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.

Happy Birthday Big Sexy "Bob"

I am not sure why my name is in quotes, perhaps because it isn't a proper name like Big Sexy.

This cake serves as my sole birthday present from my mother, father and little brother. The sticker indicated the original price to be $12.87, however that number is crossed out and to the side discount is hand written.

I should be grateful regardless of the amount spent, although I do hope the cake cost more than a McDonald's value meal - or at the very least, I hope it wasn't scavenged from the dumpster.

Children at Play

They were both wearing wife beaters. The look almost worked for the girl, which is why the boy appeared all the more foolish. She was two heads taller, he was ghetto in the most Casper sense of the word. Welcome to Mound City Little League.

Newark has three separate (and very distinct) youth baseball programs: Mound City; Kiwanis; and North Newark. Kiwanis is the least competitive of the three, which is why I played there as a child. North Newark appeals to the homogeneous crowd, those who incidentally share the same ethnicity, neighborhood and stock profile. Mound City, where my brother has played for the last three years, is arguably the most competitive because it literally takes all kinds.

One could argue that families at Mound City are working class, however, since many of them subsist solely on government aid, working may not be the optimal word. Yet, whereas many are clad in wife beaters and jean shorts, you are just as likely to run into a Church of God devotee wearing a full length skirt on a 90 degree day or a harried working single mother who manages a convenience store when she is not attending her three son's baseball games.

There is an interesting dichotomy between observant Christian wife, single woman struggling to somehow extend an already full twenty-four day and welfare mother who has five kids separated by three years as if by government sanctioned design. But what is even more intriguing are the similarities between the three, and really all the people who attend the games at Mound City Little League. Diversity is a word, these people are real life.

Mothers always yell words of encouragement to their embarrassed child up to bat. Fathers always preach fundamentals and plate discipline, while deceptively whispering amongst themselves about how they would do things differently if they were coach, when what they really want to say is if they were the ones who were swinging the bat.

Everyone nurtures, everyone lives vicariously from swing to swing, class and race fade to the commonality found in six innings of little league baseball.

I often derisively laugh at the people in my town, it is easier to judge those like me and condemn those who appear too much apart. Children playing baseball doesn't change the fundamental nature of such a man, but for two hours even the cynic who shrouds himself in the absurd takes pause, eats a hot dog and enjoys the game.

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.

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 Call of Cthulhu and/or Cheney

Pasted below is an excerpt from a forum thread on my local paper's website, The Newark Advocate. Using H.P. Lovecraft's mythos to make a derisive counterarguement to a 9/11 conspiracy theorist is a bit much, I know.


..> ..>
Posted: Mon May 14, 2007 8:31 am Post subject: more BUSH ADMINISTRATION terrorist propaganda
Tim Barnes
6 years after the fact,U.S Officials still have no concrete evidence that osama had anything to do with 9/11.Now if all you know it alls out there want to get an education check out govcoverup.com,to learn who the real terrorists are.

..> ..>
Posted: Mon May 14, 2007 11:09 am Post subject:

wilsonr
Tim, you are absolutely right, as is Charlie Sheen and Rosie O'Donnell - 9/11 is a vast conspiracy created by a cabal between the munitions industry, neo-conservatives and Zionists. Their real objective is not to fight terrorism, instead they hope to call forth the star spawned Cthulhu. By awakening he who dreams in R'lyeh, the conspirators hope to resurrect the Old Gods and reshape this world to their liking. I am just glad you figured it all out, Tim - you are a real credit to the human race.
..>..>..>..>
..> ..>
Posted: Mon May 14, 2007 12:03 pm Post subject: wilsonr
Tim Barnes
thx,i can't take credit for figuring it out,just credit for trying to spread the word,to those that believe our gov't,is capable of LYING to us.6 months ago i pointed this out,and most said i needed help,hopefully now they understand,what,i learned back in sept.06.

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.

I love soccer.

The officials of Newark, Ohio would like to host, help finance and give tax abatements to the new Major League Soccer, MLS, Columbus Crew training facility . The facility would be managed by the Columbus Crew, and would be available for local events and youth soccer teams - the facility would be privately and/or publicly owned and funded.

The City of Newark has virtually no money in its budget and is unable to properly support is own infrastructure; what we call roads are more like a series of connected pot holes, punctuated by the crumbling islands of asphalt. Yet, Newark has the resources to develop a training facility for the world's most popular game - bureaucracy.

MLS is not doing exceeding well in Columbus or anywhere else. They are now repeating the same mistakes of the 1970's professional North American Soccer League: paying aging European and South American superstars, who are on the back nine of their career, millions of dollars in the vain hope of drawing bigger television crowds. If the Michael Jordan of soccer, Pele, could not make soccer viable in the United State then, it is highly unlikely Mr. Posh Spice can do it now.

Soccer is currently the fifteenth most popular televised sport in the United States, directly between autistic badminton and men's volleyball. Part of the reason why is cultural, Americans already watch professional wrestling to sate its head butting appetite, but the more prevalent reason is why would anyone want to watch a substandard iteration of a sport, the MLS - it is akin to preferring The OC over Beverly Hills 90210 . If you want to watch hot and heavy soccer action, you already are an avid viewer of European club league matches on ESPN 21.

The Newark Advocate - THE place to find failed English & Journalism Majors who now prostitute the written word for fifty cents a pop - reported the facility would bring in: 500,000 visitors to the area each year; 1,100 jobs to the region; $52 million dollar in sales; $18 million dollars in wages; and $600,000 in city taxes. Bob say what? It is like the time I witnessed a teenage girl gallivanting around the mall wearing a midriff baby t-shirt and shorts that did not extend past the cleft in the her ass, everything suddenly went purple and the next thing I knew I was sitting in the food court, my face covered in sour cream and four taco bell wrappers laying in my lap.


Are there 500,000 MLS soccer fans in the United States - even counting illegal Mexicans and geriatric Canadians I am comfortably certain the answer is: not even close.

1,100 jobs? Sure, I would just said a million-ka-jillion jobs and giving everyone the finger, but 1,100 is a good number, too. Of course, most of these phantom jobs are already filled by local wait staff, fast food fry cooks and hotel employees, therefore I am not even sure how that number is relevant but I don't get $50,000 a year to be the economic development director in Newark - this ass does however.

• The $600,000 in taxes I believe, but we (or at least those of with jobs who pay taxes) will be paying that amount out from local and state coffers to help subsidize the project and not receiving it as a revenue.
  
• $52 million dollars in sales - maybe the legions of children, who will end up the only real beneficiaries in this scenario when the Crew inevitably goes belly up, that play youth soccer at the facility will use their large disposable incomes to purchase Newark's most valuable commodity: Happy Meals!
  
• $18 million in wages: that is an easy one, give every local Newark resident working at McDonald's, Wendy's and Burger King a $15,000 a year raise for dealing with the frothing antics of the aforementioned high fructose sugar crazed legion of adolescent soccer zombies.

When it is all said and done, Newark, Ohio has the opportunity to host one of the world's foremost and expensive soccer facilities for children. It will definitely put us on the map - as the biggest fuck-wits in the Midwest.