Fear the Tigerclaw

Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

Not My Proudest Moment: The Subtle Mugging Skills of a City Hobo

Back when I was in high school, I was admittedly a certified asshole. My senior year, I was voted most sarcastic. The yearbook committee ended up spending an entire role of film trying to capture a picture where I wasn’t flipping them off. I, along with my friends, would go out at night and steal street signs, break windows (both in cars and houses alike), tear up people’s lawns and other asshole-ish behavior that middle class white kids partake in. I was better than everyone else, and I knew it.

One day, I took BART into the city with some friends to go get ourselves into some trouble across the bridge. After emerging from the underground platforms, I was immediately accosted by a bum. A dirty, stinky, bum.

“Gimme a sandwich,” the bum said.

“What?” I replied.

“I said gimme a sandwich, I’m hungry

“Fuck you hobo. Give ME a sandwich. I’m hungry too.”

After our brief encounter, the bum, having lived this way for a very long time, realized he had nothing coming out of me and turned around, muttering to himself as he sought out another mark. As for me, having NOT loved my life for a long time, wasn’t ready to let it go. So I did what most teenaged assholes would do. I bought a sandwich.

For me.

I walked right back up to this homeless person and proceeded to eat the sandwich in front of him. I made a show of it too. Mouth open, food falling out and letting out moans of pleasure like I was Jenna Jameson at an all boys school. The hobo stood there the entire time, not saying a word with his mouth, but telling me a novel with his eyes.

He hated everything about me, and I loved it.

After finishing about half of my sandwich, I simply announced that I was no long hungry, looked at this poor guy, and threw the leftovers into the gutter, stepping on it with my boots as I walked away to catch up to my friends. Apparently this move was so dickish that my own, equally shitty friends were disgusted and weren’t shy in telling me how they felt. It got to a point where I felt the need to prove how un-dickheaded I truly was, in order to satisfy the criticisms of these fellow, penile craniumed chums of mine.

Later that night, on our walk back to BART, we happened to stumble across more homeless people. Figuring that this was my chance to redeem myself, I quickly scanned the area to find the coldest, sickliest bum I could find. Once I spotted him, I crossed the street, took off my jacket, and offered it to the dirty gentlemen. He accepted with a confirming grunt and I hastily hiked back to my friends to bask in the glory of doing my good deed for the month. We got back to BART and I reached in my back pocket for my wallet to get my ticket. Except it wasn’t there. Or in the other back pocket. Then is dawned on me. My wallet was in my jacket pocket that I had given to the shit bum.

“Guys, I gotta go back and find that bum. My wallet is in the jacket I gave him.”

We ran back to the street where the homeless guy was, and thankfully (since he had no home to go to), he was still there. He had already put my old jacket on and was looking quite warm in my garb.

“Hey man. Remember me? I just gave you that jacket about 10 minutes ago.”

I miss my old jacket. It tied any outfit together, including the shitty butthole hanging out look

“I’ve had this jacket for years!” He said.

Uhm, sure. Listen, I need it back.”

“It’s mine! You can’t have it!

“I don’t want the jacket back to keep. I just need to get my wallet out of the pocket that I forgot was in there.”

“It’s my wallet!” he said as he reached into the pocket, clearly unaware that the wallet existed up until this point.

“Dude, just give me my wallet. Keep the jacket. I just want to go home.”

And with that, the shit bum opened my wallet, rifled through everything and took out all of the cash. All without breaking eye contact. And when he was done, he stood up and walked away. Dumping my wallet, sans the cash, into the gutter as he left. Now, I am not sure that this guy saw what I did to his fellow street neighbor earlier in the day with the sandwich, but if he had, he played this hand of human poker perfectly. I grabbed my wallet and walked back to my friends, muttering to myself at what had just happened.

“Did that guy just take all of your money?”

“Yes.”

“How much did you have in there?”

“I don’t know, about 60 bucks?”

“Damn. You just got mugged by a diseased, elderly bum and didn’t even know it.”

“I suppose I did. This sucks, lets get back home and smash some mailboxes in. It is the only thing that will make me feel better.”

/Tigerclaw

Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

The Impromptu Waterbed Part 2

As  I came to the realization the my threesome was now deader than JFK in Texas, I turned my attention to being a drunken voyeur. Meaning that the girl that was now sucking down beers like they were Otter Pops on a hot day and the two idiot guy friends that cockblocked me were now my entertainment. It wasn’t how I envisioned my night, but it would have to do, all things considered.

So as the girl got more drunk, and the guys realized what they had done, the night started to wind down. Eventually the two guys took off, leaving me and “Drunky Brewster,” to polish off the 60 beers that made their way into my apartment that night. Once that was done, my old man genes kicked in and I informed the girl that I was going to bed and that if she was too drunk to drive home, that there was a perfectly comfortable couch with her name on it (this is a total lie as the couch was anything but comfortable and was inherited when another girl said I could have it if I had sex with her on it…which is a different story for a different time). I gave the girl a pair of my pants to change into, wished her a good nights sleep, and went to bed. Not more than ten minutes went by before my bedroom was flooded with the familiar yellow light of my living room, and a small, drunken voice pierced the silence.

“Can’t I just sleep in the bed with you,” she asked.

“Fine,” I said. “But I am putting pillows in between us and you better stay on your side.”

And with that, I passed out in a drunken haze, waiting for my Sunday morning hangover that would be sure to kick me in the nuts shortly. The sexy time may have failed, but the night wasn’t a total waste as I saw old friends, drank tons of beer and would be able to wake tomorrow with a nice headache to remember everything by.  Life wasn’t so bad afterall.

And then it happened.

By it, of course I mean my worst nightmare. A few hours after setting up my bed to accommodate two friends who drunkenly passed out next to each other, I was awakened out of a deep sleep suddenly to find that my bed was wet. Very wet. In fact, it was hella wet. Way to wet for a fucking bed. I immediately realized that I had pissed the bed. I start to panic as I become aware that there is a female friend right next to me who will eventually wake up, and discover that she is drowning in my urine.  Until I touch my own junk and figure out that I am dry. Needless to say, I am confused and confounded by this. How can this be? I am dry as a 78 year old woman, yet the bed is flooded and reeks of tinkle. The only other way this could be is if…no.

Impossible.

Can it be?

I move my hand into a huge puddle of pee and start to track the piss trail with my hands. I work my hands, one over the other until I am literally gripping my friend;s vagina like a bowling ball. A bowling ball that was dropped into a swimming pool.

As the realization of her pissing into my bed starts to set in, my flight response kicks in and I immediately jump out of the bed, flip on the light and stare at the disaster scene in front of me. As I stare at my friend who has soiled my comfy bed, I realize that she is also drooling all over the pillows that segregated us.

She is leaking out of every hole.

Before too long, I rip all of the sheets and blankets off of the bed, throw them in the wash, along with the clothes I was wearing and hop in the shower. I rocked back in forth, fighting off the stages of denial like a rape victim before finally getting out, toweling off and assessing the situation at hand.

I progress from the denial stage of grief to anger. I cuss my friend out, calling her a pig that deserves to wallow in her own pig filth. This doesn’t last long though as I remember that not only is this my bed, but it is fucking comfortable as all hell, and is worth being salvaged. Since everything else was in the wash, and I was pretty sure that no more bodily fluids were able to escape this girl’s body, I decided to be a nice guy and wash my own pants that I had given her to sleep in.

Now, I should point out that I tried MULTIPLE times to wake this bitch up. I tried yelling at her, shaking her violently and even throwing a couple of pairs of socks at her head. All to no avail. So as I pull my pants off of her, when does she decide to wake up? You guessed it, right when the pants are around her ankles.

“What are you doing to me?”, she asked.

Thinking quickly, I responded with, “Don’t worry about it.”

She shrugged her shoulders, fell back into a state of unconsciousness and I moved her to my couch.

Now, having suffered through this chick pissing in my bed, I was now forced to not only shower and do a load of laundry at three in the morning, but to wet vac my mattress as well. Needless to say, my neighbors must have though I was some sort of uber speed freak. all of this, while also keeping a watchful eye on Piss Queen, in hopes that she didn’t ruin another piece of furniture.

As I sat there, watching my urine friend sleeping as if she had done nothing wrong, depriving myself of sleep, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was some sort of cosmic karma for some of the shit I had done in my life. But before I could fully come to grips of what this event really meant to me, she woke up. Confused as to why she was now back on the couch and having no recollection of what had happened the night before, I didnt’t have the heart to tell her what she had done to my amazing bed.

Like a real man, I kept this secret to myself. At least until later that day when she left and I went to her work and told all of her co-workers…like a real man.

/Tigerclaw

Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

Not My Proudest Moment: The Impromptu Waterbed part 1

A while back, I was living in San Ramon, CA. Freshly single and finally having fun with it. I had carved out a nice little niche of befriending, and ultimately sexing with various waitresses, bartenders and other women in the service industry. As an admittedly, not great looking guy with a pretty fantastic personality, I found that sitting at a restaurant table, or bellying up to a bar worked to my advantage more than flailing around like some spastic cokehead at a nightclub where girl’s were forced to simply judge me on looks as opposed to how I could make them laugh.  But just like everything else in life, being successful at something, typically leads to you trying to garner more success. Sometimes unattainable successes.

One waitress in particular was never my type. She was younger than me, had big boobs (I have never been a boob guy) and was blonde (despite my dating history, I swear I am more attracted to girls with darker features as opposed to Hitler’s youth). Despite her obvious flaws, I couldn’t shake the sensation that, well…I really wanted to have sex with her. I also wanted to have sex with one of her co-workers. And having sex with one, would negate me having sex with the other. Did I forget to mention that they were best friends? Because they were. So even though I really, really wanted to, I figured it wouldn’t happen with either one, swiftly placed both into the “friend” category and moved on with my life.

Then something odd happened.

One night, out of the blue, the two girls approached me about having a “slumber party” at my place one weekend. Once they got off of work, they wanted to come over, drink at my place and sleep over. Before they could finish their plan, I was already grinning a diabolical grin like The Grinch hatching his plan to steal Christmas while simultaneously evicting them from the “friend” category, right smack dab into the middle of Bang City, USA.

this was, in fact, the marquee at my apartment that night

That entire Saturday was glorious. I vacuumed the carpet, I vacuumed the couches, hell, I am pretty sure I vacuumed myself. I went to the store and bought the finest 30 pack of Coors Light I could find, purchased replacement Glade Plug-Ins to make my apartment smell less like a bachelor was living there, and even sprung for the fancy condoms that actually do what they say they are going to do. Needless to say, I was prepared. I was like a sexual boy scout who was about to earn his menage a trois badge. Life was great. Nothing could knock me off of the ninth cloud I was riding.

Or so I thought.

There was a knock at the door in the mid-evening. This was odd for two reasons. First off, it was way too early for the girls to be off work, and secondly, they never knocked. I would leave the door unlocked and people would simply walk in, hang out and leave at their leisure. It was a system. A system that was working nicely. And out of no where, this jarring knocking sound was throwing me off of my life equilibrium. Putting that thought aside however, I stupidly figured that the girls were too excited to get our sex party started, got their shifts covered and came straight over to my place.

No.

In fact, the two people staring at me when I opened the door were not the girls. They weren’t girls at all. They were guys. Guys I haven’t seen in years, possibly even a decade. I must have had a look on my face like someone had farted in church because both apologized for stopping by unexpectedly, but saw on my Facebook that I was staying in for the night, and figured they would come over and hang out with me. While a nice gesture, and one I would normally embrace. This simply could not happen on my big not. I refuse to let these two assholes screw up my sexy time. But when they flashed a 30 pack of Coors Light that they brought with them as well, I stepped aside and let them come on in.

“You guys can’t stay long,” I said.

“Why not?” They asked.

“Because I sort of have a couple of girls coming over later and it might be weird that two unannounced dudes happen to be here as well.”

“Oh okay, well just tell us when we need to go.”

“How about now?”

We all laugh at my funny (but totally serious) joke and crack open a beer. One beer leads to three, which leads to five and before I know it, the front door is opening with the familiar feminine sounds of the girls talking and getting ready to make a stupid joke about me that I would have to laugh at (as a general rule, women aren’t funny…sorry, you aren’t). Their joke was cut off as soon as they see that there are other dudes in the room. They try their best to be polite, but you could barely take a breath before they wer eon their phones, scrambling ot make other plans.

Snake eyes.

The threesome was busted. The girls soon left, admitting on their way out that they were not expecting other people to be there and that maybe some other time we would have our party (we never did, for the record). I stormed back up my stairs to my second story dwelling, fully prepared to kick the shit out of my friends. As I reached the threshold, I was perplexed to see yet another girl sitting in my place, making friends with the boys.

I knew who this girl was. I had history with this girl. And when she drank, she got insanely drunk. She took one look around the room, decided that she needed to play catch up with us guys, and immediately started pounding beers, taking shots of vodka and stumbling around my place like, well… a drunken girl.

“This cannot end well,” I thought…

to be continued…

/Tigerclaw