I packed a bag full of Fat Dick Simon promotional cards and hopped on a flight to the Mid-West last week for a family Thanksgiving get-together. Surprisingly, it wasn’t snowing, and I ended up having a lot of fun. It was tough to leave the laptop at home, but I’ve been working pretty hard on some new sites to be launched in the next few weeks, and I figured that some rest and relaxation would be helpful.

LAX on the day before Thanksgiving is way overrated. Everytime I have to travel the day before Thanksgiving, I get warnings from people about how the airport is going to be a mess. Accordingly, I always arrive at the airport about an hour before my flight, which I absoutely hate doing. This year, I was through security with my boarding pass in about ten minutes, which left me with about fifty minutes to get hammered before my flight. I ended up with a hundred dollar bar tab after many strong margaritas, and a new friend from El Paso named Rob. What’s up, Rob. If you were a hot chick with a nice ass I would definitely be using your business card to follow up with you right about now.

I passed out on the flight after a Heineken, which was much better than puking in the airplane bathroom as I did on the way to Vegas last week.

The next day, I started drinking at my family get-together around 11am, which was actually 9am Pacific time. I typically use the fact that everyone in my family is technically inept to my advantage by simply mentioning that I work with computers when I get questions about what I do, which causes everyone to tune out and allows me to skate around my involvement in the adult industry pretty easily. Unfortunately, after about eight Coronas on an empty stomach, I found myself in a pretty detailed conversation with a cousin about emerging trends in the pay-per-view porn industry. Once I realized that I had accidently given away my big secret, I also realized that my cousin was surprisingly knowledgeable about porn, and also drunk. I promised to provide him with a steady flow of pornsite passwords in exchange for keeping his lips closed, so I think I’ll be cool.

On Friday afternoon, I randomly ran one of my old friends, Erika, in downtown Chicago. Erika and I spent a lot of time together back in the day, and we ended up going out on Friday night for dinner and drinks. I hadn’t talked to her in years, and it was great to catch up. We went out to one of Chicago’s best clubs later, and I ended up in the VIP area getting bottle service. I only get bottle service on special occasions, but everytime I do, I love watching people approach me for free booze. I heard one of the best lines ever on Friday when a middle-aged woman approached me and said ‘I just found out my husband is cheating on me. Can I have a drink?’ Needless to say, she was on my tab from that point on.

Speaking of my tab, something amazing happened towards the end of the night. The club owner stopped by my table to chat for a few minutes and ended up being pretty cool. I’m not sure if it was my good looks, my wit, or my dancing, but something persuaded him to comp my entire tab, which was most likely around $2k. Fucking amazing.

Some crazyness happened at the club, and I brought a small group back to my hotel for some afterhours action which was even crazier. I finally got to sleep around 9am on Saturday morning.

Getting back to LAX on Sunday night was a complete mess. I had to wait about half an hour for a cab, and I was tired as hell, but seeing family and friends over Thanksgiving was well worth it. Thanksgiving is probably my favorite holiday because its bullshit level is pretty low. Most other holidays are surrounded by a huge commercial bullshit lead-up. The lead up for Christmas is about six weeks, during which I have to hear a bunch of shitty songs and buy a lot of gifts. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m all about capitalism and making money, and I understand that Christmas is a necessary evil. The lead-ups for Easter and Halloween get longer every year. Also, Easter is Christian and Halloween is Pagan, so you really can’t win if you celebrate both. Thanksgiving isn’t associated with any religion, and really the only people who stand to profit are Turkey farmers, which I’m not really mad about because they tend not to advertise.

Thanksgiving is simply about having a big meal with people you like, which makes it a pretty sweet holiday. Also, Thanksgiving dinner typically leads to some excellent blow-ups and disclosures such as ‘Dad, I’m gay’ and ‘Dad I’m getting married to Tyrone next month whether you like it or not,’ which makes it extra fun.

So, valued Fat Dick Simon reader, I hope you had a great Thanksgiving as I did. Also, now that I have taken a little break from work, I am ready to hit the ground running, and I’ll have some exciting new stuff to show you over the next couple weeks. Holler.

I’m still recovering from my weekend trip to Las Vegas. Why the long recovery time? That’s a good question. I am more than capable of handling copious amounts of alcohol and drugs for multiple nights in a row, so I thought that I was ready for whatever Vegas could throw at me. Unfortunately, I was not ready for O’Shea’s Casino, or as I like to call it, Las Vegas’ best-kept secret.

I won’t bore you with the details of my Vegas trip from start to finish because, when it really comes down to it, everything I encountered was par for the course in Vegas, and you have probably heard someone else tell a Vegas story with the exact same elements. Yes, I got hammered at LAX for an hour during my flight delay. Yes, I puked on the plane on the way to Vegas after drinking a full glass of vodka that the flight attendant would not allow me to pay for. Yes, I got wasted at Jet and then Pure on Friday night. Yes, I wet myself after passing out on the floor of my hotel room after getting in. Yes, I did copious amounts of blow in the VIP section of Body English on Saturday night. Yes, someone threatened to call the cops on me after I staggered out of a club bathroom with a powered nose until I attempted to pay them off with a dollar. Yes, I tag teamed a Guatemalan hooker on Sunday morning with three of my friends. This is all par for the course. What I really want to talk about is the hidden gem of the Las Vegas Strip: O’Shea’s Casino.

I had been paying around $16 for cocktails all night on Friday, so naturally staggering into O’Shea’s Casino, which offers a happy hour featuring $1 draft domestic beer from 2AM to 8PM seven days each week, was refreshing for me. I had paid seven bucks for a Coors Light earlier in the night at Jet, so a dollar Budweiser sounded like a pretty fucking good idea to me at around four in the morning. 12oz plastic cups, too.

I ended up pounding domestic draft beers until about six in the morning and then returned to O’Shea’s at around five the next day to pre-party. Obviously, after Body English I went straight back to O’Shea’s to do some more nose candy in their spacious handicap bathroom and pound even more domestic drafts.

Some reasons why O’Shea’s Casino is officially my favorite spot on the strip:

1. O’Shea’s offers the world’s longest happy hour. I challenge anyone to find me another establishment offering a happy hour that actually runs for sixteen hours. 2AM until 8PM? Fuggedaboudit!
2. While O’Shea’s claims to offer three types of domestic beer at one dollar (Budweiser, Bud Light, and Michelob Light), after ordering all three at one time and giving each glass a taste / smell / consistency test, I am convinced that all three taps run to the exact same keg. In this keg, I am relatively convinced, exists none of the afore-mentioned beers. Instead, I am pretty sure that O’Shea’s only offers Natural Light. At a dollar, I still don’t give a fuck.
3. One dollar domestic draft beer is so cheap that you can actually order one for the specific purpose of throwing it at the guy across the bar with the bad shirt on.
4. O’Shea’s hires little people to walk around dressed as Leprechauns. They don’t give a fuck and since all little people are alcoholics, it’s a win-win situation.
5. O’Shea’s offers the best game in Las Vegas: The Pissing Contest. Yes, that’s right. O’Shea’s actually rewards you for pissing out all of their delicious draft beer. Check out a picture of this fucker:
   
   

   I’m still a little unclear about what you actually win if you piss a lot because unfortunately this amazing invention was not working, but I’m pretty sure that I don’t care. This machine actually measures how much you pee, and I don’t know about you, but after about fifteen domestic draft beers, I have to pee pretty badly, and I usually pee longer than the guy next to me at the other urinal, and I usually wonder exactly how much I have peed because I am always sure I have set some kind of new record. It’s about time that a fine establishment like O’Shea’s has developed a way to award me for my amazing piss.

So the bottom line here is that O’Shea’s is fucking awesome. It’s officially my favorite place in the world. I’m not exactly sure where it is because I was wasted for pretty much the entire weekend, but I’m pretty sure that it is across the street from the Mirage or something like that.

I’m going back to Vegas soon, and I hope they have their Pissing Contest machine fixed because I am saving up.

Loyal readers of the blog always want to know two things:

1. What Fat Dick has been masturbating to.
2. What Fat Dick has been fucking.

The answer to number one is easy. For your boy Fat Dick, it’s been all about the interracial action lately. My favorite interracial site at the moment is Eat My Black Meat, which I would highly recommend that you consider joining if you are not already a member. I am a huge fan of high-quality, original porn content, and Eat My Black Meat has nothing but high-quality, original content, so it is well worth the price of a membership. Plus, you can get a really cheap trial membership to test the waters. More on that later.

The answer to number two is difficult for me. Why? I get upset when I think about the fact that I didn’t end up fucking anything over the weekend, and I’m sure that you’re pretty curious as to why this was the case. The answer is simple: BLACK GUYS. I was cock-blocked not once, not twice, but three times by three different brothers. Lately, I’ve noticed that, at a certain time of the night (usually around 12:30am), any party that I am at gets flooded by black guys, who rapidly spit game at anything with a vagina and somehow end up leaving with all of the hotties. Sometimes they leave with other peoples’ valuables as well.

I’m not really sure how to remedy this situation. It’s hard to tell a black guy, who is much larger than you and has been drinking 40s and spitting game since he was thirteen, to back the fuck off of your chick. Basically, there is no way out, especially if the chick you are trying to holler at has an appetite for ten inch black cock like the sluts on Eat My Black Meat.

So, my situation lately has been pretty ironic. I get cockblocked by the same guys who I love to watch fuck smaller white chicks on Eat My Black Meat while masturbating. It’s a love / hate relationship.

If you also get cockblocked by black guys, I have put together detailed descriptions of two of the most threatening types of black guys that you should definitely watch out for if you are at a party trying to get laid. If you don’t get your prospective lay away from these guys, they WILL take her away from you and they WILL have sex with her. Several times. And you better believe that after your chick has had a taste of a ten inch slab of dark meat she will not be interested in coming back to you anytime soon.

So here are some black guys to watch out for, along with some free pictures and videos from Eat My Black Meat of them fucking small white chicks. You can let the free porn serve as a warning of what COULD happen if you let your girl get close enough to either one of these guys to allow them to spit game at her.

Guy #1: The Old Black Guy

Many a night has been ruined by white guys who quickly discount this man’s game-spitting ability when they see him walk in a room. The Old Black Guy is frequently seen at twenty-something clubs, and he looks like he is in his early forties. Don’t plan on getting any information out of him, though. Fuck, the only thing that’s going to be coming out of this guy is a huge batch of warm cum. Where is it going? All over your girl’s face unless you get her away from him.

Your girl will natually be intrigued by the Old Black Guy from the moment he enters the club, and this guy doesn’t give a fuck about you. When you head off to hit the bar or pee, he will move in like a hawk and start hitting on your girl. You’ll be lucky if you even make it back in time to see him leaving with her; usually he is so quick that she is in his two-door Bentley smoking weed before you even turn around.

The Old Black Guy should not be underestimated as he definitely has the ability to fuck up your whole night with his game that has been perfected with many, many years of practice. Don’t believe me? Check out an Old Black Guy fucking Bree:

Bree is a cutie who loves surfing and pretty much anything that allows her to wear relatively little clothing. She didn’t see a steamy fuck session with this Old Black Guy coming, but after he spat some game, the actions in this free interracial porn gallery developed. Watch as this Old Black Guy works Bree into submission. He isn’t even out of breath. This guy is a fucking champ. After he was done fucking Bree, he quickly started in on a conversation exclusively involving events which happened before Bree was born.

Still don’t believe that the Old Black Guy poses a serious threat? What if I showed you that the Old Black guy can fuck a hot young white chick… while wearing a Hawaiian shirt? Would that make you worried? See, this guy doesn’t give a fuck what he is wearing. Sometimes he likes to pick out shitty outfits to get laid in just to spite guys who don’t have game. His point is clear, but he won’t admit that he is trying to make it: he can get laid anytime, anywhere.

Sometimes, the Old Black Guy will even pretend that he doesn’t care about the hot young cooze that he got last night. Fuck, sometimes he’ll even pretend that he forgot about the young blonde college cheerleader that he picked up at the gym last week just to piss you off. For further proof that this guy is definitely a threat to any pussy that you are trying to land at a party, check out some free pictures and videos of him fucking Tiffany while wearing a Hawaiian shirt:

Tiffany, like Bree, didn’t see this interracial fuck session coming. When she first saw our Old Black Guy from across the bar, she chuckled under her breath, but the next thing she knew, he was teaching her how to drive stick in his Lamborghini. Click here to check out the free pictures and videos of this hot interracial sex session. If Tiffany wasn’t such an interracial slut, she may have felt bad about fucking someone more than twice her age, but the Old Black Guy can quickly bring out the interracial slut in any hottie he comes across.

Guy #2: The Calm and Cultured Black Guy

The Calm and Cultured Black Guy is a very different animal from our Old Black Guy. Where the Old Black Guy makes it clear that he doesn’t give a fuck what the kids are listening to these days and the fact that he thinks that the latest Lil’ Wayne single is complete shit, the Calm and Cultured Black Guy can not only tell your girl how the latest Lil’ Wayne single debuted on the Billboard Charts, but he can also tell your girl when Lil’ Wayne is coming to your city next. Fuck, this sick son of a bitch will probably even buy tickets to go see Lil’ Wayne with your girl. Oh yeah, and afterwards he’ll fuck the shit out of your girl while listening to an unreleased Lil’ Wayne track that just leaked to the internet.

The Calm and Cultured Black Guy comes on a little stronger than the Old Black Guy. He may even introduce himself to you before he begins moving in on your girl. The bottom line, however, is that this guy wants to get in your girl’s pants and he knows exactly how to do so. He’ll probably be wearing urban clothing, so be on the lookout for a velour jumpsuit or an LRG polo moving your way from across the club.

The Calm and Cultured Black Guy makes his way into your girl’s heart by being calm, cool, and collected at all times. Genetically, white people are only able to be calm, cool, and collected 22% of the time. The Calm and Cultured Black Guy knows this, and he uses it to get in your girl’s pants with little or no effort. Once you start freaking out, he’ll probably say something like ‘Why your man buggin,’ to your girl, who will probably reply ‘I don’t know, but can I give you a blowjob in your Scion?’ The Calm and Cultured Black Guy usually drives a cheap car because he went to art school and is not current employed.

Oh yeah, and the Calm and Cultured Black Guy usually has dreads. Why? He likes to reinforce the fact that he is black when hitting on white chicks just in case they forget. This way, he can easily capitalize on any white chick’s lingering curiousity about dark meat.

The Calm and Cultured Black guy should be avoided at all costs. Do whatever you have to do to get out of any party that this guy shows up to so you can still get laid. He will steal your girl right in front of your eyes, and he is really good at fucking white chicks. Don’t believe me? Check out the following free interracial gallery where Ava gets fucked by our Calm and Cultured Black Guy:

The free movies and images in this interracial gallery do not depict the part where the Calm and Cultured Black Guy was introduced to Ava’s boyfriend, then moved in on Ava and asked Ava’s boyfriend to go get them some Mojitos from the bar. Ava’s boyfriend was trying to do the right thing, but when he got back, the Calm and Cultured Black Guy was getting blown by Ava at the table, which Ava’s boyfriend ended up handling the bill for. The Calm and Cultured Black Guy don’t got a lot of money, and the Calm and Cultured Black Guy don’t give a fuck.

Hopefully, these detailed profiles of dangerous types of black men will help you avoid the same type of disappointment and frustration that I had to endure over the weekend. If not, at least you have something to masturbate to.

By the way, if you join Eat My Black Meat now, you can have access to a seemingly-endless supply of interracial porn to help you profile even more types of dangerous black men. I would highly recommend that you sign up as soon as possible.

I’m writing this entry while sobering up from a three-day drinking binge that involved several cities, large bar tabs, many run-ins with bouncers, excessive amounts of Mexican food, and three filet-o-fish sandwiches from McDonalds. Yes, filet-o-fish sandwiches from McDonalds.

My latest round of heavy drinking began on Thursday night. Notable events from that evening’s festivities included an extensive conversation about the porn industry with a hardcore Christian chick, me performing a dance number for three Asian hotties, and me throwing an entire Mexican food meal at a neighboring apartment. Obviously, the usual drunken antics that you can expect from your boy Fat Dick, but everyone knows that Thursday is always the calm before the storm.

Friday’s round of heavy drinking began at two-for-one happy hour, which always proves to be a death sentence for me and whomever is with me. Why? When you combine two-for-one drink specials with an insatiable appetite for alcohol, bad things are sure to happen. Problem is, happy hour ends at 8pm, which means that by 8:30pm, I am completely out of my mind wasted. On Friday I started in with some shots at around 10pm at another bar and ended up puking in the bathroom and passing out at a table, after which, I got kicked out by a bouncer whom I got into a minor altercation with. Naturally, after getting kicked out I attempted to scour the greater Los Angeles area for blow, which I finally landed about an hour later. I woke up from being passed out at another bar to go outside to grab it, and then proceeded to re-enter the bar, pass out again, and wake up in my bed with my clothes and shoes on.

What woke me up in the morning? It was a call from my friend, and incidently my companion from the night before. She is a lot smarter than I am, so she bowed out soon after happy hour in order to save herself the embarrassment that I experienced. Anyway, we quickly came up with the idea to head to Pacific Beach for the night, and we left within about an hour. We had no clear plans, no concrete ideas for a place to stay, and neither of us had been to Pacific Beach before. We did, however know that it was somewhere south of Los Angeles, and I was still drunk from the night before, so I was ready to handle just anything Pacific Beach could throw at me, as long as there was a way for me to score some more alcohol after I started sobering up.

What ensued was an amazingly fun adventure. I only had two goals:

1. Get kicked out of another bar in order to be able to post a blog entry about getting kicked out of two different bars in two different cities on two consecutive nights.
2. Say ‘We’re just visiting from LA’ to as many Pacific Beach locals as possible.

Since your boy Fat Dick is a goal-oriented individual, I, with the help of my compadre, accomplished both of these goals. Below, for your convenience, I’ve listed some important events and things that I learned from our trip.

Pacific Beach Has A Lot Of Liquor Stores
‘We’re just visiting from LA’ count: 12

‘Socially-conscious’ rappers always complain about how there is a liquor store on every corner of every ghetto. After our trip, I am courious as to why emo singers don’t whine about how every block in Pacific Beach actually is just a really long collection of liquor stores. This place caters to the alcoholic, so obviously I was in paradise. After deciding which liquor store to patronize (it was tough), we copped a fifth of vodka (Grey Goose) and some Red Bull and set off to find a hotel.

The Stinger (Heavy Drinking Trick)
‘We’re just visiting from LA’ count: 17

We have already determined that I am really, really good at drinking heavily. Fuck, saying I am really good is an understatement. Anyway, over the years, I have devised several diabolical tricks in order to drink heavily as efficiently as possible. One such technique is called ‘The Stinger.’ Medically speaking, after a night of heavy drinking, your body is in a state of shock; it doesn’t know what to expect. The Stinger capitalizes on this shock by delaying the onset of the effects of the alcohol consumed. To do The Stinger, just consume a lot of alcohol within a short period of time after a night of heavy drinking, then go out, and about an hour later, you will find yourself completely shitfaced. This all happens out of nowhere! My compadre and I started the night off by consuming the better portion of the vodka we bought, and got stung much later in the night.

Independently Wealthy Vs. Unemployed
‘We’re just visiting from LA’ count: 31

At the first bar we went to, we met a guy who originally claimed that he was ‘independently wealthy’ when we asked what he did. Later in the conversation, I inquired as to exactly what ‘independently wealthy’ meant. He then informed me that he collects unemployment. Quite a curious situation, but I want to give him a big shoutout because he said that he would check out my blog. Keep doing your thing, playboy.

The Breakdance Battle
‘We’re just visiting from LA’ count: 53

After leaving the first bar, I found myself on the dancefloor at a neighboring bar getting ready for a pretty intense breakdance battle with some fool who had no skills. Actually, I have to back up. First, I had a couple drinks and tried to step onto the dancefloor with a drink in my hand when I was immediately, and I mean immediately, stopped by a bouncer who informed me that drinks were not allowed on the dancefloor. I chugged it and busted out some power moves, but the guy was like all serious about breakdancing and he was getting really upset so I bounced.

This is about the time when I was ’stung’ by The Stinger. We staggered to the next bar, which would be our last for the night, and some bizarre shit went down.

The Bathroom Incident
‘We’re just visiting from LA’ count: 79

So I’m sipping a Red Bull / vodka (I think number 14 for the night) with my travel companion at the next bar when she informs me that she has to pee. This worked out really well because I had to pee too so we made our way to the bathrooms. Unfortunately, the line for the ladies room was really long, so I suggested that she just use the men’s room. We walked past a bouncer on our way in. I’ll repeat: we walked past a bouncer on the way in. Immediately, upon making it past the doorway, my friend was grabbed by the exact same bouncer who just watched her walk past him and informed her that she had to leave. Quite interesting. Since when do you get kicked out of a bar for that, and why didn’t the bouncer just stop her on the way in?

The Corona Debacle
‘We’re just visiting from LA’ count: 88

After getting kicked out of that bar, we hit up a liquor store (it was next door) for a Corona six pack. Problem is, we ended up at the hotel in the morning with only two of the six bottles and could not locate the other four bottles anywhere in our hotel room or outside. Did we drink in public? I don’t know, but I was wasted.

The Filet-O-Fish Decision
‘We’re just visiting from LA’ count (final): 126

Somehow I thought it would be a good idea to order not one, not two, but three filet-o-fish sandwiches from McDonalds after getting the Corona. The McDonalds was sandwiched between two liquor stores. I have no clue why I thought that this would be a good idea, but those sandwiches were delicious. Problem is, I still have the ‘filet-o-fish’ taste in my mouth, even after brushing my teeth roughly twenty times since the incident.

We took a cab back to the hotel and I woke up the next morning in my clothes once again. I was disappointed when I saw the filet-o-fish boxes on the floor of the hotel room, but not as disappointed as I was when I realized that the hotel did not have a continental breakfast, but instead simply had a stray juice machine in its lobby. Excuse me? How the fuck do you buy a juice machine when you don’t have a continental breakfast? I was expecting some cantelope or at least a fucking bagel or some toast or something.

Anyway, I had a blast this weeken. Sometimes the best vacations are the ones that are not planned, involve heavy drinking, and come to fruition within ten minutes on a Saturday morning.

Oh yeah, AND when I got home, the first thing I did was check my Google stats (obviously), and I noticed that one of my sites had finally completely climbed its way out of supplemental result hell and into the first page of many popular searches. Who says that nothing productive can happen while you’re drunk?

As I’m sure everyone remembers from an earlier post, someone tried to kill me at a bar a couple months ago by strangling me.  Last night I encountered this fucker again, and he was anything but apologetic.

I had a meeting yesterday afternoon, which went really well, so I spent the evening doing a victory lap around several bars in the greater Los Angeles area followed by a pretty lengthy blow session at my friend’s place in Beverly Hills.  I eventually found myself back in my neighborhood around two in the morning, where I continued drinking heavily at my friend’s apartment.  I was drinking at one end of the dining room table when I asked to be introduced to the dude at the other end.  After giving me his name, this fucker was like ‘Hey, didn’t I strangle you a while ago?’

I replied with ‘Oh, that was you,’ but I wasn’t really sure still because I was drunk as fuck throughout the entire strangling incident.  I was expecting some type of apology, but all I got was a detailed recap of the event and some bullshit justification about how I was saying everything twice and making fun of the fact that this guy was hanging out at a college bar when he was clearly past college-age.

Truth be told, this fucker is way past college-age, yet he is completely comfortable kicking it at college bars and indefinitely continuing his college education.  Perhaps he should have used my verbal assault as motivation to enter the ‘real world’ rather than looking like a dickfor.

Oh hey, a quick thought for this guy because I know he reads my blog: How about not doing blow off of the back of a magazine with a bunch of college students in an apartment at three in the morning on a motherfucking Tuesday?  Maybe you should be focusing on your Summer classes or building your resume.  Act your age.  Granted, your boy Fat Dick is allowed to be wasted seven nights each week because he is at a young age when that type of activity is accepted, but after a few years of college antics, you should be over it.  Straight up.

So anyway, I received no apology.  Actually, I may have received an apology, but I was really distracted by the fact that this guy was much smaller than me.  I could tear this guy up with, or without, my strap.  Don’t get me wrong.  I fully expect death threats and near-throwdowns everytime I get wasted at a bar.  I usually make up detailed stories about escapades with fellow drinkers’ mothers, sisters, or girlfriends.  Threatening me with a broken beer bottle or other gnarly weapon is completely accepted.  Fuck, that kind of stuff is actually applauded; I need something to blog about.  But if you threaten my life, then encounter me at a later date and realize that you just looked like a douchebag by doing so, at least have the decency to apologize (even if you are high as hell with several other people whose combined age is less than half of yours).

Another thing.  In his detailed account of the night’s events in order to justify the strangling incident, this dude mentioned that he hung out with a fat chick immediately after the strangling went down.  Um, how about not mentioning electing to hang out with fat chicks if you don’t want to get verbally assaulted by the Fat Dick?

One more thing.  As a rule of thumb, don’t expect that I am going to let things slide when I am clearly in the middle of a long night of drinking and drug use.  Let me explain.  This dude (I’m going to call him ‘the strangler’ for the remainer of the article) was giving me a look like I should be cool with him because I was wasted.  The flaw in the strangler’s reasoning was that my body has adapted to my partying habits to the point where I am actually more alert and coherent when I am wasted than I am when I am sober.  I perform most work wasted, interact with family and friends wasted, and if you encounter me at any point during a weekend, odds are that I am somewhere in the middle of a seventy-two hour drinking binge.  Bottom line: I’m not over the attempted murder incident.

I’m sure I will encounter this fuckface again, and if I don’t get an apology, some bad things are going to happen.  I haven’t really had any specific ideas as to what these bad things will consist of, and I am having problems because I am a lover and not a fighter, but there is a good possibility I will beat this guy with unconventional things that are not meant to beat people with.  Like lawn furniture.  Actually, I’ll probably just pay someone else to do that so I can watch.  When you’re a big deal you can do things like that.

All I know is that the strangler is not a nice person.

About six months ago, I bought a bag of blow. As of last night, I am completely convinced that this bag possesses magical qualities. I would like to share the story of this bag with you. Parallels between this story (which is completely true) and the Loaves and Fishes story should be obvious, and the only conclusion I can draw from these parallels is that God wholeheartedly supports my recreational drug use.

I think I bought this magical bag of nose candy for one hundred dollars. I don’t know the quantity inside of the bag, but I am guessing that it was just shy of an eight ball. Obviously, I have bought much more since this bag, but somehow this bag has managed to stick around through many crazy experiences. Basically, I don’t always like ’showing all of my cards.’ When a hottie expresses interest in riding the white horse, I am not always quick to break out the whole supply. That’s why I like having smaller quantites available for situations that run the risk of turning into me listening to some chick talk for hours about really boring stuff that I don’t care about. So I like keeping smaller bags around just in case. One of these small bags has lasted much longer than the rest, and I cannot explain why. It must be magic.

Exactly how many experiences has this bag been with me for? Allow me to give you the bag’s life story.

Like I said, I bought this bag about six months ago. It was fairly small. Actually, the night that I bought it, I ended up using it to fuel an all-night coke binge that wrapped up around 10am when my nose, and the noses of everyone else involved, were way to sore to continue. That night, we hit some massive rails out of this bag, and I was sure that the blow would run out before our noses. I was wrong. I had a bit left, but I was sure that the bag was only good for one more session. I was wrong again.

The next weekend, I went out and did the house party circuit. I ended up breaking out the bag with some random chick and doing lines off the sink in some dude’s bathroom. I remember trying to use the remainder of the bag sparingly, but we ended up doing a bunch, and each time I would pour out more, I’d be like ‘Shit, that’s a lot of blow.’ We emerged from the bathroom after about forty-five minutes and got some really mean looks from the people in line.

I was amazed when I woke up the next morning and examined my right front pocket to discover the large amount that remained in this bag. The next night, I went out to dinner with some friends. I remember picking up the bag on my way out and thinking that this would be its last night. We ended up hitting some fairly large lines in the middle of a sushi restauraunt, but the bag simply would not die. Amazing.

Then we had a party at my place, and for some reason everyone thought that I was a drug dealer or something. Random people kept rolling up to me and trying to be all covert about knowing that I had blow on me. Some chick was like ‘Um hey I heard that you are really having a good time tonight.’ I think that was supposed to prompt me to offer her some (I wasn’t even high at the time), but I was really confused, so I was just like ‘Actually this party sucks.’ She walked away. Later in the night, a semi-hot chick came up to me and gave it to me straight. She simply asked for some nose candy, and I was quick to give my standard ‘Well, I don’t really have that much, and I don’t really want to do any,’ response. I was lying. I had a lot, but I didn’t know this chick, so I broke out my magical bag and poured some out on my desk. She did like five lines and was like ‘Coke makes me so horny.’ Then she started rubbing my penis. It was kind of weird, but I let it continue.

Ahh, and then there was the night that I ended up doing blow from this magical bag off some chick’s boob in the VIP room of a Hollywood hotspot. Quite interesting. Most recently, I hit some lines from this bag at another house party with a friend.

So the bottom line here is that this bag has somehow managed to multiply itself. After the last experience, I was sure that it was done. Then I got drunk last night, and I was feeling a little lazy, so I figured I would finally kill this bag before going out in order to get a little ‘pick me up.’ I was completely sure that I would finally kill this bag. Actually, when I pulled it out and looked at it, I wasn’t even sure that there would be enough for a couple lines. The bag looked pretty barren.

Imagine my surprise when I turned the bag inside out and dumped its contents on my desk to produce a massive pile of snow. I was completely amazed. As the bag’s contents were emptied onto my desk, I didn’t think that the stream of blow would end. After looking at it, I decided that I couldn’t even do all of the blow in front of me. I ended up only doing a couple lines and then dumping the rest back into the bag for later use. And you better believe that this story is going to repeat itself many more times.

While thinking about writing this entry, I realized that it would make me seem like a complete drug addict, but I couldn’t resist. The story is too amazing to keep to myself. I need to share it with the world.

Yesterday I woke up on the floor of my living room.  I realized that my head was in a pool of my own vomit.  After getting up, I also realized that I had wet myself.  I didn’t remember anything from the night before, but typically when I pass out on the floor, wet myself, or puke on myself, I have had a good night, so I was pretty confident that some cool stuff had happened.

Basically, the moral of the story is that I am really good at drinking heavily, and drinking heavily makes you really cool.  I’m always trying to give back to the community, so I decided help everyone by sharing some advice about drinking heavily with you.  You’re welcome.

Laying a Foundation

When a construction company starts building a skyscraper, do they just show up at the site and start building at ground level?  Of course not, silly!  Sometimes it’s years before they make it to ground level.  There is tons of work that has to be done below ground.  In the industry, it’s called laying a foundation.  Without a solid foundation, the building is going to suck, and someone’s getting sued.

Drinking heavily is exactly like building a skyscraper.  Actually, a lot of construction workers drink heavily before showing up to build a skyscraper.  When you know you are going to be drinking heavily, you need to do some planning.

First, you can’t eat dinner.  Why?  Well, if you have a big dinner, it’s going to take more alcohol to get drunk.  No one wants that.  You should always be trying to get drunk as soon as possible.  This is why we need to build a solid foundation in your stomach to support a night of heavy drinking.  I recommend having a light lunch late in the afternoon.  Preferably something you won’t mind puking up later (see below).  Meat… probably not a good idea.  Salad or pasta are great going in and coming out!

After your light lunch, you are ready to continue laying your foundation.  The foundation for getting really wasted is made out of several beers before you head out to your destination.  Here’s an example: last night I knew I would be heading out to a bar around 12am.  Thus, I had a light lunch around 2pm and started drinking beer at around 9pm.  I drank steadily until around 12am, and upon leaving my place I was about eight beers deep and starting to feel a little tipsy.  That’s exactly what you should be going for.  You want to drink steadily (no need to push yourself early in the night) for a couple hours and fill your system with alcohol so you can get completely hammered once you are at your destination.  If you are not relatively wasted when you head out you are way behind the game.

Karaoke

When some guys really want to get laid at a bar, they may resort to pick up lines or some bullshit about how they’re really rich.  This never works.  When I want to get laid, I do karaoke.  You need to pick an old school hit that the party people are going to like.  Some of my favorites include anything by the Cranberries or ‘Push It’ by Salt N’ Pepper.

I did karaoke a couple nights ago and I didn’t sing a single lyric from the song.  Instead, I just heckled the audience and did some sweet dance moves.  The crowd loved it and I had like fifteen fat bitches hitting on me as soon as I walked off the stage.

Fat Bitches

If you are into fat chicks and you live in LA, I recommend going to Zanzibar, where about 90% of the chicks are over two hundred pounds.  If you aren’t into fat chicks, you need to learn how to use fat chicks as stepping stones for getting with the hotties.

I don’t know why, but fat chicks love me.  I used to be all weirded out by this, but now I have realized that fat chicks always give really good dome and sometimes some really funny stuff, like not being able to fit through a hallway or a doorway or consuming really large amounts of food, happens when I am getting hit on by a fatty.  The trick is, you have to steadily work from the fat chicks to the hot chicks.  It it’s a fact that all fat chicks have at least one super hot friend.  You just need to put in some work at the bar talking to the fat chick until she introduces you to the hottie and you’re in.

Develop a Gauge

You need to be able to know how drunk you are at all times and compare it to how drunk you want to be.  You should be working towards being too drunk to know how drunk you are, though, so developing a guage for how drunk you are (especially late in the evening) is going to be a little tricky.

My gauge is whether or not I am drunk enough to tip the bathroom attendant.  Every night, I’ll roll in a bar, pee, and be pretty upset that the bathroom attendant is in the bathroom because it’s really awkward and I prefer getting my own soap and towels.  However, as the night progresses, I feel more and more sorry for the bathroom attendant (with the help of alcohol), and when I am really wasted I have even been known to throw him a dollar.  By ‘throw him a dollar,’ I do literally mean that I crumple it up and throw it in his face.

Your gauge can be something like whether or not a particular member of your group looks hot.  I used to use that a while back.  I would go out in a group containing a pretty nasty chick, and I knew that I was wasted when I started seriously considering boning her.

There Is Always Room For More

A few nights ago, I had about ten drinks at home, passed out, woke up, went out to a bar, had twelve drinks, puked, had two more drinks, went home with a hottie, passed out again, woke up, drank more, cut up some lines, drank more, had anal sex, drank more, and then rounded off the evening with an all-night blow binge.  I got home around 7am.

The moral of the story is that there is always room for more booze, sex, drugs, or all of the above.  Don’t feel bad about using the ‘puke and rally’ method, and don’t call it a night after passing out for a couple hours.  When you wake up after passing out, God is telling you that he wants you to drink more.  So do it!

Develop a Plan

You shouldn’t just be going into a bar and ordering some random hodgepodge of drinks.  Personally, I like to plan out my progression of drinks early in the night.  Usually it is best to start out with some Red Bull / Vodkas, get into some Tequila-containing drink, move onto mixed shots (ie Jager Bombs, lemon drops, redhead sluts, etc), and finally finish strong with shots of hard alcohol.  On some nights, I just say fuck the bullshit and pound between four and six Jager Bombs within ten minutes of arriving at the bar.  This will get you fucked up, but Jager Bombs are always really expensive and it’s kind of weird to drop like two hundred bucks on your tab immediately upon arriving at the bar.  I would still recommend it, though.

It’s Not Over Until It’s Over

On my 21st birthday, I had my last drink (Mickey’s) at 10am.  I routinely finish drinking around five or six.  Don’t let last call slow you down.  The recurring theme with all of these pieces of advice is that planning is key.  Plan ahead and buy enough booze to hold you and the hot bitch you brought home with you until at least noon the next day (longer if any stimulants are involved).

Some families like to stock up on bottled water in case there is an earthquake or some natural disaster.  I like to stock up on booze in case it’s after last call and I need to be drinking.  A round of heavy drinking can begin at any time, and it’s always better to be safe than sorry.

Back in the day, after waking up from being passed out in a random location, I would be all weirded out about not knowing what happened the night before.  Now, I don’t really care, and I don’t get hung over.  The fact of the matter is that I actually feel best in the morning after a long night of heavy drinking.

During the week, I have a hard time waking up before noon when I don’t drink.  I stay up all night working and I kind of just want to sleep all day.  When I drink heavily I don’t sleep well, so I’m always up at like eight or earlier and I feel great!  Yes, sometimes I am covered in my own urine, but that is a small price to pay for feeling great.

The bottom line is that you can do anything that you set your mind to.  If you put in your time at local bars and drink as much as possible, you will be as good at drinking as me.  I’m really good, though, so it’s going to take a while.

Obviously, I got down with some crazy shit for the Fourth of July, but I’m sure that you’re wondering why you didn’t hear about it. The reason, my friend, is that I don’t remember most of what happened during my Fourth of July celebration. Actually, I remember everything that happened on the Fourth of July; I spent most of the day walking around with my mouth open while mumbling incoherent jibberish. I was so fucking worn out after my Third of July night that I couldn’t even bring myself to hit it hard again on the Fourth.

I started my Third of July at a bar for happy hour, where I downed between twenty and twenty-five drinks. I was completely blacked out, but still made it back to my place. I actually regained consciousness while I was cutting up lines on my desk with a friend, and I was pretty disoriented at first, but I quickly got my head back in the game and finished the night strong.

Like I said, I was completely blacked out, and before I ended up at my place, I was at my friend’s place, where I apparently passed out on the floor for several hours. Oh yeah, and I puked in my friend’s roommate’s sink.

Yes, I puked in a sink. This is never a good idea, especially when you don’t know the person whose sink you are puking in. It turns out that my puking episode caused some minor drain blockage, and a liquid drain cleaner product had to be purchased. I only had a Subway sandwich prior to my puking episode, but I guess they don’t make drains like they used to.

Anyway, this chick’s roommate was not so happy about my puking episode, and understandably so. I felt really bad about it, so I had to scramble to try to make things right because I will probably be back over at her apartment hooking up in the near future. What did I come up with? A homemade card that could melt anyone’s heart.

In case you drink as heavily as I do, and you find yourself puking in someone’s sink, here is how I made things right after my puking episode.

Step 1: A Bomb-Ass Excuse

Ok, so I didn’t come up with a bomb-ass excuse, but I should have. If I had come up with a bomb-ass excuse, the subsequent two steps would not have been necessary. After roughly twenty-five drinks, it’s hard to come up with a bomb-ass excuse.

Nonetheless, I came up with a pretty sweet excuse. While I was running around the bathroom trying to clean up (I was told that I was in the bathroom for roughly an hour), I was confronted about exactly what was going on. I yelled through the bathroom door that someone else had puked in the sink and I was just cleaning up. In a setting where a lot of drunk people are around, this excuse can be successful; however, there were only two other people in the apartment at the time — one was completely sober, and the other was asking me if I had puked in the sink. Thus, my excuse must have just sounded like drunk jibberish, and also must have served as further evidence that I had, in fact, puked in the sink.

Pick a better excuse than that. If you can’t, keep reading.

Step 2: Go To An Arts And Crafts Store

This is the fun part. It’s almost like you are getting rewarded for puking in someone else’s sink, but not really. You are going to have to get a lot of shit because you are going to be making a really sweet card (see below). I pretty much went crazy and bought about $50 worth of arts and crafts supplies because I got increasingly excited about doing an arts and crafts project as I was shopping. I hadn’t done an arts and crafts project since like second grade, so I figured that I would make up for lost time.

Here’s what I bought:

1. Construction Paper - Multicolored is best. I found a pretty sweet multicolored package of construction paper that contained pink, blue, yellow and green, so I was pretty much set on the paper front.
2. Novelty Scissors - You know, those scissors that cut in odd angles. It’s best to buy as many as possible. I opted for the 20 pack because I am a baller and, like I said, I was really excited about this project.
3. Crayons - I went for the 60 pack. Crayons are essential in any arts and crafts project.
4. Markers - I wanted to place more emphasis on crayon illustrations than marker illustrations, so I only went with a twelve pack of markers. Actually, I never used them, but I have a feeling they are going to come in handy one day after I puke in someone’s bathtub.
5. Glue Sticks - I bought like five glue sticks. Why? Well, aside from being one of the greatest inventions of our time, glue sticks are essential for this arts and crafts project.

Buy all of that shit, and prepare yourself to make a really sweet card that is your ticket out of the mess that you made in someone’s sink.

Step 3: Make a Sweet Card

For your convenience, here is a picture of the card that I made:

You’ll notice that I used the novelty scissors extensively in my design. I told you they were important. I also drew the cover using exclusively crayons. The cover illustration is complete with a picture of me puking into the sink. I did this to remind the recipient of the card of exactly what happened to her sink.

The most important part about your card is that it has to look like a 10 year old made it. Why? Because that’s the way arts and crafts projects are supposed to be.

I went pretty wild with my card. All in all, between drafts and the final product, I spent between eight and ten hours on it. I suggest you do the same. You should follow my outline, because my card was pretty much a big hit.

So what did I learn from this situation? Well, most importantly, I learned that arts and crafts projects are really fun. I also learned that a homemade card can get you out of just about any trouble you find yourself in. I probably should have also learned that I shouldn’t drink so much, but drinking is so fucking fun and cool stuff always happens when I drink, so I am going to continue drinking heavily. Fuck, I’m drunk right now.

On my way home tonight, I came to the conclusion that my weekend pretty much sucked balls. I was way too busy mourning the loss of my beerbong to even attempt to have a good time and/or get drunk. I did, however, manage to have an interesting night last night filled with many interesting characters and occurrences. For your convenience, I have described some of these interesting events below.

Interesting Event #1: CHP Sobriety Checkpoint

I was out at a bar last night, and, around last call time, gossip about a CHP sobriety checkpoint down the street started spreading. I love seeing the CHP all up on the surface streets. It’s exactly what our taxes are supposed to do: put the California HIGHWAY Patrol on surface streets doing sobriety check points.

I’ve gotten two speeding tickets. Both were from California Highway Patrol officers. Both were on motherfucking SURFACE STREETS. Why is it that I always see CHP officers giving out bullshit tickets on surface streets? It seems like the highway is a much more dangerous place considering that it allows for much greater speeds. Perhaps a sobriety checkpoint on the highway would be a better allocation of California Highway Patrol manpower. Call me crazy.

So everyone is freaking out in the bar, and I’m not driving so I’m all good regardless, but I started thinking about the setup that the CHP had worked out for the checkpoint, and realized how easily avoidable it was. Granted, the checkpoint was going down on a major street, but in order to avoid it, all one had to do was take another major street directly parallel to it for a couple blocks. Of course, I don’t advocate drunk driving, but here’s how I would have avoided the checkpoint if I were a drunk driver:

See? No need to freak out! Problem solved.

Interesting Event #2: My Shirt

My plans were pretty last minute, and I was running low on clean clothes. Resultantly, I had to wear my last clean shirt. It was a cowboy shirt that makes me look pretty gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Once I arrived at the bar, my new best friend, Hollywood Park Mark, complimented the shirt. I thought he was going to segway into some homosexual banter, but I got the vibe like he was really serious about it… or at least he is a really good liar.

I was chatting with a fly honey at the bar, and she, also, complimented my shirt. I’ve always thought that the shirt I was wearing sucked (I would post a picture if I hadn’t spent an hour in Photoshop making that diagram above), and I was really unsure as to whether people were genuinely complimenting my shirt or if everyone was just being really sarcastic. I mean, I’ve worn much nicer shirts out before, but I’ve never received the same amount of compliments.

But it gets stranger. I went to a condo in Santa Monica after the bar for a little afterparty action (see below) and got yet another compliment from the super hot chick that lived there. I was really confused, though, because she was like ‘Nice shirt,’ but I couldn’t tell if that was supposed to mean ‘Nice shirt,’ or just ‘Nice shirt.’ See the difference?

All I know is that I am wearing that shirt again.

Interesting Event #3: The ‘Fake Jacuzzi’ Trick

As if the ambiguous shirt compliment from the hottie in the condo was not strange enough, after getting a brew at this afterparty and sitting down on the couch to listen to techno music, the residents of the condo emerged from the room and said they were going to go prepare the jacuzzi. We never saw them again.

I really have no clue what happened. All I know is that I was sitting in the living room with the rest of the crowd talking about all of the antics I was planning for the jacuzzi. We were even negotiating nudity offers. Then we realized that we had not heard a status update regarding the jacuzzi. Then we realized that we did not see a jacuzzi and could not figure out where a jacuzzi would fit.

Again, I have no clue what happened. Maybe the residents of the condo were upset that there were a bunch of people at their place drinking heavily. Maybe the residents of the condo decided that they wanted to have hot sex in one of the bedrooms. The bottom line is that they sounded pretty serious about the jacuzzi thing, so it became the focal point of the night, and then they disappeared. I hope nothing bad happened to them because they had a pretty sweet place and one chick was super hot. Also, she liked my shirt, and I am going to be wearing it next weekend so maybe we can fuck.

Interesting Event #4: Homeless Guy In A Puma Sweatsuit

All I’m going to say is don’t ask me for spare change if you are looking really comfortable in a brand new velour Puma sweatsuit. I never even have any spare change on me, but if you ask me for spare change while wearing a full velour sweatsuit, I will pretend that I have pockets full of change and am simply unwilling to give it to you.

I attempted to make up for the shitty weekend by rolling out to a really sweet pool party this afternoon, but it did not take away the pain of losing my beerbong. There were, however, plenty of hot bitches, so thank you to a special someone for the hookup on that savage recurring bash that will be happening throughout the Hollywood Hills over summer.

The Fourth of July is here, which means that I can fix all of my problems with yet another round of heavy alcochol consumption and drug use which I am quite excited about. Hopefully I will have a sweet story for you.

(01:17:41) ****: have a nice weekend
(01:17:45) ****: be safe
(01:17:53) fat dick: what’s that supposed to mean?
(01:18:02) ****: im just saying have a safe weekend
(01:18:17) fat dick: your mom had a safe weekend

Above is an excerpt from a conversation that I had online with an old friend on Thursday night/Friday morning. Right now it’s about 7am on Sunday morning, and, thinking back on the last two days, I can’t seem to come up with any activities that I took part in which could be even remotely considered ’safe.’ Should I have taken her advice? Perhaps, but ’safe’ activities don’t generate blog posts.

Friday was kind of a bust. I went to Erotica LA for most of the day and looked at some naked chicks while trying to do business. I was wasted by about 4pm before I rolled into the convention, so interactions went pretty smoothly. My problem with Erotica LA is that it doesn’t quite know what it wants to be. Is it a convention for industry people who want to network and get ahead, or is it a convention for hornballs who want to pay thirty bucks to watch strippers compete and hopefully get in on an industry party afterwards. Your guess is as good as mine. I was trying to network and talk to a couple fairly large adult companies regarding upcoming projects, but our talks kept getting cut off by sleazy dudes wanting free porn DVDs.

I attempted to make up for my weaksauce afternoon by heading out to what was billed as an ‘industry party’ on Friday night. I am always a little hesitant about going to parties with pornstars connected to them in order to help promote, but I decided to head out to this party because I still had lingering business to do which had carried over from the convention and I really did not want to brave the convention floor on Saturday afternoon. I also wanted to go to an afterhours event at my friend’s house afterwards.

When I showed up, there were way too many dudes who were completely unconnected with the industry hanging outside of the tiny bar where this party was being held. It took me about half an hour to locate the VIP guestlist and then explain to the mildly retarted dude working it who I was and that I was, in fact, a big deal. Once inside, I had a few drinks, did some business, and was out. I was completely over the party because of all of the sleazy non-industry cheeseballs in shitty dress shirts trying to get laid by pornstars.

Naturally, I went back to my place and copped a twelve pack of Corona and some limes on the way. There was a small get together going on at my place and I decided to keep the buzz going by beginning yet another round of heavy drinking. Around three in the morning, I realized that I had killed the entire twelve pack, and decided to take a few beerbongs before having a lengthy argument with my roommate over the differences between an escort and a prostitute. I also got into a lengthy standoff with another roommate who challenged me to call in an escort to fuck in front of him. My condition was that he throw a hundred bucks into the mix. He did not, thus no escort. I passed out around five in the morning.

Saturday afternoon was about as exciting as seeing titties at Erotica LA. I had a lot of work to do for clients, and I also worked on a couple new sites I am about to unveil. I’ll put it this way: before the end of the summer, you are only going to be masturbating to Fat Dick internet real estate. There will be no need to go anywhere else.

After a long day of work, I went out to Zanzibar with friends. I have always heard that Zanzibar was a happening spot on Saturday nights, but the crowd would beg to differ. I have never encountered a higher concentration of fat chicks at any establishment in Los Angeles. You name you race: Black, Asian, Hispanic, White. There are fat chicks for you at Zanzibar. Tons of them. And you better believe they are drunk as hell looking for someone to fuck. Oh yeah, the service is quite slow at Zanzibar and they attempt to block off areas of the club for use as VIP areas but no one buys bottle service because they are too busy hitting on fat chicks.

I basically drank my crew under the table at Zanzibar starting with three rounds of Jager Bombs. An unnamed member of the group ended up puking outside and then several more times out the window of the cab on the way home after I closed my hefty Zanzibar tab. But the night wasn’t over for me.

Our group split because I wasn’t drunk enough, and another chick who was with us was singing the same song. We went to another bar where I proceeded to listen to really bad live hip hop while demonstrating how much more I could drink than my female companion. We hit Red Bull and Vodkas like it was our job, and she had difficulties walking out of the bar. My work was done.

The problems started once I finally got this chick back to her place. Immediately upon entering her apartment, she got sick and spent about forty-five minutes in her bathroom while I watched Animal Planet in the living room and played with her cat. Animal Planet had a pretty interesting show about Mountain Sheep on, so I didn’t mind.

After she emerged from the bathroom, I decided to be the good friend and supervise her slumber to make sure that she didn’t die. The last thing I need is another murder accusation at this point in my life.

I tried to pass out on her couch, but Mountain Sheep were running around in my head, and I was craving my own bed. Also, I realized that I was completely sober, and the eighteen pack of Heineken in my refrigerator was calling me, so I bounced out of the apartment and started the walk back to my place.

On the way, I saw a creepy dude drinking a Corona (without lime) and smoking a cigarette on the street. When I passed he was like ‘Hey what’s up,’ so I thought he wanted to get in my pants because I looked really hot. I was like ‘Not too much.’ Then he was like ‘Yeah, man. I’m coked out.’ Hearing this made me stop in my tracks. I looked at my cellphone which read 4:23am, but I decided that I was completely over my no blow after four o’clock rule. Naturally, I inquired as to exactly what he had going on at his place and if he cared to combine supplies to keep the party going. We worked the deal out pretty quickly, and, after he finished his cigarette, we took the elevator up to his place. I had no clue who this guy was, and he kept telling me there were ladies at his place, but I was pretty sure that he was just going to rape me by himself or murder me in the elevator.

Lucky for me, I wasn’t raped or murdered, but I encountered a room full of people who looked like they were about to die. Drugs were being used left and right, and when I say drugs, I mean all types of drugs. Some drugs were being used that I had never even seen being used before. There were a couple hotties in the place, but they were so trashed that I was actually worried about their health. This dude had a massive store of blow and it was clear that no one in the place was going to sleep before it was out.

I started hitting the rails really heavily with these strangers on the glass coffee table of an apartment I had never been to. People were pretty nice when I could understand what they were saying, but the atmosphere was getting more and more strange as I stayed, and when I saw the sun a little bit before six, I thanked everyone for their hospitality and bounced out. I think I told some pretty sweet stories while at that apartment, but I’m never really sure what comes out of my mouth when I hit the rails that heavily. Also, I think one chick was trying to have sex with me because she kept saying ‘Coke makes me so horny!’ and grabbing my leg, but she was so messed up that she couldn’t really move her whole body over to me to do anything about it.

I guess that brings us to right now. I am pretty sure that I once again came extremely close to death due to the heavy drinking and drug use that went on this weekend, but maybe I will take the old friend’s advice and have a safe weekend next weekend. Maybe the weekend after. Fuck it, I don’t think I am going to have a safe weekend anytime soon, so maybe I should just concentrate on having safe weekdays. After all, the weekend is really only about twenty-nine percent of the week, so it would be much more effective to concentrate on having a safe Monday through Friday. Statistically, I would be much more likely to stay alive that way.