Monday, October 29, 2007

Stories that aren't true, and a couple that are

Over the weekend, I heard someone talking about how he really appreciates self-defecating humor. I was confused to say the least, but also impressed. What could it possibly mean to have a self-defecating sense of humor? Does that mean you poop yourself in a really funny way? Or does your humor poop itself? Or do you poop humor? Or is it just the fact that pooping is funny, especially the facial expressions?

But to poop yourself in a funny way would require that you eat yourself first (you know, so you'd have something to poop). So, what? Amputate, broil and serve? I've heard of people eating their fingernails or boogers, but I just don't think there's enough there to get enough poop to be funny. Unless it's the fact that there's so little poop that makes it funny. Or if you mix the boogers with bran. Maybe make it a cereal-type deal.

Then again, I suppose poop is sort of a part of you-- I mean it's in you for a day or couple of days (or more, I guess, if you haven't had your metamucil). So why don't they just call it "defecating humor" instead of "self-defecating humor"? Maybe it means that hungover pooping (we call it birreria, which is actually Italian for beer store-- I know, those crazy dagos), where you actually slough off a bunch of intestinal lining and it feels like ejecting a pint of warm snot laced with tabasco sauce and chunks of jalapeno.

Well, anyway, it turns out it's self-deprecating humor, and there was no need for me to be so disgusting.

On Saturday, I went to a karaoke bar, and a girl slipped me a roofie. I did not know girls did this. I mean, I had never heard of a girl doing this. Ever. I thought I had picked her out, but looking back, it was clearly she who initiated the encounter by sidling up next to me at the bar, and whispering a sultry "sure, thanks!" to my offer of a drink. Well, one beer turned into three or four, and I had already had somewhere in the neighborhood of five. So I'm good and loopy but nowhere near passing out/blacking out phase. And I remember very clearly up to a certain point. I remember leaving for the bathroom, coming back to a fresh beer "my turn!" she smiled, and taking the first slug out of the bottle. And that's it. Bam. Complete blackout.

I wake up and it is dark. I mean dark. There are sheets on top of me. The bed is big-- king size big. It's warm, the heat must be up. There is breathing to my right. There is a tiny crack of light down near the foot of the bed, so I slooowly sit up, slowly reach out, and grab for it. Now I realize I am completely naked. Oh great, I think. Real great. Fricking perfect. Is this what getting raped is like?

The crack of light is the edge of an air-raid style heavy black curtain. And it's not that light, it's still nighttime outside. Oh, boy, my head feels hazy. And I know it's pitch dark, but my vision is still blurry as shit. And where the hell are my pants?

I shrug out of the sheet and slide myself down onto the floor at the foot of the bed. And start to crawl to the right, to go around the bed to the door. Yes, crawl. Keeping low, below the level of the bed. And now I am glad there is nary a photon of light, because this must look pretty ridiculous, crawling on elbows and knees, naked, in the pitch dark. But hallelujah, here are my jeans, right at the lower corner of the bed. We'll have to wait to get out the door to put them on, though.

Then it was the long, slow, inching crawl up past this sleeping figure, who starts every minute or two, so I have to stop and wait for the breathing to get regular again. But after fifteen minutes or so, I am past, through the doorway, and into the living room, pulling on my jeans as quietly as I can. Man, balancing on one foot was never harder, I swear.

My jacket is thrown on the floor near the door, fantastic. Pull that on. Shoes, socks, shirt, UNDERWEAR? No signs. "Oh well," I'm thinking, and run the cursory check: phone, wallet, key-- no fucking keys. You've got to be kidding me. Where are my effing keys?

I swear if it had been my phone, or even my wallet, I would have called it a sunk cost and bolted. But I can't drive my car without my keys. And I only have $7. Not even close to enough for a cab ride home. Thinking back, I guess I could have stopped at an ATM, but I wasn't thinking all that clearly at the time. So I tip-toe back towards the bedroom, thinking desperately, trying to remember anything, and trying to think of the best way to go about looking for the keys.

OWW!!! You know that feeling of stepping on a toy or a lego when you're a kid going to that bathroom in the middle of a night? It's much worse with keys. I almost yelled, and did definitely grunt, but I was over it in a second. Got my keys, baby!

So I went back to the door, undid the two locks, and opened it just a crack. And then before I left, I turned around, unzipped, and unloaded a full bladder's worth all over the carpeted living room floor.

And then it was out the door, down the stairs (how did she manage this?), and outside. And then I discovered that I was a good half mile from the bar and my car. (Seriously, how did she manage this? Was there a wheelbarrow involved?)

So I hoofed it back to the car, with the pavement very very cold on my bare feet, and the wind pretty cold on my bare chest. And I drove home.

OK, now on to some stuff that really did happen.

Did anybody else hear about the Australian bar maid who got arrested for crushing beer cans with her breasts? Does anybody else wonder how she did that? But still, my favorite part of the story is the "colleague" who "assisted the licence breach by helping to hang spoons from De Faveri’s nipples." I'm sorry, what? Couldn't the barmaid hang spoons from her own nipples? Did it require careful application of epoxy or something?

And wow. "A woman has been charged with letting her 15-year-old daughter lean out of a school van on a highway to get beer from an SUV full of boys, authorities said Wednesday.

Terry Kisling, 47, was driving a van of Norris High School cheerleaders to a football game in Nebraska City earlier this month when a group of boys pulled up next to them, principal John Skretta said.

One of the girls apparently signaled to the boys and asked for a beer, and Kisling inched the van closer to the SUV, letting her daughter lean out to grab the can."

I wish my mom was cool like that.

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