Fight or Flight

Welp, it’s that time of year again. Once Labor Day’s over you autumn crazed fucks start celebrating the fall. Seriously, why are you all so bat shit insane over fucking sweaters and warm drinks? Football’s cool and everything but you people lose your dicks over autumn. I heard the two girls from my office (from the Arby’s story, can’t remember the name, bonus points if you can find it and tell me the name of my own story) they were already talking about haunted houses and hayrides.

I try to not involve myself with their idiotic conversations for fear of becoming even dumber than I already am, but the entire time I was sitting at my desk biting my tongue trying to ignore them. Why are haunted houses a thing? I understand it’s fun to be scared, but I have never once been scared by a haunted house, there’s no element of fear with a sixteen year old in a rubber mask.

Every year my wife and I go to a very popular haunted house in our state with some friends and every year I absolutely hate it. They all cower behind me as I shove my way past frightened idiots and cheap decorations jumping our from around corners. The big finale to the experience is a maze that has a gentleman running around with a chainsaw trying to “kill” you while you search for the exit. Last year, my wife and I found the exit and the chainsaw man jumped from behind a corner and my wife completely froze, by this point I was completely aggravated and wanted this experience to be over and this jackass was preventing me from leaving so I did the only thing I could think of, I elbowed him in the face. As he fell to the ground I grabbed my wife’s wrist, yelled “Come on!” and we left. As we’re leaving all I could hear is “What the hell man?” from the chainsaw guy as he grabbed his face.

I thank God everyday that I avoided assault charges, not my proudest moment (I’m a little proud of this story) but in the end I managed to elbow a grown man in the face and avoid jail.

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Happy Whatever Day!

As I just posted on our Twitter page (follow us BTW) I love these ambiguous holidays because I don’t have to work and I can celebrate alone.

I have no clue what the history of Labor Day is, but I love this holiday because to me it represents an opportunity to do absolutely nothing for no apparent reason (which I do every other day, but now I get to have an excuse).

You people can keep Christmas and Thanksgiving, I’d rather be at home watching television and day drinking.

Seriously though, if anyone knows the history of this holiday please let me know, I’m too lazy and drunk to do an internet search.

Am I a Prostitute?

EDIT: forgot a title yesterday. My bad.

Last week on our post “I’ve Got Problems Man,” I talked about the time I dated a stripper, and since then I’ve gotten a couple questions from my friends that saw the post and instantly became curious about my sex life. This is never a touchy subject for me, which is pretty obvious considering I share these details with strangers on the internet, but one thing that became abundantly clear, after speaking with my inner circle, there’s a lot of animosity towards sex workers.

Perhaps my friends are just awful people (sorry guys) but they did not find my post as charming as I had initially expected. This bothers me because dammit haven’t we all done some shit that, in one way or another, is at least a little fucked up? Why the fuck should I judge a stripper? Even though Roxie from my last post stole from me and tried to kill me, this doesn’t mean I now judge all strippers (seriously though, read that post if you haven’t already).

We all do dumb shit, I was once paid for sex, not necessarily in a traditional sense, but I had sex with a woman and was given cab fare for a ride across town, does that make me a prostitute? And if so, am I now a worse person because I accepted dirty sex money? (Not my proudest moment, but I had to get home).

I was a senior in college and by this point I did everything in my power to avoid house parties because they are the absolute worst thing that has ever existed. Hundreds of underage people violating all fire regulations just to rub against strangers and drink too much; although, I too enjoy drinking too much and rubbing against people, but at this point I was a grown ass man and could do this legally in a bar, and the frat house of Delta Chi Who Gives a Fuck as not an ideal location for me to be.

I went with a friend of mine because he assured me: “It’s going to be awesome bro!” It was indeed, not awesome bro.

I hated everything almost immediately upon arrival. People were pissing in the alley, girls were crying, and dudes were fighting in the front yard, all the signs of a garbage evening. BUT I am a supportive friend and I was bound and determined to make the best of a bad situation. I had a few drinks, had some good conversation, and after about an hour I was looking for the nearest object to hang myself on. Then, through a slight clearing in the crowd, I saw her, Karen (not her real name).

Karen, was interesting, she stood out from everyone at this horrible gathering (mostly because she was about six feet tall and looked twenty years older than everyone, seriously, I’m fairly certain this was someone’s mom that came along to the party. To this day, I don’t know why she was there or how old she really was. “Karen” if you ever read this, how old are you and WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING THERE?!)

I walked over, not drunk but charmingly seductive, and began with some general conversation:

“This place sucks right?” She laughs, (I’m in).

“You here with anyone?” I ask.

“I came with some friends, but I don’t know where they went,” she responds.

“You’re too beautiful to stand alone, let’s go outside and talk,” SIDE NOTE: This line will most likely reoccur throughout A LOT of stories because I used it all the fucking time. For some reason, drunk girls love it so I kept it in my rotation. Karen naturally obliged and we went outside and talked, without talking. I grabbed her hand and lead her through the crowd of miscreant youth, and the second we stepped outside I put my arm around her waist and made my move. We made out in the front yard for what felt like an eternity.

“Come back to my place,” I said.

“My place is better,” she responded. I assumed she was correct because my apartment was horrible and my roommates were the worst.

We caught a cab and arrived at a home so beautiful I wasn’t even aware houses this nice existed in Minnesota. I thanked the cab driver profusely as she paid. We strolled to the front door and the second we stepped inside she attacked me. I was completely thrown, she became a newly freed monster. Within seconds my back was on her bed and she was on top of me. We made love for what felt like an eternity. We laid next to one another in a steaming pile of passion and exhaustion for about ten minutes before she said the words I’ll never forget:

“What time are you going to leave?”

Apparently I’m not that good. I changed and left immediately, but not before I had the most humiliating conversation of my life:

“I can leave now, but I don’t even know where I am.”

“You’re at *address*.”

“I live in the East Village.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, well that’s too bad. Listen, there’s forty dollars in my purse on the chair over there. Use that for a cab.”

“Alright.” I got dressed, walked a couple blocks, caught a cab, and rode home.

I woke up he next morning with nothing but regret and dirty clothes. So, you tell me am I bad person?

 

Rock and Roll Dinner

Have you ever been so broke you considered selling your body for money, but then remembered you’re not attractive enough to sell your body, so you just lay down and go to bed? This was my life throughout all of my twenties. I worked a horrible job to pay bills while I attempted to make money as a writer. I shared a house with two other guys that were in a fairly similar position as myself. One was a paralegal and the other was a security guard. The paralegal made decent enough money, but he was really bad with his money, so he was forced to live with two degenerates that ate his food (I love you Glenn, if you ever read this you’re a damn prince).

As some of you know, I was thrown out of my home when I was a teenager (READ OUR “First Annual America Day” post for more info). As a result of being a teenage runaway I didn’t have much money. One night after work I was so hungry and the only food available was Ramen noodles, old bread, and granola bars. But then I remembered I had a bottle of bourbon in my sock drawer for emergencies, because who needs anything other than bourbon for emergencies?

I then proceeded to drink the entire bottle while listening to my old records. I started with Mercyful Fate and inevitably ended with King Diamond solo stuff. It was an epic night filled with alcohol and great music. My roommates found me later passed out in my room listening to Metal Church. They can’t all be winners. But this ill-advised night of alcohol induced hunger created one of the best events of my life “Rock and Roll Dinner.”

To this day my friends come over every month for one day where we get unbelievably drunk and listen to classic albums. It’s the best shit ever. I encourage everyone to have there own Rock and Roll Dinners. Even if you like country music (or anything really) have your friends over, get drunk, and listen to some good music. I promise you will NOT regret this choice.

I love you all. Get drunk and listen to music. Just listen to more music period.

I’ve Got Problems Man

Have you ever dated someone you knew from the very beginning was bad for you, but you insisted on dating them anyway? This is my entire dating history. I have a thing for unstable women that could very likely ┬ámurder me. I have told my friends many times; if I ever die under mysterious circumstances ALWAYS suspect the person I’m dating. It’s not love unless you live in constant fear of death.

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

I’ve had many troublesome exes, but none were worse than Roxie (obviously not her real name seeing as how she’s not a cartoon character or a dog). Roxie was a lovely woman I met bar tending at a Cannibal Corpse concert SIDE NOTE: for those of you not familiar with the body of work of Cannibal Corpse please proceed with caution it is VERY graphic and not for the faint of heart or stomach.

We immediately hit it off, she was funny, charming, and smoking hot (to this day the hottest woman I’ve ever dated). But Roxie also had another job, she was a stripper. To a lot of people, this would be an immediate turn off, but seeing as how I am far from shallow, this was never an issue for me, in fact I was a little proud. Most strippers and even a lot of sex workers are good people, but Roxie was not a good person. She was also a drug addict that tried to kill me with a hammer while I was sleeping. We spent most of our days copulating and listening to old records. When I attempted to end things with Roxie, she seemed oddly happy, so naturally I assumed this was going to be a nice mutual breakup and I had rid myself of this God awful influence in my life… I came home from work that night with my television, guitar, and several records stolen. I was able to get the guitar back, but the TV and records were sadly long gone for heroin money. Fuck I miss those records.

My point is, don’t negatively judge strippers, they’re good people, but once you find out they do heroin RUN. THE. FUCK. AWAY.

They’re Like, Super Cute

Everyday I wonder why Josh is my best friend. He was the best man in my wedding, I once watched him buy a prostitute at a casino, and he and I have been through enough stupid scenarios to fill several poorly written books. And yet, I never stop wondering how he and I ever became friends.

Some background info. I have always considered myself a “city boy.” I grew up in Baltimore, and later relocated to the Midwest for school, which is where I met Josh. Josh grew up in rural Minnesota on a farm, the first time we met he was wearing camouflage and overalls. He looked like an extra in Duck Dynasty. We somehow decided to sit next to each other in our college communications class and we immediately connected, if he was a woman, we’d be married by now. I feel comfortable saying this, because I know he’s never going to read this and I’m using a fake name for him.

Naturally, as all friendships do, we argue about everything (especially being from very different backgrounds). However, the biggest thing he and I continue to argue about is masculinity. I grew up in Baltimore, not exactly a safe place to live, and being in an urban neighborhood, there’s this belief that you always need to be “hard.” I never believed in this philosophy. I’m a tough man, but I have never felt the need to show the world that I’m a man. Whereas Josh feels obligated to let everyone that happens to cross his path know that he does indeed have a penis.

I could write a thesis about the very notion of masculinity, but I want to focus on one specific thing: dogs. Yes, dogs. Why dogs? Because dogs are the truest judges of character and are the people we all deserve (I love all animals but until they make domesticated elephants I’m focusing specifically on dogs). I’ve had two dogs in my life as an adult man on my own: I bought a pug when I moved off the college, and I later bought a Pomeranian so they could be friends. When people see me walking my two toy dogs around town, almost always just like clockwork, some dude is going to stop and say something along the lines of:

“Your girlfriend makes you walk her dogs?”

“Nope they’re both mine,” I say with the utmost pride.

This is where Josh comes in, as my friend it is his social obligation to make fun of me, we do with each other, it’s a cornerstone of friendship. He still to this day makes fun of me for owning two toy dogs. Being a country boy (READ hillbilly) Josh feels a man must own a manly dog, like a pit bull OR A WOLF! And I think he’s a dumb hillbilly. I love my tiny dogs, especially now in their old age (the pug is 11 and the Pomeranian is 13) and I think it’s moronic that I’m less of a man because I bought small dogs. Masculinity is a funny thing, Josh is truly a good man that has many skills that I certainly do not possess, but this notion that men need to be tough all the time is insane. I’m not saying we need to be writing poems about our feelings and crying about sad internet videos, but for fuck sake if I want to own a small dog, I’m going to own a small dog mother fucker.

In my opinion, if you’re not comfortable enough with your own masculinity to own a small dog or do something that isn’t considered “manly” that makes you a bitch. You can bet the damn house every time Josh stays with me I find him on my couch holding my dogs. All dogs are great, I don’t want to get on a soapbox, but seriously, dogs are awesome if you don’t have one but want to get one, do it. I thank God everyday for my two dogs.

Share your thoughts on this. Do we need to be “hard” at all times or are those of us that are comfortable enough to step outside the standard ideals of masculinity better off? Let’s talk about it. I love you all.

There’s a Bar in my Bathroom

As the title sates, there is indeed a bar in my bathroom. It’s a staple I have installed in every establishment that has housed my physical body, and one of the many reasons why the bathroom is my favorite room of any home (well, favorite room in MY home).

Having a bathroom is important, but having a bathroom bar is more important. You ever had a drink in the shower? It’s fantastic. DISCLAIMER make sure it’s a night shower and not a pre-work morning shower, people to tend to throw around words like “alcoholic” if that’s the case.

I should mention, this is not a fancy bar. It’s comprised of cheap liquor bottles and a small table I bought at IKEA. Lovely table. I’m a big fan. Since I already keep booze in my bathroom I also on occasion keep beer under my sink. I’m not a big beer drinker, I prefer hard liquor, no preference, whatever gets my drunk. With beer however, I’m very picky. I enjoy drinking silly hipster brews in moderation and pretending I know what I’m talking about when in actuality I’m quite possibly the most uninformed person in the room.

“Hmmm, yes this beer tastes as if it was made using hops and malt,” he said trying to pretend he knows anything.

Since I keep beer under my bathroom sink next to cleaning chemicals and my gun, there’s really no great way to keep it cold so I have grown to develop a love for warm beer (with a nice after taste of chemicals). I’m going to be honest, warm beer gets a bad reputation. I think it’s delicious. I like it so much I made a Tweet about it last night. FYI if you people read this and are also on Twitter FOLLOW ME IMMEDIATELY OUR FEED IS FUNNY AS FUCK!!! @ViridianReader.

Warm beers delicious. Cold beer is solid as well, but if you haven’t tried warm beer I highly suggest it, but don’t try it with some big brand beer that sponsors sporting events such as a brand that rhymes with “Poors Flight” you know what Poors Flight and sex in a canoe have in common? They’re both fucking close to water *Rim Shot*.

Have something thick and hoppy. Something dark and thick (also how I like my women). What’s your opinion on warm beer? Have you tried it? Did you like it? If not, why? Let’s talk about it. Drink more and sex more. Life is fun, and I love you all. Have a good night.