The Harrowing Adventures of Bob's Birthday: The Night I engaged C**k Swab

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.

Backhanded Compliment

We were about to make love. Like any twenty-two year old, I was quite looking forward to the next minute and thirty seconds. I hadn't even managed one outward thrust when my girlfriend looked at me with a very sincere and serious look and whispered:

You feel big tonight, Bob. What happened?

What was I supposed to say to that...thanks, I think it was the Chicken Parmigiana?

My actual response was a non-descriptive grunt -- you see, I was about to get laid and everything else, even my self respect and manhood, was of no immediate importance

A few minutes later, when I again felt so very small, I attempted to rationalize what she meant. After mulling over the implication of her words, I came to two conclusions: my girlfriend was a bitch, and I had a little joystick.

"Oh-My-God, Becky! Look at her butt!"

I took another swig from the Smirnoff bottle, then thought about what was ahead – I promptly starting chugging from the bottle.

The thing about speedo trunks is the tightness around your junk. It is a constant, confining pressure that registers every slight movement. If you want to judge what direction the wind is blowing, put on a pair of speedos and let nature blow you. Magnifying the usual discomfort one feels while wearing speedo trunks was the fact that pair I had on was several sizes too small.

My fraternity and pledge brother, Rick, had been a competitive swimmer. When the siren's call of Mary Jane supplanted sterility and choline, he retired his trunks. Since I didn't own a pair of speedos myself, it was nice of him to loan me his.

While you couldn't necessarily tell the difference by looking at us, Rick and I weren't in the same weight class. Rick was a very fit 160 pounds; I was a svelte 240 pounds. Thankfully, speedos are elastic by nature and even our significant disparity in size was manageable – of course, after five minutes wearing Rick's speedos, I had no feeling below the the taint.

In a little under fifteen minutes I had drank a half bottle of vodka and shotgunned several beers. I wasn't nearly drunk enough for what was to come next.

My pledge class was up next to perform a synchronized swimming routine. I thought hazing ending freshman year, yet here I was a sophomore about to humiliate myself for the good of the house. At the time, I grimly accepted my role, but in retrospect I would have been better off having my stomach pumped with charcoal instead.

Delta Gamma -- a sorority comprised of deceptively attractive women, the kind of girls who look real good after eight or nine beers -- hosted a yearly charity event, Anchor Splash. It raised thousands of dollars for the retarded or was it the blind, I never really understood the difference myself.

The synchronized swimming event capped off a week of fund raising activities, which involved good natured competition between the various Greek houses to see who would raise the most money and win the most events. There was even a trophy for the winner.

Sir Mix-a-Lot's feminist triumph Baby Got Back was our song. I was the star. It was my job to shake that ass – and shake that ass I did.

I can only imagine what my backside performance looked like to the crowd. I like to think it was viewed as an undulating mass contained only by thin layer of synthetic which at any moment threatened to break away to reveal the unspeakable horror within. On the other hand, based on the awkward silence broken by intervals of sporadic, nervous laughter, I think it was much worse than that.

At the song's conclusion, I was supposed to jump into the water, along with my brothers, and perform a water routine. I jumped into the pool and immediately started to drown.
I didn't drink enough alcohol to prevent stage fright, however I had consumed enough to greatly inhibit moderate motor control. I flapped my arms at frantic pace, which in turn negated my natural state of buoyancy. I was literally drinking the pool in when one of the guys took me by the shoulder indicated the water was only four feet deep.

To be fair, between the copious amounts of alcohol and lack of of blood flow to my lower extremities, my near death experience in forty eight inches of water should have been expected – remember, it is possible to drown from a teaspoon of water, especially if you are a complete and utter moron.

Our routine ended, I clamored up the side of the pool and nearly lost the speedos along the way. After readjusting the trunks to the crowd's abject horror, I stumbled off after my fraternity brothers. We didn't win the synchronized swimming portion of the competition.

Apparently, the two judges, who happened to be professors in the history department, were not impressed by the rhythmic writhing of my ass. It was at the moment that I crossed off history as a potential major.

My shaky show at shaking my booty notwithstanding, my fraternity won the overall Anchor Splash competition. We broke the trophy later that night.

Taco Bell: Ruination & Lamentation

I remember two things from Senior AP English : 1) Never stop for a stranger on the side of the road. They will probably kill, rob and eat you, especially if they are hot and wearing naught but a bikini; 2) My writing is obtuse and pedestrian in nature.

The following is evidence of both.

It was nearing midnight and I was heading for Taco Bell. I wasn't particularly hungry, but I was particularly fat.

On the way, I happened upon a poor soul, he couldn't be more than eighteen years old, who was jumping up and down in front of his car. The car was planted in the middle of the right lane on 21st Street, the busiest roadway in my hometown.

I was feeling magnanimous (perhaps due to the sweet thought of sour cream in my future) and decided not run his stupid ass over. Instead, I pulled in front of his car and asked if I could help.

He explained that he ran out of gas and asked if I would push his car 1000ft to a nearby gas station. Bear in mind that his car was parked in the middle of street with no caution lights or any discernible light source whatsoever.

I had three major reservations with his request:

• First and foremost, I am fat and lazy. While it was possible that I could push the car the requisite distance, it was highly improbable.
• Second, the nearest gas station was located on a slight incline, as was much of the distance required to get there. And we all know pushing a car up a hill, slight as it may initially appear, often results in, "Oh Shit, Shit..." SPLAT
  
• Finally, this situation seemed like the prologue to a bad (are there any other kind) Stephen King novel. Who runs out gas in the middle of a busy street at night, then forgets to use their emergency blinkers. I had a strong inkling he wanted to rob, rape, pillage and/or devour me.

I told him that pushing his car to the gas station was a no go, instead I would drive him there, thereupon he could fill a plastic gas container. We pushed his car 10 or so feet to the right, I then told him to turn on his emergency lights. As if to signify the half-assed journey to come, only one light worked.

Since I don't routinely carry a gas container, I assumed the gas station would have one. You know what they say about assumptions, they are only true when it comes to race, religion and gender.

The station attendant didn't have a container to borrow, nor was there one available for purchase. I mentioned using a jumbo sized soda cup instead, the attendant said no to my suggestion. Who am I to question the sagacity of a gas station attendant working third shift.

I drove to the next gas station. Low and behold, they didn't have a container we could borrow either, but they were available for purchase, which I promptly did.

Why did I purchase it? There is a very rationale reason: The kid didn't have any money because he "left it at his apartment."

The container only cost $3.50 or 3 1/2 Taco Supremes. It held one and half gallons of gas, which cost $2.50 (this definitely dates the story) or 1Chicken Quesadilla. After investing half of my potential Taco Bell feast in a kid who had the foresight to both run out of gas and not to carry a wallet, I drove him back to the car.

The police were waiting. As I mentioned earlier the road was well traveled, even at this late hour, and it wouldn't do to have a car blocking a lane or in anyway impeding the officers' nightly run to Teejayes for a Barnyard Buster.

I explained the situation to the officers, highlighting my good deeds and partial sacrifice of a late night snack. The kid seemed to clam up at the sight of their uniforms and, for some inexplicable reason, could not speak his own piece. After he poured in the gas, I took my container and continued on my journey for the finest in Tex Mex cuisine.

The kid didn't even say thank you, although I think I overheard him mutter, "God damn it"when I drove away.

The officers stuck around. They were still there, along with the kid, when I headed home, fifteen minutes and five taco supreme later.

I hope he was arrested, though I am not sure denying a chubby twenty something lettuce, tomato,cheese, hamburger and sour cream situated in a crunchy tortilla shell is a criminal offense – but it damn well should be.

I pooped (on) myself

I was seventeen years old, soon to be eighteen. I had recently graduated high school. My entire (disappointing) life was ahead of me. This was to be my last summer before college, a three month buffer between yesterday and tomorrow. What is a boy to do? Quite a bit actually but the most memorable experience was when my mom showed a shit smeared rag to my friends.

One day, while walking through the family dining room, a question entered my head: I wonder what a fart feels like? Since I had no point of reference, and as my stomach had the familiar feeling of tightness that signified gas, I decided to find out.

I gently slipped my right hand in the back of my pants beneath my tighty whities. I grunted twice then farted in my hand. It didn't feel at all as I expected. What was supposed to be an airy breezed turned out to feel quite wet, sloppy and sticky. Wait a minute, I thought. That wasn't fart, I just shit in my hand.

Not knowing the proper protocol for when one defecates on oneself, I was a bit lost as to what to do. Was there someone I could call? Since the matter was presently oozing in my hand, I opted waddle towards the bathroom.

I opened the closet door; grabbed a wash rag; shuffled to the sink; placed the wash cloth underneath the faucet; turned the water on; dampened the rag; put it in the back of my pants (mind you that I now have both hands lodged behind my ass cheeks); and carefully attempted to sop up the pile of poop that was slowly leaking out of my right hand.

After cleaning off my hand(s), I dropped the wash cloth in the bin meant for dirty laundry. I mean, it was definitely soiled and needed to be washed. Thinking nothing of it, I momentarily laughed at my own stupidity then went out to see a movie with friends.

Several days later, my mom shoved a brown stained cloth in my face. "What the fuck is this?", she asked. "I pooped in my hand. What did you expect me to do with it?" At the time I thought she was taken aback by my response because she didn't immediately wallop me in the head, instead mom formed a tight smile, took the shit smeared rag and went on her merry way.

Later that afternoon, my friend Tom came by. Immediately after greeting him at the door, mom shoved me aside and exclaimed, "Look what Bob did." She presented the rag and continued, "He shit himself and used this rag to clean it up. He then put it in my dirty clothes bin. What kind of sick fuck does that?" Tom nearly collapsed from laughter.

Mom repeated this performance over the next week for every person who knew me or was slightly acquainted with my person that came to the door - I believe she even showed the evidence of my fart gone literally to shit to our paperboy.

I learned two things from the experience: first, some fits of fancy are best left unexplored; second, perhaps most important, if you shit yourself and use a wash rag to clean up the mess, make sure to dispose of it in the trash and not the laundry bin.

It is not that I am honest, competitive or smart. I am just an asshole.

The Texas hold 'em poker tournament started with twenty four people, it was now down to me, my friend and two ancillary characters. The top three places paid out cash money.

My friend bets out big in first position, I raise him all-in, as I have substantial edge in chips, he calls. I have an AJ suited, he has a pair of 9s. I catch a J on the turn that holds up for the win. He finished in fourth place, netting him zero dollars for several hours of work. My friend quietly begins to fume.

I won the tournament shortly thereafter. First place paid $200.00. After we left the church – I am seriously considering a career playing on the Catholic Charity Poker Circuit - my friend lays into me for knocking him out. He makes the very valid point: we would have likely finished 1st and 2nd, thus netting more money overall, had we not butted heads against each other.
In my defense, I really wanted to win. I also don't like to share.

The Infamous Mr. Wilson

First semester, sophomore year in college was supposed to be special. All of my classes were scheduled on Tuesday and Thursday, which left me with a four day weekend to take trips, visit friends and explore all that I could be. It didn't quite work out that way.

I spent my sophomore year in a drunken haze, interrupted by very brief bouts of sobriety and the pained realization at what my life had become. This story isn't about the bathroom fixtures I destroyed, the women I stalked or even the pledge I threatened to disembowel, instead this is a lesson on how best to alienate a professor, then rub his face in the fact.

I was technically a political science major – Buddha's call of non-being still hadn't taken hold, so it only made sense that I take a political philosophy class, especially one taught by the most lenient professor in the department. Although the 9:00 am start time did give me pause. The instructor, Professor Steinberg, was reputed to give only one take home exam, which accounted for your entire grade, and he also did not keep attendance, unlike the rest of the den mother's in the department. For a burgeoning alcoholic who took classes two days week, promptly skipped those two days and spent the entire week hopped up on hops and rye, it seemed perfect.

Much to my immediate chagrin, Steinberg had recently changed his policy and required a minimum class attendance of only four unexcused absences with each additional absence resulting in a lowered letter grade. He even went so far as to take a roll call before each lecture. This wouldn't do, there was no way I could feasibly be up by 9:00 am, hell it wasn't unusual for me to be passed out until 9:00 pm.

After two weeks and four classes, I decided to treat his new policy as an unsubstantiated bluff – the man was nearing retirement and senility, he had better things to do than babysit a bunch of disinterested drunks playing at being students. I proceeded to skip the next twelve weeks and twenty four classes. Bear in mind the class met for sixteen weeks and a thirty-two classes total.

I sauntered into his class like I owned it – okay, actually I stumbled into the class half drunk from the night before, but I was a confident drunk nonetheless. Several of my friends, who were also in the class, had warned me throughout the semester that Steinberg was serious about the new attendance policy, I usually responded with a unintelligible grunt or by shotgunning a beer. Professor Steinberg took attendance. Dolan soon gave way Wagner, my name was up next.

Steinberg's tone seemed to change as he called my name. While earlier he used a monotone voice, he grew agitated and lively when he said: "ROBERT WILSON. WILSON?" I meekly replied: "Here." He stared directly into my eyes, as if to somehow bore a hole into my soul, took a long pause and said: "So you are the infamous Mr Wilson, huh. I thought you dropped this class. We really need to talk. Stay after class."

I don't remember that day's lecture, which makes it much like every other class I hadn't attended. However Steinberg's admonishment had quickly sobered me up. I faced the real possibility of failing his class, which would have an adverse effect on my stellar 2.5 GPA. A variety of questions flooded my thoughts: Was there anything I could do or say? What relative could I kill off as an excuse? Was I the one who reeked of beer, stale cigarette smoke and Eric's Incredible Pizza?

The next thing I the knew the bell sounded. Class was over. My friends could barely hide their smirks, like sarcastic sharks they circled my chair, they knew what was coming. After the assholes left, Professor Steinberg walked over to my desk.

"By all accounts, you should fail this class." I made a motion to interject, Steinberg shook his head and continued: "I will make you deal. Turn in the final take home exam and I will give you a C. "

I was taken aback. I missed seventy-five percent of his class; I contributed absolutely nothing to the class discussion; I thumbed my nose at the professors' attendance and grading policy, yet I was still in position to pass.

Not to be one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I responded: "What if I write an absolutely fantastic paper, wouldn't that constitute at least a B?" He gave me a pained look, shook his head no and pointed to the door.

I decided it was best to take my leave. I had a busy day ahead. I needed to track down a recent obituary to show my African American Studies professor that my grandmother had recently died, thus explaining why I missed his 2:30 pm exam.

–noun 1. a person born of unmarried parents; an illegitimate child.

Throughout the years my mother has had a variety of pet names for me: fat ass; stinky; terrorist; and bastard are but a few examples. The latter of which, bastard, is the one she used to the most frequently in my formative, prepubescent years – from ages 1 to 19.

I didn't at first understand what the word meant, or even that it had a negative connotation. This lasted until kindergarten when I was told by my teacher, Mrs. Andrews, that calling little Sally a bastard was most inappropriate.

Later that day, my mother was far from pleased when she learned of my verbal misstep. I still didn't understand what I did wrong, but between her snarling grimace and the cigarette smoke shooting out of her nose and mouth, she looked like a dragon from a recent He-Man episode. I thought it best to let the matter drop.

Obviously, I eventually learned the meaning of the word, or meanings as it were. And with time and heavy use, even the most pejorative of terms loses its sting . Mother moved on to and favored other derogatory names, though she would occasionally use her past stand by, which was fine with me as it brought back fond memories of Orko, Man-At-Arms and Teela.

One day, not so long ago, while searching for my birth certificate, I rediscovered my parent's wedding album. I vaguely remembered looking through it as a child, but I had long since forgotten it existed.

By all appearances, the wedding was an informal affair, both it and the reception took place in my aunt's backyard. I rather enjoyed seeing my family so happy and carefree; my mother actually resembled a petite, pretty young woman and not a mindless, draconian menace controlled by Beast-Man in the hope of helping Skeletor overthrow the Sorceress and all of Eternia.


Yet I was puzzled about something: who was the fair headed toddler with my mom and dad in most of the photos. He seemed very familiar, but I couldn't place where, that is until it came to me: I really am a bastard.

It was me in the photographs, each and everyone. I was present at their wedding, and not as fetus or in spirit, but as an actual, tangible and illegitimate person. It shouldn't really surprise me. My parents met in a bar, and my birth was heralded by a cony hot dog and what was thought to be a really bad case of gas, so really the whole situation made perfect sense.

I spent so many years thinking my mother was being needlessly cruel, when instead she was just being literal. Of course, I wonder what that says about her? There is a word for an unmarried woman who bears a child – mother.

It really is.

It's hell getting old. The man said it over and over again, like an irreverent hymn, as I helped him find his car.

He paid his water bill at the water department, and somehow managed to lose his car – or at least forgot where he parked it. The man walked several blocks throughout downtown Newark; he ended up in front of dad's store. The little brother and I were taking a walk, in lieu of actually doing any work, when the man said "I lost my car." I assumed he had parked nearby, somewhere along the square as it can be difficult to discern one parking spot from another.

We walked around the block, I noticed the man was quickly tiring, the 85 degree temperature coupled with a sunny, cloudless day was even getting to me and my little nine-year-old brother. I told him to sit and rest. The Brothers Wilson walked around several more blocks, searching vainly for a "black Chevy truck with a covering on the back", as the old man had described it. Issy pointed out a black Chevy truck with a covering about two blocks away; I hoped it was the right one.

We went back and took the befuddled man to "his" car, upon reaching the vehicle he stated that he was looking for a Ford, one that has a two folding backseats and pointed to a nearby Grand Voyager Caravan as the nearest facsimile. Not recalling where you parked your car is a problem; not knowing what type of vehicle you own is something else entirely. To make matters worse, he could barely stand. I failed to mention one fact: the man was ninety years old.

After instructing him to rest on the nearby bench, I asked if he needed any water, the man said "No. I feel like a damned fool. It's hell getting old." I assured him that everyone makes a mistake then hurried back to the store to pick up dad's van, which conveniently had air conditioning. Ten minutes later we drove back to the man and set off, once again, to find his wayward car.

I combed every parking lot, space, nook and cranny between the downtown courthouse and the Water Department, apparently the car had disappeared – or was never there in the first place. I quizzed the man throughout our search, in the hope of gleaming something if anything at all. He finally stated in an agitated tone: "I am sure it is right next to the water department. It has to be."

I checked every space in the water department's parking lot, drove up and down the street, went down each alley and even chased along the parallel roads both west and east. We never found the car.

I decided to retrace his steps and examine the one constant in the story: paying his bill at the water department. We, the unlikely trio of a nonagenarian, nine year old and me, entered the Water Department. The old man took a seat, I explained the situation to the customer service rep at the counter. She remembered the man but didn't know when exactly he came in, nor did she have any information about his erstwhile automobile. I thanked the woman for her time, knowing that I only had one more option to explore.

I told the man that our best bet was to go to Newark Police Department, since they were the experts in locating lost cars (and people); he agreed that was the best course of action, or at least I think he did, as he only nodded his aged head in response. He incessantly muttered, "It's hell getting old."

I parked a few hundred feet from the entrance to the Police Department; I now believe those were the most arduous steps in his life. He could barely walk, I offered to assist him, he politely shooed me away. Several times he faltered and nearly fell. Thankfully, I, along with several nearby parked cars, were there to offer support. He eventually made it to the door, I opened it, and we entered the station. The clerk on duty asked what I needed. I quickly and concisely detailed the particulars of our ill-fated quest. She thanked me for bringing the gentleman in and gestured for me to leave. She motioned for the man to come forward, I left without saying another word.

I regret not staying a little longer, at least to say goodbye. I never did think to ask his name, nor did I think to offer my own. It never came up, we were much too busy looking for the car. I hope he found what he was looking for. Since then, anytime I look at my sixty-eight year old father – or even at my own reflection in the mirror , the old man's haunting mantra sounds in my head...It's hell getting old.


It really is.

The doughtnuts were a nice touch.

I have done a lot of stupid things; I have done a lot bad things; I have (allegedly) committed more than my fair share of crimes; I have only stolen one maintenance van.

I was drunk. It was snowing. My dorm was two minutes away; however, I had long since abandoned staying in my own actual room, instead I chose to sleep at my friends' dorm on their pile of dirty clothes located on the other side of campus, which was at best, a thirty minute trek for a fat guy in my inebriated state. Remember, I was drunk, it was snowing and I faced the all too real possibility of a half hour trek across campus, something had to give.

Inspiration struck in the form of a university maintenance van. It was double parked in the fire lane, and to my drunken delight smoke was pouring out of the exhaust. I lumbered over the van, confirmed no one was about or in the van, and affirmed my suspicion that the keys were in the ignition. It seemed almost too easy.

I had a very valid reason to be drunk to the point where committing a felony appeared like a winning idea, you see the upperclassman threw a rush party in the hope of attracting future, fellow violent alcoholics. It was my duty as Bluto in waiting to consume copious amounts of beer and liquor and to crush whatever trashing talking inanimate object was at hand. I may not have paid my dues on time, attended chapter meetings or contributed to any charitable causes, but I was the best obnoxious drunk they had. The freshman guys loved me; I was like a mentally challenged super hero to them.

Since I was likely headed to pass out alone on a pile of unlaundered filth, I figured a little light company was in order. Before opening the van's door, I walked over to a fawning, potential pledge, gripped him by the arm and dragged him to the passenger's side door. He attempted to protest, I shook my head sternly side to side and half threw him into his ordained seat. I walked over to the driver's side, calmly opened the door, sat down on my warm mobile throne and put the van into reverse.

One should never drive drunk, but if you are going to do it, make sure to bring along a passenger - driving alone is a crime, driving with a friend is a conspiracy. I don't remember much of the drive to my waiting bed of soiled boxers and socks, but I am pretty sure I followed all of the major traffic laws, except, of course, the one about driving while under the influence of alcohol. According to my passenger/hostage's later recollection, I didn't strike any road signs or pedestrians, all things considered that has to be considered a plus.

Upon arrival to the far side of campus, I couldn't find a parking spot, so I parked the van in the fire lane next to my friends' dorm - the journey had come full circle.

I almost missed them when I got of the car. Fortuitously, I caught whiff of their delectable aroma: a baker's dozen of doughnuts were lodged beside the driver's seat. I took the doughnuts, graciously offered one to my unwilling accomplice, who wisely accepted, and took the rest up to my waiting pile of clothes. They weren't the best doughnuts I have ever eaten, but whom I am to complain.

The incident was never mentioned in the crime reports of the local and student newspapers. Considering I left a variety of fingerprints in and out the vehicle, and that my exact arrival was logged in as I used my ID card to enter the dorm, it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce the guilty party.

I always wondered why the crime wasn't reported. Perhaps the maintenance guy was too embarrassed to tell his supervisors, maybe he feared losing his job over his egregious oversight of leaving the van unlocked with the engine running, or, as I liked to think, it was an act of a loving deity who took pity on his retarded child. Whatever the case, I got it on like Donkey Kong and lived to tell the tale.

Believe

I now vividly remember the leggy blond standing half naked in the hallway. Unlike most disheveled and disrobed women I happened upon in college, she wasn't crying or noticeably drunk, she was fully in control - except for the part about not being clothed and gawked at by five drunk guys in the hall.

How did she end up in a dorm hallway with little more than a bra and panties on? She had been forcefully kicked out by a friend* as No I don't need you anymore faded into the background. Why? His girlfriend was coming over - she also lived only a couple dorms & minutes away.
Y
ou see, the HIV was the noted Lothario on campus; the guy you don't invite to your wedding because he will try to sleep with your wife, then settle for your mom. Yet, notorious womanizer or not, the HIV had a girlfriend, whom he ostensibly cared enough for not to sleep with other women in her immediate vicinity.

You may wonder how I know the particulars of story, it is actually quite simple: two of my best friends lived next door to the HIV, and he was also one of our fraternity brothers. Like any two-faced bastard, he bragged about his accomplishment, unlike most heterosexual men however, he was a fan of Cher's magnum opus, Believe, and would play it anytime he had sex.

I spent many a night drinking with my two buddies next door, listening to Believe reverberating through the walls, punctuated by the occasional grunt during the chorus. As I just mentioned, the chorus was generally accompanied by a noise, not by screams of protest. Being gentlemen, my friends and are were honor bound to see what was going on, and that is when I gazed upon the leggy blond standing clad in little more than flimsy beachwear in the hall.

The events of that night weren't that out of the ordinary, in fact, I witnessed and participated in more interesting fare – some of which has been cataloged here; however, I never completely forgot that winter night during my freshman year, but I wonder if she did?

Skip seven years into the future. A young lady worked for a very prominent libertarian think tank, she even wrote several articles for them dealing with social security reform. While trying to track down a girl I used to stalk in college, I came upon one of her articles. It was extremely well written, reasoned and entertaining, especially considering the subject matter. Upon further research I discovered that the author went to college with me, she in fact was in my 2002 graduating class – I even tracked down a picture of her. She seemed familiar but I didn't know from where.

Over the next two years I was a semi-regular reader of her blog. I will be honest, while I generally dismiss libertarian thought as much too anarchistic, her clever and witty words actually changed my mind on several key issues like social security reform and how (not) to regulate identity theft. Then one day, while glancing at her picture in the corner of her blog's bio, I suffered a moment of crystalline clarity, I did remember her from college: She was the leggy blond in the hall.

Generally one shouldn't judge a person based on the ill-conceived romantic happenings of youth. But when it involves the HIV, well, that is a different story entirely. She might be smart, witty and quite the persuasive writer but she was also a tainted, oh-so-dirty whore.

*In consideration of his privacy and our close bond, I will refer to my "friend", David Ravi Mayer from Kula, Hawaii, as the HIV in this story.

Why the HIV? Because the HIV had sex with such a ridiculous amount of women, many of whom themselves were whores, that there is a high statistical probability he contracted one venereal disease or another (or all of them.) To be fair, however, I do not know this to be a fact (just an extreme likelihood) and would never suggest it as such. He is my good friend after all.

Assless Leather Chaps

I split my pants at the post office today - I am not sure if I was more embarrassed about the actual event or the accompanied realized truth that I no longer could comfortably wear a size 42 waist.

I still had twenty packages to process, which prevented an immediate, embarrassed egress. Instead I patiently waited for ten minutes with a one foot jagged window to my ass. Now I know how English homosexuals feel when they queue up for a BDSM club.

If Only It Wasn't True

I went on a date with my little brother. We had dinner at Arby's, then watched Spider-Man 3 at our local mall. This story isn't about the movie - which was good, by the way, or how my eleven-year-old brother serves both as a surrogate best friend and girlfriend, instead it serves a parable of sorts. Pay attention least you fail to learn the lesson well.

The movie was viewed in one of the larger theaters, and since it was a 4:00 pm matinee, there was plenty of seating room. We were the second group in the theater and staked out the center upper row for ourselves. Every subsequent group lay claim to their own row. I was slightly perturbed when a pregnant woman sat directly in front of me, but she was short enough not to impede my view and I have always had a thing for expectant mothers. Two minutes into the previews a family of five decided to sit directly beside me and the little brother. The family unit consisted of mom, grandmother and three children all under the age of five.

The middle child, who appeared to be two or three years old, was suckling on an Icee, soon thereafter, as is want to happen with sugary sweets and children, he ran out of frozen syrup and decided to instead suck on his straw in the most egregious and offensive manner possible. His mother proceed to ignore this behavior for the next two and half hours. To be fair, the child only sucked on empty air intermittently, perhaps every five minutes or so; also, I am fairly certain the mother was glad he suckled on a straw rather than her heaving teat - then again, that is just my layman's opinion.

While I listening to the occasional chorus of churtle, churt and chut, my little brother was intently engaged in watching the movie. That is until Spider-Man acquired his black suit. My little brother started to incessantly giggle, I leaned over and whispered, "what is so funny?" his response was startling. He said, in a much too loud of voice, that this was the n****r Spider-Man. I hoped I misunderstood and he meant to say bigger or Tigger, however the former didn't make sense and my brother never was much of a Winnie The Pooh fan. He did help further clarify his meaning as he proceeded to repeat the phrase n****r Spider-Man every time Spider-Man appeared on the screen - you would be surprised how many times the titular character appears in his own movie, I lost count after 53.

Now I want you to understand that I don't support such bigoted language, especially from a child, however, there is little I could do to dissuade its usage. One must bear in mind that the little brother idolizes our father, an otherwise good man, who recently took umbrage with Don Imus' remarks towards the Rutgers women's basketball team, he felt Imus should have said: Nappy Headed Whores. He even suggested I write a letter to the editor to that fact, I wisely opted not to.

What is the moral of this story? Between a breast starved toddler and a bigoted prepubescent sibling, I am not really sure, Yet, I have always said only in the absurd can one discover the profound...actually I just made that last part up.

The Pool

Today was special. Not in a I lost my virginity to a one-eyed Mexican whore kind of way, but memorable nonetheless. Mother asked me to accompany her and the little brother to the pool. Mom and I usually do not spend time with one another, unless food or work is involved, so this was a very important milestone. I was actually looking forward to spending time with my two least favorite immediate family members (out of possible three), but as I should have will known, when Bob feels a pang of familial love it is a harbinger of disaster.

The actual trip to the pool went well and involved the usual small talk about my inability to get a date and my little brother Issy's desire to punch me in the balls. Being fairly immune to such conversation, I felt pretty positive about our upcoming swim. Upon arriving I was surprised to see only a half dozen cars in the parking lot. I immediately rationalized that most pool-goers are adolescents dropped off by their absentee parents, so I wasn't too worried. After paying the cute little Asian girl, who reminded me of Lotus Blossom, we ventured towards the pool.

There were, at best, thirty people there, which included the lifeguards, making my earlier rationalization ring false - who needs a bunch of nymph like twelve year old girls to have a good time at the pool? Not I, I say, not I. However, soon thereafter something very troublesome became apparent. I, Robert Kyle Wilson, was the fattest person at the pool.

Now, I am used to being the fat guy in a small, intimate setting, yet to actually be the most obese person at a public pool is a little much even for me. Of course, there were plenty of chubby mother's wearing ill fitting bathing attire, and I took solace in their beached whale appearance; nonetheless, I still had a good fifty pounds on any of these domestic behemoths. Issy didn't help matters as he took great delight in pointing out that I was fatter than everyone else.. All I could think of was, Et tu, McDonald's, et tu.

After coming to terms with my position as fattest guy at the pool, I jumped in and took a little swim. Or, at least that was the plan. The moment my ample flesh touched the pool a numbing coldness blanketed my entire being. In other words, it was a wee bit nippy in there. I could barely draw a breath, more less swim, so I opted for none of the above and hauled my ass out of there and back to the warm embrace of my ruffled, pink towel.

It now made sense why the parking lot was empty and only a couple dozen people were there, because only an idiot, and/or my mother, would deem it fit to swim in a sub seventy degree temperatures with a heavy overcast blocking out any relief from the sun.. I am ashamed to admit that my short sojourn into the pool shriveled my usually massive four and half inches down to one. It was that cold

As the day continued, my experience improved from abysmal to mildly disconcerted. A rather obese black man showed up and claimed my place as King Fat; I could only hope one day to have man teats like his. Eventually even the clouds parted, allowing the sun to heat pool to a lukewarm, semi-tolerable state. All was well with the world, until mother decided to engage the pretty young life guards in conversation.

If I have one bane in this world, it is attractive young ladies. I am putty in their hands, and also money in their pockets. Therefore, I strive to maintain a minimum of fifty yards from there presence, if only to prevent any unwarranted gifts of money and electronic devices, such as a pager. My mother is aware of my debilitating problem with women, she thinks it can be cured through public humiliation.. Her remedy is very simple, direct and crushing to my mental health.

The first step in her "final solution" is scoping out the most attractive woman in a given area. She then walks up to her and engages in small talk. After a few minutes of conversation, she bellows like a banshee just freed from hell: Get over here, NOW! Usually I run away at this point, opting to take cover behind a car, in a closet or behind a brazier display at Sears. But being at the public pool, with no available refuge and standing out like an albatross due to my position as King Fat in waiting, I had no where to go. Thus, I waddled over to her and listened as she tried to fix me up with a beautiful nineteen year old. Now, when I use the phrase fix me up what I mean to say is that she blatantly, in the most obtuse manner possible, states that I am single, live in a trailer, work for my parents, graduated from college with a worthless degree in religion, and am serious need of a date.

Surprisingly to no one but mom, this approach did not work. The lifeguard responded with a weak smile, stated she was already involved and quickly retreated to an empty chair across the pool. My already shriveled member managed to invert itself into my actual flesh, reminiscent of a baby kangaroo submerging into its mother's pouch. Of course,mom blamed me for the failure, I should have been able to speak up for myself. She also quipped it wouldn't hurt if I lost a little weight and got some sun. You could say she was kicking a man while he was down; but really, what worse can you do to guy whose testicles actually managed to rescinded into his stomach.

We left soon soon after, although not before Issy punched me in nuts.