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.

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

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: Attack of the Zombie Bum

Back when I was a teenager, there were roughly three options for you as a teenager looking to have some fun. You could get high and drunk, find a fuck buddy, or smash the ever loving shit out of stuff. Considering that my dad would literally kill me if I even thought about consuming his beer or…pharmeceuticals, and I didn’t really learn to talk to girls until they were legally drunk at a bar and I was blurry enough to be seen with, I chose to spend my free time breaking shit.

I started out like every other mischievous youth. TP’ing friends houses, egging random cars (and people) and knocking over the occasional port-a-potty. On Halloween we would collect pumpkins, hang out the passenger side of the moving car and smash them into people’s mailboxes, typically sending the box spinning on its axis before finding its final resting place on the lawn. Hell, I think even one time we lifted a couple of toilets from the back of a plumbing house and left them on the front porch of a couple of girls’ house that we knew (complete with TP and reading material). But where most boys got their fill of trouble there, me and my friends were simply dining on the appetizers in preparation of the main course.

We tended to take things a little too far at times. From finding The Tool (more on that some other time), to doing donuts on freshly laid grass of model homes, we quickly escalated our harmless misdemeanors into glorious felonies. We were young, stupid, and unhumbled by what could possibly happen to us. We figured that the authorities would most likely turn us over to our parents, and after serving a brief grounding sentence, we would be reunited for more “smashing,” and other related hijinks.

That is of course, until we met the zombie bum.

Every time the four of us went out (Brian, Tim, Eric and I), we knew we wouldn’t get in trouble. We had been doing this sort of shit for years, and we knew how to hide, where to hide and what to say to any authority figure that may impede our path of destruction temporarily. The problems occurred, once we extended our reach beyond the four. Every now and then our friend Mike would tag along, drop a car battery through a rear car window and the cops would be all over us like flies on shit. Or we would force Chip to throw one rock at a window and a madmen with a god damned shotgun would be chasing us down the hill. In short, bad things happened when others came along.

One night, we found ourselves hanging out with a guy named Steve Roe. Steve was a fun guy, but rarely hung out with us on Friday nights (he chose the “fuck a bunch of girls” option, typically). But he had heard of what did and after successfully stealing two Christmas trees for his house the last time we all hung out, he was game to head out and stir it up.

With no real plan in place, we decided to start the night off by going to the store and picking up some potatoes to throw at cars. There was nothing I liked more than connecting with a side mirror of a Beamer and watching as the potato kersploded into a million pieces…along with the mirror. After a couple of round of potato ball, we figured it was time to grab some crowbars and other assorted melee weapons and hit the new homes that were being built. It was late, we were sober and windows were hung, and soon to be broken.

As we made our way up the hillside, Steve happened to look down and saw something slumped over on the other side of the hill. He stopped and squinted. “Hey, what the hell is that?”

We trekked over to where Steve was, and after a brief discussion, we realized that we were staring at a body.

A dead deer body.

Now, having never really been exposed to dead bodies of any kind out in the wilderness (other than Stand By Me), we weren’t really sure what to do. Well, at least most of us didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t long before Eric picked up a rock and chucked it at the dead animal. And after about 10 seconds of contemplating what the hell he was doing, we all found ourselves doing the exact same thing. The medium size rocks were raining down on this poor innocent deer’s carcass, when all of a sudden, Steve picked up, what can only be described as a mini boulder and waddled to the top of the hill, prepared to heave the mountain at the creature.

“Dude, you are going to destroy that thing.”

Steve responded, “who cares? it is just a dead deer.”

And with that, Steve chucked the rock with all of his might and we watched as the thing tumbled down the hill, chewing up the ground in front of it, and headed straight for the deer. With a loud thud, the rock crashed right into the top of the heap. The only thing that interrupted our laughter was a loud, painful groan that came from the bottom of the hill. We looked down and saw that the dead deer wasn’t exactly dead.

And it also wasn’t exactly a deer.

“Holy shit, it’s a bum! It’s a fucking zombie bum! Run!”

We turned around, and hauled ass back to Eric’s car, the sound of a cursing, angry, drunken bum making his way up the hill after us seemed to make us run faster. It also made us forget that we were on a construction site, filled with all sorts of fun obstacles. Before too long, Steve tripped over a piece of rebar and fell down, Tim turned to laugh at him and ended up in the same predicament. Brian stopped to try to help his twin brother up, but ended up on the ground himself as I pushed him down to get him the fuck out of my way.

Zombie Hobo staking his claim on the park bench

Hey screw them, if the zombie bum was gonna eat us, I figured having at least three of my friends behind me for him to feast on would save my ass. We all made it back to the car, jumped in, and got the hell out of Dodge. Once we were a safe distance away, and had finally started to catch our breath, the silence was broken.

Steve: “Holy shit what the hell just happened?”

Brian: “You just killed someone.”

Me: “Nah, if anything he made him come back to life.”

Eric: “It was so funny when you guys fell.”

Brian: “Sam, did you push me down on the way to the car? Dick.”

Sam: “THERE WAS A ZOMBIE CHASING ME! SORRY I WASN’T CONSIDERATE TO YOUR NEEDS.”

Steve: “Fuck this, why am I hanging out with you guys again? I could be getting laid right now.”

Tim: “I’m pretty sure that bum would F you in the A if you really want to go back…”

Steve: “Screw that shit, take me home.”

we never did find out what happened to the zombie bum. We assume he was fine.

Either that or I just admitted to Manslaughter II and brought four of my friends down with me…

/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 Inadvertent Invasion of the Women’s Room Story

I went to The Bahamas one July in the mid-2000′s on vacation. It should probably go without saying that it was a blast. How could it not be? Hanging on the beach in Paradise, plenty of fruity cocktails to consume and potentially give me diabetes, and of course…Fantasia Barrino playing at the very resort I was staying at!

About halfway through my vacation, I decide, along with my girlfriend at the time, to go to Senor Frogs in town. Along the way, we would walk through the markets and negotiate deals for these piece of crap trinkets that the locals has seemingly spent a ton of time making. While doing so, we turn the corner and are greeted by the biggest black dude I have ever seen. This guy could have picked up Shaq and tossed him in the hoop if he wanted to. That is how big he was.

He greets us with a big smile and gives me a huge hug and asks me how my vacation was going. It was at this point that I remembered that black people love me, so I was in no real danger. After chatting it up with the guy for a couple  of minutes, he whips out this necklace, drapes it around my girl’s neck and asks for a “donation.” Seeing a show the thing was clearly a piece of shit, I really didn’t feel like paying anything for it, but considering how nice (and huge) he was, I decided to give him five dollars.

“More,” he said.

“I’m sorry, what?”, I responded.

“More, give me more.”

The smile was gone at this point. Having been replaced with his best impression of a pimp getting ready to slap his whore for shorting him his money. But not wanting to get my ass kicked, and on the verge of shitting my pants in front of my girlfriend, I ponied up and gave the guy a $20.

He then takes out another necklace and forces it around my neck and sticks his hand out again for money. Having just about enough of this gigantic man’s attitude, I did what any self respecting guy would do in that situation…I gave him another $20 and left with my dignity and self respect abused, but my life intact.

“I think you just got mugged, Sam.”

“I know Michelle.”

“Twice.”

“I KNOW! Shut the fuck up about it. We tell no one,” I responded.

After processing what had happened, we decided to forego the rest of the shopping part of our excursion and hastily made our way to the bar in an effort to drink ourselves back into vacation mode. After perhaps, one too many rum shots and beer, the house DJ grabbed a microphone and decided that tonight they were going to have a white boy dancing contest. And considering I was one of about five total honkys in the place, I knew that I wasn’t going to have a choice in the matter. The spotlight landed on me, and with one more shot thrown down, I made my way on top of the bar to dance my competition off the stage.

As you can see from the video, I handled my business to the tune of second place. I should have gotten first, but the guy who won was about 65, fat, bald and took off all his clothes. And really, when you have all of those odds stacked against you…you settle for second. But I did so well that the owner of the bar came over, congratulated me on being awesome and told me that all the drinks on the front of the bar were taken care of for me.

Now, as generous as that was, my mind immediately wanted to know why the fuck I wasn’t getting free drinks at the back bar as well. And instead of just hanging out and getting snookered in the front, I stormed off to the back to investigate. I was met with a musical trivia challenge that netted me four free drinks before they cut me off from answering anymore.

After pitching a fit, I was offered a challenge of doing a 20 second shot of rum. Not being one to back down from a challenge (unless, you know, a giant black man is robbing me), I threw my head back swallowed the 20 seconds of rum and strutted back to my seat as everyone looked on in amazement. The bartender then threw down the gauntlet and asked if anyone could do a 30 second shot. I immediately raise my hand and am denied.

“Nah man, we know you can do a 30 second shot. If you are gonna come back up here, you have to drink the entire bottle of rum.”

My response? “Fucking fine by me!”

So I stumbled my way back on stage, propped my head into position, and proceeded to drink about a half a handle of rum. Every last drop of it went down the hatch and into the distillery that my stomach had become. People in attendance were equal parts mortified, but undeniably impressed by my alcoholic adventures. I took a small bow, turned left, and walked immediately into the men’s room to throw up.

I opened the door just as the vomit was exiting my mouth. It landed on the mirror, the wall, the garbage can and of course…the floor. And it didn’t stop. My stomach cramped up as I continued chucking rum bombs out of my mouth. Before I was done, just about every square inch of the bathroom was covered, I was bent over, head down and hands on my knees and sweating profusely.

I looked up, now dehydrated as hell, drunker than just about any time in my life and noticed a lady standing in shock by the bathroom stall. Another was pinned up against the adjacent wall, mouth agape and apparently in shock. Needless to say, I was confused.

“Hey ladies, why are you in the men’s room?”

” We aren’t,” said one of them. “You are in the ladies room…throwing up on us.”

I stood upright, straightened up as best I could and then as polite as I could, tipped my imaginary cap to both of them and said, “ladies.” I then turned around, stumbled out of the ladies room, grabbed my girlfriend and told her we had to leave immediately. Naturally confused, she wondered what was going on, and as we waited for our taxi, she finally figured it out.

“You fucking puked all over the women’s room didn’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh God Sam, what the hell?!?!?!”

“I WAS FUCKING MUGGED…TWICE!”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about that.”

“…shut up and get in the cab, I am pretty sure the owner just found out I mouth-shitted everywhere and is headed this way.”

“Shit, I left my necklace on the table,” she said.

“What necklace? The one I just bought for you? Damn it, that was expensive! Cost me 20 bucks”

“Yeah well you just vomited about $120 worth of alcohol back there, so I think we are coming out ahead.”

“God point Michelle…yay vacation! Now can you get this cabbie to pull over? I gotta puke.”

/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 the aftermath. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which far outweigh the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

The Propane Tank Fight (or the most drunk I have ever been)

I was never a big drinker as a teenager. I would have a few beers every now and then, and I seem to recall forcing my older sister to by me some fruity wine coolers and hard lemonades on occasion, but for the most part, my teenage years were spent breaking into construction trucks, unscrewing fire hydrants onto people’s front yards and throwing potatoes through car windows while driving (go ahead and tell the cops, the statute of limitations is up).

But by the time I was 18, I was afraid of going to big boy prison over my tomfoolery so my “boys will be boys,” phase ended abruptly. Stifled by federal and local laws, with no other real outlet in which to express myself until I was 21, I attacked my last coming of age time when it was upon me and compensated for my lack of troublemaking with a ferocity and tenacity for binge drinking that the world has rarely seen. And at my sister’s 25th birthday party, the perfect storm struck, drenching me in a proverbial downpour of an alcoholic monsoon.

The night started innocently enough. Family and friends arrived at my sister’s house. Jokes, appetizers and casual drinks were consumed. More people showed up, more drinks were drank. Jokes became funnier, people became louder and the music, well the music still sucked, but it was Stacy’s birthday so we had to tolerate it. My best friend Justin had come with me, and like the fucking devil on my shoulder that he has always been, kept the beer drinking at an ungodly pace.

At this point, the booze I had bought and brought to the shindig had been devoured, but I was no where near done. Justin and I started pilfering from the house stash. Poaching shots from other friends who were eager to share, and eventually resorting to drinking whatever was left in the cups that others had long since abandoned. Sensing that we were about to enter the land of no return, Justin wisely stopped drinking and evolved back into a functioning human. I however, was trapped inside my own game, much like Jeff Bridges in Tron, with zero chance of returning anytime soon.

I soon forced someone to drive my truck to the nearest liquor store to buy some rum, was promptly kicked out of the store for trying to piss on the potato chip display and forced to wait outside while my friend completed my transaction for me. Once back to my sister’s, Justin informed me that there was another party that he had to go to, but I could tag along if I felt like it. I quickly downed a couple of shots of rum, hastily said goodbye and threw my keys to a now, sober Justin. As we left my sister’s I realized suddenly that I had to piss the Nile River, right then and there.

So I jumped out of the moving vehicle, hauled two truckloads of ass back to my sister’s and walked in like I had never left. After urinating for seemingly three hours, I walked out, grabbed a beer and tried to leave to go back to my truck. My friend Kris stopped me and told me I could only drink the beer if I could down it in three second or less. Knowing full well that it is impossible to chug 12 ounces of beer in three seconds, her face twisted into equal parts horror and impressed as I did it in less than two. I stumbled back to the truck and yelled at Justin for taking so long to piss (even though it was me…) and told him that we were now late for my party (even though that was his…).

Now, I am not going to lie, the remainder of this story is not from my own memory, but was told to me by several eye witnesses as I was entirely too drunk to remember at this point. Facts are hazy the further removed I get from this story, but the following events are true as far as I know, and I have the scars to corroborate.

We arrive at the party, where I know absolutely no one. People are in the back smoking, others are in the living room playing some sort of faggy card game involving alcohol (for the record, I hate booze games. Just give me the bottle and get out of my damn way). and still others are dancing to the music in the back room. Justin does his best to introduce me to his friends, but I side step all of them, walk right up to the drunken card game, where a giant beer stine full of a horrible smelling concoction is brewing inside of it. I grab it off the table, chug the entire thing, slam the stine down and let out a belch that could have caused a tsunami in Japan.

Everyone at the table looked on in amazement until finally someone said, “Uh, that guy just drank 25 ounces of tequila, vodka, rum, and beer. How the fuck is he still alive, let alone standing?” I took a small bow and excused myself outside in search of more goodies that I could scavenge up. Justin is now in full on babysitter mode and follows me out back to make sure I don’t destroy anything or anyone in the process.

He props me up against the side of the house and goes over to talk to his friends and give himself some relief from my drunken shenanigans. About five minutes goes by and he hears me bellowing at someone to, “shut the fuck up, bitch.” After looking around and finding no one that I could possibly be talking to, he comes over and asks who I am talking to. I point in front of me and say, “that piece of shit right there who keeps saying crap about me.” Justin follows my finger until he sets his sights on my nemesis.

Justin: “Uhm, are you talking about the propane tank by the barbecue?”

Me: “I don’t give a fuck what his name is or who he knows, I am knocking his ass out.”

Justin: ” …it’s a propane tank…”

Me: “And he is talking shit.”

I push Justin off to the side and haphazardly try to take a swing at the propane tank. As you can imagine, my less than sober state left me terribly uncoordinated and unbalanced and before I anyone could realize what was happening, I was falling face first, hands at my side and nothing to break my fall…

…except the propane tank, of course.

My forehead connected squarely with the top lip of the tank, splitting my melon and leaving me face down in a gravel pile, surrounded by a substantial (and growing) puddle of my own, alcohol thinned blood. I was carried inside, cleaned up, and passed out sitting upright on the couch.

Propane Tank 1, Sam 0

Two hours later, Justin woke me up and told me that we had to leave so that he could get to his family’s Easter celebration. Having completely forgotten that I was supposed to drive two hours north to my Grandmother’s to hang with family myself, I sprang up off the couch, realized I had no fucking clue where I was and immediately became dizzy to the point where I threw up on the carpet, splashing the poor folks who had decided to sleep there.

I somehow managed to get home, shower and be ready in time for my sister and her boyfriend to pick me up. On the way up to Santa Rosa, I asked them to pull over many times on account of having to puke, but to no avail. Not even a dry heave. It appeared that I was to suffer, much like Jesus had to, when all I wanted to do was be re-born by puking up gallons of booze. Ana alas, in Petaluma, on the side of 101 North, I was treated to seeing a bottle of tequila, half drunken with a cigarette butt floating in it, laying next to a dirty diaper that had been tossed from a car window and the purification process began.

Piles of puke poured out of me. My mouth looked like the levees breaking in New Orleans and there was nothing FEMA could do about it. I spent the next 25 minutes setting a new world record for the most volume of vomit to exit one human being in one breath before returning to the car and declaring for the very first time (but certainly not the last) that I was, “never drinking again.”

/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 the aftermath. 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 Time I accidentally Dated a Dude

When you have been in a relationship for a very long time, you tend to lose touch with the dating game (or at least you should). So when the relationship kersplodes into the pile of crap it inevitably is doomed to be and one is thrust back into the dating scene, it can be quite daunting. Afterall, what the fuck are the rules? Can you simply walk up and grab a girl’s boobs (the answer is no)? Can you buy them drinks until you are blurry enough to go home with (sometimes)? And how do you know when someone is coming on to you, into you or simply just being nice?

All of this and more can lead to some pretty confusing and embarrassing situations if and when you read a situation the wrong way. Luckily for me, I am way too shallow to worry for too long, and typically way to drunk to even remember most dating mishaps.  But every now and then, a misstep is so great, so…momentous, that no booze in the world can erase the brain of it. This is one of those times.

When I lived in San Ramon, California, I would frequent a sports bar in Dublin call “Buffalo Wild Wings,” quite a bit. The beer was cold, the sports were always on and, well, the women were fairly easy. Or at least dressed as such. Over time, I got used to eating and drinking by myself and was actually quite comfortable sitting at the bar and making new friends that I loved by the end of the night (on account of being a happy drunk), and couldn’t give two shits about in the morning (on account of being an angry sober). Life, at that moment, was pretty fun.

Then, one night, I happened to be seated at the bar watching an NBA game, when a guy about my age asked if the seat next to me was taken. Knowing that there were a few other places available at the bar that weren’t practically on my lap, I decided to take the high road and not tell him to fuck off. As he sat there and ordered whatever drink he ordered, he started to ask me about the game. I let him know the score as well as the overall flow of it and he was surprisingly up to speed with his sports knowledge.

NOT actual footage of my man dates

Read more »

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 the aftermath. 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 Time I Broke My Ass

As a long time Miami Dolphins fan, and a child from the internet age, it was only a matter of time before my angst as a football fan spilled out to the world wide web. Right around the turn of the century, I stumbled upon a small internet fansite where fellow “Dol-phans,” (yes this is what we are called, no, not all of us are fanny bandits) got together to discuss our favorite franchise.

Over time, the constant bitching, bellyaching and mutual admiration of fart jokes developed into bona fide friendships between a few members. The only problem of course, was that most of us were spread out across the country and had certainly never met in person. This all changed about five years ago when I got on a plane and started meeting the weirdos on the other side of the computer monitor. Much to my surprise (and relief) none of them tried to ”F me in the A,” and the trips turned into annual affairs. IT was on one of these trips when I broke my ass.

Literally.

We were in East Hanover, New Jersey having drinks at a Miami Dolphins themed bar, conveniently named Miami Mike’s. As the hours rolled by and the pitchers of beers were drank, the owner decided that our merry band of idiots had had enough and told us to leave. On our way out, I struck a deal with him and was able to finagle a pitcher of Blue Moon to take back to my hotel room. Maybe I was supposed to share it with the rest of the group, but if so, I didn’t get that memo because I tossed the pint glass in the garbage and started drinking the nectar straight from the source.

After briefly going back my hotel room to grab a jacket, I found myself in my friend’s hotel room, guarding my pitcher of beer like I was Frodo and it was the ring. As the night turned into the morning, and I had exhausted sexting every person in my phone, I turned my attention to the window. I had, at this point, drunk my weight in beer and was starting to burn up. And hyper focusing on the window wasn’t helping any. It was like when people tell you not to think about sex so in response, you immediately have to masturbate…

What? Is that just me?

Anyhow, I mosied over to the window and opened it as wide as I could. Once I realized that the window could be opened like an actual window with no safety stop like most hotel windows have, the drunken light went off in my head. While still holding my pitcher of Blue Moon in my hand, I climbed up into the sill and crouched. My friends were so wrapped up in whatever bullshit drunken conversation they were having at the time, that they hadn’t even noticed that I was now, pretty much not even in the room anymore.

And it was at this time that I decided that the mood needed a little bot of dark humor. I spoke loudly, calling for everyone’s attention, and when all eyes were on me, I stated that I couldn’t take it anymore and promptly leapt from the window out into the cold, New Jersey air. Now the humor of course, was that I was pretending to off myself in a drunken fit by jumping out of a first story hotel window, where, at best, I would be three feet off the ground.

Moments before I cracked my crack

Except it wasn’t a three foot drop.

It was closer to 15.

What I had failed to account for was that directly outside of this hotel room, despite being on the first floor, was a parking lot that dropped down about 10 feet in the back of the hotel as opposed to the front. Naturally, this room happened to be right where that drop took place.

The whole process took less than two seconds, but I remember vividly realizing that I had made a mistake and that my legs are now completely straight and extended with no bend to help absorb the shock. My feet hit the pavement, they shot out in front of me, and I landed with full force directly on my ass where, as I hit, a very loud and very audible “crack.” was heard.

I looked down and was amazed that not only had I successfully broken my tailbone, but did so with a half  a pitcher of Blue Moon in my hand and nary a drop spilled. Luckily I was so sloshed by this point that the pain receptors in my ass weren’t firing on all cylinders. Nonetheless, I knew I was going to be in for a world of hurt once the buzz wore off. So I picked myself up, took one last swig of beer before tossing the pitcher, and dragged my busted ass back to my room.

It was at this moment that my broken drunk ass turned into the greatest cock block as well. I was sharing a room with my buddy White Snake and, unbeknownst to me, he had met a girl in the bar earlier and somehow convinced her to come back to the room with him. I guess he didn’t account on me breaking my ass and coming back to the room early because as I opened the door, all I saw was a woman, old enough to be his mom, go streaking past me into the bathroom to put her clothes back on. By this point, I was not in a pleasant mood and I muttered, “nice bush,” as she went by. After calling me an asshole, she got dressed took off and was never heard from again.

White Snake was clearly pissed but the subject was tabled once he found out I busted my anal hymen jumping out of essentially, a second story window. After suffering through a myriad of poor puns and lame jokes, I finally got fed up and broached the subject of his lady friend’s grooming habits and that, if you were to describe her in terms of a baseball field, she would have been Wrigley. But seeing as how every time I laughed now made my ass hurt to the point where I was afraid I was gonna poo blood, we decided to call it a night.

The next morning, we said our goodbyes, I took a bumpiest cab ride ever back to the airport, and proceeded to take the most turbulent flight of my life all the way back to California. A flight which, by the way, forced me to have to ask for a hemorrhoid pillow to sit on since my rectum bone was on fire.

I didn’t shit right for a month.

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 the aftermath. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which far outweigh the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

The Hotel Toilet Affair

A few years ago I had to take a day trip up to Fort Bragg, California. Not wanting to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to drive four hours there, work all day and drive four hours back, I decided to split the difference and leave the night before, spending the night in Santa Rosa. This was actually quite convenient since I had business to tend to the day before in Santa Rosa anyway, and my good friend and co-worker Mike happened to live there as well.

So I made my way up to wine country, worked until I got bored and made plans with Mike and his wife to grab dinner and drinks that night. I told them to swing by my hotel and pick me up after work. The plan was to get an early meal, maybe a drink or two and get to bed since I still had a decent little drive in front of me in the morning.

Now, I have a weird check in procedure when I am on the road for work. I always check in, get my room key, and immediately go into the room to check everything out before I even go to the car to get my luggage. I don’t know why I do this, I just do. Maybe I have OCD or really want to make sure there aren’t any zombies, vampires or mothmen in the room. The point is, this trip was no different. I got my key. I went to the room. And checked for boogeymen.

Except this time it dropped. And by it, I mean the 15 pounds of dump that gravity pulled from my intestine, directly into my colon. The insta-shits were here, and they were not going to leave me alone until I allowed them the proper attention. I immediately booked it to the bathroom, plopped my ass on the toilet and let ‘er rip.

The recoil was fierce. Without going into too much detail, I have seen modern day battlefields that looked less frightening than the inside of this commode once I was through. I am not sure what I ate for lunch in July of 1994, but it was finally coming out close to 15 years later. That is how bad it was.

Anyhow, I finished, wiped my ass and cleaned myself up. All that was left to do was to flush and bask in the glory of losing 13 pounds instantly. I pulled on the handle and waited for the toilet to do its familiar routine of swirling and sucking. Except it didn’t swirl and suck.

In fact, it swirled and burped. Much to my chagrin, the toilet wouldn’t flush and as the poo water level rose, I started to panic. I tried flushing again, but no go. The poo stew was just sitting there. Mocking me. Refusing to hide my shame. It demanded that I tell someone with authority at this hotel what I had done. The Telltale Heart for modern times. The Telltale Shit, if you will.

In hindsight, the smart play would have been to walk right back to the front desk, acting all offended, and demand a new room since this one had a jumbo piece of hemp rope sticking out of the crapper. Afterall, I had been in the room for a grand total of 10 minutes so it would have been completely plausible. But hindsight is exactly that, hindsight. And I wasn’t sharp enough to think of this.

Instead, I hastily slammed the lid on the toilet shut and left to meet Mike and his wife out front. The shit in question was still on my mind as we ate dinner, but I dare not speak its name. I simply brushed it aside as we sucked down a pitcher of Great White beer and moved our party on to the pool hall. We were feeling good and at this point, I decided to tell my good night’s sleep to fuck off. After three more pitchers of beer and an awful attempt at playing pool, Mike dropped me back off at my hotel. I bid them adieu and stumbled back to my room feeling about 75% numb.

My crowning achievement

I opened the door and immediately collapse on the bed. I slept until about three in the morning when I am awakened by my kidneys and bladder telling me how pissed off they are at me for being filled with piss. I hobbled into the bathroom, kick open the lid with my foot and am immediately met with, what can only be described as a murder scene that rivaled any Freddy Krueger movie with the stench of about 3,000 bums after a gang bang. After holding back vomit and tears simultaneously, I aimed, fired and added about 3 quarts of beer urine to the concoction. I immediately flushed upon finishing, thinking that the time spent in the bowl, would have softened the poo to a manageable sludge that the industrial type toilet could handle.

I was wrong.

I have never been more wrong my life about anything.

Ever.

I watched in equal parts amazement and horror as the toxic soup rose and stopped right at the brim of overflowing. As it came to an unstable stop at the cusp, I slowly lowered the lid on my shame, washed up, and went to bed. Surely by morning this matter would be resolved. 

I was wrong.

Again.

When my alarm goes off at 6 in the morning, I realize that, not only do I have to take a massive dump, but that toilet has been sitting, clogged with my feces, urine and toilet paper, all night. Naturally it smelled like Baghdad and looked like death. and I couldn’t sit on the fucking thing because it was still too full and I didn’t want my ass touching the stuff that came out of it. So like a good child from the 1980′s, I took hold of my surroundings and MacGuyvered it.

I propped on leg up on the sink that was directly to the right of the toilet, and the other on the bathtub wall and popped a Spiderman squat above the cesspool I created. And as I concentrated on not falling into the abyss, while trying not laugh at the absurdity of the situation, I bellowed, “DEATH FROM ABOVE!” and dropped my payload.

The fallout was amazing. Truly a thing of beauty. After finishing my shameful deed. I showered, tiptoed out of what now was an overflowing pot of waste, and packed my stuff away. As I started to walk out of the hotel room, I stopped, looked at the bathroom and an awful thought creeped into my head. A evil, Mr. Grinch like smile sprawled out across my face as I walked back into the bathroom, kicked the lever with my shoe and hauled ass out of the room, leaving an overflowing river of Sam in my wake.

Feeling quite emboldened by my mischief. I sat in calm silence while I treated myself to their continental breakfast and free copy of the USA Today. As I walked to the front desk to check out, I happened to take a gander down the hall and caught my eye on the cleaning staff. The poor lady must have been in her 60′s and appeared to be working hard. She had no idea what was in store for her in approximately 10 minutes when she got to my room.

I checked out, told them that I did, in fact, enjoy my stay and might even fill out the online survey they would send to me. And as they wished me a happy friday on my way out, I couldn’t resist. I turned, and told the lady, “Oh by the way, I took a MASSIVE dump in the toilet. Clogged that thing until it flatlined. You may want to call for backup. Have a great friday yourself!”

I never got sent the online survey.

Again, not my proudest moment.

Tigerclaw