The following post contains graphic language, sophomoric humor and explicit sexual innuendo. If doesn't entice you to read it, I don't know what will.
I didn't score with a sea cow, eat a steak or prank call an ex, but I did learn quite a bit about marketing to dead people and the pitfalls of anal sex with strange women.
Before heading out for drinks, I went to dinner with my father and little brother. I wanted to go to Red Lobster, however since mom couldn't make it (she was taking a nap, it seems being awake for more than five hours at a time is asking too much,) I decided it best to put off my official birthday dinner and go to Ponderosa instead.
I didn't even bother ordering the burnt piece of shoe leather Ponderosa calls a steak, instead I went with the buffet. The barely palatable food coupled with six glasses of Mountain Dew was not how I envisioned the dinner to be, although the fifteen minutes I spent in the little boy's room was part of the original plan.
After dinner, I thanked for my dad for the irritating my problematic valve, ribbed my little brother for not purchasing me a gift or even recognizing what the occasion was, and came home to find my birthday cake, which as I mentioned in the previous post, was my family's sole gift to me – and apparently their way of saying, we can barely tolerate you, eat this and begone.
Several hours later, I went to a bar with a couple friends, Travis and Jenna, one of whom was to serve as our designated driver, except for a couple small problems: she was under twenty-one and her license was literally held together with tape, which should have set off red flags to any bar employee. Thankfully, I live in Newark, Ohio and underage drinking is not only encouraged, it is a necessary ingredient in the bottom line.
We walked into the bar, found a table, after which I ordered a Red Bull & Vodka. After twenty minutes of sipping what turned out to be a Vodka spritzed with Red Bull, I noticed one my friends, Ron, across the bar. I hadn't seen him for several months, and since the last time we spoke his baby's mama had left him, leaving him with a fairly substantial house payment to make on his lonesome. Travis called him over to sit down.
It is hard to describe Ron, he is a genuinely nice guy who happens to say the most inappropriate and sexual explicit things in everyday conversation. One minute, he is talking about the weather being cold then segues, without a pause, into documenting how wet his (then) girlfriend gets when he used chocolate sauce on his member. And the more perverse the statement, the happier he seems to be.
Usually, I would call such behavior creepy, but Ron somehow seems blissful when discussing in graphic detail just how his girlfriend tickles his balls; it is a heartwarming in a Hustler sort of way. Needless to say, I find Ron to be an endless source of entertainment and hilarity.
I told Ron that I heard about his breakup and asked how he was holding up; right as it appeared we may have an actual heart-to-heart talk, one of his friends came by. I went to school with Brandon, I don't really have anything against him but I wanted call him a good friend, either; he was a braggart without any appreciation of how often he was the punch line. Immediately after I shook hands with him, another high school classmate, Brad, came by. I liked him, he had a good sense of humor and dressed up dead people – two fantastic qualities in my estimation.
Who knows how the subject came up, although with the company present it was probably inevitable. Since his breakup, Ron had hooked up with one woman. His exact words: "I fucked her in the ass."
Thinking that I misunderstood him, I said, "What?"
He repeated: "I fucked her in the ass."
He then showed me a video from his camera phone where his delicate peach was making out with another random bar whore. I am usually all for exploitive video of lesbian activity but not this time however, there were a couple glaring problems: 1), My friend Ron boinked her in the arse; and 2), she looked like Olive Oyl's ugly step-sister.
Brandon, not to be out done, related his own recent experience with anal sex.
As he so eloquently put it: "I fucked this girl...right in the ass."
I would have been happy had the discussion ended there but then Brad chimed in. "Tell him Brandon what happened next? Okay, I will tell him. After he fucked her, he had his cock swabbed."
Even though he didn't admit to as much, it seems Brandon contracted a venereal disease. He quickly assured me that he was clean and even had a certificate to prove it, although he lamented his new nickname, Cock Swab – apparently it made picking up women difficult.
Of all the things I have ever heard, cock swab may be the coolest, it is definitely right up there with throating a frozen kielbasa..
Brad colorfully explained the procedure: you stick what amounts to a large Q-Tip inside the hole of the pee-pee, swish it around and pull it back out. During the explanation, Brandon had a disturbed look on his face, it looked as if he was re-experiencing the distinct pleasure of being probed with a cotton headed stick. As far as birthdays go, this was one was turning out fantastic.
Brandon left soon after with his certificate of cleanliness in tow, so how did I spend the next ninety minutes? Talking about dead people, particularly how to market to them.
Brad worked with his father in a small funeral home business. I warned him all too real potential of a zombie apocalypse, he laughed; I wasn't kidding.
We spoke about the difficulties of running a small company. Like any small business, marketing was one of the more difficult aspects, exacerbating the problem further in Brad's case was the fact that most of his cliental was dead. Haley Joel Osmond and gypsies aside, speaking to the dead is difficult, effectively marketing to them is next to impossible.
Brad revealed the best advertising for the funeral home was television commercials, granted good word of mouth was hard to beat, too. I started to mention the sizable benefits of a serial killer or plague to his profit margins, then decided to keep that trade secret to myself.
The rest of my group grew antsy, I think they felt left out, so I drank. My buddy Chase showed up about this time. I had a few more beers, a couple shots, said goodbye to Ron and Brad, then left for Steak & Shake.
Chase drove me, Travis and Jenna to get the grub. I was up front about my intentions, I planned on harassing the waitress. When we got there, the place was mostly empty except for the cook, a teenage waitress and two fat girls sitting in the back. I asked the waitress her age, she responded 18. This night was really going to turn out fantastic.
Her name was Brittany. She wasn't really cute or my type, but she was a teenager and I was slightly drunk, which was more than enough for me. I tried to be funny, which is to say I was obnoxious and overbearing.
At one point I said, "Just play with me and you will get a good tip."
What I meant to say was "play along with me."
Thankfully Brittany arched her brow and laughed off my Freudian slip, otherwise I may have went to jail.
I am not sure if it was my behavior, the fact that it was 3:00 am or her own ineptitude, but Brittany was a horrible waitress. However she did pour my half finished milkshake into a to-go cup upon request.
I am a man of my word, so when it was time to check out I asked her what tip sounded fair. She said ten dollars, so that is what I wrote on my credit card slip – $10.00 on a $9.91 bill.
Some more stuff happened when I came home that morning but it isn't really too interesting, except for the part where I searched a building site for a large black man whom my mother was sure was attempting to run off with an uninstalled bath tub. It was that type of night.
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