I Could Fuck Up A Wet Dream

Although I love to brag about my sexual conquests (of which there are a few of the monumental variety), I have had many, many more failed attempts to mount, summit or penetrate objects of my sexual desire. This weekend was no different. I was poon party pwn3d!

What I'm not trying to say is that my weekend was somehow not a great time. It was, in fact, quite awesome. We snuck into the Cat-Griz game (35-3 Griz...w00t) by buying a few scalped tickets and then doing the pass the stub, lick your hand and smudge the stamp. It was reminiscent of being young and drunk while committing acts of random tomfoolery. Mostly because we are still young, were quite drunk and our shenanigans were verging on tomfoolery.

We finished the Griz game at the Holiday Inn bar and then stuck around for some more drinks and "Missoula's best bratwurst", which was in fact the best bratwurst I have ever eaten. Laughter ensued and we were ready to go out and hit the town. It started out at Debbie Downer's Cat House of Horror due to the fact that that is where the weed brownies were. Normally I would have steered clear of the place because of the asthmatic response to the environment and the general depression that hangs in the wallpaper, but the sound of THC via delicious snacks was just a bit too appealing. People were hesitant at first to dive in, but after I showed them that "I'm fine" after eating about 5, people started to come around.

We had a few beers and then made our way to Sean Kelly's. Not terribly exciting at first. Good friends and the booze was running downhill (read: down asophagus). As I was standing around chatting I noticed that a very cute blond had passed by a few times (I had also noticed any individual with a vagina within 50 feet of me). She eyed me a few times, but I didn't think much of it. I was dressed in my typical bear-suit jacket and that tends to draw eyeballs towards me. She then approached me and we started chatting.

Remington (Not spelled like the gun. Spelled like her name.): I don't even know why I came over here to talk to you.

Me: Because you saw my manly beard and couldn't help yourself.

Rem: It is pretty nice.

Me: If you think it's nice on the eyes, you should try it on your neck.

I then proceeded to rub my beard up one side of her neck, down across the bottom and then up the other side where I finished off with a nice little earlobe bite and a giggle of pleasure on her behalf.

Rem: That IS good!

Me: You really ought to test out the chest carpet as well...

I hold the bottom of my shirt up and she races her head inside and begins to rub her cheeks against my chest.

Rem: I've never had a one night stand before....yet...

Thank science we were in a dark bar, because my Griz colored sweatpants were doing NOTHING to hide my hardon at that point.

This carried on for a while before a group of Rem's friend went walking out of the bar and she took off to join them.

"Keev gets the ball and rushes for 20 yards! Oh no! Looks like he fumbled it! He won't be scoring tonight!"

I wasn't about ready to let my elevated excitement/hormone levels go to waste.

Me (to the group of peeps with whom I was rollin): Let's go get our groove on!

There was a one man band playing at the bar that night. Fingers was the name. He had a bass drum and a high-hat for his feet, a guitar (sometimes accordion) in his hands, harmonica around his neck and a cowboy hat to top it all off. In short, this guy was the shit. He rocked all of the greats: Ring of Fire, Country Roads, you name it...

About halfway through his set he announced to the crowd "I'm going to need a couple people to come play the washboards for me." He then holds out two chest mounted washboards and four spoons to the crowd. Male Nurse and I were ready to get funky with it.


Fingers: What are your names?

Male Nurse: Rough Rider

Me: Dick Danger

Fingers: Are we making music or a gay porn?

We proceed to rock the shit out of those washboards. We were doing the "chicka chicka", the "chicka tap chicka tap" and the "tap tap chicka tap". It didn't matter. We were on fire!

After our song he gave a few other teams a chance to shine on the washboards. Maybe it was the alcohol talking (read: it was the alcohol talking), but I think we took them to the cleaners when it comes to rocking the washboard (pun). Seemed like I wasn't the only person that felt that way.

Fingers: Dick Danger and Rough Rider, get back up here and help me with the final song!

Male Nurse and I jumped back up on stage with the determination of washed up cokehead ex-rockers that were ready to melt the panties off of their dwindling groups of groupies.

Fingers (to the two of us): Whenever I stop playing in the song, that is your guys' queue to solo on the washboards.

Me: WORD!

(song begins)
Strum, strum, strummy strum...

CHICK-A-CHICKITTY-CHICK-CHICK-TAP-CHICKA-BANG...

Strum, strum, strummy strum, strum, strum, strummy strum...

CHICKITTY-CHICKITTY-TAP-TAP-BANG...

I've done a bit of crowd amusing on the guitar via dirty drinking songs, but I think this was my most golden moment. I was having more fun than a teen with a handgun.

(song begins to crescendo to a train-wreck ending where everyone just goes nuts)

I had noticed that I in fact had two quasi-groupy girls dancing right below me at the stage, and they were watching me get down with the funky sound. So right as the song started into the trainwreck, I handed each of them a spoon, removed my chest mounted washboard, arranged it as a hip mounted washboard and let the two chicks wail away the final chickitty-chick-chick's as I sat back and enjoyed the rhythmic pleasure that one can only experience by beating a metal spoon across a wavy piece of sheet metal placed directly upon your balls.

...I need to become a rockstar. SOON.

The bar lights came on in that "hey you are drunk, it's late, go home" kind of way, and we all started heading towards the door. Then one of my two groupies came up to me.

Groupy: OMG! You are the sexiest/best washboard player I've ever seen!

I actually have no idea as to what she really said. I do remember, however, that she had a very nice smile.

...and HUGE boobs. I mean REALLY HUGE. Not the type of huge that goes all crazy, but instead the largest set of boobs that are still attractive that I've ever seen. To be quite honest I'm not even sure if she walked up to me or if those things had so much mass that the gravitational pull from them lured me directly towards her.

I could make up the rest of the conversation between the two of us or just tell the truth. I think I'll opt for the tsaoist truth: I kept hugging her in an attempt to push those things agaisnt me as many times as possible (stranger hugs: the purest form of self proclaimed frotteurism known to man). It was fan-fucking-tastic! And then the Keev-ball announcer came back on the PA...

"Keev recovers from his previous turnover and has great field position. He's marching up the field and I've got to tell you folks, looks like he may drive this one into the endzo....OH NO!!! ANOTHER FUMBLE!"

Well at least I got some boobs pressed into my abdomen. DAMN NASA!

We all decided it was time to get some food. And by that, I mean that I was ready to get down on some naughty girls, but my fumbling ability left me high and dry (and boy was I still high). I followed the team around for a while from one line into a late night food joint to the next. All the while an un-named cougar was latching onto my arm, butt, etc. These are all bad things for good decision making when I'm hopped up on the hormones.

Brain: Fuck this! I'm ready for bedtim...

Dick: Were gettin LAID FTW! w00t!

(Time travel to the moment my eyes open the next morning. Scene: Debbie Downer's bed in the Cat House of Horrors.)

Brain: We got laid FTL...Dick!

Debbie Downer: Let's have sex again.

Me: Let's not...

What A Junkie...

Need For Speed...Then Less Speed

As many of you know, I'm a bad ass race car driver (read: still heel-toe double-clutch like a grandpa trying to figure out a PS3 controller). More importantly than my driving ability though, is my choice of automobile. Many people can put in the time to become a proficient driver, but very few people can buy a fast car.

You are probably thinking "well not all people live rent-free in their parents' basement and spend the saved $$$ on some sort of sick penis enlarger called a car", but that's not it at all. I'm referring to the contract that they make you sign when you buy a sweet race car.

I'm already breaking the first rule of fast car club (don't talk about fast car club contract), but I don't think I have many fast car club readers...yet.

Now I'm not just rambling on about fast car club because I want the Lords that be to come take my ride, I'm prefacing a story...


I was driving down the Interstate the other day. It was Halloween Friday. I had worked in Bozeman all week and was excited to get back to Billings in order to see all of the skankiness downtown that night. I was doing my typical 84 mph (any speeding ticket on the highway that is under 10 mph over the limit will not register on your insurance in Montana) and slowly passing cars at a steady rate. About 10 miles before Big Timber I just hung in the passing lane for a bit after passing in order save the calories required to signal then move the steering wheel 6 degrees to the right.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

The unmistaken sound of a large naturally aspirated engine. I then see out of my driver side window a Beamer M3 moving fast. I'd say somewhere in the neighborhood of low triple digits.

I really wanted to let the guy blast past me and collect the hi-po ticket that was sure to find him down the road. I was set to let that happen. Really. But I couldn't. It wasn't pride. It wasn't some sort of cock measuring contest or anything like that at all. I had signed THE contract. The fast car contract that said "I ____ will never let another car race past me uncontested. Regardless of sobriety, mental state or physical disability, I ____ will bury the fucking throttle in the floormat." (damn NASA I hope THEY don't google my blog and see that betrayed the first rule)

Clutch. Rev. Down Shift. Zoom

I finally had my bumper at his passenger door around 125 mph.

Clutch. 6th. Zoom

The Beamer is a 5 gear manual against my 6 gear manual. Creep, creep, creep and I was leading. That was also about the time my govenor kicked in (152mph). The tables changed and the M3 started moving into the distance as I pinged my speed limitor about 4 times. Then I quickly came up with a rationalization for not removing my govenor: I don't need to be going any faster than this...

I DON'T NEED TO BE GOING THIS FAST! I'M ON SNOW TIRES! 120MPH SPEED RATED SNOW TIRES!

[Science Lesson: Tire speed ratings are based on heat. The faster a car goes, the more friction the tires see. Friction equals heat, and heat equals tires exploding. It doesn't require many hours of GTA4 to see what a bad idea driving fast without tires is.]

I throttled down and regained a more "appropriate" speed. (I mean I climbed out on the hood while I was still racing, pulled the govenor out with my bare hands and raced the M3 until he exploded in a fireball...and then I found $20)

Here is a pic of me, the M3 and a Mitsubishi GTS that caught up to the big dogs down the road from Big Timber. We did some 120mph cruising for a while. Fun stuff.



I'm now in Florida and I get to drive my "roommate's" (crazy older dude that likes to lock every door all of the time) rig. It doesn't move fast, shakes, and is slow to stop. But it makes a serious statement:


It says: I am not a "real man"

...and "nope"

Laughter...Us Sharing It...

Last night I get a text from my Brother (the married one, not the other married one).

Anonymous_Blogger: Dude, I just got hit by #2 because I spoke while she was on the phone with her parents. She's 29.

Me: HAHA ZOMG

I promptly forwarded it to my PIC (remember: partner in crime)

PIC: hahahaha. I think that's like when [asian] would hit him if he talked while she was ordering fast food.

(couple minutes later)

PIC: He's in the first stage of a relationship...denial...I remember those days...No, [insert girls name here]'s wayyyy better than the last one...if there is one thing I've learned it's that slits are all the same.





Here is some fun math for you voters/non-voters:
For the sake of argument and before the final votes are tallied, we'll say that Barack won by 7M votes. So let's just say that my chances of changing the outcome of the popular vote would have been 1 in 7,000,000.

In a 49 ball lottery, where the player picks 6 balls and all 6 must match to win, the chances of winning are 1 in 13,983,816. That is roughly half the statistical probability of effecting the election. Buy 2 of those same lottery tickets and the odds are lined up almost exactly.

The moral of this story is a "Here is what I should have done". I should have registered to vote, bought two lottery tickets and then voted for McCain. Because if I win that multi-million dollar jackpot, I'm going to jump up a tax bracket or two. And if I'm going up a few tax levels, I'm sure as hell going to want a rich white guy protecting my $$$.

As it turns out I just sat on my ass. My thoughts on the election can be summed up by my lawyer: To paraphrase Blazing Saddles "The president is a [bell tower rings]"

I think he said "The president is near"...