NYE 2004-5 and Warning! Pictures of weiners

January 05, 2005 - 3:22 a.m.

<%@LANGUAGE="JAVASCRIPT" CODEPAGE="1252"%> Spent NYE with Hardon and Sara and indeed cruised around in the stolen black car. All sorts of bass-heavy vibrations, thank you Trick Daddy. We were supposed to go see the Ponys at the Empty Bottle but thanks to having shit for brains, we were too late and the tickets were sold out. I was looking forward to it too, because the Empty Bottle gives out free 40 oz. Beers to the patrons on NYE. I don’t even drink beer but I’d enjoy seeing a bar full of people lugging around Colt 45 or Cobra Piss or whatever it’s called.

We drove around, pondering where to go and getting irked that many of the cover charges were $75+. Hardon was convinced that Delilah’s would be a good idea since it is full of scumbags and poor people (??) and that would somehow be beneficial to us. $50 at the door plus discount. Punk rockers, Mohawks, and Rockabillies = Get Over it Already, Turn the Page.

‘Scuse me, coming through, I got some top shelf open bar I need to get started on. Thanks for the sneers and glares, but really, just drink your Jameson you wrinkled old Mohawk man with the grey pussy.

There was a fat piece of shit playing pool who looked exactly like my first boyfriend when I was 16. I explained to Hardon and Sara the story of Fat Fuck, how when I broke up with him he said, “I would never hit my girlfriend. But you’re not my girlfriend anymore, so-” POP! Punched me right in the eye. Right in my parent’s driveway, he knocked me on my ass. Like in a cartoon, my feet left the ground and my body was propelled upwards and back and I landed on my butt a few feet away. I looked around, completely befuddled, like: Where’s the video camera? Cuz this is so gonna win on America’s Funniest Home Videos. This is pure fucking comedy, me being 109 pounds, and him being 220 pounds with fat factory hands and sausage fingers. I had never been punched in the eye before and I didn’t feel any pain because I was too busy thinking: “Did my feet just leave the ground? Huh, I was airborne, lifted up by my own face, with his fat stupid hand. Who the hell gets punched in the eye? Only hookers get punched in the eye.”

There was some discussion about punching Fat Fuck in the eye at the stroke of midnight. The possibility of going to jail was considered and it was decided that the punch would be worth it, as most likely we can pin the whole thing on Fatty McFatterson anyway. The attack was choreographed, including proper usage of knees and elbows, jabbing, stabbing, and the emergency last resort of breaking beer bottles and glasses for stabbing his man titties. I became focused on the titties, picturing two dark puddles forming on the front of his shirt, looking like he was lactating chocolate syrup or some shit.

I stared very hard at his face, hair and clothes. Is it him? Is it? I haven’t seen him in 10 years.

Fighting over which of the three of us would be the one to approach him and ask his name. It was my idea to play rock-paper-scissors. I lost.

I went and stood behind him at the bar. I sniffed him. Couldn’t smell anything.

To the back of his head I said, “Excuse me.”

He turned around and I looked straight into his fat eyes.

“What is your name?”

“Jim.”

Dammit.

It’s not him.

*figurative anger-erection withers into non-existence*

No drop-kicks or back-slaps at midnight for me. No smooch for me either.

Moving on…

There were many ugly people at Delilah’s, no newsflash there. But there was one guy who was so heinous he made me feel a little angry, like I wanted to say to him What the hell is ALL THIS??

Nigga had women's horned-rimmed spectacles on, shit.

Guh. Look away.

Later, I noticed that there was a crowd gathered around him, and he was jumping up on tables and windowsills. He started peeling off his clothes and first the hairy chest, and then oh! There’s the cock.

When there are genitals in sight, you can bet I’m front and center with a camera. I have a bit of a collection going. All I had was my camera phone in a pitch black bar.

He buttoned up his pants and then pulled his nutsack out through his fly. Zipped up the zipper and then squish! The nuts were all zipped up and busting out of the fly. Just nuts.

I started taking pictures but it was too dark. I grabbed him and spun him around to face the pool table light. “Ok then. Turn towards the light so I can take a picture of your balls.”

After much manipulation in photoshop, I have gotten some images to appear, but it looks like night vision goggles. I added labels for clarification.

Ya know fuckit. I should just draw a picture of the dude so you can see how ugly he really is. Here you go:

Close up of the hairy chest, for full effect.

Due to all the ugly people, there were many men gawking at Sara and I. Most likely because we were the only two females who appeared not to have lumpy, humpy vaginas.

Mr. Twelve O’clock (named as such only because he was standing in my direct line of vision) was all staring for a long time, and finally at the end of the night he came up to me and said, “I had to meet you.” Ok. Cute face, very nice clothes. Facial piercings (ugh), Manager of the Gap (muh), lives in a studio (fuh), lives in Boystown (??).

Blah blah flattery blah blah cosmic connection. I was so wasted I couldn't understand English.

“So how come a girl like you is alone on New Year’s Eve?”

“Cuz I don’t settle, monigga.”

While he was talking, my eyes closed several times and 4 times I fell over, just tipped sideways or forward or back. Was quick enough and grabbed onto walls and other vertical surfaces to prevent actually sprawling on the floor. Stand back up, “Ha ha. You were saying?” He just kept talking. I gave him my number and he asked if he could smooch me and I said, “No,” my standard answer. Walk away. Have no idea what his name is.

Sara drove me home in the black car (tank god, cuz that girl don’t drink) and I was hung over for 2 days. She and Hardon were on my living room couch until 4:30 am (while I was passed out cold), presumably playing Hands Across America. How cute. It’s always nice to see two good-looking people hook up, because then you can say Wow! They are just. SO. Good looking!”

On Sunday Belle and I had brunch at Hilary’s Urban Eatery (HUE) and the whole goddamn block was roped off with police tape and there were pigs everywhere, but just sitting around. The event was obviously over, as there were no lights flashing. I get so pissed off at barricades, especially on sidewalks cuz I’m all What do you mean I can’t WALK on public property?? So we just ducked underneath the tape and found ourselves walking through the middle of a crime scene. A few cars had busted out windows and I was like: “Accident?” and then Belle was like: “Look, there’s blood.” And there was indeed a huge puddle of blood, possibly from multiple people.

Me: “Some Jackass probably took a swan dive from that high-rise building.”

Later, on the news, I saw that there had been a shootout shortly before we had arrived for our brunch. I guess all the patrons of Hilary’s got quite a show of some guy shooting some broad in her car, and then someone shot the guy, and he ran down the street waving the gun. The busted out windows were from stray bullets.

Damn. I would have at least liked to have heard the gunshots.

And minutes later the pigs hosed down the street, pushing the blood into the sewers. So much for evidence! Screw the forensics!

The Gap manager guy called me all weekend, and I learned that his name is Jeff. Sunday night I met him out at Copa, which I swear is known for the gay men. He was smoking (grr) and I drank a couple of ciders and out of nowhere he says, “Is your shirt from Express? Limited? Is it PRADA??” Gay. Right. I wear Prada, and I’m going to go out with a man who works in low-end retail.

Then he shows me his many tattoos and on the forearm is a giant Jesus. I grabbed his arm: “INRI? King of the Jews?? What’s all this about?”

“I believe in Jesus.”

Aw gahdamn ya’ll. First cigarettes, then all that gaiety, and now Jesus?? Fuck all that noise.

We closed the bar down and then I went outside to get a cab. He invited me home with him (psshhht) and then asked to come home with me (ffffffttt) and then we stood there staring at each other. Bag lady was breathing down our necks reciting the Ten Commandments and asking for money.

I leaned in and put my face by his ear. “Mmmm, you smell gooood.”

“It’s Abercrombie!”

“SHHHHHHHHHH-DON’T SPEAK.”

And then, out of sheer loneliness, and for forgetting what it feels like to chew on someone’s mouth, I leaned in and smooched the shit out of that fag. He just stood there frozen, completely unprepared for the Shawna Mooney Lightning Round Lip Smackdown. Hells yeah, he was stunned and I jumped into a cab and peeled away.

I’ve got two lawyers (gag) lined up at the dating site ("But I'm not like other lawyers"), and the jet pilot wants to go out again too. If this blizzard keeps up, and it’s a real blizzard for real, I just might invite him over here to snuggle me and watch the Simpsons. He only lives a few blocks away...

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