like to hear the one on tears shed when his boys were exposed as frauds.

worst story ever

I don't know that story.

Moar rico

Well it did almost catch the drapes on fire at my Xs house.

You know how I know you're Gay???

Weekend with Jill Kelly & Tabatha Stevens. 1998
Please tell with pictures....

My "best" story is my hell week in the summer of 2005.

My youngest was a little over a year old and had recently been diagnosed with asthma. Infant asthma or whatever. Most kids outgrow it, and mine did. Anyway, the kid gets diagnosed and so the treatment is steroids. I remember specifically asking the doctor, in a half-kidding kind of way, if 'roid rage was a thing with kids. He looked me straight in the eye and said no, the lying sonuvabitch.

The prescription is given and the doses start a few days before we are going to leave on vacation. The plan is to rent a van and drive from Boston, to Niagara Falls, up to Toronto, and back. It's for a week. Perfectly good trip. I've done that trip a couple times before. So why are we going? Well, with new people, of course.

One is my wife. That's great. Hell, I married her.

Next, my two kids. Son, aged 4, and the youngest, newly 'roided up one, age 1'ish.

Oh, and did I mention my wife's two parents? They're great. Calm and friendly. They are up for everything. As long as you don't mind them walking slow, it's fine.

Then there's my my wife's younger sister, and her husband. She's great. He's an asshole and I hope he spends eternity in the seventh circle of hell being the personal love slave of a monstrous, many tentacled demon.

Oh, and my wife's older sister. And her husband. And their (then) only child, who is a little under one. And her husband's mother.

12 people. One big van. Many hours in the van together. Many, many, MANY hours in the van together. Hint: This is not a good idea. DON'T do this.


A few days before we are supposed to leave (summer, 2005), my driveway springs a leak. My wife calls me at work and says the driveway is leaking. What?! "The driveway. There's water running down it". What??! Where is it coming from? No clue. Sure enough, get home, and it's like Jed Clampett put a hole in my driveway and discovered oil, but instead of oil, it's ****ing water. Bubbling up and running down my driveway. Like at a gallons per minute rate.

This leads to spending frantic days trying to figure out the problem, get it fixed, and speaking with homeowners insurance trying to get it fixed just before I'm going to leave on this too-complicated-by-half family fun time.

**** it, time's up. We're leaving with water streaming down the driveway. Surprised the Sierra Club didn't come and burn my house down for wasting so much water.

And away we go. My youngest is crying. CONSTANTLY crying. Screaming, really. Nothing settles him down. A van with like 28 women who love holding babies can't calm him down. A van with a handful of guys who want to murder the little bastard also can't calm him down, not that we tried much. Mostly we planned highly illegal acts to shut him up. But on and on he cries.

Mile

after

mile.

My wife and I are dying a slow death here. "He's never been like this before". "I can't imagine what's wrong". 11 other people are having their vacation wrecked by this bastard and there is nothing we can do.

This continues for the entire ****ing week. We knew, of course. I told my wife it was the steroids. She agreed, but if a doctor tells her to do something, IT IS ****ING WELL GOING TO HAPPEN. I say let's take him off the meds and restart when we get back. I might as well have asked to launch him to the moon (one of my less practical but preferred alternatives). NO WAY. HE NEEDS THE MEDICINE SO HE GETS THE MEDICINE. Well, alrighty then.

Finally, the week is coming to a merciful close. It is Friday, August 19, 2005. It's our last full day there, and we are driving home the next day. I didn't know that date off the top of my head, but it's easy to find. I just need to look up "Toronto Rain 2005" on Google, but that part comes later.

FIRST....


We are driving through a mall parking lot, returning to a restaurant we had visited earlier in the week that we lliked. Last dinner together of the trip. As we are going through the lot, I'm sitting in the second row on the edge, and suddenly WHAM! and I'm sitting on the floor, having been knocked off my seat. WTF? Turns out, an idiot woman driving a car somehow accelerated instead of braking, and crashed into the side of the van. She couldn't have been going all that fast, but she gunned it and hit us. We're a big van and she's driving a little ****ing Celica or something, so no biggie right? Right.

Except for teh broken axle.

Right. Of course.

So we get out of the van and start calling around. Cops come, and so do the tow trucks come. Like MANY tow trucks. Apparently, in Canada, it's open season for tow trucks and first come first served, so they all zoom to an accident scene to try to scoop the vehicles and hold them hostage for payment. But I digress. Toronto's finest are there, witness statements. We're all fine, but the idiot driver of the car KO'ed herself briefly. So ambulance.

And 10 other people, one screaming ****head (of course), and me, wondering WTF I am doing stuck in Toronto with my wife, one good child, one child I want ot murder, and 8 other people who hate our guts.

Oh, and how are we getting home?

Drip. Drip, drip, drop.

Rain.

Call around, get a rental car company to send a car to pick us up. WTF is going to happen to the rental van we are supposed to return tomorrow? Who knows.

The rain is getting pretty ****ing serious so we go into a bank, and explain our tale of woe.

Suddenly rain went from rain, to Rain, to RAIN, to RAIN OF BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS!!

Surely he jests. Surely he exaggerates. Rain is rain.

Yeah, well, there is a Wikipedia entry for my ****ing rain buster.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Souther...tbreak_of_2005

And here's an article from 2009 about how all that rain is still affecting the city 4 years later.

http://www.torontosun.com/news/toron...09381-sun.html


And where was I during the middle of that? Engaged in an epic, THREE HOUR, four (yes, four) mile rountrip to the rental car company, to rent a car, and get back to the mall. Traffic was at a standstill, streets were flooding, my family was stuck at a bank that was closing any minute now (they stayed open late to give shelter to my family and some others that had few options).


Finally we get back and the rain stops and we all go back to the hotels. The drama is over.

A few post-scripts.

1. Now it's the drive home, and it's just my 4. We rented 3 separate cars to get everyone home. My youngest is still acting like a little psychopath. He had spent his entire life addicted to pacifiers, but they barely worked on this trip. He kept htem in his mouth and used them, but kind of cried around them. But he had always been very attached. We had known we needed to break him of the habit, but had been afraid to before.

Now. NOW. MWAHAHAHA REVENGE!! We're driving along, not even out of Canada yet, and my wife is trying to settle him and using the pacifier which doesn't really work. I tell her that TODAY is the day to break him of th epacifier addiction, rip the thing out of his mouth and fling it out the window. The crying ramps up to epic proportions, and my wife and I just sort of smile at each other, sit back in the car, and give up all effort at settling him. I'm basically cackling like Renfield. CRY IF YOU WANT, I DON'T CARE!!

And that was the last time he ever had a pacifier.


2. I won't even go into the insurance nightmare around the van. The rental company filed a lawsuit for like $10,000 and didn't get their van back for months. Multiple conference calls with the company, our insurance. Ugh.

3. the driveway water issue was caused by a break in the water line bringing water to the house. We had to replace it twice, ultimately, with the last replacing the whole line (it was PVC or somethign) with copper. And my driveway/lawn looked like it had a lightning streak through it for two years.

I will spare you the mullet man.

The Phantom of the Awkward Part 3: I Accidentally Honked My Car Horn at a Funeral Line for at Least a Minute Straight


http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/?p=2048

One day, when I was a sophomore in college, I spent a substantial amount of time pondering why my life seems to be infested with cringe-inducing awkward moments. I decided to go to my dad for advice. I asked my dad, “hey dad, why does weird, strange and awkward things always seem to happen to me? Why doesn’t weird shit happen to other people as much as it seems to happen to me?” His response was unforgettable. He responded with, “because son, you have a tendency to be kind of a dipshit all the time. You naturally create tornados concocted of shit. Shit-tornadoes are attracted to dipshits like you.”

I thought it was a logical explanation and still do to an extent. In life, the way you act and the decisions you make define who you are in a way, and definitely seem to play a role in the weird obstacles and knee high pile of shit you may always seem to unexpectedly find yourself stuck in.

So why do weird and awkward things happen to me? Because in my own subtle and subconscious way, I invite the awkwardness. I tell the weird and the awkward things in life to bring it the hell on.

So one of the most awkward things imaginable happened to me one day while I was in my car attempting to leave the parking lot during lunch break at work.

That day, I drove a red Buick that belongs to my parents. I was not used to driving this car. My own car was being worked on that week, so I was stuck with this Buick until my car was fixed.

When it became time for lunch break, I eagerly hopped into my car, excited to munch out on some “Happy Joes” pizza. I started the car, cranked up the radio and attempted to pull out of the work parking lot. This attempt was cut short when a hearse slowly drove by. This hearse was followed by string of other cars filled with people who were all sporting extremely sad expressions on their faces. The hearse, followed by the long string of cars driven by a bunch of sad looking people indicated to me that there was a funeral line driving by and I had to wait for it in the parking lot until they passed by. I thought to myself, “well this is shitty timing. I was all happy to go to Happy Joes, now I have to wait for these sad people to drive by. This is going to take forever.” Sympathy for sadness evidently isn’t my strong suit while hungry for Happy Joes. I decided to put the car in park and rest my arms on the steering wheel while I patiently waited for the funeral line to pass with the tunes blaring.

As the second car in line drove by, the passenger gave me a death stare (pun…intended). I thought to myself, “hmm that’s odd, wonder what that dude’s beef is. Surely he’s not taking his friend or family member’s death out on innocent bystanders like myself. I hope he doesn’t go home and kick his dog.”

The passenger in the third vehicle in line gave me the middle finger. After this I became a bit confused. I remember thinking, “wow, this group of people handles the losses of their loved ones in anger-induced, misdirected fashion.” I just kind of gave them a sympathetic look, nodded, and mouthed, “I know man, losing someone is hard.” The guy kept his middle finger up until he had passed me by at least 3 car lengths.

The next car drove by and both the driver and the passenger gave me a similar death stare (pun…intended). Both of them proceeded to shake their heads at me. This REALLY made me start wondering about these people. “I thought, what kind of people are these and who the **** was it that died that is pissing these people off so much?!?!?! Was it the Macho Man Randy freaking Savage that died?!?! If so, are these people pissed because they’ll never be able to slap into a Slim Jim again?!?!?!” I felt like telling them to calm down, even though Randy Savage is gone, the Slim Jim company will likely continue to make Slim Jims. (Interestingly enough, I posted this in 2008, prior to the death of Randy Savage. I thought it was weird because as most of us know, he didn’t last much longer after that before he actually did die).

After heavy contemplation, I theorized that it probably wasn’t the Macho Man Randy Savage whose funeral they had attended, otherwise I would have seen something on TV. However, it was probably someone very similar to him due to the volatility and anger his loved ones were showing towards me.

The next car drove by and the driver gave me the finger, and the passenger mouthed the words, “shame on you, asshole.” By this time, I finally had it. I desperately needed to find out why these people were hating on me so much. It was just weird. I decided to calmly get exit my vehicle and somehow inquire as to what the deal was (other than the death of their loved one). I began to maneuver my way out of the vehicle. I began this process by taking my elbows off the center of the steering wheel, followed by turning down the radio with my right hand before readying myself to open the door and hoist myself out.

The moment I turned the radio down, I discovered why these people were so appalled by me. Turns out, as I was resting my arms on the steering wheel, I was accidentally honking the horn and had no idea that I was doing so. I did not notice this because I had the radio turned up loud enough to where I couldn’t hear the horn. I had my arms rested on the horn which is located on the steering wheel (which I had no idea was the case) for at least a minute, maybe two. Therefore, I was honking at this funeral line, continuously for a minute plus and had no clue. I was mortified.

I covered my face with my hands in embarrassment and waited for the next few cars to pass before I showed my face again. I covered my face until the cars who probably were too far away to hear me honking my horn began passing by.

I can’t imagine what these people were thinking. They are in the process of mourning a loved one and some impatient asshole who wants to leave the parking lot is honking his horn at them because he wants them to hurry their asses up. That’s literally what they were probably thinking…that I was such an asshole that I was actually pissed off at this funeral line because it was preventing me from leaving the parking lot. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to crawl in a hole and hide. Heck if I would have been on top of things, it would have occurred to me that if I wanted a hole to crawl into, all I had to do was follow the funeral line to the cemetery. So..freaking…awkward.

Sort of a similar embarrassment.

My buddies and I used to go out to lunch all the time when we were in the Air Force. One day....we went to a Wendy's that was down the street from the base and my buddy and I got in line to get food. My other friend walked back and sat down at one of the tables without telling us anything. So I tell the cashier my order and I turn to my friend who is sitting at the table and this is how the conversation goes.

Me (Normal Voice): Do you want any food?

Mike: What?

Me (Slightly louder): Do you want any food?

Mike (louder): What?!

Me (almost yelling): DO YOU WANT ANY FOOD?!?!

Mike (yelling): WHAT!?!?

Me (now in a stupid reeruned voice): DO YOU WANT ANY FOOOOOOOD!?!?!

Right as I said that in my mock handicapped voice...I look to the left and I see a mentally handicapped girl and her "helper".

:facepalm:

I got THE dirtiest look from everyone at the Wendys from that one. I wouldn't be surprised if they spit in my food. I ate my lunch with my head down while my buddy Mike just ****ing laughed at me the entire time.

FYP

LMAO I probably would have had the same reaction as Mike.

Mullet, mullet, mullet!!!!

I want to read about Bigfoot, loser's beer, defying death with bugs.....party cove videos bonus.

Big foot story been told here more then once.
I had 16 ft foot trihaul break down on the Cherokee. After several hours of helplessly floating in the middle of the lake & boat after boat just driving bye. A 50 ft off shore catamaran stopped, I'll tow you to my shop where I build these boats. So I pulled up the 85hp outboard ( big mistake)& hooked a 75ft towrope up. The guys huge off shore race boat wouldnt plain under about 45 mph. So after about 5 minutes of plowing water, the guy & his girl friend put the hammer down & off we went.
My boat became a 16ft fiberglass tube,whipping side to side & over his huge wake. We went over his wake & so far to port that the towline had feet of slack in it,when the slack would tighten (SNAP) my boat would be literally skipping on one edge & ready to roll at 50mph. We went side to side like this maybe 3 or 4 times before his girl friend turned around & seen what was happening.
It ripped the seats loose from my boat. Next pass over his wake would have capsized my boat & turned it into a meat grinder. Their were 4 of us in my Lil trihaul. How no one got hurt still shocks me.

Party cove. Friend of mine on the lake had ties to both the Bobyshop & GQs strip clubs. Soon after the event's on the Cherokee I realized I need s bigger boat.
So I bought a 24ft Liberator. Id head to the lake on the Holliday's & my friend & I would load up the boat with stripers from both joint's. It didn't take long for the producers of the Cove Vids to figure out where & which boat the none stop sex acts were going to take place on.
We had wave runners by this time to & would run the girls topples through the gauntlet.

God what I would give to be in my 20s again

I'll let Bugs tell the beer story.

Year 1986 my friend John and I went to local water hole. We were both 19 at the time. We split a few pitchers and where feeling like bad asses. Pawnee bar was the place to drink and have a great time in this small town. Two older women about 24-25 want to hook-up so of course we were game. We follow them to some apartment and waste no time getting naked in the living room. I was doing the deed with Darla on one couch and John was on other couch with the other girl and all a sudden they jump up and grab clothes and run into bathroom. I have a pretty bad hearing problem so I had no clue what the hell was going on. Being drunk and half deaf makes it even better. About this time five guys all about 25 come walking into living room. Grabbed my shit on floor and started running toward bathroom. Of course door closed and locked so I started pounding on the door. I will not lie. I was scared shitless at this point. I finally let go of door handle and turn around and look over the five guys. For about 20 seconds they just stare at me which was strange as hell. Finally the bathroom door opens and John and the two girls come out with clothes on. I start getting dressed figuring ass kicking was finally coming. Finally they explain it's one of the girls brothers and we were using his apartment. I am pretty much thanking god at this point. They later told me they were laughing their asses off getting dressed while I fumbled with the door handle. They heard them way before they even opened the front door. Good Times!

My son's great grandfather was Chief Standing Rock (second tribal Chief). During my son's induction, it was known to the tribal elders of the relationship, yet not word was spoken.

The sage of the '55 Chevy rustbucket

When I lived in Shawnee, the next door Taylor brothers and I were good friends. The elder Taylor, George, and I were the same age, but he was a year behind in school since he failed a grade. For his first car, his dad bought him a primer-grey '55 4-door Chevy. And boy did we drive all over the county.

Back then, I-35 ended at SW Blvd and as such, it was the unofficial drag strip going southbound. Since we never knew who was racing when, we would drive that stretch of road a lot. Being kids and easily bored, we needed a distraction. And that came in the form of legal explosives - read Cherry Bombs, Bulldogs, and M-80's. These devices were readily available at Dogpatch on the Bagnell Dam strip. One extremely slow night, we decided to have a little fun and drop them through one of the several rusted out opening on the floorboard. The trick was to time the lighting and dropping of them so that a following car would be right over it when it went off. Good for laughs. At least until, George's Little brother Larry, missed one of the holes. Needless to say, there isn't a lot of room any car to get away from the inevitable blast, but we tried. And we failed. After the explosion, the floating dust was so bad, one couldn't even see out of any window. George got us over to the shoulder so we could breath again and put out a couple of minor fires to the remnants of the original carpeting and a back seat cushion. Yelling at Larry was no good because, he couldn't hear much as the ringing in the ears was to great and we weren't sure if we were actually saying out loud, since we could hear either. We did have a good laugh at each other because 1) we survived and 2) we all looked we all just left a coal mine. We realized that our latest activity wasn't such a good idea and from then on, kept the firework performances in our backyard pond.

However, we decided that since fireworks from cars wasn't good, maybe water balloons would be a lot safer. We did recognize the hazard of hitting a car on the Interstate wasn't good, so we stuck to the slower pace of local roads. Merriam Drive in this case. It was good fun seeing who good nail a windshield versus a fender or, the horrors, miss altogether. Fun it was until, one of us nailed an extremely old pickup truck and it's fender. Fun quickly faded when the fender fell off from being hit and the driver drove over it, no doubt incurring other damage.

Our recklessness faded when we learned about the Drive-in circuit. We would start at Allen's on Johnson Drive, stop by Winstead's on the Plaza, and an third somewhere in between whose name has been lost to time. In time during the circuit, we could notice who was dating whom, who had a new car, hang out a bit and see who perhaps we could pick up. This routine was a Saturday night ritual for a year or so until George decided to show off. Leaving Allen's, he dropped in 1st and instead of getting the automatic handle in Drive, he found Reverse. We wound up with parts from a variety of sources all over Johnson Drive. RIP '55 Chevy Rustbucket.

Considering the number of similar incidents that I managed to live through, no wonder I became a safety professional later in life.

The Phantom of the Awkward Part 7: Trying to Maintain My Composure When this Guy Farted Mid-Conversation

http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/?p=2678

Everybody farts…I guess. I don’t necessarily like it. If I had the choice to not fart, I would select that choice.



As ridiculous as it sounds, I have a difficult time accepting the fact that women fart. I have a really difficult time coming to terms with the fact that my wife farts. I don’t know why…maybe it’s just a matter of not wanting to associate my significant other, who I am very attracted to, with something so notorious for having a rancid odor.



Farts spark many awkward situations. For example, have you ever been around a bunch of people and had to fart so you walked away to be by yourself where you could act like you were doing something on your own, but in reality you just walked away to fart and you didn’t want anyone to smell it… Then after you fart, someone decides to walk up to talk to you, while your fart is wafting in the air in a 5 foot or so radius surrounding you…which leaves the person who approached you either thinking you are a smelly person, you pooped your pants or you farted??? This has happened to me a few times. I am such a stickler when it comes to fart denial, that I actually have the audacity to ask the other person if they farted…knowing damn well that it was me who did it and knowing damn well that they know it was me who did it. Heck, I could be in an elevator with one other person and have a fart slip, and if it smells, I will act like I am repulsed by the other person in the elevator with me because they farted… I never, ever, EVER claim my own farts. Farting embarrasses me.



To this day, I still remember from school, roughly 75% of the girls who farted in class to the point where I could hear it. Heck, I remember a girl farting in class when I was in Kindergarten and thinking to myself, “ewww that’s gross.” And I am 32 years old now. For some reason, those memories always stuck with me.



I think I’ve written enough to prove that I have a ridiculous, neurotic way of approaching and reacting to farts. I wish I could shake it, but can’t.



Have you ever been in a conversation with someone (one person) and had to fart? And the conversation becomes an overly lengthy one to the point where you can no longer hold the fart in any longer, so you decide to let the fart go, crossing your fingers that: 1.) It is silent and 2.) It doesn’t smell, for if it does smell, it would give you no choice other than to wrongfully accuse the other person of farting? I’ve had a few of these situations. I’ve been in both roles…I’ve been the farter and I’ve been the one speaking to someone who farted. Always awkward…and I always end up asking the other person, “hey, did you by chance…fart?”



This story is about a situation I had with someone who farted while in mid-conversation with me. And to say the least, this was one of the most bizarre farts ever farted.



So one day, I went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few odds and ends we needed around the house. I wasn’t in a talkative mood at the time. I wasn’t in a hurry or anything, but I went there with the mindset of, “I hope I don’t see anyone that I know, for I just want to go in, pick up what I need, leave and get home ASAP so I can watch ‘The Wonder Years’ on Netflix.” It was all business. Pick up my shit, nod and say “hey” to anyone I know and get out. I’m sure all of you know the type of mood I am talking about.



So I’m in Wal-Mart and I went about my business uninterrupted for the first 10 or so minutes.I browsed the CD/DVD section. I picked up my Right Guard, paper towels, trash bags, Oreos, etc. I was almost finished. Then, while walking through the condiments aisle, I noticed a dude I used to kind of know a decade or so ago. This guy was a middle-aged man with chubby red cheeks, a large gut, a goofy perma-smile and a hairline with hair color that didn’t match the age of his face…It was difficult to determine if he was 45 or 65 years old for he had the face and body of a man of 60-65, yet a hairline and lack of grey hair of a man who is…30. He also has a slight Southern accent. He is literally one of the last guys I want to run into when I am not in a “chatty,” social mood, for when he starts to talk to you, you can’t get away from him.



Now, what made this guy intolerable when I used to see him often was the fact that he always tried to get me to join this Jehovah’s Witness church which he was an avid member of. So when I noticed him in the condiments aisle that day, I thought, “shit,the last damn thing I want to do right now is have a long freaking conversation with some odd guy I haven’t seen in 10 years about how my only glimmer of hope for salvation is if I make a commitment to the Jehovah’s Witness religion.” This guy was always barking up the wrong tree with me with that stuff and no matter how many different times or different ways I informed him that I had absolutely no interest in joining his religion, he always tried. And it was always an extensive, unavoidable conversation that was difficult, if not seemingly impossible to escape from. I always had to make up some crazy ass lie to get away from him. I’d blurt out the first crazy fib that came to my mind. Like, “oh dude, sorry to leave during your Jehovah’s Witness pitch, but I just received a text that there was a heard of baboons that escaped from the zoo and they are attacking our hogs with sticks! I gotta go!” That is an absurd excuse to begin with. Not only do I not own any hogs, but the nearest zoo with baboons is like 100 miles away…so it is unlikely that these baboons would have traveled all that way to beat my hogs with sticks had they escaped. Whatever, I didn’t give a shit how absurd it was…I’d say anything to jet out of those dreaded conversations with him.



Now, we will just pretend this guy’s name is “Dingledorf.” When I got near Mr. Dingledorf with my shopping cart, I kind of glanced at him, studying him, hoping that he wouldn’t recognize me and I could just walk on by and pick up the remaining couple-few items I still needed to pick up. Of course he noticed me right when he looked my way and in his Southern-ish accent was like, “well hi Josh, nice to see ya!” “Yeah, you too, Dingledorf,” I replied. I slowly crept my shopping cart by with hopes that maybe, just maybe our conversation would end there. “So, what are you up to in your life these days? How is life-a treatin’ ya?” he inquired. “Oh great, here comes the Jehovah’s Witness recruiting pitch. Ok, just try to make yourself come off as small as a target as possible,” I thought to myself. “Umm, I am real good. I am real content with life and I feel that every component and any potential void in life has been fulfilled. I am just incredibly happy,” I said. That was a total lie, but for Pete’s sake, I could see him slithering into a “pitch” from the second sentence that came out of his mouth. Honesty was not a top priority of mine at that moment. Escaping the conversation was the top priority. “Well, you know what could make you feel more content?” he asked. “UGH!!! Dingledorf is wasting NO time in discussing my salvation and how I can be saved by joining the Jehovah’s Witness church,” I thought. And then he followed with something that I didn’t expect. “Do you have life insurance?” he asked. Ha. So this was his kick now…selling life insurance. I responded, “yeah, I have two plans.” Which isn’t a lie. He replied, “well, I sell life insurance now and I think I can find something more suitable for you than what you have now.” This is when I put him into “total quack mode.” I do this when someone is either trying to sell me something or goes on and on about something that I don’t care about. Basically I just stand there, nod my head when suggested to, watch their mouths move and fail to process a single word they say to me. They can be quacking like a duck as far as I know, and I wouldn’t notice it, for I am not paying attention to what they are saying…at all. Just kind of going through the nonverbal stuff that makes me appear as if I am paying attention…when I am not.



So this guy continued to quack at me about life insurance and I stood there nodding my head, itching for the conversation to end so I could be on my way when suddenly, while he was speaking, a loud, high pitched squeal, followed by a “putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt” noise came from his pelvic region. When I heard the high pitched squeal, my immediate thought was, “what the hell?!?! What IS THAT?!?!” However, when I heard the “putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt” noise, it was obvious to me that this guy had just let out one of the most bizarre sounding farts I’ve ever heard in my life…in mid-conversation.



Now, when I said that this was one of the weirdest sounding farts I’ve ever heard in my life, I meant it. Since it happened, I have tried to come up with an accurate comparison as to what it sounded like and the best I can do in terms of describing the sound is this: that the squealing noise sounded like a high-pitched black man, like Chris Tucker (from the movies; Friday, Rush Hour, The Fifth Element, etc.) yelling, “sayyyyyy whaaaaaaaaat” with his hand cupped over his mouth. The “putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt” noise sounded like someone trying to start a moped with a very low battery and a faulty starter. Ok, so imagine the notoriously high-pitched Chris Tucker standing next to a moped. Chris Tucker puts his hand over his mouth and in his high-pitched voice yells, “sayyyyy whaaaaaaaaaatttt!?!?!” And then Mr. Tucker tries to start the moped, which has a faulty starter and a very low battery. That is what this guy’s fart sounded like. I was in total shock of how this guy’s fart sounded, I couldn’t believe he let such a powerful, odd-sounding fart escape his sphincter while he was in mid-conversation me and I REALLY couldn’t believe that he continued to go on about this life insurance shit after he farted without taking the time to say, “excuse me.” He just kept going on like nothing happened.



Then the smell hit the air. It was disgusting. The smell was just as rancid as the sound was weird. It smelled like a dead mouse doused in sauerkraut juice. It put me in a daze.

I just stared at him with that stupid, befuddle****ed expression on my face that I still get today when something absolutely floors me. And this guy just kept on “quacking” about this life insurance policy that he thought would suit me. “If only I would have bought into this life insurance policy before being exposed to this fart of his,” I thought to myself…because that fart was so rancid and gross, I thought I could die.



After another minute or so of him quacking and me staring at him with my mouth wide open, he finally acknowledged his fart. He must have noticed how thrown off I was by it. He paused for a second and said with his semi-Southern accent, “I’m sorry about my flatulence. I ate me some cheese.” Without thinking, I replied, “you ate you some cheese?” I couldn’t believe I uttered those words…it was like I was talking like him…..”you ate you some cheese?” Ugh. It does kind of explain the dead mouse smell. Maybe a mouse crawled into his ass on a mission to find that cheese and ended up dying. Anyways, he replied, “yeah, I ate me some cheese. I’m sorry bout my flatulence.” Then he went right back into his life insurance pitch like nothing happened.



After another couple minutes of this guy’s continuous quacking about the life insurance policy combined with the lingering scent of a dead mouse doused in sauerkraut juice, I made the decision to try to slyly flee from the conversation and this guy in general. I came up with the first lie that came to my head. I said, “well hey man, I gotta go. My wife is in the hospital giving birth right now and I probably need to get back to her hospital room.” “Oh your wife is having a baby?’ he asked. “Yes. She is having twins,” I replied. I figured this excuse would be understandable. He would at least let me leave now, right? WRONG. He responded by informing me that I can take out life insurance plans on both of my children that were being born that moment. Holy shit…these people stop at nothing. I ended up just looking at him and saying, “I’ll see you later, Dingledorf.” Then I walked away.



Out of all of the bizarre, cringe-inducing, awkward situations involving farts that I have experienced in my lifetime, that particular fart sticks out as being the worst. It was preposterous.



http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/wp-conten...mullet-man.jpg

"One time when I spoke to the mullet man, Rick Dickulous, he farted mid-conversation like the guy in the story did. The only difference was, he said, “I am sorry bout my ‘fartulence,” I ate me some stink bait.” That kind of explains why Rick doesn’t catch very much fish to feed his family…because he eats the bait."

tldr

You....BASTARD!!!!!!!

It seems to me that this would be a nice offseason time distraction.

Bring it.

And I actually thought about creating a thread about most embarrassing confessions today.

This

The red light ball my friend and I saw while driving the backroads of New Mexico at night was small—about the size of a softball. We were doing about 60 mph. The light ball descended from above us, hovered a few feet over the car's hood for three or four seconds, matching our speed, then instantly shot off in the same direction we were traveling at a rate of speed that I've never witnessed aside from that instance.

We have no idea what it was, but we were very pleased we got to see it.

I'm going to go with Trevor.

I'll be happy to share some epic DaneMcCloud dumbassery when time permits

Heres one from when I was about 17.

I went out on a date with, damn, can't remember who it was that night. Anyways, it was a weeknight, not a lot going on so the date consisted of running down some smoke and booze. Then a trip out to one of the parking spots outside of town. We proceeded to get drunker than 100 Indians. (My apologies to any of our native American planet members) Spent a while knocking the bottom out of that inside, beside, and on my 71' Maverick Grabber. Had to take her back home around 1:00. After I dropped her off I realize the Grabber is sitting below Empty and I'm flat broke. I somehow came to the conclusion that my best bet for gas was the church buses parked towards the back of High Street Baptist Church. My Grabber sat low to the ground and the fuel fill cap was right in the back below the trunk lock. I could back up to about any vehicle, get the siphon going then just shove the hose in my tank. It would transfer right over while I sat in the car.
Apparently the church had been hit before because all of there busses, about 10 were parked side by side so you couldn't get to the fuel. Except the last one, it was parked facing the opposite way. My drunk ass figured out i could open the doors on the first nine and one by one depress the clutch so it would roll down the parking lot a bit so i could get in the next one, then the next and so on. Moved all nine busses to get to the one on the end. It was the only one without a locking gas cap. I finally am able to back up to it, get the siphon going and shove it in my tank. Sitting in my car, watching the gauge start to raise when i see something out of the corner of my eye. Across the parking lot, coming out of a side door on the church is 5 or 6 men with flashlights headed straight for me. I don't know if they sat there and watched me do all that or why they just now seen me but it was GO time. I fired up the Grabber, and it was one fast car, filled up there parking lot with the smoke coming off my tires and got the hell outta there. No way they could catch me but i figured they'd called the cops. So I take the loooong roundabout country ride way home. I ended up coming back to town close to home.
I'm nervous as hell though. I just new they'd gave the cops my plate number and they'd be waiting for me at home. By this time the suns starting to come up and I've sobered up quite a bit thinking what an idiot I was, Moving all those busses, almost getting caught red handed and trying to figured out what I would say to the cops who were at that very moment waiting for me at home. I'm sitting at a stop light and in my mirror I see a cop coming up to the light in the lane next to me. As soon as he pulls up beside me he looks over and motions for me to roll my window down. The panick is coming on pretty strong now. He's gonna tell me to pull over to the side. I'm thinking what the hell is wrong with me, stealing from a church, and the way I went about it. I'll be treated like the scum of the earth.
I roll the window down and he says " Somebody has been siphoning gas out of your car. They left the hose hanging out the back". I immediately looked at my gas gauge then said real loud " Son of a bitch, they got almost all of it". The light turned green and he drove off.
I went on home, threw the hose back in my trunk and promised god I'd never steal from a church again.

That'd probably be pretty cool.

Meh, i keep seeing this thread and i want to contribute, but none of my stories are particularly funny. They're all kind of a drag, at least for others, but maybe some will find them interesting. I'll share one. Let me write it up real fast.

A Story of a 10 Year Old Pimp

Background
My dad was a good man when he was sober. Problem was he was rarely sober. He went through different stages of addiction after my mother passed away from Lukemia when I was three. Prior to my mother’s death, he and my grandfather ran a handy man business together while he attended school for architecture. Already the black sheep of the family, after my mother’s death he packed it in and said, “**** it”, essentially, and never recovered. I define every stage of my childhood based on what substance he was abusing at the time. This is an excerpt from the Heroin Era.

I spent most of my childhood bouncing around from shady motel to shady motel, sleeping on the streets or with someone willing to take me in while my dad went in and out of jail. At this time, we were staying in a real shitty motel in Vista CA, a town in Northern San Diego County. The motel was small, run down, and full of druggies. It was ran by a little old (90+ years old) woman who simply was too old to care for the property, nor did she have the will power to not rent to druggies. The rooms were small with only a bed and a sink. Bathrooms and showers were shared by the community. In our room, we had a small portable electric stove top and an old, small 13” portable T.V/Radio. We were fancy like that.

The motel was situated on Sante Fe Blvd; A haven for prostitution. Everyone in the motel was an abuser of some sort, mostly Heroin or Meth. My dad was addicted to Heroin at the time. The druggie tenants all knew each other as they’d shoot up with each other and buy from each other. Same for the whores. I knew 4 whores intimately.
Debbie, Janet, Letticia….and the 19 year old girl who’s name escapes me. Her name started with an “A”, so we’ll just call her Amber since she needs a name. They were sweet women. Debbie & Janet were the best to me. White women in their 30’s. They would take me to McDonalds every day. They would take me out to the local drug store to buy toys or just hang out with me sense there were no other kids around.

They would also turn tricks every day. They worked a lot. My dad referred to them as “working girls”. They had “johns” they called their regulars, as well as the random men that would pick them up every day. They were cheap tricks. $25 for 15 minutes. The problem with being a cheap whore is that you need a place to turn the trick, and at only $25 per john, it didn’t make sense for them to rent a room themselves. That’s where I come in.

My dad made them an offer to help us make ends meet. We would allow the whores to turn tricks in our room. They could use my bed to **** their johns and in return, they pay us $5.00 per trick. MY job was to wait outside the room while she turned her trick. If the 15minutes were up, It was my job to knock on the door as a reminder. Once they finished, I collected the $5.00 from the whore. Afterwards, the whores would get back out there to the bus stop and wait for another john. Rinse and repeat for most of the summer.

My dad would eventually “date” one of the whores (Debbie), but that’s another story. Debbie and Janet would eventually die from heroin overdoses. Letticia got it much worse. She shot up so much that her left arm and tit got infected and required amputation. She disappeared for 3 months and no one knew what happened. After she came back out of the hospital she was right back on the streets trying to whore. I never saw her again after that.

It didn't look this nice in '95
http://i.imgur.com/Ywmi8Fd.jpg

What happened to Amber?

No idea. But she was the first snatch i ever saw in real life. It was disgusting. I would play Sega with the guy across the hall from us. One morning i got up to go play and his door was open. There she laid, passed out with her legs spread wide open. If i could describe it, it looked like a fat, red, swollen hatchet wound. She was a small, petite girl. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred lbs.

She was almost thrown off the balcony (there's a fire exit at the back of the Motel) by another ho that was twice her size. My dad stopped that from happening LMAO

Christ Detoxing. You sure know how to make a guy feel sheltered.

I feel a little less entitled to complain about my parents forcing me to play Little League instead of letting me play peewee football.

Yep.

I grew up in Blue Springs and during my teens, Lenexa. I later went to both KU and K State, along with Johnson County CC.

I was in no way, shape or form prepared for Los Angles at age 19. It completely and totally freaked me out and I went home after three weeks. If I had chosen Manhattan at that time (1986), I probably wouldn't have lasted 48 hours.

I've always liked Detoxing and we're bro's. But if that's his "best" story, I'm not sure I could stomach his worst.

Let's go Detox. Post some more.

Yes, more stories detoxing.

Goes to show you, you don't really know what makes the man.

Sure, i'll write up another one. I have a ton to share, though im not sure how interesting they are on their own.

But you guys have to do me a favor and don't feel sympathy for me. There's no need for that. I share my experiences here for entertainment or for those who want to know what that lifestyle is like.

My childhood was like any childhood; it had some great moments and some low moments, but overall i have fond memories of it. I liked being a kid the same way everyone else liked being a kid. I am not ashamed of my childhood and i don't regret any of it. It was MY childhood and it was the only one i knew. It was life. It was as normal to me as a normal day playing baseball with your friends. In many ways i consider myself lucky because i never had to deal with things like molestation (though i befriended pedophiles as a kid, even confided in one) or death in the family. I've never even broken a bone in my body.

I have no issues sharing any of this and putting it out there because i've been sharing these stories with many, many people for years and years. I've shared my life with School counselors, therapists, police officers, group therapy sessions, newspapers, board members and radio stations. Sharing them is nothing new for me.

Do it up Detox. That shit is interesting as hell.

Big Blue: Our money making, drug running machine. (Heroin Era….and the beginning of the meth era)

Cars have always been an influential part of my life. Ever since my pre-kinder years when my uncle lit up the tires in his ’81 Trans Am, I’ve been infatuated with them. I would day dream about my car to be, and I would eventually run away from home, chasing that dream. That dream car now sits in my driveway. Even now, I have a career in the show car industry. It pays the bills.

But I have special memories with a blue, 1985 Ford F150. We called it big blue and it was our work horse. I had a special bond with Big Blue…after-all, we shared the same birth year.

My dad considered himself a working class hero. He had a ton of pride. He was born in North Carolina, and even though he spent the vast, vast majority of his years as a SoCal beach kid, he thought that being born in North Carolina somehow made him better than everyone in SoCal. He called himself a “Carolina Cowboy”, had staunch republican values, and considered himself a southern gentleman. He wore blue jeans, cut off shirts and a black faux Stetson that he lifted from Wal-Mart. As such, he had to have himself a working man’s truck. And like any good, drug addicted working class hero, he put the down payment on the truck, drove it off the lot and never paid a dime in payments.

He worked two jobs. My dad was a lot of bad, bad things, but lazy was not one of them. He used the truck for local jobs hauling shrubbery and when not doing that, he worked for a moving company that was directly across the dirt parking lot of the motel. The moving company of course, was owned and operated by heroin addicts. They’d shoot up before work, go to whomever’s house, move their furniture for them and go back and shoot up after work. Debbie, one of the whores and his soon to be “girlfriend” got him the connection.

At night, He, Debbie and I would drive around to various construction sites stealing the rolls of copper wire and collected money for them at the recycling center the next day. He used bolt cutters to break through the fence and would lift the construction materials in the dead of night. We spent many afternoons sitting around in the Home Depot parking lot. Debbie would go out and search the parking lot for receipts. If we found receipts with items of high value, my dad would go in and lift the items on the receipts and then Debbie and I would go in with the receipts and items in hand, and then collect the refund money. Debbie and I would go because a woman with a child looked less suspicious. That was my dad’s reasoning anyway. He used that reasoning a lot.
Sometimes we would run out of money and dad couldn’t afford to pay the rent for the motel. The back of the moving trucks became our motel. I spent many nights sleeping in the back of moving trucks, using the thick blankets as bedding. In the morning, we’d get up, clean up and my dad would be off to work for the moving company.

The police knew Big Blue pretty well. They’d stop us quite often just to see what my dad was up to. They knew him by first name. They’d often threaten him but they’d never arrest him. They’d threaten to have me taken away. They’d threaten him by saying things like, “I have warrants for your arrest and a rap-sheet a mile long”. But they rarely did anything. My dad punched the shit out of the front windshield of Big Blue, putting spider cracks all throughout it. You couldn’t see out of the windshield on the passenger side because it was fractured so bad. He did it in a fit of rage because Debbie refused to stop trickin’. The ****ed up front windshield gave police further incentive to stop us.

Once, my dad and I woke up to a squad car parked right outside the motel, behind Big Blue. The cop was scratching the registration stickers off the back of the truck. My dad yelled at him and ran down there. The cop didn’t like that we had just registered the truck (finally) and accused him of stealing the tags. He told my dad that if he said anything about this that he’d have him arrested and me taken away. The cop was full of shit. I KNOW the tag was legit. I was there with my dad at the DMV. I put the sticker on the plate myself. I pulled the sticker out of the plastic baggie myself. But what could he do about it? Nothing. So we drove around with no registration tags so the cops would have more reason to pull us over.

My dad would eventually get jailed after being hospitalized for a bad infection caused by the Heroin. But, you see, when he would get jailed, he would kick the habit of whatever he was abusing, and then subsequently pick up a new habit once he was released. I watched him OD on Heroin a few times. Debbie and I dragged his lifeless ass down the motel hallway and into a cold shower. He was foaming at the mouth. It was gross but I knew he wouldn’t die. I never worried about that. I remember being mad more than anything.

Eventually I would meet the man who supplied the Heroin. I black man who’s name escapes me. He was somewhat thin, older, in his 40’s. He dressed like a professional, always clean cut with reading glasses and a gold bracelet. He didn’t look like a drug dealer. He looked like a professional middle class black American. He sold everything from Heroin to weed to Meth. He was a cook…as in he cooked up crack rocks. He had an apartment he rented in Oceanside, a coastal town to the west of Vista and Camp Pendleton’s southern neighbor.

The apartment was empty. Nothing but a couch and cooking ingredients. My dad would help him cook. I would sit and wait on the couch while they worked in the kitchen. He owned a big, beautiful house on a hill where he resided. It over looked San Juan Capistrano Park; I spent my last birthday with my mother at that park. The last time my mother would ever see her little boy’s birthday was right there at that park. I would lean over the fence, looking down at the park as a kid, and even then the irony of that didn’t escape me. “Oh how life comes full circle” I always thought.

My dad became the dealer’s right hand man. The dealer would cook and my dad would deliver. Big Blue became a delivery truck. We delivered all over North County. I always went with him because my dad thought having a kid in the car made it less suspicious. We’d meet people at pay phones most often, sometimes at parks and other times it was home delivery. My dad wasn’t paid in cash for this, instead he was paid in Meth, which kicked off the “meth era”.

***************************************

I have a lot more to add to this guys, but im out of time and need to get back to work. There’s simply too much to tell. I’ll finish this up later with the fate of Big Blue, as well as the time we were chased out of an apartment by shot-gun wielding gang members during a drug deal gone wrong. Oh, and the time I had to drive Big Blue on my own. The events leading up to that were some of the most surreal events in my life.

Sorry for the wall of text. There's just so much shit and im barely even getting started.

True Story Detoxing once walked end to end of the Great Wall of China and when he got to the end turned around and walked back to the other end.

<a href="http://photobucket.com/images/great%20wall%20of%20china" target="_blank"><img src="http://i888.photobucket.com/albums/ac83/shubei/china/goingawayypartayy103.jpg" border="0" alt="great wall of china photo: the great walll goingawayypartayy103.jpg"/></a>

I don't get it.

Giant wall of words.

Gotcha. Yeah sorry.

Apparently it's hard for some people to ****ing read.

No Pest it was just a joke I think Detoxing has a sense of humor.

which branch? if any

This isn't My best story but I didn't know where to put it.

So, tonight I came home from a long day at work and decided I needed to mow in between monsoon rains.

I climbed on the mower and mowed as quickly as I could move in wet grass. About half way I realize I am running out of gas and run to town to fill up. After picking up s couple of buckets of apples for the compost pile or a trail camera I get back to it.

Half an hour before dark I make a lap along the pond and when I get under the trees I start feeling something distinct. A burning sensation I. Different parts of my hands, neck and arms. Son a bitch that is starting to hurt....and then I see them. I had ran over a ground hive of yellow jackets and those bastards are mad. They're hitting my left hand, they're up my shirt sleeves, they're stinking ing the shit out of my right arm, neck, by my eye....

I've been stung multiple times before while mowing or raking hay, but me per like this.hell, yesterday I helped get honey from hives and didn't get stung but once.

These bastards were the angriest, most persistent assholes o have ever personally encountered. It pissed me off and I went and grabbed a new can of flying bee and hornet spray and go back down for payback....my dogs followed me down and went to the noise and got their asses stung off,,,,then I sprayed and sprayed until it was gone. it just pissed them off and got me stung 3-4 more times. That listed me off so I got the last half gallon of gas, threw it on the ground where they were still swarming and flipped a burning rag on it.

If it is the last thing I do I wills mash or muder every wasp or yellow jacket I find.

I spent about an hour barfing and dry heaving, generally feel like shit and feel life I wrestled a porcupine. Those bastards.

damn man. that ****ing sucks.

These little bustards were like a sewing machine needle. I can't even count the lumps for sure because they are in a group. I know it's at least 30. When I was young we would mow into a swarm or drag a hay rake through them, and would drive through a cloud and maybe get a couple. Once in a while someone would swat at them at get 10-20.

The hornet spray has no effect on them and didn't even knock them down. I'll go back with more gas and fire They gotta go before the kids or visitors find them.

I mowed half a width closer to a clump of bushes than I had all year and that's where they were.

I guess I'm glad it was me instead of the Mrs....or the kids playing or fishing.


The salt in the wound...I broke the end of my index finger a few days ago...and I smacked myself and the mower several times swatting the assholes off of me...so my booger picker has a boohoo too. Makes a guy feel a little bit like a puss to whine about a finger and some tiny bug bites.

Nothing I dislike more than getting nailed by them ****ers

23rd birthday. I was living in Clermont Florida, a suburb of Orlando. Renting a house with a buddy and his girlfriend. We had a big keg party with atleast 100 people there. Random people just starting showing up but we had plenty for all comers.

A beautiful redhead shows up. It's my birthday, I am hammered so I went in for the kill. Ended up getting the best BJ of my life. Took her a good 20 minutes to finish the job I was so wasted. Not a drop was wasted (hint), she put her shirt on, said happy birthday wrote her number down and left my room. I stumble out about 15 minutes later to my roommate being punched in the face by his girlfriend. He got caught within that 15 minutes kissing the girl in our backyard. I pull his lady off him laughing my ass off, "Hey Britteny, remember when you walked in my room and saw me getting serviced? Well that was who Clint was kissing!" I turn to Clint, "So did I taste good?" I still laugh to this day thinking about that.

Jesus dude. I get one and I GTFO and plot my chemical revenge.

Another "not my best story" but some things you just need to share.

I've coached multiple youth sports for quite a few years. During that time I've had a lot of experiences with the teams, the kids, the parents, opposing fans and coaches.

Tonight, something happened that's never happened to me nor anyone I know before and likely won't again. Between innings, as I'm sending kids to the field, I'm helping a young fellow put on the catchers gear. I'm strapping on the shin guards and I suddenly feel my hands doused in warm liquid. I look up and realize that the boy is getting rid of a bottle of water he drank earlier. He looks me in the eye as I'm kneeled in front of him and keeps peeing. Before I let go of the straps of the guard, my hands are soaked, my shoes are spattered, my pant leg is wet....

What in the hell do you do? I step back, remain fairly calm and tell him it's not a big deal and we'll figure something out. He removes himself from the game and I quickly call the third baseman into the dugout to catch.....but I can't put the shin guards on him, can I?

It worked out, but some of the kids saw what happened and I can only hope the poor kid does t leave school tomorrow with a new nickname.

I thought about it on the drive home and I realized the look he gave me when he kept fire hosing both of us was similar to the chubby kid when he got handed the taser in the hangover.

My dad used to throw these big yard parties in the late 90's. I was home over the summer from school. So at one of these parties, I meet this female from Marshall Missouri.

We grew up in the era of NWA/Snoop Dog, etc where, "It wasn't no fun if the homies didn't have none." So our motto was basically if my dick got wet, your dick got wet. We weren't running trains or anything but she had friends to hook up with my friends. So I bang the chick and we're all cool and shit.

A week later a group of friends and I pack up and head to Marshall Missouri to visit the chicks. They had us in a big 2 story older victorian style home. It's like 4-6 of us that packed in my minivan (yes I drove a minivan in college).

Anyways, we get there and a few minutes later... in walks the Mo Valley GIRLS BASKETBALL TEAM with bottles of alcohol which meant we would eventually have our picks of the litter with a little patience.

Then there's Jermaine! Jermaine had the well sculpted natural 6 pack that our pudgey asses would die for that he'd flex as often as possible when girls would come around. Jermaine also liked to get drunk. TOO DRUNK!

We're all sitting and vibing and playing spades, listening to music and just biding time before the possible orgy kicks off. Jermaine all of a sudden, "gets hot" and takes off his shirt. Right on queue, the girls (still drinking) notice his physique and start flirting, etc. We're all drinking and smoking at that point. Girl-guy ratio is like 3-1.

Jermaine and I were spades partners against 2 other chicks. Out of the blue, after a few hands, Jermaines' drunk ADHD starts to kick in. He throws his spades hand down and says, "**** this shit! What's up?!? Roger said y'all bitches was sucking dick"!

Me, holding my hand turned my head like those dog videos when the dog ****s up and is getting interrogated. The girls go 0-100 stat! "Roger! WTF! You told him that?"
"Hell no I didn't tell him that shit! I don't know hat he's talking about! He's drunk!"

Needless to say, it went from pre-orgy workout to us having to force his drunk ass to the minivan so we can get the hell out of town as they were calling the "hood" to come. We get to my fathers house, this ****er is passed out and then manages to crawl to the front steps. Falls asleep on the front step and throws up some red shit in his sleep.

To this day I bring it up everytime we reunite! Shit was funny as hell.

Who does that?

I pretty much knew that this story was going to go south after hearing about your Freddie Jackson Plenty of Fish stories, Roger. :)

This was a helluva read. If you have more, I'd love to read it. That's an amazing childhood you lived.

Damn it, Jermaine!

LOL For real, though. I hate dudes like that. I had a good friend from high school who was similar. He tried WAY too hard to get laid all the time and if he sensed that he had no chance he'd just say the most off the wall, offensive shit.

Cockblocking asshole.

I had a buddy just like that. His name was Steve and he was about 6'5" and he would say anything at all if he thought he had no shot, especially if he was drunk. We were at the NCO club one night and he asked this chick to dance. She said no thank you, super polite. He says, "Then why the **** you come here bitch? You know your momma is watching your kids so just take me back to your house and let's ****!" It did not work

I went to Gig to see my favourite called Puressence (should check them out) band in the city of Leeds about 200 miles from where I was living at the time. The plan was to go to concert then get the last train. The gig was great but I missed my train. So I was stuck in Leeds for the night. I figured I would just party all night as it was a Friday and get the first train back in the morning.

I also had tickets for a Big Soccer Match the next day I needed to be back for.

I was in a Bar and noticed this grown woman checking me out, she was with 2 guys I figured one would be her man it wasn't, turned out they were both Gay. Anyway we were drinking and kissing when she told me she was an office manager and had the keys to her office around the corner. We went back to the office and all I can say is I HIT it! I noticed a picture of her on the wall of the office and noticed she had a wedding ring on in that photo. It turns out she had slipped it off before I noticed.

Anyway we said good byes and exchanged numbers. So I was still stuck 200 miles from home spending the night in a weird city. I carried on partying at different bars and lost my train ticket. I blagged my way onto a train the next morning but the conductor caught me and booted me off about half way home. A very nice lady helped me on the next train but obviously I was worried about getting back for the Game.

I got to the game with 10 minutes to spare my buddy had my ticket and my team won the game 3-1.

I didn't say anything to the woman possibly being married at first but I later found out she was. I continued the fling for a few more months, being married now I am not proud of it but at the time I was 22 and didn't care.

It was those type of nights that remind me how old I am now.

Freddie Jackson POF? huh?

Yes Detox those were incredible stories and you told them very entertainingly. Amazing upbringing you had. Sounded like even though your dad was a drug addict at times and did what he had to to get by, he tried to be a good man.

Thank you very much for sharing. Sounds like you could write a book about your childhood!

When I was in high school/college, we used to frequent downtown KC because it was a great place to skate and it was normally a ghost town at night. We generally started at Barney Allis Plaza and worked out way around downtown as the security guards would chase us off.

One particular trip down there nearly got me killed just a couple of days before my high school graduation. Me and 4 of my old skater friends made the trip downtown and were skating the steps at the AT&T Town Pavilion. While we were skating the steps these three kids wearing starter jackets came up to us and started chatting us up. The kids were probably between about 13-16 and were very friendly at first. I let the youngest one ride my board for a minute and then he decided he wanted to walk off with my board. I chased him down about a block or so to get my board back, and one of the little shits pulled out a gun. I assumed that it was just a pellet gun so I grabbed the board from the kid and ended up wrestling it away from him and I fell to the ground as I yanked it away from him. I rolled over and immediately started running up the hill away from them after I got to my feet. During this scuffle, I heard 2 gun shots. One immediately after I got my board and started to run and then another a few seconds later when I was in full sprint mode.

When it happened I just assumed that the kid must have had blanks because I never heard any ricochets and my friends said they guy was pointing the gun at me from pretty close range on the first shot. Looking back, I'm guessing that it's more likely the one with he gun (who was wearing a LA Raiders starter jacket) was probably just a bad shot.

Did a lot of crazy, stupid shit back in the day and probably should have bit the dust that day.

Sure, I'll continue. My apologies for the wall of text. I need a book for everything i have to share, lol.

James…..(more from the Heroin era and Big Blue)

Of all the characters I came across in life, I never distrusted any of them. I never felt weird around them, I never felt like they were bad people. Whether it was a junkie, a whore or a dealer, everyone always treated me well and they all felt like good people with bad problems.

Except for James. A black man in his late 20’s, James was a different kind of guy, and I don’t think even my dad liked him. I could tell my dad didn’t like him. I didn’t like him. Our time with him was brief, but impactful. But desperate times called for the help of desperate people.

My father, as I mentioned before, was a prideful man. You’d never catch us on the corner begging for change. He had too much pride for that. He’d never ask for a handout. Too much pride for that. He’d rather deliver drugs than to ask for help. If we needed food, we never asked. Instead, we took our asses on a trip (often walking miles) to whatever Church was serving the homeless that day. He valued himself as an American, blue collar working class hero that was down on his luck and doing what he had to do. James however, didn’t have any sort of pride or moral code he stood by. James was a weasel. A scumbag. He gave no ****s. He’d stab you in the back and pretend nothing happened to your face. The man had no shame.

James would often let me borrow his sweet Sony Walkman. It was awesome. One day he asked if I wanted one. I said sure. He asked my father to take us to CVS (Thrifty’s at the time) to get me one. My dad reluctantly complied. As we walked into the store I was pretty excited. I was going to get my first Sony Walkman. We approached the counter and James asked me to wait. When the clerk left the area, James quickly hoped the counter, yanked a Walkman off the wall and we casually walked out the store. I had never been so disappointed. I thought he was going to BUY me my first cassett player. Instead, I received a piece of stolen merchandise. My excitement deflated. I went from feeling great to feeling horrible. It was a reminder that this is what my life is. To make matters worse, he didn’t give it to me. Instead he sold it to us for $20. That’s the kind of guy James was.

********
It was a warm weekday afternoon, when most kids were in school, but my father and I were in Big Blue and on our way to pick up James. We pulled up next to a house that was well known within our circle. James was there, apparently ****ing a beautiful whore. She was a gorgeous blonde girl in her mid 20’s. Dirty-blonde with wavy hair and blue eyes. Admittedly, I was crushing on her a bit. Ok, I was crushing on her a lot. She was aloof. Your stereotypical ditzzy blonde bimbo. She didn’t really hang out in our circle, so I rarely saw her around or ever conversated with her so I don’t recall her name. I wanted my dad to date her. I thought she was very pretty and she didn’t have the look of a druggie., but my dad that she was classless.

She walked out of the house with James and crossed the street towards Big Blue. (I remember that house well because I once walked in on Debbie and Letty giving a double BJ to an old senior citizen.)

James walked around to the passenger side and I scooted over on the bench seat to make room. She walked around to the driver side and said to my dad,
“Holy shit, sorry about making you wait! James was ****ing the shit out of my ass for over an hour! My asshole is still throbbing!” She continued on with the details…

That moment she forever cemented herself in my memory. Sure, sex wasn’t a new concept to me and I was well exposed to it, but it’s not like the other working girls would turn a trick and come out of the room telling me a story. But this woman was damn near shouting to everyone how much she just got ass ****ed. The graphic nature of her vulgar mouth, the proudness and exuberance in which she said it, coupled with the fact that it was James who ****ed her….i just couldn’t believe it. I was pissed. It felt like what ever innocence in me that was left was now gone.

And then came the day with James that I’ll never forget; one of the most degrading days of my life.

Money was tight. My dad was struggling to find side work. I hadn’t eaten in nearly two days. I was starving. I was so hungry I lost my appetite. Instead, I was just frail and weak. James told my dad that he knew how to get me fed and that he’d handle it himself. Big Blue pulled into the shopping center in front of a Chineese Buffet. James’ plan was to take me to the Chineese Buffet and beg for food.

I looked over at my dad and he was a broken man. He did not want to do this but he saw it as the only way to take care of me. He looked as broken as I had ever seen him. He looked ashamed. Disheartened. Saddened that it had come to this. I’ll never forget it. It was the face of a man who looked like he gave up. It’s as if he had come to terms with the fact that he failed his son. He never admitted it, but I know his eyes were watering.

I followed James out of the Truck and we made our way to the Buffet. We walked straight through the door and James found a young couple, likely on a date, sitting at the table and eating. He approached them and asked if they could spare me a meal. They were clearly bothered by it. They wanted nothing to do with us. The look on the gentleman’s face was one of disgust and annoyance. The woman he was with, naturally, felt sympathetic. The gentleman got up, paid for my meal ticket and I sat down with them and ate while James left to go wait outside.

I couldn’t eat much though. If you’ve ever gone without eating for a few days then you probably know what im talking about…but my stomach couldn’t hold down the food. I thanked the couple, walked outside in a hurry and hurled Chineese buffet all over the sidewalk. James went back inside and brought out a plate of leftovers. That’s the kinda guy James was.

Damn dude, you are a hell of a writer.

Too bad you had to go through that shit to get those stories but its interesting shit and you portray it very well.

Not a great story teller but here we go. About 10 years or so ago I hosted a super bowl party in my moms basement. I had my own place but it was too small to invite a bunch of people over and mom's basement was set up for party like this. She had a 70" tv, a few over sized chairs and then 3 pub tables behind that with bar stools.

Anyways there was about 12 of us there but only a couple are important to the story. One was this dude Tony who was my boss at the time. Tony was kind of a douche bag but he knew I was having people over and I think he felt left out so I invited him. I invited this new girl from work too that Tony had just hired a few weeks before. Her name was Rebecca and she was short as hell but smokin hot and had a bangin body.

So at the party Becca grabs my hand and drags me over to one of the over sized chairs and we squeeze into it right before kickoff. Game starts and guys start opening the back door to go in and out smoke and its pretty damn cold outside so it got fairly cold in the house real quick. Becca pulls a blanket over us that was on the back of the chair. She then rest her hand on my thigh and I notice she's slowly moving her hand closer to my junk. We make eye contact and she winks at me. She's now rubbing me through my jeans and before i know it my dicks out and she jerking me off. I don't know what to do at this point. She isn't really being subtle. I kind of try to stop her but not really. She is determined anyways and keeps pulling my hand away. I raise my left knee up so people can't see the blanket popping up lol.

So this goes on during most of the 2nd quarter and half time and into the 3rd. Now remember we're at my mom's house and she had been upstairs doing her own thing but she decides to come down around halftime and see whats up.. She walks in the room right behind our chair and puts her hand on my shoulder for a moment and says hows the game going? Becca slows her stroke but keeps going. I'm tapping her on her leg and pulling on her wrist to try to get her to stop for a minute but she keeps on going. I can't be to obvious as to give away whats going on. Luckily mom was only down there for a minute or so. After she left the room Becca gets real aggressive with it and I bust in my shirt. I try to roll up the bottom of the shirt some to capture it all and wait a min for my dick to go down and stand up and run out into the garage and out to my truck where I had another shirt.

I got back in the party and people are asking why I went from a red shirt to a yellow shirt. I said the tag was itching my neck. I'm dumb enough to think.. hey maybe nobody noticed. Wrong. People start leaving before the end of the game. Tony looks at me shacking his head as he leaves. I look at my buddy Norman and say whats his deal? Norm says you really need to ask? Okay so everybody knows.

I hooked up with Becca again the next weekend. Best head i've ever got and she swallowed like a champ. After that she stops responding to my calls and texts and one day she doesn't show up for work. Tony said she quit. Week later a friend of mine tells me he heard Becca is getting married! and on top of that she's getting married to a dude that was like my nemesis in middle and high school. Which is absolutely hilarious to me.

Couple months later my mom is talking to me about something random, can't remember what, and I say man that's funny and mom responds "Not as funny as getting jerked off in front of your mother"

Godddddd Dammit

Thanks, i appreciate that.

Ever thought about writing a book? Kind of like a Tucker James type book where each chapter is a story of something that happened in your life? I'd read that shit.