Some experiences in life are entirely too horrific to go through in a sober state. And in my life “experiences,” refers to all weekends and most weeknights. On occasion however, even Grey Goose cannot save the day. As I was facing one of the most dreadful days of my life, I had to call in the big guns and get myself some “special” brownies!

Yes, this past winter, my ‘friend’ Shamu was hosting a birthday party for herself, and I was one of the unfortunate souls to be chosen for the guest list. At this point, I feel it is important to add, that there were three rather significant factors which forced me to attend this horrible occasion rather than stay home and get some work done around the house. By ‘house work’ I am of course referring to taking inventory of my vibrator and sex toy collection.

The factors go as follows:

1) One of my best friends, Lana, who was also chosen for this unfortunate fate, would have had my tits on a skewer had I told her I was unable to accompany her that evening.

2) I have a hard time rejecting any occasions where alcohol is available, particularly vodka.

3) Shamu attended my birthday several months earlier. There, she proceeded to single handedly devour the buffet I had set up for my 20 or so guests. I decided I had to at least attempt to return the favor.

To make matters worse, Shamu strategically picked a Saturday for her festivities. This alone put a serious damper on my weekend. For the month approaching the party, I referred to the event as “Free Willy’s Big Birthday Bash-My-Head-In-With-A-Baseball-Bat.” Although the logical choice would be to have her birthday party at Sea World, she settled for a Moroccan restaurant in center city, Philadelphia instead. I had never visited this place before, but heard a lot about it and had a feeling that there wasn’t enough alcohol in the tri-state area to help me cope with the upcoming experience. It was time to bring out the weed.

Seeing as Lana was the only other person I knew masochistic enough to grace Shamu’s birthday party, we decided to suffer through it together. Luckily, Lana happened to get a hook-up for the best special brownies under the sun. So good, they that they would even make Martha Stewart crap out the stick she has had shoved up her ass for years. And I was planning to chow down on them as if they were pussy, and I was a guy that just spent the last ten years getting it in the ass in prison. So, as the day approached, I knew that this little chunk of chocolaty heaven would be the only thing that would save me from completely losing it, and sucker-punching Shamu in the face.

Since Lana lives a whole two minutes away from my house, I made the executive decision to carpool. This way she could also feed me the brownies in the car, which would be helpful seeing as it would give me something to look forward to on the way. Preventing me from purposely driving into a tree in order to avoid going to this joyous occasion. As I pulled into Lana’s driveway I quickly glanced at the time on the dashboard and continued to wait the average 20 minutes that it takes for her to get from the inside of her house to the outside. I realize that some people are always late like a period after prom night, but for years Lana has been especially talented in this department. After much contemplation about the reasons for her consistent tardiness, I concluded that she must army crawl rather than walk out of her house.

My disposition didn’t improve much as I was waiting for her. During this “alone time” in my car, my thoughts about the evening to come turned my mood even more sour. I couldn’t help but to obsess over certain burning questions I had about the evening ahead of me: Will Shamu notice that I’m stoned out of my mind…more than usual? Will she attempt to nibble on my ankle in between courses of food to settle her hunger? Will there be enough food left over for me to settle my muchies? Wait…shit….doesn’t Moroccan food give you the shits?!

My line of self questioning had me in a complete panic by the time Lana came skipping down her driveway resembling a gazelle on acid. Although she wasn’t happy about our destination for the evening either, Lana always has a way of cheering herself up. Some find that to be a charming charecteristic, on this evening. I found it pretty fucking annoying. Disregarding the off putting scowl I was sporting on my face, Lana climbed into the passenger seat of my white Altima and leaned over, plopping a big kiss on my check. I was going to ask her exactly what the fuck she was so happy about, but decided against it seeing as she was still in possession of the brownies. I’d better play nice if I still wanted my half.

In fact, by this point in time I was so cranky and tired of waiting that my mood could only compare to one of a gay homeless guy’s, who just found out his cardboard box was turned down for that feature in Home and Garden Magazine for the seventh time in a row. I was pissed at the world for having to watch Shamu do tricks for her food all night, and Lana’s unnecessarily optimistic disposition was just not going to help me think happy thoughts at the moment.

“Hey!!!!!!! I got the brownies!!!” she squealed as she reached into her purse, unveiling a square covered in tin foil. That foil might just be my silver lining, I thought to myself.

“Well I can’t think of a better reason to make your voice climb to such high decibels. Lets eat!” I responded with a glimmer of hope for the upcoming night.

So, as she divided the huge brownie in two, she warned me that it’s very strong shit, and that if I consume the whole brownie, it might be too much and ruin the night. I couldn’t imagine the night getting worse, but didn’t want to black out at any point just because I don’t trust the belly dancers that I heard would be performing for Shamu in their Moroccan garb. For all I know, I could be so high that I’d actually get up and dance with those fuckers like all the losers are expected to do. And after a few seemingly-innocent swings of the male belly dancer’s hips, I could end up pregnant with a little Moroccan baby stomping around in my uterus. I just can’t have my child be that obnoxious, or hairy, for that matter.

But enough about super belly dancer semen, it had been ten minutes in the car since I devoured my brownie, and I still didn’t feel a thing. We were half way to the restaurant and I was as sober as the Jonas Brothers.

“What is this shit Lana? I won’t be able to make it through even half of this party without something seriously clouding my perception of things. It just can’t be done!” I said, getting very frustrated with this Betty Crocker Marley bullshit!

“Oh, don’t worry Elina, chill the fuck out,” Lana exclaimed, “The guy I bought it from said that we should wait a half hour to an hour, and right after we render it completely useless, it will kick in!” She shot back at me with yet another smile.

“I sure hope so,” I responded grumpily, “Because If I have to so much as sit there and look at Shamu for more that eight minutes, I’m liable to stick everything in my sight into that blowhole of hers, and quite frankly Lana, you will be the closest thing standing next to me!”

Scared that she might end up going where no man has gone before, Lana said a little prayer to the special brownie gods just as I parked my car in front of the restaurant. Upon opening the front door, I had to squint into the extremely dark interior. The whole place was covered in fabrics draping the walls and cushions splayed out on the floor. I felt like I just walked onto a shitty set of an Aladdin porno. After squinting my eyes hard enough I was finally able to navigate my way around the other parties; and finally locate Shamus room all the way in the back.

Upon entering the room, I realized that Shamu was nowhere to be seen and quickly scanned the scene for an optimal seat. The seating arrangements were quite comical. They consisted of several cushions surrounding two round tables. The table Lana and I decided to occupy, which I coined “The Under 500 Pound Table,” and secondly there was the “500+ Table.”

Just as I spotted Shamu entering the restaurant and proceeding to swim over to our little room, I was hit by a positive thought! Although the weed was not kicking in for shit, I realized that I would see something that only a Moroccan restaurant can offer me… Shamu chowing down with her hands!

I’ve never really seen a fat chick eat with her hands, and this should be quite the show. And to think, I had seven courses of food to look forward to! So with a slight smile on my face and a skip in my step, I settled down next to Lana and waited for the food to come out. Where’s my camera? Maybe I can YouTube this shit! But I instantly decided to push the YouTube idea aside for now because I couldn’t quite figure out how I’d fit Shamu’s whole body into the frame of my camera.

As if on cue, Shamu came marching in with a friend of hers that was only slightly smaller in size. They greeted all of us briefly before they settled in to eat at the opposing table.

“Here we go!” I thought to myself as I literally turned my body in order to be positioned in the perfect viewpoint of this eating extravaganza. As the first course of chicken came out I knew this would be a sight to behold. The poor chicken was pulled apart by Shamu and her friend like a game of tug of war at a fantasy fat camp. After it was torn into two, the devouring began.

“Nam nam nam!” I overheard through the Moroccan music playing overhead!

“Oh sweet Jesus, there are sound affects!” I whispered trying to contain my sheer excitement at this incredible sight.

Although nothing could compare to the chicken dish, the next 20 minutes were spent inspecting the food being thrown into her mouth… It really was just like Sea World! Until this very moment I didn’t even know it was possible to fit a whole shish kabob skewer in one’s mouth in one smooth motion. Well done Shamu, well done!

Just when my anticipation began to climb, as I saw the waiter carry out the cous cous, (which shoveling technique will she use on this one?) Shamu decided to take a breather and head to the restroom. All my fun left with her, and I quickly became inpatient again.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?” I turn to Lana: “IF THIS SHIT DOESN’T KICK IN SOON, I’M GOING TO TAKE SHAMU BY HER KANKLES AND PROPEL HER INTO THE BELLY DANCER!”

“Calm down,” she said, “It should be kicking in any minute now… Actually, I’m kinda starting to feel it.”

After a couple more minutes of planning my attack of the belly dancer with Shamu’s round physique, and trying to picture exactly how I am going to bend at the knees to lift that bitch even two inches off the floor, I started feeling a little happier. The thought made me giggle out loud and before I knew it, Lana and I were laughing so hard that I had a more difficult time breathing than Shamu going up a flight of three steps.

“Hahahahaha, wow it’s all hitting me harder than a pair of chin nuts Lana!” I exclaimed.

“Right?!” She managed to get out between snorts.

Within seconds by body started to tingle and the whole place became truly incredible! The colors were brighter than I remembered and the music suddenly seemed ‘trippy’ to me as opposed to obnoxious. Just as I was starting to appreciate this Moroccan wonderland in a whole different light, here came the resident male belly dancer. Due to his swinging hips which had strategically placed bells on them, I immediately named him Jingle Balls.

Although made-up like crazy, on closer inspection, it was easy to see that he was obviously pushing 70. Try as they may, the pounds of eye liner and bright purple eye shadow couldn’t cover the fact that his age most definitely qualified him for the senior discount at the movies. This made me wonder, of course, whether this is his actual job, or whether someone slipped some acid in his prune pudding earlier in the day. Either way, he was going crazy in front of us, and I was fascinated. His arms went up in the air twirling him back and forth, while his hips danced circles around the room, leaving his legs with no choice but to follow.

Although all those factors were enough to keep me on the edge of my cushion; every so often Jingle Balls did something with his hands that was simply incredible. He vibrated his fingers. Yes, Jingle Balls knew exactly how to use those finger cymbals in his hands. And quite frankly, this act put my Rabbit to shame and made me consider slipping him my number in his turban.

While watching Jingle Balls swing and twirl, I was focused in on the gold belt he was wearing on top of the layers of colorfully designed scarves and robes he had on. Had I been sober, I would have distanced myself at least 50 feet (the distance I usually like to keep between myself and perverted old men wearing makeup and robes), but in this case, I was as close as can be, blatantly following those incredible dance moves with my bloodshot gaze.

At one point I got so close that during one of Jingle Ball’s particularly intense maneuvers, I could have sworn I got hit in the forehead by his dick. But before the Moroccan baseball bat to the face could sober me up, Shamu jumped in for the kill. She began dancing with him and used her hips, which could have easily created a tidal wave had she still been in her tank, to propel herself forward to the belly dancer. Not sure whether she just wanted to dance with him, or if she mistakenly confused him with the fifth course of the night, Jingle Balls ran before he got mauled.

Jingle Ball’s quick departure did not slow her down a lick. The spinning and gyrating of Shamu quickly made me feel quite sea sick. And since it did nothing but make me incredibly nauseous, I quickly averted my attention to Lana sitting to the left of me.

“Do I have anything on my forehead?” I asked as I looked over at her. However, I instantly forgot about receiving a response to this question. In fact, I had to do a double take because she was sitting there zoned out for what looked like at least the last ten minutes or so. As I stared at her trying to figure out if she was holding back on me earlier and supplemented the brownies with crack; she suddenly grabs my arm and jerks me like a limp dick.

” Elina! Oh my God, Elina, listen to the music!” she loudly whispered to me as I slowly focused on the melody. “Elina, listen listen, it’s the cello!!!”

The second the word ‘cello’ left her mouth I knew that this statement was by far the most profound thing I have ever heard.

“Oh my God, Lana, you’re right!!! IT IS SO THE CELLO!”

It must have been the same song playing on a loop the whole night. But it was only this time around that I was truly stoned enough to fully appreciate the sounds of every single instrument. In that moment, it seemed like everything but the music went completely silent.

Both in awe of our revelation, we continued to sit there in our super-concentrated state for at least the next half hour or so. Our discussions about the sounds of the cello reached levels that I didn’t even know I was capable of reaching. It was the deepest and most intellectual conversation I have had to date, and I was enjoying it thoroughly.

All of the sudden just as Lana and I began discussing the significance of our 6^th grade music class in the knowledge that we hold today about this wonderful instrument; Shamu’s whiny voice ruined Music Appreciation Hour at our table.

“LADIESSSS, would any one of you like to be introduced to the cute 25-year-old sitting at the next table over? His family over there is trying to set him up!”

Although the guy couldn’t see us from where he was sitting, Lana and I caught a glimpse of a young, good looking guy shaking like a wet lap dog in the corner. Upon further inquiry into exactly why he was put on sale at our table, I got a few answers. Apparently, before he was offered up to the two of us, he was first introduced to Shamu and her posse of sumo wrestler girlfriends. The boy probably saw his life flashing before his eyes at the thought of having any one of those monsters ride him Cowgirl style. Hence his current fetal position state.

Unfortunately, before Lana and I could answer Shamu, the guy spotted us. Upon laying eyes on women that were under 500 pounds, his face lit up like the neon signs outside a strip club, and I could have sworn he came a little when we walked over. My original intention was not to go over and speak to him but I felt that the poor fella had been through enough that night. I’m sure it wasn’t every day that he came this close to cheating death by flesh.

As we exchanged hellos, I couldn’t help but notice him staring at our love pockets and sugar nips throughout the whole conversation. It wasn’t in a creepy ‘Rico Suave’ way, rather, an Amish boy’s first time seeing titties kind of way. It’s like he’d never seen pussy and was enthralled. I tuned him out completely within the first two minutes of speaking to him, and within three, I ruled him as mentally handicapped. This was also the time when I proceeded to hand him over to Lana, who based on her recent string of boyfriends had way more experience with “special boys.”

As I left the special boy in Lana’s more than capable hands, I began frantically looking for the belly dancer and his swinging shlong. While scanning the room my eyes caught those of the cougar sitting at the next table. Although I love MILFs, and fully intend on becoming one someday, I didn’t pay much attention to her. That is, until I saw she was staring at me.

For a while we just sat there. Her, staring at me with the look of determination and slight schizophrenia in her eyes. Me, gazing back in a complete stupor. I spent this awkward silence trying to A) Figure out what the fuck she was looking at me for. And B) Trying to figure out if her tits were about as authentic as that bleach blonde hair heaped on the top of her head.

“Use it,” she said with a wink finally breaking the silence.

“Umm, excuse me?” I answered, not sure whether it was the drugs or whether she was actually telling me to ‘use it.’

Completely disregarding my question she continued “MMM I see you got some tits on you too, huh. Well, us girls that have it gotta use it!You can have whatever you want,” she continued knocking the creepiness factor up a few notches with another wink.

“Fuck I’m losing it.” I mumbled under my breath. At this point I began to wonder if there was another mystery ingredient placed in those brownies.

Seconds later, as I was still trying hard to focus on what was happening, and determine whether I was just high out of my mind or if she really said what I thought she had said. My thoughts were confirmed when the 25-year-old’s balls finally took a drop toward the floor, and he decided to step in.

“Haha, what are you talking about??” he asked her.

Then, without a moments hesitation, the half-smile on her face transformed into something resembling a sci- fi movie villain.

“SHUT UP! YOU ARE THE WEAKER SEX!” she barked at him.

Shocked at her outburst, he quickly grabbed a hold of his genitals and sunk in his seat. Just minutes later he crawled right back into the fetal position we found him in upon our arrival. Deeming him as a lost cause and motioning for his mother to come change his soiled diaper, I sat there trying to gain some composure.

Unfazed by her man-hating turrets, cougar lady continued to bombard me with more unwanted winks and pseudo intellectual comments. Needless to say this did nothing to improve my high, and I decided it was time for Lana and myself to leave this fine establishment.

Leaving the belly dancer, Shamu, the 25-year-old, and the cougar inside, we ran to my car as I began to sober up. “What the fuck just happened there? “ I was overwhelmed by a plethora of deep questions as I jumped into the car.

How does the belly dancer get his fingers to vibrate like that? Could I arrange a fingering along with my fourth course next time I go there? Will Shamu finger the belly dancer after we leave? Did the cougar really like my tits? I feel kind of bad for blowing her off… Should I run back in and let her motorboat me real quick? I debated as I started the car.

Right before I began backing out of my spot, Lana looked over at me,
“Oh shit, the guy asked me to give him my number before we left. Should I go back in, or forget it?”

I looked over into her beautiful brown and bloodshot eyes as I responded,

“Oh Lana, don’t be silly, I’m fairly certain Shamu ate him by now.”

My attention span can, on many occasions, rival that of six-year-old boy with ADD, mild Tourette’s, and diarrhea. This, paired with the fact that my sense of humor can often compare to that of a pre-pubescent boy can prove to be quite problematic. My mind is constantly wandering, and mostly in what seems to be the wrong direction. When I’m not contemplating whether it’s Pinot Grigio or Patron that I’d like to cap my night off with, I tend to get creative and slightly shitfaced (but that’s neither here nor there). During these alcohol-induced brainstorming sessions, I have thought of several bizarre theories and ideas on life and my, ahem, bright(?) future. Over the years, I have accumulated business ideas I would venture into if I were granted an Oprah amount of money, and if the U.S. government suddenly took an extremely liberal turn. I have paired some of these business ideas with poems that can rival those of the famous e.e. cummings (minus the e.e. and the s at the end)…

1) Most recently, I was alarmed by the vast number of people who are on dating sites. The idea of finding any decent cock in this way perplexes me; I insist on checking out the goods before I chat with them, but that’s just me and my incredibly high penis standards. But enough about sword play for now. I must admit, JDate was perhaps the most alarming of all the dating sites. The first and foremost problem is the fact that there is a website out there for Jews that is NOT free. How Shlomo or Moisha pay out of pocket to look at women and aren’t even guaranteed a happy ending is beyond me. (And of course I mean “happy ending” in every sense of the phrase.) As my concern rose for the dwindling Jew population, I quickly appointed myself the new Moses and decided to lead my single people to MY dating website… FindaJew.com! I would be the ruler of these single Jews and pair them up as I see fit. The good-looking ones would be with the other three good looking ones. The uglies would mingle among the fuglies. And the fatties will be in a category of their own altogether! They would listen to my advice on good etiquette: what to say, what to do, and how to give great head. All of this tough love would be free and out of the goodness of my vodka-filled heart. All I would ask in return is that, when they find the Jew of their wet dreams, they do two things:
1) Display a life-sized cardboard cut-out of me at their wedding. Preferably somewhere near the cake – front and center. (I should also mention that I will be completely nude in the cut-out holding two thumbs up.)
2) Name their first three children after me: boys and girls, no exceptions.

The following words of wisdom will be posted on the website as well. Why? Because I’m a giver!

For the Ladies:
If you’re lonely and kinda shy,
Come to FindaJew for the perfect guy.
Cheer up because after you give that upper lip a wax,
I’ll have you marry a chiropractor named Max!

For the Men:
If your willy is lonesome, and it makes you sad,
Log on to FindaJew and get your ass glad.
Find a nice girl; you won’t get played.
You can stop beating off every day and get laid!

For Everyone:
Are you fat and kinda fugly?
Can’t find someone to get you all snuggly?
Don’t fret, as long as you’re a Jew,
I have someone just as unattractive for you!
Get married and bump uglies; don’t be tamed.
No worries, your first three kids are already named!

In search of some cock or a handful of titty?
I’ll help you find someone in your own city.
I will set you up on lovely Jew dates,
Find you all fertile Jew mates.
Guys will be very well-fed
And girls will be trained to give very good head!
Women, you’ll get everything you visualized,
Most importantly, your man will be circumcised!

2) I constantly want to one-up Angelina Jolie. Seeing as my acting career only extends to faking orgasms on occasion, there is only one way to beat the bitch: I have devised a plan to adopt a foreign child from every country! They will be all colors of the rainbow, but all the same age. I will house them, love them, feed them, educate them, and perhaps start a small sweat shop in my basement. All of this, however, is only mildly significant. More importantly, I will include them in my business plan. When they all hit the age of six, we will have one big photo shoot. In the photo, they will be lying around in a circle holding hands. Yes, I will use my many children to manufacture and sell “We Are the World” posters After I am done with that, I will gladly FEDEX all of their asses over to Angie and Brad just in time for Christmas.

3) I had a brief desire to run for President. I would have the slogan “There’s no problem a good blow job can’t solve!” I stand by my political beliefs.

4) A couple of years ago on Halloween (better known as the dress-like-a-stripper holiday), I attended a party as a “sexy” cop. My outfit came customized with “Hottie Police” written all over it. Needless to say, I went on a power trip. I cuffed every single person in the bar and insisted on strip searching the attractive ones. I might have a vague memory of a cavity search, but I’m not sure, although I was walking kind of funny the next day… Anyway, everyone did as I said; I was on top of the world. While slightly intoxicated and driving home, I was hit with the realization that I am, in fact, the owner of a white car and that, if I got customized “Hottie Police” stickers and a siren, would allow me to be Philly’s one and only freelance cop! I’d drive around and stop anyone I felt like fucking or fucking with… Particularly attractive men; I’d cuff them and proceed to conduct my personalized breathalizer tests.

5) Last but not least is an idea that came to me during a summer when I told everyone I met that I hooked for a living. I got to thinking about where I would hook, and felt quite limited to street corners and alleyways; knee pads can only suffice for so long. This led me to the most innovative idea the United States of America will ever see…. The Cum N Go, a chain of blow job drive throughs spread across the country! My establishments will service horny men around the clock, and provide our customers with all different types of Cum N Go memorabilia (inscribed “I Came and Left”). This makes me the Mother Theresa of all things oral in many ways. For one, I will be taking hundreds of toothless crack whores off the street and giving them a safe place to practice their craft. Together they will make up the Dollar Menu at the Cum N Go.

Is your girl just not putting out?
We know what that shit’s all about.
Need a bitch who doesn’t yap?
Doesn’t care if you’re a loser or a sap?
Won’t make you cuddle all night long?
Or care whether you are weak or strong?
Drive down here and pick a HO.
We’re at your service at the Cum N Go!

Madam Moses President Officer Mother Elina… Why? Because I care, and because I am most likely drunk right now.

Just last night I went to get a drink with my friend Jane. Most people either pin us as sisters or lesbian lovers. However there have been a few drunk homeless men that have pinned us for both (God bless them).

This might have something do to with the fact that as a joke she’s always grabbing at my tits and crotch, but whats a quick fingering between friends? Jane like all of my friends is very attractive. Seeing as I absolutely refuse to be friends with ugly people it only makes sense that my closest friends ( or people i am seen with the most) are quite pretty. After all I don’t like to subjugate myself to staring at fugly people all day long. So seeing as she is easy on the eyes she constantly has a boyfriend.

So as she brings along the flavor of the week (which I approve of highly) he insisted on inviting a friend. This friend would of course be implied for me seeing as I am in current search of a good fucking. This is when my evening took an unfortunate turn.

After downing my first martini I was feeling good enjoying my night, getting sexually assaulted by Jane. All was well, and as it should be. Then all of this sudden this mystery man walks into my world, upon seeing him I know that God is testing me.

I wonder how long i can remain polite and open and friendly with someone that looks like an unintentionally devout virgin. I promptly ordered another drink and gave myself 2 1/2 minutes. This was wishful thinking considering my current record tops off at 37 seconds.

As he began to talk to me I realized that i have found my victim for the night. His new nickname was Homofab. As he began to talk , or rather than talk I’d like to call it a linguistic orgasm,I heard a slight Russian accent which was expected…what amused me was the hint of a Swedish accent mixed in there as well. It was reminiscent of Martin Short’s accent in Father of the Bride but even gayer. Considering he is 100% Russian, it was quite surprising and vastly entertaining.

After he was done asking me the typical polite questions and downed his third drink, Homofab decided to ask what it was that I was sipping on. I answered “apple martini” with a sound of great adoration I only reserve for when I speak of alcoholic beverages.

Suddenly his arms flail up in a homosexual like panic and he exclaims in his retarded accent,

” OOO APPLE MARTINI! HOW SEXY!!”

I have never even heard a gay guy refer to my drink as being sexy much less a self proclaimed straight one, and after holding down my laughter by thinking of the Holocaust I bravely inquired into how a martini can be considered sexy. With his arms still resembling those of a horny chimp, he proceeded to explain..

” Vell Ya Know Zat Ven giirl drrinks ze apple martini men zink oh its like ze cosmopolitan vich iz like sex and ze city and ve rrright avay zink SEX SEX SEX!”

This train of logic partially horrified me because no man should be this sex and the city savvy, and partially because any man that looks at a woman’s drink and thinks ’sex’ should be automatically strip searched for roofies. And although I was having some serious doubts about Homofab’s sexual preferences his constant clawing at my tits and persistence of taking pictures with me left me in a cloud of confusion. Is he gay? Is he straight? Is he Swedish? I just don’t know!!!!!.

The only thing I was sure of was that he was a virgin, something that was confirmed when he later told me..

” I decided tooday zat I vill eizer get drrunk or get laid, I zink it is eizier to get drrunk.” Although I was almost positive I could arrange something with the handicapped prostitute that was missing a limb or two on the corner, I decided it would be less trouble for us all if he just continued to down his fruity drinks.

As this little bundle of joy proceeded to join us in our car on the way to the next club my amusement with him soon turned to annoyance. He was one of those people that started to talk increasingly more when he drank, his blabbering might as well have been all in Japanese because it was impossible to understand either way. These drunk talkers are the WORST as far as I am concerned they should all just go to one club where u can only get in if u are either a drunk talker or deaf. That way both the deaf people and the talkers get some action, and both are out of my hair. I quickly made a mental note to myself to consider this kind of club as a future business venture.

Instead of pinning it on the steady stream of alcohol he was in-taking, Homofab decided to blame this delusional blabber on his ‘jet lag.’ I did not appreciate him blaming his personality flaw on a condition that I have powered through many times myself. All of the sudden I decide this is no excuse and after a good 10 minutes of contained silence that i managed, i announce

“Well i have jet lag too!”

This happened to peak his curiosity,

“OOO yes? Vere did u goh??”

Surprised that he could still follow a conversation I shot back “Africa” with a steady voice.

As Jane goes into fits of laughter in the seat next to mine I equip myself for the line of questioning that was to follow while carefully sliding away from her if in case she does urinate her pants at one point. As I got out of harms way he continues,

“OOO verryy niieecee, vere zid u go in Afreeeca?”

Now in my somewhat buzzed state for some reason this question threw me for a loop. After all now thinking back I can think of at least a dozen African countries off the top of my head, however at the time I was at an utter and complete loss. And of course the first thing that comes to my mind is my 5hth grade library report that my whole class had to do on countries in Africa. This is very clear in my mind because when other people had big and interesting countries to report on, my cunt of a librarian assigned me to Swaziland, which I later learned was the anus of Africa. The whole country was the size of my nipple and well there wasn’t much to report about. To this day I remember the fucking librarian and the dick-hole like country I had to report on. So before I could properly think it through,

“Swaziland” flew out of my mouth.

As Jane stops breathing at this point on my left hand side, from the front of the car I could hear the confusion and wonder in Homofab’s voice. To my surprise and delight he still bought the fact that I was inAfrica but was bewildered by the fact that I chose to go to that particular country,

“Vaht vhy go to Swaziland vhy?”

Annoyed that he would pry into my personal life… “Just visiting family” I quipped as Jane went into another fit.

During the rest of the ride over to the club I continued to explain that I in fact had African blood in me, while secretly planning the best way I can loose him after we get in the club. Lucky for me he realized that his chances of getting laid are decreasing by the moment so he made his way over to the bar to continue getting drunk as he planned.

As I got him off my dick for the rest of the night I was able to spend time with Jane and the circus freak show of men surrounding us. As she announced that she had to pee I was thankful that she didn’t do it while laughing in the car and promptly went off to search for the bathroom. While traveling the 6 feet through the dance floor (as any women can relate to in clubs) I’m pretty sure I got groped, tickled, spanked, and possibly fingered at one point. Unfortunately, after I got everything short of anal in the middle of ZBar I still couldn’t find the fucking bathroom.

After harassing the 8′ tall bouncer into pointing it out I impatiently waited for Jane outside. While getting hit on by a few more jackasses, I became increasingly pissed off. Why are all the single men out there such retards? Is that really what there is in this world? Is that whats left? is that why I fall for the taken or married men? Will I ever be able to find a decent guy? Will I ever be able to pick up a random stranger from the club and fuck his brains out without him saying something completely stupid? What is this world coming to?

As I wondered whether I would just have to suck it up and fuck either the virgin guy or the complete dumb asses at the club one of these days for lack of other options… I happened to look over just in time to see the car of the last jackass that dicked me over pass by our car in a hustle to get to his second home: IHOP where he lives in order to maintain his round physique. And at this point I realized that I rather take it in the ass from the virgin while blowing one of the jackasses from the club, over seeing this schmuck again. And then it all fell into perspective. Luckily I didn’t have to do either and as I cuddled with my vibrator I fell asleep and dreamed of cock and vodka: my two favorite things…

There comes a time in a woman’s life when she takes a step that truly opens her eyes. A coming of age event if I may… going to a gay club.

Now my first experience had somewhat unusual circumstances. In fact it was my best friend Cheeha’s “straight” guy friend (Albert) that dragged me, her, and his unsuspecting homophobic guy friend (Vlad) to the club. Me and Albert have had a rather rocky relationship to this point. He would constantly set himself up to be insulted and well I just never have the self control to let an opportunity like that to slip by me. Like I say when life gives you lemons, throw them at Albert and see if it’ll make him cry.

Many a times he admitted to wanting to cut himself with a razor after spending the evening with me, I felt bad that he was considering doing this and gladly FED EXed him an exacto knife as it would be a more convenient object to complete the task at hand. At least he can never say that I don’t have his best interests in mind.

As I climbed into his obnoxiously red car I realized that there was no turning back. I had a bad feeling about this whole evening and was pretty sure that I just had to commit because there was just a very slim chance that I would survive lunging myself out of his car on the highway. Although when he turned his music on the thought ran through my head at least a few dozen times. Trying to block this horrid sound out of my head and ignoring the bleeding of my ears was about as impossible as witnessing a murder of a family member and not doing anything about it.

Every song was mixed so that one of the lines would just repeat over and over again throughout the whole fucking thing. Perhaps one of the saddest excuses for Djing or whatever they call it. Fergie’s Fergalicious was now blasting through the car. And as if this was not bad enough the line this cocksucking dj chose to repeat was “Fergalicious def, fergalicious def def def def def def def…” and so on for the next ten minutes. As no one else but Cheeha really seemed to notice this raping of my ear drums, on about the 890th time Fergie belted “def” I had an attack of terets and exclaimed,

“ITS FUCKING DEFINITION! FUCKING SAY DEFINITION AND FINISH THE FUCKING SONG!”

Surprised by my violent outburst and unaware that I held this resentment toward his favorite CD, Albert slightly urinated himself and promptly switched off the music.

As the conversation in the car continued to bore me and insulting Albert lost its appeal about a good 7 minutes ago, I had to find other things to do to get my mind of suicide. While being a passenger in a car I have a favorite pastime which annoys everyone in the car but entertains me to no end. No its not passing gas. What I do is at a street light, pick the car next to us and fuck with the guy/guys in the next car until it is time to move. I’ll wink, lick my lips, blow kisses, and basically do everything short of climbing out of my car and into theirs then continuing to give them road head. As amazingly fun as I find it, this happens to mortify Cheeha, and she on many occasions has threatened to tint the one window in her car that I sit next to. I hope that she understands the image of her driving around in a car with only one really tinted window only spurs me on.

So as desperate times call for desperate measures and I find myself going to town on the cute Latino guy in the car next to ours.. Much to my surprise, as we took off on the green light he quickly switched lanes and followed us. This was still rather exciting for me but sent Vlad into a serious hissy fit. He started freaking out about this guy following us all the way downtown and later cutting us and eating our first born, something along those lines I wasn’t really understanding him nag, I don’t speak the pussy bitch language.

As the guy pulls into the gas station behind us I take satisfaction in the fact that I was at least able to provide some entertainment in this car that didn’t include a Fergie like retarded stuttering which Albert lovingly refers to as ‘music’.

By the time we are approaching the city he switches on the CD again and continues to inform me that this is the very same DJ we will be listening to at this gay club. This was perhaps the worst piece of information I received since earlier that night when I found that i was out of batteries for my vibrator. Upon hearing this news and knowing I won’t even have my trusty toy to come home to I reached for the car handle and seriously considered throwing myself out, I would just have to take my chances. However as I looked over at Cheeha I knew that she would never forgive me for what I was about to do …leave her alone with these two jackasses (gay and gayer) for the rest of the night.

Ugh I realized I would need a drink or 5 just to power through, perhaps a bloody Mary since I have been slacking on my vegetable intake lately.

As we pulled up to the club which was called either Air Command, or maybe it was Dick Command, or Air Dick…not really positive on the name because the tranny hooker distracted me considerably on the way in.

I thought about ditching the three and just paying her to talk for a while. I wanted to know everything about this woman man. How does she feel being a hooker? Is he gay? How often does she cry herself to sleep? Does he feel morally corrupt? Does she have to tape her ball sack to the side of her leg to pull off that mini? You know real 20/20 type shit. Just as I was on the brink of journalistic history, I was pulled into the club and upon entering this establishment my career as the next Barbra Walters shattered as quickly as Albert’s love of pussy. Yes all of the sudden he turned gay.

At this point Vlad realized that he was in fact coaxed into attending a more toned down version of the gay pride parade, and self-consciously covered his asshole as he made his way to the bar. After realizing the shirt that I was wearing, which nicely showcased my tites, was a complete and utter waste I quickly settled at the bar myself and ordered a long island that was big enough to intoxicate a family of elephants.

As I sipped on it i quickly began to see that Vlad and Cheeha were hitting it off, or rather he was content with having his head 4 inches away from her boobs at all times. And I guess since he was the only guy there not repulsed by her tities she was enjoying the attention as well. So here I was mostly by myself at a gay bar, with the only saving grace being that I had a perfect birds eye view of Albert roaming to an empty table with his drink to sit all by himself. This was for really no other reason than to get hit on by a gay guy. Mental note to self: buy Albert a rainbow bumper sticker and matching speedo if I make it through this night without flinging myself off the roof top. Twenty minutes later of zero entertainment because even while sitting alone no self-respecting gay guy wanted anything to do with Albert’s cock, I decided to see the roof top and check out if the drop would in fact kill me or just leave me alive and fucked up.

I always felt bad for people that survived suicide attempts only to continue living life in worse condition that they were in before. I mean smart and decisive suicidals make a flawless plan and get the job done. Nothing worse than a lazy and unorganized suicidal person if u ask me. They should take a few pointers from squirrels. Once a squirrel decides to end it’s life, it makes sure to jump under a car no matter how much it tries to swerve out of the way. Now that’s commitment.

Anyway as I went to asses the rooftop situation, Albert, obviously sick of rejection, decided to come outside with me and have a cigarette. As I stood there unamused at this whole night and just overwhelmed with enough material to make fun of him for the next 34 years, my night suddenly took a positive spin. A clearly wasted gay guy approached Albert,

“Heyyyy there! How are ya?” he asked while gently stroking his left shoulder.

Before I even had the chance to fully enjoy this glorious moment, Albert jumped on top of me like a horny Doberman and exclaimed,

” This is my girlfriend!”

While letting this insult pass considering the situation, I quickly weighed my options. I could deny having anything to do with him and watch the gay guy that I already lovingly named Sunshine devour Albert like a fat girl devouring the entire left side of the Mc Donald’s drive through menu or help him out. Finally I realized that his red gay-mobile was the only way I could possibly head home that night, so I let out an unenthusiastic grunt,

“Uhh yeahh thats me.”

The look in Sunshine’s eyes could only rival that of a six year olds that just found out that Santa is no more powerful than the fat ass at the mall that poses as him. The disappointment quickly turned to irritation as he swiftly pushed my new boyfriend out of the way

“FUCKING HETERO! FUCKING HETERO!!” he screamed at least another 3 times as Albert tried to approach us.

After getting him at a safe 3 foot distance away from us Sunshine was standing a tad but too close for comfort and began his questioning.

” Sweetie, Sweetheart, Baby, tell me the truth…have you ever played with his ass?”

As I burst into hysterical laughter I didn’t know what was more disturbing the thought of ever coming within 2 feet of Albert’s ass to begin with, or- then actually continuing to fondle it. While trying my very hardest to hold down the stir fry I had for dinner, I squeezed out,

“No actually I never have.”

While batting away my “boyfriend” and continuing to yell at him with the vigor I reserve only for particularly obnoxious homeless people, Sunshine let out another 10 “FUCKING HETERO!” outbursts.

After exhausting himself, he used the moment to inquire as to why I wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to experiment with Albert’s asshole. Since telling Sunshine that I would sooner mount an 80 year old than experiment with Albert’s anus, would blow our cover, I quickly answered

“I just never felt the need to.”

I was hoping my short answers would get us off this subject and on to something more interesting like spandex, and Cher, both things I’d much rather discuss with my new gay friend. Much to my dismay, turns out I ran into the gay Socrates of our time, and he continued on with his mind blowing theory. Much like every word that came out of his mouth…he started out with repeating”Physiologically” at least 37 times.

This gave me an unpleasant flashback to just an hour ago or so in the gay-mobile when “fergalicious def” rang through my ears non stop and i soon became nauseous and snapped at Sunshine

“Yeah I get it physiologically, spit it out already!”

As if the broken record has been instantly fixed, he continues,

“Well physiologically what feels good for me as a man should feel good for another man too.”

Pure genius Sunshine, pure genius! How can I even argue with that? I mean this is groundbreaking, does this mean all men secretly like anal play? God I hope not. But as Albert was allowed to enter back into our conversation, I left Sunshine with the promise that I would go home that night and give my boyfriend’s asshole more action than the night he overdid it at Taco Bell.

While leaving the club, I was still feeling a bit unattractive, since I obviously never got hit on that night, and almost fell in love with the first homeless crackhead that whistled at me. I briefly had fantasies of moving in with him, decorating our cardboard house with Ikea furniture, and having tiny little crack babies. But as Cheeha pulled me away from my future I was pushed back into the red gay mobile with my new boyfriend who continued to torture me with the sounds of DJ Shittypants on our way home.

When I got home, seeing as my vibrator was temporarily out of order, I had much to ponder. Where was that trannie now? Will i ever see it again? Do i really have to play with Albert’s ass? Could I do that without vomiting in my mouth? Can I take the credit for making terrorists crack by suggesting to get Dj Shittypants to play the Fergie song at Guantanamo Bay?

And as i dosed off to sleep i knew that my gay club experience would not end there and I was right. Months later I went to this great club where I saw penis upon penis… together… holding hands. And i was the token lipstick lesbian. Yes the place was called Woody’s and it was fabulous.!!!! Better yet, on the way out of the club I saw a trannie! I like to believe it was the same one I had seen almost a year ago. And as she bent over in her tootoo, I saw her/his ball sack and knew that this was God’s way of answering my burning question..no she does not tape her balls down to her leg. Barbabra Walters watch out, your job is mine bitch!