Breakin Ankles

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Handicap Stall

A few weeks ago I had to get dressed up for court. After that little ordeal, I had to make a little hike back to campus whereupon I went into a library bathroom to change out of my dress clothes into my normal clothes. I was staying in town for the weekend so I had a backpack with me and a travel bag as well.

So I walk into the bathroom, and seeing as the Handicap stalls are pretty spacious, I figured that would be a nice little place for me to change. I must point out, before I continue, that I've never in my life ever seen a handicap person use a handicap stall. Has anyone?? So there I am, chilling in the handicap stall, changing my clothes ever so slowly. And that's when it all went down.

Through the little crevice in the stall, I saw, to my horror, a middle aged man in a electric wheelchair rolling by. He was kind of peeping into the stall to see if anyone was in it. Oh damn, I felt like the worlds biggest dick. As fast as I could, I gathered all of my shit and opened the door and threw everything onto the floor, as I tried to scurry out of the stall ASAP -- while still in mid-change. I get out of the stall, but by that time, I see that the handicapped individual was already at a urinal doing his thing. It didn't look like it was ideal for him, so I still felt pretty shitty. But what could I do now?

So anyways, there I am. I'm still trying to get fully changed while standing in the middle of the bathroom with my shit strewn all about. Thinking the drama is over with, I once again am takin my sweet dear time. But then it happens again. I hear a noise. I look up. It's him. The handicapped fellow. He's done peeing. He wants to leave the batthroom, but he can't because all my belongings are blocking his path -- and it's not like he could just step over it. Feelin like an even bigger asshole, I quickly move my shit out of the way (took like 5 seconds but felt a lot longer). He then rolls by me as I say "Sorry".

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

TV: Sexual Innuendo and Old White Men

The other day, while flipping through channels, I got preoccupied with something and left the TV on the Food Network.
As I was doing whatever I was doin, I heard some dirty shit comin from the tube. "Now this is extremely moist and it's almost ready. Once we put this in, it will taste really good in about 20 minutes."

That same day, the TV also got stuck on the Golf Channel. I have no idea how as I am the farthest thing from a golfer you can imagine. So anyhow, these 4 old white men are sitting around chatting and one proceeds to tell a story.

Old White Man #1: I'll be honest with you guys, I don't really like foreign food. In fact, I don't even like trying foreign food. I enjoy good ole American cuisine. But I gotta tell ya, while I was travelling abroad this past week, I had some Thai food and it was really great! Really spicy too.

Old White man #2: Ha Ha. Wow Bob, that's very interesting. You know, I don't even know how to spell "Thai"! So you say the food was spicy, huh?

First of all, why is this on the Golf Channel? Second, how stereotypical a conversation is that for old white men who golf?

Monday, September 26, 2005

Stayin Krispy

The general decided to visit this weekend. He wanted to know if I could land him 6 kilos of some champagne powder.

"Sorry man, I can only get 3 Kilos for the weekend. Oh, and by the way, parking up here is a bitch."

"You motherfucker, 3 fucking Kilos won't do the trick. I have clientelle to look after. And just for the record, there are 2 things I never pay for --
Women, and Parking".

Shit, I had to think fast so I put on my specs. There was no way I could land any powder, so maybe if I found some women to chill with, the general would be appeased.

The general arrived. Turns out that he already had some chicks lined up for us. Sweet.

Damn, these hoes were finer than I thought. I made my way to a fine mamasita named "Catalina".

Hours passed, alcohol was drunk, and fun was had.

After a few hours, it was time to say our good-byes.
"I love both of you equally, remember that"

"I only love you, my sweet"

The next morning it hit us. It hit us hard. What had we done?! For you see, as it turns out, those weren't women at all. They were statues. Damn you berkley!

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Pointless stories...

About 2 months ago, a friend from home came up to visit for a weekend of debauchery. One night, a group of us had quite a bit to drink, traveling like nomads (some on foot, others on horseback) from bar to bar.

Here is an artists rendition of our intoxicated posse.

So by the time we got to the last bar, we were pretty gone. One of my lady friends then decided to buy one more round of drinks. So she gave my friend his drink and after the first sip, he realized that there was no way he could finish it. His body jsut couldn't handle another sip of alcohol.

So my friend is chillin there, chatting with the girl that just bought him a drink, while contemplating what to do. He didn't want to just hold it and not drink it after she had just bought it for him. So he decides, as he's talking to her, to deviously start pouring out his drink, ever so slowly, onto the floor. Problem solved! ... or so you would think. The floor was concrete and the girl was wearing open toed shoes. The alcohol splashed down on the ground and onto my friends foot.

Not so sly apparently. She goes to him "Are you pouring your drink on the ground?" He replies, trying not to laugh, "No!". Then she starts laughing cuz he obviously was.

Just recently, I was talking to the same friend about his recent trip abroad. He goes to me "It turns out that I can't speak Italian as well as I assumed I could".
I go to him "What in the world ever made you assume that you could speak Italian?" He goes "uh.... I don't really know". Too funny.

Monday, September 19, 2005


2:45 Saturday
I get a call from comrade. Our funds were running low and she said she had something big cooking. "Easy money, real quick" she said. She told me to meet her at a local eatery.

3:23 Saturday
I arrive to find comrade deep in thought. She begins to tell me the plan. It's bigger and more risky than I first thought. What did she have in mind?
She tells me, "I have a heist in mind...let's rob a bank".

Whoa. Rob a bank?! Me?! This was a bit much. I wanted to know more. Nay, I needed to know more. She proceeded to give me the details.

"Wow, now that's a good plan, comrade!"
The plan seemed easy... almost too easy. With little to no cash flow, I had no choice, so I jumped at the opportunity. A plan, devious in design and poetic by default was launched. It was on. But this was a big op.
We needed some help. We decided to enlist the services of a devious little dink named "Cole".

"Bank Robbery, huh? Keep talkin..." We explained the plan, and she was on board. Lastly, we needed a getaway driver. Who else to call but Cali's most notorious playa. Fredo.

He may look like a sweet kitten, but don't be fooled. If you get in his way, he'll run you the F over. He was just the man for the job.

So there we were: Me, Comrade, Cole, and Fredo. Four young tuffs 'bout to do some dirt. The mission was planned for Tuesday. We needed some rest, and some liquid courage.

DAY 2: The Heist.

1:24 Tuesday
Comrade calls and tells me there's a change of plan. "Forget the bank, lets hit this Brinks armored truck". Sho 'nuff.

2:24 Tuesday
The plan was a disaster. Comrade, Cole, and I had to flee with blood gushing from our many wounds. We had to find our getaway driver, Fredo. But where the fuck was he?! This was not going according to plan...

Turns out the bastard had too many cervezas and was busy having a drunk make-out session with some floozy he met at the bar. You'll pay for this Fredo!! Cole had been detained. Last I heard she was charged with being Dink-a-Stink in the 1st degree.

Comrade and I called up a backup getaway driver, an old Cuban friend of ours. But he showed up in this piece of shit ride. F that. Comrade and I had to escape by foot. Once again, we were left to our own devices.

We were fugitives. We had to disguise ourselves quick. So comrade, being quick on her feet (and quicker off her feet) put on a fake pair of glasses. Pure genius, Comrade, pure genius!

Following comrade's lead, I decided to disguise myself as well. I quickly turned my hat around. Instead of wearing it backwards, I was now wearing it forward. If we were gonna get caught, we sure as hell weren't gonna make it easy for em. Now we needed a hideout...

Surely, no one would think to look for us here.

The Aftermath:

After 2 days hiding out in a tree, we made our way on foot. Destination unknown. Odor unrecognizable. Cops still on our ass. Right when we thought all was lost, I notice something in the distance. But is it what I think it is?! No, it can't be... can it?! It's almost too good to be true.

It is!! In addition to blogging, my good friend Gold Nugget owns a chain of crappy restaurants. He fed us and gave us a place to hide out for a few days. All hail the nugget!

The next day, we broke Cole out of prison and somehow met up with Fredo. Nevermind the deatils. Where are we all now?
I can't tell you that, but just know this: Thank god for wi-fi on the high seas...

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Road Tripping

This past weekend, me and a comrade in arms decided to road trip it.
Where were we going? How were we getting there?
After much debate, we decided to go by car: so we left our tandem bike in the garage and went on our way.

Hour 1 of our journey: I am focused on the road ahead, while my comrade can't help but ponder, "Did I turn the stove off before I left?"
Poetry in motion.

The open road. America. Freedom. Clowns. Dirty Feet. Our journey was well under way.

Hour 3 of our journey: We are weary, and I have lost my patience with the photographer we hired to document our trip. In a fit of anger, I decide to flip him off while my comrade fires up a cancer stick.

Hour 5: We are lost in small town America. I can't recall which state exactly, but one of those annoying Southern states where pie will cost you a nickel, and swearing will cost you your freedom.
My comrade hates pie and I love to swear, so we got the f outta there.

Twelve hours in: My comrade in arms has grown weary. I, on the other hand, am alert and ready for anything after doing 2 lines of coke. It was at this moment that we decided to trek down to Puerto Rico to visit an old amigo.
I tell my comrade/driver to make a left.
She ignores me and makes a right.

Where the fuck are we?! Why, oh why, did she take that right turn?! We run into 2 tribesman who appear to be high on peyote and bear a strong resemblance to don Quijote and Sancho Panza. We know not the language they speak, and the cars they drive look freakishly similar to what we in the states call "Horses". After much back and forth, we realize that we are in Cuba. Using a midget interpreter we had stowed away in the trunk (precisely for emergencies like this), we were able to get directions to Puerto Rico. They also hook us up with some grade-A peyote. Muy bien.
Thank you noble triblesman, wherever you are, the peyote should prove most useful.

Blame it on the peyote if you must (I blame my stubborn comrade), but we get lost once more. After deciding the foul odor in the car was coming from her, my comrade changes shirts and asks a stranger for directions.
He is of no help.
We are lost, hungry, and alone.

I start to hear voices. Is it the drugs? No wait, I hear it coming from the fountain. The noble tribesman have sensed our troubles and are communicating with me via these statues.
I tilt my head ever so slightly and the answer is clear.
We must venture on.

The sun is going down, but we are reaching ever so closely to our destination. Puerto Rico. I can hear the salsa music and J-Lo saying "I do" once more. I can smell the beans and rice.
I am alive. We are alive.

At approximately 6:30 A.M., we see our amigo. Alas! We have arrived.

Comrade wastes no time and goes right for the sauce.
So typical of her.

I follow comrade's lead and we raid the liqour cabinet.
You know, smuggled booze goes down easy in early September.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Have You Seen this Con??

On Sept. 11, 2005, at approximately 3:47 P.M., the above individual was seen putting stolen diapers into a U-Haul truck of indeterminable origin. Using high tech surveillance equipment, local authorities were able to zoom in on the aforementioned suspect. He was last seen wearing purple shorts and a gold chain. The chain may have been stolen as well, investigation pending. Eye witnesses are said to have heard the old-school song "Ditty" blaring from stolen stero euipment in back of the U-Haul.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Girls and Booze: Friends to the end

Summer 05 and I'm chillin at a bar with some peeps. Little did I know that on that brisk June night, I would be privy to an episode of drama that only women can cook up. The story:

One of the girls I'm with is waiting in line to use the bathroom. Another girl rolls up and apparently tries to cut in front of her. Being a nice gal (for the time being at least), my friend responded in a congenial manner "I've actually been waiting in line here for a bit". The other girl then responded curtly "Oh, whatever, then just go". Oh shit... girl drama is bouts to go down. My friend starts talkin back and before I know it, it seems like there is going to be a full scale rumble. The shit talking escalated quickly, and it wasn't long before they were all up in each others faces, pointing, hooting, yelling, and head bobbing. Before anything serious went down, though, the girl that was in the bathroom at the time left, at which point my friend went in to use the facilities. She comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later with a huge ass smile on her face. She then proceeds to empty out from her purse 3 rolls of toilet paper and goes "Let's see what that bitch will wipe herself with now.... I got all that bitches toilet paper!!" The fact that girls can be so devious and clever had me in stitches, but the best exchcange was yet to come. When the girl came out of the bathroom, my friend goes "So bitch, what did you wipe yourself with?" The chick responds "Fuck you bitch". Again they're right back in each others faces. Once more, my friend goes "That's fucking nasty bitch, what the hell did you wipe urself with?!" Then the chick puts her hand right up to my friends face and goes "Your looking at it bitch!! Can you smell it?!!" Jesus Christ, where the fuck am I!?! Eventually the 2 parted ways without any one throwin down, and oddly enough, the 2 of them became friends by the end of the night. As another man named Homer once said: "To alcohol! The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems".

Hit Me

Rican, you're holding all the cards in this little game.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Either Shit or Get Off the Pot

Here's your favorite nerd again with one sound piece of advice:

you need to make a move and have it go the distance.

Socially Akward Weatherman

I used to be really shy, so here's a funny story of me trying to break out of my shell:

Freshman year of college, I'm sitting in the cafeteria with some people I don't really know cuz my friend had already left. The peeps are talking about tv channels they like. I had just read a magazine article talking about weather buffs who enjoy watching the weather channel for fun, much like a regular person would watch ESPN or MTV. I figure I'd try and speak up and participate in the conversation, so I gather up all my courage and say in a monotone robotic voice: "Did ... you .... know ... that some people watch the weather channel for fun?" [insert crickets chirping here] And that was it. I didn't expand on what I had said or anything like that. "people watch the weather channel for fun" -- lord have mercy :)

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

People you meet a dance club

If you ever go to a dance club, or a bar with a dance floor, you will inevitably run into a fair number of characters. Here's a rundown:

The Dancer:
The dancer is the girl that goes out to a club to dance, and only dance. She's not interested in hooking up, and the odds are that she has a serious boy friend chilling at home. The dancer usually goes out with a group of female friends. They usually dance together in a circle, forming a protective barrier from unwelcome advances from sleezy men.

The Male Dancer:
This is the male version of the above. This dude goes to a club to get his dance on, but if you watch closely, he's not interested in dancing with any ladies, he's more concerned with trying out his new moves. Techno music will usually get this guy going, and he can often be seen dancing as if he were alone in his room. For some reason, these types of dudes tend to be Asian or white dudes from the burbs. Usually, these guys can be seen popping, c-walkin, break dancing, or doing all sorts of cool interesting moves. For these guys, it truly is all about the music.

The Tease & The Chump:
I put these 2 together because they go hand in hand. Common scenerio: The tease (a female) will be bumpin and grinding with a guy (the chump). The dancing gets pretty hot and heavy and the guy thinks he'll be gettin some play -- after all, this chick is all over him. Many times, the tease and the chump may even start making out on the dance floor, or by the bar perhaps. This only reinforces, in the chumps mind, that he'll be gettin some poontang later on. But then, suddenly, the girl say something like "I'm going to go find my friends now". To the girl, the encounter was just some random fun -- a little dancing, a smooch, but nothing more. The chump, however, is so caught up in getting some play, that he'll spend the entire night looking for that same girl in the hopes that he'll get some hanky panky action. The Chump can very quickly turn into a sleeze.

The Sleeze:
The Sleeze is like a scavenger, stomping around the club in search of a drunk girl to dance with and take home. The sleeze is often drunk and cannot be reasoned with. Telling him to go away will do nothing, and a bouncer may sometimes be necessary to get a sleeze away from a group of girls.

Don Juan:
Don Juan is the dude in the club with a hairy ass chest and a button up shirt that, ironically, isn't quite fully buttoned. If you see this guy, make sure to have some bird food handy as the birds living in his chest hair will greatly appreciate it.

The regular guy:
The regular guy will go to a dance club but won't really shake his thang on the dance floor. He may be shy, nervous, or maybe he just isn't into dancing that much. Either way, his friends will constantly beg him to get on the dance floor and bust a move. Usually, their pleas fall on deaf ears -- but fill up the regular guy with some booze and a packed dance floor, and you may be lucky enough to see some bad dance moves! The plus to being a regular guy is that when you finally get the courage to get out and dance, people will rejoice and celebrate as if you're a cripple who miraculously just learned to walk.

The Fat Trashy Girl:
This girl is usually straight trailer trash. She'll probably have a few tatooes on her arms and neck, including one of her 6 yr old child named 'mookie'. She goes to the club and dances like shes dancing for a doughnut. After years of observing the fat trashy girl in her natural habitat, I still can't figure out what their deal is. Maybe they just like dancing, or maybe they're looking for a baby daddy. Maybe they just are what they are, and shouldn't be labeled as fat or trashy. Too late.

The Short Muscle Man:
These are the dudes that are under 5'7 and are built like fucking tanks. They often wear super tight shirts to accentuate their muscles. These guys apparently are over-compensating for what they perceive to be their lack of height, but what they don't realize is that 215 pounds of muscle on a 5'5 frame looks ridiculous, and if anything, turns women off. These guys are like little square blocks wandering around, and can often be seen drinking water. After all, alcohol isn't good fuel for these men who might as well be called "machines".

The Bartender:
This girl/guy can often be seen hanging out behind the bar, handing out drinks to customers for money.

The dude behind the bar who isn't allowed to serve drinks:
I guess this person is a cup cleaner, or errand boy or something?? He'll often be behind the bar washing glasses. He's not a bartender and isn't legally allowed to get anyone a drink, but drunkards will nonetheless try and get a drink from him. The dude behind the bar, who usually has a towl hanging from his belt, never says a word, but will instead raise his hands up in the air and shake his head, as if to say "Sorry bro, I just clean shit up, I can't serve you booze, sorry".

There are many more types of peeps u see at a dance club, but this is long enough as it is... so loyal readers (including you Mrs. Wiksta!), fill up the comments with ur own observations, generalizations and stereotypes.

eXTReMe Tracker