Lame Excuses and Tastiest Burger in Town

Okay… so I’ve been a little irresponsible with my writing habits lately. For those of you that care (assuming, of course, that there are any) I’m sorry. Between finishing up school and moving to San Diego, I found myself absolutely swimming in time. I also found it extraordinarily difficult to do anything when I could just as easily do nothing. For the record, I did become rather expert at doing nothing. After a few weeks of not writing, the flow of ideas started slowing and every time I attempted to write anything, the product was reminiscent of Britney Spears’ acting career. You know, when it looks like a movie, it sounds like a movie, but sweet Jesus in heaven is it awful to sit through.

So, here’s my wild stab at writing again… I try my best not to just share stories about the silly jazz I get myself into. Instead, I do what I can to fit some of my experiences and observations into the grander perspective of—what I call—“Average Guy-osophy”. Sadly, I can find very little moral in this story besides: Everybody does stupid shit when they get drunk. Sorry.

A couple months ago, I was conned into being a groomsman in my cousin’s wedding. Repeated and emphatic philosophical (and thereby moral) objections fell on deaf Nicaraguan ears as I was told that, even though I find marriage, uh, stupid, I would be going to the wedding. “Fine!” I rebutted, arms folded, head wagging, all in the most mature of fashions.

Before the smirk could even develop on my face, my mom added, “And if you even THINK about contorting your face for pictures or passing gas during the ceremony, I will kill you with my own hands.”

It was a reasonable enough point she brought up. If nothing else, it proved my parents hadn’t totally gotten over what the modern news media would probably call “Uncle Tito’s Funeralgate”. To be fair, there’s no way I could have known that adamantly blaming flatulence on a corpse would be considered “inappropriate”.

After further disappointment about having to pay for my own tuxedo, I was a groomsman, and quite the dapper one at that. The wedding went fine; I behaved myself. The couple observations I made about the huge, beautiful church I kept to myself. But, I’ll share them with you, my trusted friends.

1) At the back of the church there was a small glass door on the wall that looked like it should have housed a fire extinguisher. Upon further inspection, I found a rusting faucet with a wooden sign above it that read “Holy Water”. I wondered whether or not the Department of Water and Power had Holy Water mains running throughout the city and if perhaps the faucet itself had sinned (what with it rusting and all). It also occurred to me that Vatican scientists should invent a Holy Fire Extinguisher to serve the dual purposes of putting out church fires (although, theoretically there should never be any) and for more effective abortion clinic protests.
2) The men’s room in the church was in need of renovation; however, it would more than serve its purpose. As I was making use of the facilities, it occurred to me that I’ve always been a little uncomfortable and awkward about making poopy at friends’ and relatives’ houses… shouldn’t I then feel doubly, or even triply awkward at making poopy in the house of almighty God? While I’m on it (the subject, not the potty), rectories are like the more enlightened cousin of the restroom. It’s a small box in which you’re supposed to sit uncomfortably close to the guy in the next stall. When you leave, you feel relieved of a burden. I don’t know about you, but I’ve commonly heard the expression “Oh God!” when passing by toilets and rectories alike, although the intonations are different. Near the rectories, people say “Oh God!” as if cuddling up in the soft skinned hands of Mother Comfort. Near the men’s room “Oh God!” sounds more like a guy whose bum is exploding. Anyway, as I was using God’s toilet, I wished desperately that I had a marker and even more desperately that I could write in Aramaic so that, henceforth, generations of Catholic men could read “Remember to wash your hands –Jesus” in between prayers.

After the wedding, I met up with a friend of mine that was making a stop in LA on his drive cross-country. I decided to make an appearance at the reception for an hour or so, just long enough to get just minor frowns from my family. Yup, I was only gonna stay a little while, be sociable and leave with my friend to have real fun in Hollywood or something. It wasn’t until I was helping load the left over beer into my cousin’s truck that I realized we were the last people to leave.

It was 12:30 and—despite being unreasonably intoxicated—the night was far, far from over.

On our drive to the highway (as a public service announcement: my friend was the designated driver. That was really the only responsible thing I did all night) we saw a charming establishment called “Girls! Girls! Girls!” Without actually speaking to each other, we found ourselves parking right in front and walking directly to two seats at the stage. I conveniently had a sizeable stack of one dollar bills in my pockets and casually set them on the table in front of me. There were hardly any “patrons” in this “bar” so it was fairly easy to converse with the “dancers”.

SIDERBAR: I used to be such a nice boy…
While I don’t frequent strip clubs, I’ve been to one or two in my day. I’ve always been fairly cordial to the girls and keep both my cash and my hands thrust firmly in my pockets. My friend later reported to me some of the things I said:
—With stack of ones in hand, “Hey doll, what’s the etiquette on this?”
“You have to put it on the stage.”
“Oh yeah?” I let a dollar bill float off my hand onto the stage… it was really more like fling.
“Just one dollar?”
“Uhhh… yeah. For now.”
—“Hey, baby, what’s your name?”
“Luscious.”
“Yeah? How do you spell that?”
—“Hey, do something special for me and my friend”
(she does)
“That’s right! Earn your money!”

The only other person sitting at the stage was right next to my friend. She looked like a really dark, 35 year old Macy Gray with straight, black hair.

Yeah, I’m making the same facial expression.

This woman was getting raw with the “dancers”. My comments were kindergarten compared to some of the things she was saying and doing. For example, I didn’t know that you could slap a stripper hard on her bum and say “Yeeeeaaaaaah, bitch! Shake that shit” without suffering the indignant stares of other patrons whose genteel sensibilities had been offended. I continually elbowed my friend to encourage him to talk to her, but gave up after a few minutes and had him switch seats with me.

It’s important to point out that I was drunk silly at this particular juncture. While I take responsibility for my actions, my body was on some kind of debaucherous auto-pilot. More accurately, my body was like heat-seeking missile, except instead of heat, it was seeking naughties. I leaned over to her and softly say in her ear, “So… come here often?” (This guy = professional).
Without looking at me, “Ooooh yeah. C’mon, girl. Hit dat! Hit dat!”
“What’s your name?”
Still not looking at me, “Tanya,” (pronounced “Taaawn-yuh”).

A fight broke out behind us, but we only glanced over for a second before our attention was focused back on the girl dancing… deservedly. Tanya and I made small talk about the skill and attributes of Heavenly, the girl on stage, before the bar started to close down and we made our way outside. Tanya mentioned needing to get a taxi home and I said my friend had a car. The back seat being filled with my buddy’s personal effects, the three of us had to sit in the front seat. She was partly sitting on me and had her head resting on Chris. We had a delightful conversation in which she told us about being bisexual and having the “da bes pussy in alla LA! You cain’t find no better nowhere!” I wondered if that had become a new event at the county fair. What color ribbon do you get for having the best in… ummm… THAT category. Pink would be my guess, heh heh heh, bang bang.

It wasn’t long before Tanya told us about her nipple’s being pierced. More so than telling us, she exposed her right booby to prove that, in fact, she had at least one of them pierced. I instinctually (an instinct that I got from the ferret side of my family) grabbed the shiny ring and gave it a jiggle, exclaiming, “Hey, bro, get a load of this!”

“That there… that there sure is a nipple ring, miss.” I don’t blame him… what the hell was he supposed to say?

“Ooooohhh, you lookin’ like you want some pussy tonight.” It wasn’t until then that I noticed my hand had been “gently” “caressing” her bum the entire car ride.

“Yeah, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Well, I’ll fuck ya. But, I gotsta get a new transmission. You wanna give me $190 to fix my transmission.” I’ll remind you that not twelve hours before I was in a church.

I expressed some reluctance for giving her money for sex and she kindly reminded me of her coveted blue, uh, pink ribbon (only in somewhat vulgar terms). As we were driving, we passed a Jack in the Box and she asked (or demanded) that we swing into the drive-through. “Yeah, I’ll have a Ciabatta (it’s pronounced “Che-bot-ah”, but she said “Chia-bat-ah”) burger… oooh wit bacon. And large fries. And a lemonade.” At some point, it was also made abundantly clear that she wasn’t paying for it… oh, I remember, it was when she turned to me and said “he said it’s gon be 5.75.”

When we got to the window, she yelped, put her finger in her mouth and said “Oooooohhh, I got da sweet touf. I got da sweet touf. Can I get a cheesecake? Hey! Hey! Put a cheesecake on dat order. Is dat okay? If I get a cheesecake?”

“Ummmmm…” What am I doing with my life?

We got to her apartment complex in a neighborhood that would never be seen in an issue of Home and Garden Magazine. She hopped out and walked towards her gate. I told my friend to stick around for a couple minutes because there was potential for something hilarious to happen. Yup… gonorrhea is a riot!

I followed her to her apartment only to find two “urban” black guys standing right inside the door. “Clyde! What in heavens are you doing here still, compatriot?” (only those weren’t necessarily the words she used). They excused themselves into a back room and left me with someone who I came to find out is her 32 year old nephew/roommate wearing an oversized Detroit Pistons jersey. “This is going to be trouble,” I thought to myself, “After all, it’s two in the morning, I have no way of contacting my friend, he wouldn’t know how to find me and I’m a Lakers fan.”

I have a very bad habit of picking up accents when there isn’t a neutral accent around. Cousin Tim (Tee-im) and I had a conversation in which I found myself saying “Dog”, “Crunk”, “Up in this bitch” and “Dat’s the hotness” more often than ever before in my life. He explains to me that Clyde is his uncle, Tanya his “untee” and that there had been some dispute over whether Clyde should have to pay for the couple nights he spent at their apartment. I’m glad he cleared that up, because all I gathered from the yelling behind the closed door was: “When you gonna give me my money?!”

Cousin Tim and I have a pleasant conversation in his living room furnished only with a large TV and the classifieds open in the middle of the floor. He explained to me that it’s perfectly okay for his “un-tee” to bring back dudes, because “she a grown-ass woman” and he’s not going to tell her what to do. He also told me that he wants to go back to school to study engineering. I reply, “Yeah, dog, engi-nehr-in’. I mean, whateva, bruh-vah… you gotta make dat pay-pa!” Uh-huh, I’m still in the tuxedo.

Tanya came out at that point and, in front of her relatives, grabbed me by the lapel, kissed me on the “mouf” and asked gingerly, “So you gonna give me dat money?”

“Haha… no.”

“Well, you want my numbah or somethin’?”

“Nope.” I walked quickly towards the door with Tanya a few steps behind me. I noticed the Jack in the Box bags and immediately grabbed them.

“Boy, whatchu doin’?” she reached for the bags, but I managed to snatch them away, “Dat’s my food!”

“Nah, baby, this here’s MY food. I paid for it.” I bolted out of the door and damn near fell down the stairs. I never looked back, but I’d give both of my pinky toes to hear the conversation in that apartment after I left. I found my friend driving by as I was sprinting towards the street. He had already resigned himself to my brutal murder and was just about to drive himself back to my house to explain to my parents how I died in Los Angeles.

I could hardly tell him what happened because I was too busy loudly devouring my victory Chia-bat-ah burger with bacon...it won my pink ribbon that night.

I used to be such a nice boy.

That’s all.