Apartments Rock

Back in my wild(er) and crazy(er) days, back before I owned a house and was owned by a wife, child and 2 dogs, we lived in an apartment. Apartments are, as any bachelor worth his salt will testify, gold mines for fun, frivolity and illicit sexual deviance.

It was not uncommon to have friends show up at random with a case of beer, a bag of ice and a deep and somewhat disturbing need to get drunk and stay that way for the course of a 2 or 3 day weekend. My apartment was usually the go-to hotspot for parties. Why? I'm not 100% certain. I'd like to think it was because I'm a good-natured guy who enjoys good times. I'd like to think it was the fact that my apartment had all the amenities to providing good, raucous times.

Honestly, I think it was because no one else felt like cleaning up their own abodes once the party ended. Whatever.

My apartment at the time was a 2-story townhouse style with walls not quite as thick as a piece of cardboard. The neighbors to the next of us apparently weren't aware of this. Their loud sexual trysts would frequently wake my wife and I up at 3 am. Interesting? Sure. Fun? It could lead that way. When you had to get up at 5 am? Ok, not so much.

Regardless, on one such night when a friend came over with a case of beer, we began our ritual of popping the top and turning on some tunes. As we began throwing a game of darts, the front door opened. In walked a couple more friends. Shortly after that, a few more arrived. Eventually, we had 20 people over in a tiny apartment, 1.25 bathrooms that saw a whole helluva lot of use, and enough beer to overserve the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Force.

My wife, concerned by the sheer number of people and the amount of noise that would surely resonate by the rowdy laughter, looked at me. I just shrugged and handed her a beer.

As the night progressed and the BAC's rose, someone came up with the brilliant idea of making a convoy to the adult video store about 3 blocks away.

Ever notice how these ideas always seem great when you're 10-12 beers into the evening?

Yeah, me neither.

We found 3 of the most sober people at the party, handed over car keys and piled into the video store in question 5 minutes later.

For the puritans out there who have never set foot inside an "adult video store", allow me to elaborate a bit on what it's like. First, it's not just videos. Sure, they have some. Quite a lot, actually. For every sexual bent out there. You like the straight missionary porn? Oh yeah, they've got that. Orgies? Yup. One-eyed-ostrich-in-gimp-mask porn? Uh huh.

But they also have...other novelty items. Dildos, vibrators, handcuffs, masks, feathers, swings, lubes, oils, candles...

Basically, if you're looking for something that will get you arrested if used outside of the bedroom, they have it in an "adult video store".

Glancing around the myriad items on display for exorbitant prices, I came across a gem. One I had to have. I found this:

That's right, friends. I bought the penultimate porno. On VHS, no less.

Everyone got a great kick out of it and we piled back into the various cars for the 3 block trip back to my apartment. Some more drinks were made and the party continued in an at least vein semblance of innocence until folks start passing out in some of the most random places.

The following morning, waking with a roaring hangover, I stumbled my way downstairs to view the carnage. Beer bottles were strewn about haphazardly. Someone had brought a Big Mac over and left it, half-eaten, on the arm of the couch. Someone was using that Big Mac as a pillow.

Grumbling (as I'm wont to do when hungover), I kicked a few people awake to help me tidy the place up a bit before my wife woke and began her whole "your friends are neandrathals" routine that's become pretty commonplace over the years.

As my friends and I are filling 6 trash bags full of empty bottles and other assorted waste products, someone else decides to pop in my newly purchased video for kicks. Unfazed, we continue our clean up efforts. As the bags fill and we make our way to the front door in an effort to take the bags to the dumpster, there's a knock on the door. Curious (and since I was right there anyways), I opened it.

Before I continue, I want to take a moment to create the visual effect for you, dear reader. There are three of us standing in line at the door, each of us holding two trash bags clinking and clanking with the ring of empty beer bottles. In the background are a number of people still passed out in various states of undress. And the porno's going on the TV with someone getting buggered in a shower.

Visual effect created? Good.

When I opened the door, standing before me was the apartment manager, Ingrid (a stern, unfriendly German woman), John (the large security manager with an equally unfriendly disposition), and Jose (the...apartment complex gardener. Yeah, I still don't get that one either). Ingrid asked, "Did you guys have a party here last night?"

I took a moment to look around at the scene behind me, the trash bags full of bottles clinking and clanking as I turned. I heard the telltale sounds of "Fuckmefuckmefuckme!" blaring from the television. I saw someone pulling on a pair of pants. I saw someone else digging a Big Mac out of his ear hole.

Turning back to Ingrid, I said as nonchalantly as my hungover state would permit, "No."

Nonplussed, she responded, "Well we received some complaints that you guys were pretty loud last night."

I looked at her one more time and said, "Talk to the folks next door. I think they had a few people over."

Marching past the three, we took our trash to the disposal bins.

I miss my apartment.

Bwahahaha!

I waste a LOT of my company's time by searching random sites on the internet. Most of the crap I come across is restricted by the firewall. But sometimes, once in a blue moon, I'll stumble upon some gem. Thus, I found bash.org. Bash.org is a site where the dregs of IRC chats can post some of the most inane garbage ever to be considered a form of communication. For example, I give you this posting. Enjoy.

Spoon35: (Random website link to a picture of Kelly Hu that I had to take down because it was pure spyware. You're welcome, readers!)

SenorWeird: who?

Momog: hehe

SenorWeird: who is that?

Momog: kelly hu = the wolverine chick from xmen

SenorWeird: Kelly who?

Spoon35: exactly!

SenorWeird: Kelly Exactly?

Momog: heh

Momog: it's a trap!

SenorWeird: Just tell me the chick's name. It's Kelly what?

Spoon35: Hu.

SenorWeird: ?!

SenorWeird: The chick you just posted a picture of!

Spoon35: Hu

SenorWeird: That's what I wanna know! Kelly who!

Spoon35: exactly!

SenorWeird: So it's Kelly Exactly!

* Marty11 Laughs in the strange confusion

Spoon35: Hu.

SenorWeird: The girl in the picture you posted is Kelly Exactly

Momog: Hu, Kelly.

Momog: HA!

SenorWeird: Yes, Kelly, Momog.

Spoon35: Kelly Momog??

SenorWeird: Kelly Exactly

Momog: doh

SenorWeird: Okay, you know what? Forget this.

SenorWeird: Let's talk about that hot chick in Mulholland Drive and The Ring.

SenorWeird: What's her name?

Momog: who?

SenorWeird: her name

Spoon35: Watts.

SenorWeird: yes, I think my question was quite clear.

Spoon35: Watts.

* Momog covers his ears and screams

SenorWeird: are you not understanding me?

SenorWeird: Who is the chick from The Ring?

Spoon35: I think I understand. you want to know Watts.

SenorWeird: Not What, who. Who is the chick from The Ring.

Spoon35: no, Watts is the chick from the Ring

SenorWeird: Who is?

Spoon35: no, she was in X2

SenorWeird: What?!

Spoon35: exactly.

SenorWeird: Exactly was in X2. okay.

SenorWeird: so then Who was in the ring?

Spoon35: Hu was.SenorWeird: Who was in the ring?

Spoon35: no. Watts was in the Ring. Hu was in X2.

SenorWeird: Exactly. Now, let's get back to the Ring. What's that chick's name?

Spoon35: watts.

SenorWeird: okay, I'm lost.

SenorWeird: What's the name of the chick from X2?

Spoon35: no, Watts is the name of the chick from the

RingSenorWeird: Forget about the ring. I don't want to hear about Who was in the ring.

Spoon35: watts

SenorWeird: Am I not clear? Who was in X2?

Spoon35: yes.

SenorWeird: Yes?

SenorWeird: Yes what?

Spoon35: Yes Hu! No Watts.

SenorWeird: ....

SenorWeird: What?!

Momog: i am logging this and using it as blackmail against you both

SenorWeird: oh, this is either genius or stupidity.

Dear IT Guy

Dear IT Guy,

We don't like each other, you and I. You don't like me because I evidently attempt to view improper sites too often. It's honestly not my fault (ok, maybe some of it is, since I'm the one that downloaded the Stumble add-on), but it's Stumble's fault that it stumbles me to some inappropriate-for-work website. I tell it not to do that anymore, if that's any help.


And yes, I realize you folks don't like to be called IT Nazis. Sorry.


But I don't like you either, as I mentioned above. See, if you'd just give me the little bit of help I requested, you could go back to your little hovel and peruse all the gay donkey porn that your geeky little head can take in. I know you bypass all the firewalls you impose upon the rest of us peons, and that's cool. Your position has its privelages, just as mine does. But you've made it abundantly clear to me that I'm not permitted to make any changes to my PC. Even something as simple as swapping out the mouse needs to be done by you or a member of your esteemed IT department. Fine.


My latest request seemed pretty straight forward. I've been working here for 4 years now and have had the same computer the entire time. The files that I design take up a rather large amount of space upon my hard drive and was beginning to cause serious wear and tear, so I requested a new PC with some upgrades. You sent me a website to fill out my request. I did so.


I asked for a new PC on this website, along with a dual-monitor video card, a second monitor and a 120GB external hard drive to hold all of my designed files. Other members of my department asked for and received the same. And they received all of their gear within 1 week of making the request.


Me? Not so lucky.


It took a month. A month, just to receive the PC, minus the video card, second monitor and hard drive. The day after you installed the hard drive, I received a call from our shipping department that a package had arrived for me. This is unusual as I don't typically receive a damn thing here except a hard time. But I went down to shipping. The little Mexican guy handed me a box, told me to sign a paper saying I had received said box, and sent me on my way. Upon arriving at my desk, I opened the box to find a 120GB internal hard drive. I wanted an external one, you know, so I could take it with me when I have to do business travel? This one won't do. Please take it back, use it to store your gay donkey porn and enjoy.


Just yesterday, Mr. IT Guy, you left a message on my voice mail after I had left for the day. You claimed to have my dual-monitor video card. Wonderful! When I called you back and left a message for you stating that I'd be here until 1:30 in the afternoon, I figured you might be able to spare a moment of your time to install it. Alas, you never showed. Instead, when I arrived today, there was another message on my voice mail.

Yes, I was aware that you never said you'd be able to get to it. I have come to the realization that you only tear yourself away from your gay donkey porn when you see fit. Otherwise, you're too busy. But should you be able to facilitate this installation for me, I'd be quite pleased. If you're not able to do it, please just leave the damn card on my desk and allow me to install it myself.


Oh, and don't forget to bring that second monitor, otherwise that video card is no good for me.

Thanks,


Hershey

We're Not In Kansas Anymore

Sorry for yet another short post. Work. It sucks. But a quick story nonetheless.

My mother-in-law watches my son while the wife and I toil away at our respective jobs. Everyday, I pick my son up, thank my wife's mother, and go home. Yesterday provided some odd scenery.

I got off the freeway near my house. Stopped at a red light, I heard some thumping, hardcore gangsta rap. Not uncommon in my neighborhood. I looked around expecting to see some teenagers or some big burly black man.

Instead, I see two 70 year old white men bobbing their heads in a Buick.

Damn Work!

Sorry, folks. Got nothing today due to a huge pile of work. So instead, I leave you with this thought of the day.

Shopping Malls: Denizens of Evil

Last night, the wife wanted to go to the mall to buy more garbage that we don't need. Normally, I'd put up a mild protest about spending money we don't have on what will inevitably turn out to be dust collectors. However, when she told me she wanted me to go along as well, I simply burst into tears.

I hate the mall. It's an evil, evil place. Fortunately, we still have 8.5 months until Christmas, so we're not forced into those crowds. But the fact that I have to walk past a billion non-conformists all ironically shopping for the same exact clothes at Hot Topic is enough to make me want to gouge my eyes out with a spork. And it's not like there's an electronics store where I can wile away the hour as my wife spends our hard-earned money, so I'm stuck going to Baby Gap or some such nonsense.

After she had purchased all the things she wanted, we opted to grab some dinner in the food court. A few options existed for our dining fare. There was the always present and tactfully clothed employees at Hot Dog On a Stick, Jarrod's favorite hangout at Subway, some Chinese food place that advertised a lack of MSG in their food and the most vile tasting pizza ever to be named a pizza:

I'm hardly a pizza snob. In fact, I find Domino's to be one of the greatest dining fares ever to exist. And since I don't even need to talk to a human being and still have the perfect pizza delivered to my door within 30 minutes, it's become even better.

But Sbarro's is nothing more than cardboard with tomato paste and a few slices of faux-pepperoni.

And my wife wanted it. Again, normally we're fine with eating at different places while in the mall. I'll spot her a $20 and have her go about her way as I go mine. But since she was holding the baby, I couldn't very well leave her to her own devices as she tried to manage holding a 5 foot slice of pie, a soda and a 9-month old grabbing for it all while I took off in the hopes of having a few french fries with my corn dog. So I took one for the team and had to order from the same place.

It'd been a number of years since I'd eaten there. And it's still as bad. The pizza was cold, the meat was rubbery and the cheese was hard. If I knew any better, I'd say the same pizza had been sitting under the heat lamp since last week.

Yes, that was how my pizza looked. No, as I said, it was not warm.

I then proceeded to tell my wife that if she ever forced me to eat at this place again, I would deem it a divorcable offense and take it upon myself to get in touch with my lawyer. I want half.

Most Overrated Bands. Ever.

This should be a rather polarizing topic. It sure is whenever I bring it up in conversation with my musically inclined friends and family. So without getting into some long and lame intro, let's get right into what I think are the top 5 most overrated bands/groups/singers in the history of Classic Rock.

1.) AC/DC - Really. I'm not joking. I hate them. With the fire and fury of a thousand burning suns. Every song sounds exactly the same. And if you've ever seen the comedy stand-up skit that Jim Breuer does where he parodies AC/DC singing the Hokey Pokey, you may understand my disdain for them.

2.) Aerosmith - This is the one that usually fires up my friends. They're mostly big fans. And I'll concede the band may have been good at one point in time. But that was when Steven Tyler and Joe Perry were so addled with drugs that nothing made sense. However, for their health, they felt the need to clean up and their music suffered as a result. I submit the song "Don't Wanna Miss a Thing", the sappy ballad from the movie Armageddon, as Evidence A.

3.) ZZ Top - I don't hate every song they've ever done, just about 99% of it. They're famous for their beards, which speaks volumes about the quality of their music (with the exception of La Grange, which I thoroughly enjoy). Were it not for MTV when they actually played music, these guys would've faded out by the mid-80's and the musical scene would have been better for it.

4.) Queen - When they come on the radio, I turn the channel. And if I have to hear "We Will Rock You/We Are the Champions" one more time, somebody's going to get hurt.

5.) David Bowie - Often viewed as a musical pioneer, this guy bugs the crap out of me. Maybe it's the whole androgynous thing he's got going on, but the look, the music and his voice grate on my last nerve. Add in Freddie Mercury, the frontman for Queen, in their duet "Under Pressure" (a song that was so bad, Vanilla Ice stole the beat) and it's unbearable.

I know a lot of music. I listen to all different kinds and have an uncanny ability to remember the lyrics to most songs the first or second time I hear it. I don't consider myself a music snob, per se, but these 5 are just plain bad.

Random Post

10 Things Every Man Wants From the Woman In His Life

Ladies, it's come to my attention that women's magazines aren't going anywhere any time soon. Things like Cosmopolitan, Allure and Marie Claire are determined to sully grocery store aisles for all of eternity, promising to fill your head with the idea that your man truly wants to be in touch with his inner emotions.

This, naturally, is hogwash.

We don't like most of our emotions, which may explain why we usually display an impassive demeanor as you discuss the latest episode of "Oprah's Big Give." Yeah, it's a nice gesture. But she's the richest woman in the world. She can afford to buy that poor family an SUV, though they'll never be able to afford the gas to drive it.

As a public service for any of my female readers that happen to stumble upon this little wasteland of the internet, I shall provide you with 10 things that men do truly want. Feel free to use them in your manipulation tactics. Yes, we know you use them on us. We just don't really give a damn.

1.) We like lingerie. This shouldn't be any kind of state secret. But if you buy a flimsy negligee for $100 only to stuff it in the back of your drawer, it doesn't mean a whole lot to us. Bring that babydoll outfit out every once in a while. Entice us. We like how it looks on you, even if you're not particularly enamored with your body.

2.) Surprise us with gifts. Yes, this is something that goes both ways. We sometimes surprise you with flowers or candy or take you on a shopping spree for the latest springwear. Naturally, we don't care for flowers. They die. And candy's nice, but unless she's a stripper and you're willing to do a threesome with her, we can get a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup at our work vending machine. Grab a couple tickets for the local baseball team that's playing on Friday night. Go with us. And at least pretend to be interested.

3.) Stop asking us the no-win questions. "Do these jeans make my butt look fat?" "Do you think she's pretty?" Goddamn, these suck! If we say no, we're lying. If we say yes, we're insensitive. It's a Catch-22 for men. Please avoid these as if your life with us depended on it.

4.) Be open about your sexual desires. Men are typically the dominant ones when it comes to initiating sex. For the most part, that's fine. But if you've never made the effort to get your loved one in the sack, don't be surprised if your sex life suffers as a result. Men will reach a point where it's just not worth the effort and resort to internet porn. This may be a suitable option for you sometimes, and that's ok too. But eventually it gets old. For both of us.

5.) Learn sports. There are some women out there that are worlds smarter than some men when it comes to this topic. Clearly, I'm not talking about you. But for the women that don't know the difference between the World Series and the Super Bowl, it would behoove you to learn a bit more about a topic that excites us. I'm not saying you should learn the intricacies of the Quarterback Option, but knowing what the QB's role is, as opposed to that of the Right Tackle, is a great start. You want us to talk more? Here's an outstanding conversation piece.

6.) Be subtly slutty. As the old adage goes, men want a woman on the street and a whore in the bed. Never has a truer phrase ever been coined. Refer to number one for starters. Then expound upon it. Your man has a stash of porn and links saved for his favorite porn sites on the home PC. Check them out. Find out what your man's kinks are. You may not be particularly fond of everything, but there may be a tactic or two that will be pleasing to you both.

7.) Stroke his ego. Another no-brainer, really. But if you've been in a relationship for more than a year or two, this tends to get thrown in the drawer with the lingerie you haven't worn in 8 years. We love hearing about how sexy we are, or how good our last tryst in the sack was. Nothing will make our heads swell more or get us to strut like a peacock in full plume.

8.) Learn to cook his favorite meal. It's true that the first way to a man's heart is through his stomach. And his favorite dish may be something that his mother made for him when he was growing up. Even if that raging bitch is someone you'd like to stab with a spork, make the effort to learn her recipe. If for nothing else, he won't force you to join him for Sunday dinner when mom's making her special liver and onions. You can make it yourself.

9.) Understand that not everything needs to be done together. Sure, it's a relationship. And you do want to spend the rest of your life together. That's great. But sometimes, as a stress relief, your man needs to go to that Poker game with his college friends on Friday night. Unless it becomes a weekly habit and he's blowing your child's college savings making ridiculous bets, don't be upset. If it's some penny-ante bullshit, let him blow off steam and have fun.

10.) Know that he's checking out those hot chicks in the mall/bar/sidewalk/PTA meeting. It's in our nature. And we do try to be sly about it so we don't hurt your feelings. I'd recommend either ignoring it or joining in on the fun, if that's your thing. Some men may be creeped out by you joining in on our one deviant pastime, so tread with caution. Who knows? If he's not creeped out, it may ultimately lead to every man's fantasy: The Threesome.

Theories of a Madman

Have you ever been drunk to the point you don't remember certain parts of a particular evening? And the next day, a friend informs you of some of the more embarrassing things that you were able to accomplish amongst friends, family and complete strangers?

Yeah, me neither.

But a friend of mine had this happen over the course of the weekend. Blitzed out of her mind, she began snogging some random guy in the bar. She, of course, denies remembering any of this, which is all well and good. However, she sent a text to me yesterday apologizing for her behaviour. Seeing as she was simply having a good time and was among friends, none of us would've let anything happen to her. But she claimed to be a "mental and emotional wreck" the following day. So I told her my theory on the evolution of alcohol and why apologies are rarely necessary for drunken make-out sessions with random people.

I believe during the prehistoric era, primitive man ruled supreme (except for those pesky T-Rex guys). When primitive man came home from a hard day of hunting/gathering, he wanted nothing more than dinner on his cave floor and a little lovin' from primitive woman. Should either of those two things be unavailable when primitive man wanted them, he'd grab his club and bash primitive woman over the top of the head. Not hard enough to kill, mind you. But hard enough to maybe knock her out so primitive man could do whatever kinky sexual things he wanted to that primitive woman would never allow if she were awake and cognizant.

Eventually, primitive woman would awaken and wonder what the hell just happened. And at some point, she got wise. Looking at primitive man's club, she realized it was nothing more than a stick, something she could find outside of her cave and heave just as well as primitive man. When he came back from his busy day of hunting/gathering, she whacked him a good one, just because she could. She wouldn't have to cook for him that evening and, dammit, he'd keep his grubby hands off of her. It would be a restful night for primitive woman.

When primitive man woke up with one helluva headache, he realized primitive woman had gotten too smart for him. He had to devise something else to make her succumb to his manly charms. This ultimately led to the invention of alcohol.

Making the first still out of rocks, twigs and dinosaur hide, the resulting alcohol probably tasted more like animal dung than what we have today, but considering it was 200 proof booze, taste didn't much matter. A good, strong whiff was enough to guarantee a raging hangover the following day.

Now, when primitive man came home from his long day of hunting/gathering, he'd ensure the still had prepared a stiff drink for primitive woman. Early on, she'd drink it willingly. After time, peer pressure was required. Either way, primitive man was certain to score that evening. Primitive woman would still wake up the next day with the same headache, but the bruising and bleeding from being clubbed over the head came to a stop, so she had that going for her. Which was nice.

Now, tens of thousands of years later, not much has changed. Guy wants to score with his significant other, but knows there's no chance, he'll get her lit up on Jaegermeister and Red Bull.

I suspect this is what happened to my friend this past weekend. As such, she owed me no apology.

Though, if I were a true friend, I probably would've been there to offer a couple aspirin the next day.

Please Stop Talking...Forever

Dear Co-Worker,

When I first came to this company, the powers that be determined you and I should work together on the same project. As such, because you had been here longer, you made some sort of snap decision in your head that I now worked for you. This, as I soon pointed out to you, was incorrect. As a result of me knocking you down a peg or two, we've never been friends. I can accept this just fine. I work here for the cash, not as a social experiment to make new friends. As such, I have no problem explaining to you why you're ostracized from the rest of the team.

You have the social skills of a pissed off hornet. Honestly. When you invite your boyfriend to the facility to have lunch together, it's considered bad form to make out in the back of his van. Yes, the van that's parked right in front of our bosses' office. Normal societal values and simple common sense would tell people not to do this. You evidently missed the memo.

Your family lives on the east coast. New Jersey, in fact; something you love to brag about, as apparently being from New Jersey makes you more worldly than those of us from different parts of the United States. I don't really give a rat's ass that you seem to be proud of where you're from. Good on ya, in fact. But when you call your mother on the company dime, it would probably be wise to keep your voice at a level where most people aren't commenting on the way you sound like a royal bitch. I understand your family life probably wasn't the greatest thing growing up. Many people come from dysfunctional families and yours seems like one of the worst, if the one-sided conversations I've heard are any indication. But I honestly don't care to hear your birthday plans back in Jersey. They don't matter to me or to anyone else within ear-shot.

And your conversations with your brother are just plain creepy. They border on incestuous.

But the worst phone call I've ever heard just took place. You were clearly scheduling a doctor's appointment. And we all know how you loathe the medical professionals that live and work here in the San Diego area. Hence your need to take leave every month or two to fly back to the great doctors of the New Jersey area. It's weird, but whatever. It's your money and your vacation time. Use them both as you desire. But when you call your OB/GYN and openly discuss the odd smelling discharge coming out of your vaj, I'm going to be extremely grossed out and make it a point to discuss your conversation with everyone that happened to miss it. And when you receive odd looks from other co-workers in the facility, know it's due to your lack of discretion and the fact that you didn't seem the least bit embarrassed to talk about it with me right here that I felt the need to share it with the rest of the group.

You have a cell phone. May I suggest walking out of the office - a mere 20 foot walk, by the way - and have that conversation away from others? Better yet, just throw it into the Pacific, along with your land line. That way, I won't ever have to hear about your smelly vaj again. Thanks.

- Hershey

Yes, I Ate It

Another Navy story today. It's a banner week for them, I tell ya!

One of our first out-of-the-U.S. port visits we made in 1997 was to Penang, Malaysia. As a sailor, our first instinct upon visiting a foreign port is "Where's the good watering holes?" None of the crew that I hung out with on a regular basis had ever been there before, but our port brief mentioned the fact that there was a Royal Australian Air Force squadron stationed on one of the nearby military bases and would be available for our use. The problem, however, was nobody was quite sure where it was located.

Having whooped it up with a few Aussies in the past, I knew this would ultimately be my destination. Good beer, good people and good fun. What more can a young sailor ask for in a port visit?

A group of 6 of us departed our ship in hopes of finding these raucous folks. We took a ferry boat to the mainland and flagged down a taxi. The problem with being in a foreign port is that, unless you're in a natively English-speaking country, communication can be a royal pain in the ass. And Malaysia was no different. It took a solid 20 minutes before we were able to get through to the taxi driver that we were looking for a military installation and another 20 minutes before he dropped us off at the front gate. There were two Malaysian guards posted at the entrance, both carrying large and (assumedly) loaded assault rifles.

They let us walk right on without even batting an eye.

The 6 of us walked all around that base and never saw another soul, save for those two guards. Guessing that we had been dropped off at the wrong location and without a taxi waiting for us, we made our way back to the main gate and the road where we were initially dropped off. Opting to hike along the side of the road in hopes of finding a cabbie that could speak English, we didn't even make it a quarter mile before one of the guys walking behind us screamed, "Look out!" Seeing a white van veering towards us onto the shoulder of the road, all 6 of us dove out of the way of what appeared to be the demon-van from hell.

The van pulled to a stop about 20 yards in front of us. From the passenger side window, a head appeared and said, "Hey! You mates lost?"

I replied, "Nope. We found you."

We piled into the van and noticed the driver was clearly too drunk to be behind the wheel. But we weren't overly concerned. Turns out, the Aussies were located about a quarter mile further down and across the main road from where we were. At least our sense of direction was leading us the correct way.

They took us to their enlisted club which consisted of an outdoor patio and a small window through which you could order food off their menu. At this point, none of us were particularly hungry, but damned if we weren't thirsty. They had copious amounts of Victoria Bitter (Vitamin-B, for those in the know), the only beer in the world that I like more than Bud Light, and sadly not imported by these great United States.

After enough beer was drunk and pissed to float our way back home, one of the Aussies asked if we were hungry. Turns out, I was the only one that was. He grabbed the menu, which was written completely in Malaysian, and pointed to one particular dish. "Try this one. If you like a bit of spice, it's damned good."

I went up to the window, menu in hand, and pointed to what my new friend had suggested. The little Malaysian lady took my order and my money, grinned, and went about her business of making me some grub. Sitting back with our group and drinking more beer, I didn't think about it for the next 10 minutes.

Eventually, the woman brought out my food. It was some kind of spicy meat on a bed of rice. And it smelled absolutely phenomenal. Not being a fan of trying new things, I was hungry enough to forget any semblance of weariness and dug in. My friend was right: It was spicy. Damned spicy. And it tasted like chicken. My mouth was on fire and, even though the dish wasn't particularly large, it filled me up pretty good. And the three beers I had chugged while eating weren't doing anything to diminish the fire raging in my mouth.

Once the plate was clean, I asked my Australian friend what the hell it was that I had just eaten.

"Cat."

Cat?

"Yes, cat."

Not believing him, I went up to the window and the little Malaysian lady, in perfect English, asked if everything was alright.

"Yes, the food was awesome. But what the hell was it?"

"Cat."

Cat?

"Yes, cat."

Well I'll be damned! Those furry little mouse chasers taste damn good. And, given the chance, I'd do it again.

They're Still Pissed At Me

I'm not a big subscriber to the ideas behind April Fool's Day, despite my inherent nature as a prankster. I simply never got into being forced to only pull pranks on one particular day of the year. But this past Tuesday was different. Nobody in my office realized what day of the year it was, so there was a greater chance of me being able to pull a fast one on my employers.

In my office, I'm technically third in charge of a small group of people. It's a perfect fit for me. I'm come to for technical advice all the time, given respect by my superiors and peers, yet don't have an official title and don't have to go to time-wasting meetings at ridiculous hours of the day, thus allowing me to set my own work schedule. I enjoy it immensely, though the work is monotonous.

At the end of this month, I'm on tap to go to Seattle with another co-worker to a customer's site for two weeks. Our job will be to test software on a new military aircraft so they can communicate with other military platforms and ensure they don't fall out of the sky. It's a big deal in our group because this particular program is our main money maker, so some people (not me) have been running around the office like a chicken with their heads cut off in an effort to make sure everything is prepared.

So Tuesday morning, I walked into my boss' office with a resignation letter. I told him I was sorry, but I had a better job offer from one of our competitors, the pay being nearly double what I was making here and far greater benefits (including an unbelievable 30 days per year vacation).

My boss was livid. Saying something along the lines of "how could you do this" and "who else is going to do" my particular job, the man was about 30 minutes away from having a full-blown heart attack. I always figured illness or death were the absolute greatest results of practical jokes, so this was turning out perfectly.

After handing him my letter, I didn't even have to say anything. He had worked himself into such an apoplectic fit, anything from me would likely have destroyed the illusion, so I just sat in his office, quietly laughing to myself.

When I was finally out of his office, several of my co-workers asked me what was wrong with our boss. I told some of them I was leaving, but let the others in on the joke, the ones I knew I could trust to keep it going and play along.

To make a long story short, by the end of the day, a slew of e-mails had been sent in our group explaining the new chain of command and who would be receiving mentoring from me over the course of my last two weeks on the job.

As I was walking out the door, I peeked my head into the boss' office and said, "Happy April Fool's Day," and left. Needless to say, he was not amused yesterday.

I really am amazed I can hold down a job most days.

Worst Mental Image Ever

Strap in, kids. Another Navy story.

It's 1999 and we're, once again, punching holes in the water in the Persian Gulf in support of U.N. sanctions against Iraq. Understand that, for the most part, life can get very boring on the open seas, even when you're in relatively hostile territory. Our major concerns were 1.) Not running aground, 2.) Not being shot at by a rogue Iranian F-14 pilot with an agenda and 3.) Stopping ships smuggling oil and other contraband into and out of Iraqi ports. That first point is something that always happens. Always. The last 2 were something we only dealt with when in the confines of the Gulf, but we trained for them so much that they became second nature. Therefore, when something of interest happens, whether hostile action or someone does something stupid on the ship, the memories stay with you forever.

This post is about the latter case.

We had a relatively new sailor on board. He'd been with us since shortly before we departed on this little 6-month excursion, so he'd been with us for a little less than a year at this point. We'll call him Seaman Fisc. Fisc was a short, scrawny, mostly pre-pubescent 18 year old, fresh out of high school and away from the sanctuary provided by mommy and daddy for the first time. As such, he had the social skills of a gnat. Honestly, he was maybe 5'0" tall, weighed about 100 lbs and had curly brown hair. Fisc was also prone to getting on everyone's nerves for various reasons.

I wanted to slay him from the moment I saw him. Not because I was nearly a foot and a half taller and outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds. It was because everything he did got on my nerves. From opening his rack and slamming it shut roughly every .2 seconds during all hours of the day and night (for anyone familiar with how shipboard berthings are situated, he slept directly across from me in the bottom rack) to having to be repeatedly shown how to do his job correctly, throwing this little bastard overboard was a recurring dream for me.

One night, on our 1999 cruise, I was standing watch at one of the radar scopes in CIC. It was another quiet watch, everyone was behaving themselves nicely and had been for the month and a half we had been patrolling the Gulf. It was nearing 2 in the morning and I was anxiously awaiting my relief to show up so I could crawl into the fetal position in my rack and grab some much needed sleep. It was about this time that our resident Intel Specialist walked into CIC.

Greg was a mountain of a man. He was taller than me, probably around 6'6", with broad shoulders and a big, round face. And he looked pale, like he was going to hurl. I asked him what was wrong.

"Hershey, I just walked out of the berthing and saw the single most disgusting thing I've ever seen in my life."

Perplexed, I asked him to explain. I would soon regret it.

"Fisc was standing at the sink near the showers, buck naked. He had one foot on the counter of the sink, ass towards the door, with his hand around his backside and he was shaving his ass. If that sight wasn't bad enough, there were ass hairs all around the floor and sink."

Nauseous myself, I asked what he did.

"What could I do? How do you respond to something like that? I turned around and walked out."

Laughing hysterically at this point and immensely grossed out at the mental image he had created, I asked if he'd mind watching my post while I went down to the berthing. He grabbed a seat and I gave him a quick debrief before heading down to take care of this matter.

When I got there, Fisc was in the process of getting dressed. Not saying anything to him, I went into the shower area. As soon as I opened the door, I noticed the offending ass hair was still all over the sink, counter and deck. Walking back towards Fisc and still not saying anything, I grabbed him by the back of his neck and forced him into the showers. And I began rubbing his face within all of his ass hairs.

"You know, some asshole is gonna have to clean this shit up! What the fuck do you think you're doing? Clean up your ass hairs, dirtbag!"

Naturally, he was struggling the whole time, but as I said, I was over a foot taller and outweighed him by a hefty amount, so he wasn't going anywhere. By the time I let go of his neck, his face was covered in his own ass hair.

When I was certain he had cleaned it all up, I told him to hurry up and get his freshly shaven ass up to CIC so he could relieve the watch.

Again, there are just some things the recruiter doesn't tell you you're going to have to do when you enlist.

Spring Is Now Officially Here

Ah, baseball. How do I love thee? I'd count the ways, but nobody wants to read about my man-crush on the game of baseball. And since yesterday was officially the start of the stateside Major League Baseball season, I figured I'd throw a little love its way.

As my profile states, I currently reside in San Diego, California. I enjoy the home team here and consider them my favorite National League team. But while I like the San Diego Padres, they can never replace my first true love: The Cleveland Indians.

See, I grew up in Cleveland. Born and raised. And I've seen some God-awful Indians teams in my life. From the days of Brett Butler, Cory Snyder, Andy Allanson, Mel Hall and our perennial DH, Pat Tabler, the 80's were not good to us. In fact, the early 90's were pretty crappy as well. But something happened in the late 80's that began a surge of Tribe pride and changed the tide of the organization and caused fans to start going to the ballpark to support their lovable losers.

No, I'm not talking about the team's attempts to get a new ballpark. That was going to happen anyways. There was a different, albeit just as important, catalyst that created a vested interest in the team within my hometown:

That's right. Major League came out in 1989 and showed a fictional Cleveland Indians team overcoming the odds to become a powerhouse in the postseason. With a bunch of scrubs on the team and an owner eager to move to a more financially beneficial location in Florida (ha!), the movie showed the team beating the vaunted New York Yankees to make the playoffs (only to be swept in the ALCS by the ChiSox, the eventual World Series winners, as noted in Major League 2).

I truly think this movie created a love for the hometown Indians. Not long after its release, the Indians opened their new home at Jacob's Field (now known as Progressive Field) and the Tribe began their resurgence. From home attendance records to making it to (and losing) the World Series in '95 and '97, the horrible teams I watched as a youngster in the cavernous Municipal Stadium were but a distant memory. All thanks, at least in some small part, to a movie about a bunch of sad sacks and a surly manager.

Last year, my favorite team was one game shy of making it to their first World Series in 10 years. This year, several baseball "experts" and a bunch of talking bobble heads on ESPN are picking this team to take home their first World Series Pennant in 60 years. That does not bode well for them.

But either way, here's to the start of the new season and the joy and heartache that comes with it.

My Favorite Things

Last night, while sipping a few tasty beverages and searching the internet for something remotely interesting in an attempt to cure a chronic case of boredom, I began thinking about my childhood and how things that I considered "My Favorite Things" have changed over the years. While the breadth and scope of these items have changed due to the nature of my life at the time, their simplicity cannot be overstated.

This may speak volumes about men in general and how we're so damned easily amused.

But I digress.

When I was growing up, I had hours upon hours of entertainment with action figures. Between my dozens of GI Joe action figures (with the Kung Fu grip!) fighting epic battles with the Star Wars figures I collected, I was able to keep myself amused for days with these 3 1/4" tall toys. Setting them up on the rails leading up to my bedroom and shooting them down the stairs with a rubber dart gun, picking them up and repeating the process would entertain my friends and I in such a manner that my parents would often try to sneak up on us to see if we were doing anything unbecoming of two young men left to their own devices. This would usually end with my father getting a rubber dart stuck to his forehead as he scared the ever-loving crap out of us.

Eventually I grew out of my fascination with these plastic toys and immersed myself completely and totally into the mysterious world of girls. Hormones raging to uncontrollable levels, I distinctly remember the first time I tried to remove my girlfriend's bra. You know those cheesy sit-coms that show young men and their futile attempts to remove the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders? They're not so cheesy when they're true. Trust me.

And this led to my second "favorite thing": The front-clasp bra. When I first saw this wondrous invention, it occurred to me that I would no longer have to ever take my grubby paws off my girlfriend's wondrous boobs. It was the single greatest thing ever! (I'd add a picture of this as well, but it's become apparent that women are not permitted to shop for lingerie on my employer's dime since all of those sites are blocked as well.)

I'm still a big fan of those bras. And boobs. That fascination has never truly left. But now that I'm a bit older and more worldly (and have mastered the art of the behind-the-back clasp while still grubbily grasping and pawing the boob with my other hand), I have settled on my current "favorite thing": The twist-off bottle cap.

I am, by nature, not a beer snob, hence the picture of a bottle of ambrosia sitting to the left. I'd

have grabbed a picture of my preferred choice of the Budweiser family, Bud Lite, but oddly enough, I was unable to locate such a picture on the parent company's website. Go figure.

Regardless, anything that makes my life easier (Kung Fu grips, front-snapping bras and twist-off caps) will quickly become my "favorite thing." Making a bottle opener completely unnecessary was the single greatest thing the good folks in St. Louis have done with their wonderful concoction of barley and hops.

Now I'm trying to think of how I could possibly combine these three things to make what would not only be my new "favorite thing", but also the Perfect Thing (capitalized for effect). If I were able to have the wife maintain a Kung Fu grip (to hold the bottle with the twist-off cap and other...phallic objects, when necessary) while wearing a front-snapping bra, I will realize I have died and gone to Man Heaven.

He Wasn't Lying

Back in 1999, I was on, what would end up being, my last deployment in the Navy. Going to the Persian Gulf and being a general pest to all the folks over there that didn't like us (read, everyone), we boarded ships, prepared to launch missiles and visited various ports that absolutely sucked the life out of you until we finally started heading home.

On our trip back towards civilization, we made a port visit to Suva, Fiji. I had been to Fiji once before for about an 8-hour stop while refueling the ship on a previous deployment, but had been unable to visit any of the local watering holes due to the quick nature of our stop. But in '99, we were going to be there for nearly a week.

A group of us had found a resort that was frequented by many tourists along the beach. It was our daily destination because the beer was plentiful, the weather was perfect and the women were beautiful, so it made for some great eye candy.

The last night visiting the resort, my good friend John (who happened to be my Leading Petty Officer, or LPO, in case you know a damn thing about Navy structure) and I were sharing a few alcoholic beverages and having some laughs. Early on in the evening, we had noticed one of the guys in our division had imbibed a bit too much in the local delicacies and was making a rather large ass of himself in front of two women sitting in a booth and minding their own business. Knowing the potential for this particular sailor to start some sort of international incident, John and I grabbed him by the back of his collar and forced him onto the next shuttle that would take him back to the ship. We were scheduled to leave the following morning at 7, and knew that he'd need every ounce of sleep available to be of use to us when we departed.

Once he was safely in the van and headed back, John and I went back to our seats. Waiting for us was the waiter with a couple ice cold beers. "These are from the two ladies over there," he said, nodding towards the two women we had saved from being harassed by our shipmate. Looking their way with an appreciative nod, they waved us over to sit by them.

Keep in mind that at this point, we had been underway for the past 5 months on a ship with 300 men. Being anywhere near a woman was something we would not pass up. John and I introduced ourselves and the women did the same in return. Lisa was from London and her friend Shannon was from somewhere outside Dublin. We made some stupid joke about them not really liking one another, what with the whole England/Ireland hullabaloo. Beer helps make stupid jokes slightly better.

So we're talking about random crap throughout the night when Shannon asks about life in the U.S. Navy. Our ship was giving tours while we were in port and they had visited earlier in the day. If you tour a naval vessel, you're given a whole bunch of the typical rainbow and unicorn crap you can handle. Sure, you're shown some of the cool stuff, like where the missiles launch from, you see the big ass gun on the bow and you're even given cookies and kool-aid (affectionately referred to as "bug juice" by sailors) while you visit. Shannon then asked if this was how life was really like on the ship.

John and I laughed. Hard.

John explained that so much more goes on when you're underway that there's no possible way the Navy would ever recruit anyone if they told of everything that happened. For example, he said, there are things known as Navy showers.

Every berthing (space where the crew sleeps) has several showers. As a point of reference, the berthing where John and I slept had racks for 100 sailors. And 4 showers. They're cleaned daily and the person that has to clean them is typically some dirtbag that had done something so egregiously bad that he'd been elected to do the most horrible job on the entire ship. Why is it so bad? You go clean a shower that 100 guys use everyday after being underway for months at a time and tell me how pleasant an experience it is.

Look, it's no secret that men are pigs. Our dicks are amazing sources of entertainment for us and, given the opportunity, would be played with or utilized in an entertaining fashion whenever possible. As such, it is a well-known, yet little discussed thing that sailors have a tendency to play with their dicks while in the shower. Hence the birth of the term "shower babies". Again, you don't want to be stuck with the job of cleaning the men's shower on a Navy ship.

John then launched into a 20-minute dissertation of what it was like to be taking a Navy shower. He described the shower as a 3'x3' metal box with a shower curtain, arguably the most vile, disease-ridden piece of vinyl ever invented. Now imagine you're taking a shower in this metal box. And you're underway with slightly heavy seas. Knowing the other pig-like individuals that have been in there before you, and the fact that the dirtbag that cleaned it probably didn't do such a bang-up job, you really don't want to be touching anything except maybe the handles to turn the shower on or off. So you do your best to keep your body contained and close-in to yourself. You get yourself thoroughly soaked and shut the water off. Fresh water is something in short supply on most ships, so you have to conserve it, which means you don't have it running the whole time. Once you're wet and the water's off, you soap yourself up really good. Since the shower's so disgusting, shower shoes are a must. To wash your feet, you have to balance yourself in a 3x3 metal box while the ship bobs and sways with the movement of the ocean. You really don't want to touch anything. Really. So if you lose your balance, you basically have your elbows tucked into your sides while touching the walls of the shower with nothing more than your fingertips. It's typically at this point that someone else will enter the showering area. When this happens, the vacuum created by the air that blows throughout the ship will also create a vacuum seal on the shower curtain, wrapping it around you.

Create this mental image, if you will: You're in the shower. You have one foot up that you've been trying to wash. You're touching the walls with your fingertips for fear of touching some other man's shower babies. There's a moldy, stinky vinyl shower curtain now wrapped around you. The ship's still bobbing and swaying and you're losing your balance. If you set your other foot down on the shower floor, there's really no other choice but to hack it off, lest it infect the rest of your perfectly good limbs. Got the image firmly implanted in your head? Good.

Eventually, you're able to peel the shower curtain away from you, disgusted beyond measure, so you go through the whole process over again. If you're lucky, no one else will enter the shower area creating the vacuum seal, necessitating yet another repeat performance. By the time your shower is all said and done, the only thing left to do is crawl into your rack, curl into the fetal position and cry yourself to sleep.

This, friends and neighbors, is something the Navy recruiter doesn't exactly inform you of when you sign up to be a member of Uncle Sam's Canoe Club.

Dear Stinky

Dear Stinky,

You're a co-worker of mine. No, clearly your real name isn't "Stinky", but to add insult to insult, it's a nom de guerre applied to you by other co-workers that have as much (and in some cases more) loathing for you than I do. The laundry list of reasons why there's so much contempt for you is epic in scale and the purpose of this letter is to detail for you in clear-cut fashion why we hate you with the fire of a thousand burning suns.

When you started working for this company, you were but a lowly temp, one assigned for your ability to do your particular job; a job which our company was sorely lacking qualified people to do. Evidently, you did pretty well during your tenure as a temp, hence us hiring you as a full-time employee, acquiring new benefits, better wages and the ability to piss off your cubicle neighbors in such a fashion as to draw verbal barbs and a litany of "WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP"s on a daily basis. Congrats.

We should've known that you wouldn't make this a happy place before your full-time hiring. For instance, our desks are rather shoddily constructed. We all have the movable keyboard holder. And the brain-trust that designed these particular keyboard holders put the lever for its height adjustment smack dab in the center, forcing everyone of us over three feet tall to smack our kneecaps whenever we rise, sit or adjust our seats to properly face our computers. It happens. As I said, everyone does it. You, however, feel the need to yell loud enough for our entire corporate campus to overhear you say "Owowowowowow!" It's not necessary, I assure you. It's not so much the fact that you yell, it's just that you do it every 5 minutes, so the repetition is more annoying than anything. Switch it up with a well-placed "FUCK!" and that'll be one less thing that's annoying about you.

It also appears you and I share musical tastes. I know this because I hear you humming to every song you know, and it also happens to be the exact same song I'm playing on my radio, at a decibel I cannot hear outside my cube, so I know you're not listening to mine. Please, stop. I want to kill your out-of-tune-humming ass no less than 30 times a day.

But we ignored these signs. And so today, you actually stooped to a new level of "OMGWTFwerethesepeoplethinkingwhentheyhiredyou" level. First it was the huffing and puffing, as though you were about to have some kind of coronary. Not beyond the realm of possibility, as you aren't exactly the picture of health. So when someone checked on you to see that you weren't clutching your chest ala George Wendt in the SNL "Da Bears" skits, they did notice that you had a few signs of one having a heart attack. You appeared sweaty and clammy and awfully pale for someone living in SoCal, with the 90 degree weather we've been having the past few days.

Showing concern, this person asked if they needed to summon an ambulance for you. It was at this point that you said no, grabbed your trash can and hurled into it while proclaiming, "Don't drink the milk in the cafeteria...RALLLLPPPH!" Thanks. That's exactly what we need. The smell and the sound of your yak, just as the lunch hour has passed, lingering for the rest of the day.

You're aware, of course, that the men's room isn't but 20 feet from your cube? If you were feeling sick these past 30 minutes, don't you think you could've maybe gone in there and done a binge and purge instead of saving such lovely hurling for the rest of us? Of course you know about the men's room. You're in there daily doing things that require a can of Lysol, three rolls of toilet paper and perhaps an exorcist. Next time, please utilize the facilities accordingly.

The list of things we hate about you is much longer than this, of that you can be certain. These are just a few things I wanted to point out so that, if you start correcting right away, the desire to bring a blunt instrument to work won't be quite so apparent.

Thank you,

Hershey

Play That Funky Music

Earlier this week, I mentioned the fact that I had picked up the game Rock Band for my XBox 360. I realize some of you more cultured individuals might find it childish for a 32 year old man to be playing video games. But gaming has been a part of my life since I was a wee lad, from playing text-only games on the Commodore 64 to rocking out to "Combat" and "Adventure" on the Atari 2600. I've hit all points in between, with the original Nintendo, Playstation, PS2 and now my 360. And I've cherished the ungodly amount of time I've spent with each and everyone of those platforms.

Up until a few weeks ago, I had spent the better part of 2 years gaming on my PC with World of Warcraft. WoW is one of those addicting games that's known as a Multi-Massively Online Role Playing Game, or MMORPG (or, to shorten an acronym, which seems dumb to me, MMO). For nearly 2 years, every ounce of free time I had was spent trying to make my character the uber-pwn toon on whatever server I happened to be playing on at the time, cursing players, sending in demons to do my bidding and generally causing mayhem and destruction wherever I happened to wander in this virtual world.

As a result of the time I spent in WoW, other more useful talents that I had gained in the real-world went to the wayside. Such as my ability to play guitar.

Before WoW (which I'm leaning towards referring to as BW, like BC or AD, for ease of reference), I took several months worth of lessons on my six-string acoustic. I was hardly the best. Hell, I was hardly any good. But at least the callouses on my fingertips were evidence that I was practicing. And the fact that I was able to do the rhythm parts on several well-known tunes (and a few more lesser-known songs) further proved that it was more than just a passing fancy. But during my time with that stupid game, my guitar sat, lonely, unused and collecting dust inside it's plush case.

Last week, I finally took it out of its case and began the process of putting it back in tune, dusting it off and strumming the strings to make some semblance of music ring forth from its wooden, hollow body.

The first two days were rough. As I said, the callouses on my fingers, that I had worked so hard to achieve before, were gone. The supple, baby-like nature of my fingertips prevented me from playing for longer than a few minutes at a time. In fact, it downright hurt. And I could hardly remember the chord progression of even the simplest songs. "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" completely evaded my memory.

It was rough starting out. My wife, who has little-to-no musical talent whatsoever, would cringe as I sat in my living room, trying to strum something that didn't sound like a cat in heat. It's quite a blow to one's ego.

Little by little, I've been able to play for longer periods of time before the steel strings begin to dig in and start to hurt. As such, I'm able to run through more songs and actually remember how they're supposed to sound. The one song I had down pat prior to my WoW addiction was "Good Riddance" by Green Day. I know it's not the hardest song in the world. It has maybe 5 or 6 chords, so it's not exactly Santana-esque. But when you finally remember a song and are able to play along with the actual recording and it doesn't sound all jacked up, it's a pretty good feeling.

Since then, I've picked up a few more easy to learn rhythmic songs. "Peacful Easy Feeling" by the Eagles and "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd have been re-added to my staple of songs, though I have yet to get to the point with the Pink Floyd song that I'm able to play the full thing with the original version and the Eagles song that I play is in a different key than their version, but it's close enough that the uninitiated don't know the difference and are still able to recognize the tune.

But it's nice, getting back into something that brings me the kind of enjoyment that isn't completely wasted in front of a computer monitor, moving a pixelated toon around a screen in the hopes that I can get another epic piece of gear.

And, when I play well enough, it even gets the wife grooving...which is ALWAYS a good thing.

Olympic Gardens

This past February, I went on a Las Vegas trip with several friends. One of the places we stopped at was Olympic Gardens, a popular strip club near the south end of the strip. My good friend Odogg decided to write about our adventure there and share some of the good times we had with our drunken, debaucherous group. The following post is his words.

I have been to Las Vegas, NV more times that I can count in my 31 years of existence. It started as sort of a family thing when I was young. My grandparents had land out in Bullhead City, AZ; which is directly across the Colorado River from Laughlin, NV. So occasionally when we would go to Bullhead, a pit stop in Vegas would follow. Now, the only fun thing I can really remember doing on those trips were playing a mass amount of arcade games in all the hotels. Whether it was Laughlin, Vegas, or Primm; all prime spots for the adults to do their thing and for the kiddo’s to all go get lost in the arcades. I always had a great time when we would go to the river, and on to Vegas.

Since being a full grown adult of 21 years old or older my fun in Las Vegas has increased dramatically. I’ve gone up there with piles of money, I’ve gotten drunk with a former Playboy Playmate, I’ve been to the ESPY awards, I’ve watch Dennis Rodman gamble in the high rollers room of the Bellagio, not too mention just how many times I’ve been there and had a blast even if nothing major had been going on. I love Las Vegas! If it weren’t the desert, I’d think about moving there.

One of the things that I had not accomplished while in Vegas was to party at a Las Vegas strip club. Yes, I had stepped foot into a strip club before, but that was more of a quick little “here it is; time to go” type of thing. Now that is a shame. How in the name of Father Larry Flynt have I, Odogg (Yes bitches, that’s spelled O dee O double Gee) NOT partied at a Las Vegas strip club by the age of 31?! That’s just not right. I think if I had waited any longer the Man God’s would’ve set down their Pilsner’s and took a big shit all over me. Well, I made the Man God’s happy this year. I take that back. We made the Man God’s happy this year. Me, Dana, AJ, Hershey, Autumn and Desi went to the Promised Land. The second coming of the “Happiest Place On Earth”. This place is known as Olympic Gardens, also referred to as OG’s. Oh OG’s, how much do I love thee?

OG’s is a two-tier strip club just off from the frantic Las Vegas Blvd. The bottom floor is dedicated to some of the hottest, sexiest, mostly nude women in the state. The top floor is reserved for Tito and the Footlong’s (You will understand shortly). Upon entering and paying $30 to get into this fine establishment, the first thing you notice is the plethora of strippers parading around on the bottom floor. Good lord, there were so many delicious young women in this place.

The six of us found spots to have a drink upon getting all the way inside. I was completely amazed at how many women there were working here. There were at least 3 girls onstage dancing at all times. Almost every table had a girl shaking her ass at the patron’s sitting there, and there was always a bunch of girls giving lap dances to some lucky guys. After the first 10-15 minutes, AJ comes up to me and informs me that we are taking the girls upstairs so that they can see what the guys had to offer. Now this is where the entertainment begins.

We hop in the elevator, and take it up to the 2nd floor. Now, I’m not joking when I say that I had stepped out of that elevator door for no more than 5 seconds when one of the male strippers steps up to me and says “Hi, my name is Tito, may I give your girl a dance?” Now, he was polite about asking me, but what really stuck out was Tito’s monster below his waist. I responded with “She’s not my girl and have at it buddy!” Now I don’t know if Tito was referring to my sister, Desi or Autumn, but within seconds Dana was parked at the bar (Its your birthday!) and both Desi and Autumn had Tito and the Footlongs doing things that just made me crack the fuck up! I swear both of them girls had 2 feet of shling shlong at both ends of their bodies. Every one of us was cracking up at what these guys were doing to them. Legs in the air, face in the chair, sideways, backwards, upside down and pretzel style. I swear I almost got put through a wall from a stray swing.

After a little bit, the guys went back downstairs so that we could let our tongues drool for a while. Here come the drinks. We were already fucked up from the other bars we had been to earlier in the night, and that surely continued at OG’s. We were drinking beer, mixed drinks, and champagne (Thanks AJ), while handing out dolla dolla bills ya’ll to the dancing queens. I had found a nice spot front stage with AJ and Hershey following suit. Let me tell you once again how gorgeous these girls were. I swear I think I spotted about maybe 3-5 girls who weren’t drop dead gorgeous.

Now, I don’t know how long the girls were upstairs, but it wasn’t too long. However, it was long enough for Dana to come downstairs and tell me that she was broke already. Fucking Dana blew her wad upstairs on the men, when in reality it should’ve been the other way around. Luckily my sister has a very nice boyfriend and of course he hooked her up downstairs with some cash flow.

Now that we have all 6 of us present on the same floor, drunk off our asses and fixated on the mass amount of coochie in this place the fun really gets going. Our attention is fully on the dancing girls and all the ass that’s walking around. Now there was this one girl dancing onstage that really caught my eye. This woman was hot! I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. She knew it, she spotted me, she knew I was gonna be her next sucker. I didn’t give a fuuuccckk. She kept eye contact with me while she exited the stage and made her way around and to where I was sitting. I knew what she wanted, she knew what I wanted, and most certainly AJ knew what I wanted because quicker than shit AJ threw out a $20 and said “Go get a lap dance man.”

I stand up, this fine piece of stripper meat by the hand, and let her lead the way to lap dance heaven. I really forget what song was playing, and I didn’t care. All I knew was that there was this gorgeous woman wrapping her pear-shaped breast over my face, and shaking her heart-shaped butt on my nose. She turns around and straddles me. She makes small talk for a minute, asking me my name and where I’m from. La la la la, biotch don’t talk, just dance. I don’t think she heard me because she kept talking. I guess that’s just as good as a dance, especially when she's rubbing her ta ta’s on me while she talked. Back to my seat I go!

I get back to my seat and nothings changed. Ass, titties, booze, tongues on the floor, all major components of a great strip club. So all of us are still having a bomb time, doing our thing when this blonde girl who was dancing comes up right in front of me and DRAGS me up on stage, puts me on my hands and knees and commences to (deep breath) spank my ass sooooo good. Not that I remember too much about what I said, but according to Dana, phrases such as “Harder, harder!” “I’ve been such a bad boy” and “Don’t stop” were being yelled by me. I was loving it! There’s nothing like a good spanking on stage at a strip club in Vegas to bring a smile to my face.

Now as I was getting my freshly paddled buttocks off the stage, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a girl had found a spot next to Hershey. At first I didn’t see her too well. I was concentrating on not falling off of the stage amid my drunkenness. So I sit down, do a swivel to the right so I can check out what Hershey has going on over there. Ummmm, WTF is that?! This, ummm, girl(?) has a big rack, but looked like fucking Gary Busey with long hair. I have no clue what was being said, but apparently Autumn, who was sitting on the other side of Hershey caught on and put her ring from her right to left ring finger, placed her hand on his lap and said something to the effects of “Is everything ok here honey?” Phew, I think the Padres just found their new closer because she saved the day.

I tell you right now, that was surely the single most fun I’ve had in Las Vegas. That whole night rocked, but the few hours that we spent in OG’s was a fucking hoot. We were all sad to leave, but we ALL were broke by the time we exited OG’s. I love you OG’s. We love you OG’s. We will see you again in May!

Ed. Note: Odogg is absolutely correct in saying that chick looked like Gary Busey with long hair. Even after having been drinking for 14 straight hours (no lie), beer goggles didn't make her look any better. And it's always my luck to get that one ugly chick in the strip club to not leave me alone, so God bless Autumn for saving my hairy ass that day.