The_R3d_Scare
Shared on Thu, 08/24/2006 - 04:30Good games to everyone I played against and with tonight. I had more fun than a Brahma bull on Viagra, playing customs for hours with people from the site. Names that stand out: Caeser, Bioslayer, Chibius, Night, Turmoil, Torn&Tattered. Good games fellas. Of course big shout out to my main man EggMayne (aka Radiobirdman), good games mullet.
Back to work this week, subbing. Which translates to babysitting high school kids. I wish I could be phlegmatic about their seemingly endless repertoire of banal insults, but I am not. I hate them all.
Anyway, the roller derby story I promised to tell:
So after the bull dyke incident, my friend and I we were watching the bout, and the San Francisco All-stars are absolutely humiliating Las Vegas (I think the final score was approximately 113 to 56). The crowd is incredibly gregarious, and thus they are drinking heavily. This in turn leads to an absurdly long line of men waiting to use the restroom. Now at this point I had drank nearly fifteen brewskies and I had to urinate profusely. You know when you have to urinate so bad you start to sweat? That was me.
Long restroom lines and a bad need to urinate culminated into circumstances that forced me to relieve myself outdoors. Now this was not simply due to me feeling like a 60 year old man with a prostate condition. I mean sure, I didn't want to piss my pants like a kindergartener trapped inside an RV for twelve hours straight and not allowed to get out because it might "Screw up the time table" of the family vacation (Thanks dad!), but also I didn't want to see the god forsaken half time show with 300 pound broads doing burlesque routines. I mean, Jesus himself would have averted his eyes and cast judgment, believe you me (according to my friend, the part where some of the broads stripped to reveal they were actually men was an interesting sight).
Needless to say, I walk outside towards the street in order to find a dark corner in which to abate the nagging rage of my bladder. Behold! Not more than twenty yards away lay some bushes, perfect and ripe for me to fertilize with my nutritious urine. I stumbled foreword like a man dying of thirst in the desert, making those last few steps towards his oasis. This corner was a godsend I tell you, nothing less. As I was walking (or most likely stumbling) I hear the pitter patter of dress shoes running upon blacktop behind me. Rest assured, there is no doubt, even in my drunken state, I was able to realize that whoever the proprietors of the shoes were, they were indeed running towards me (maybe even chasing me). Here, I am faced with a choice. Continue to stumble towards my much needed respite or turn and face whatever it is the owners of those shoes had in store for me. In the end, pragmatism reared its ugly head, and someone grabbed me from behind by the collar of my shirt.
Of course I almost piss my pants like the aforementioned kindergartener, as I am yanked back. I grunted and forced my bladder to control itself, as the perspiration increased upon my brow. I wanted to cry.
I turned around slowly, my legs nearly crossed, and before me stood the Midget Rockabilly King of Oakland, and his two stooges. Now I like rockabilly, for the most part I even like rockabilly guys and gals. I especially like hot young Betty Sues all dressed up in their rockabilly getup. So I am not particularly biased in this sort of a situation. And I say this fellow was a midget, but that is just a bit of an embellishment. Sure he was shorter than I, and I am a bit of a short dude (5'9" or so), it might not be fair to call him a midget, but my dear blog readers I assure you, he was as close to a midget as anyone can be (except maybe that guy Oscar in The Tin Drum, which by the way is probably the best German movie ever made). Anyway, this midget is rockabillied out. I mean full tilt booie. Sweet white and black leather dress shoes, hair that is so meticulously groomed you know he didn't do it himself, flannel shirt, toothpick in his mouth, arms tatted up more times than my ex-girlfriend gets banged out (which is a lot in case you were wondering), and of course the tight blue jeans rolled up at the bottom. Rolled up quite a bit in his case. Then there were his two stooges. Each at least a foot taller than the king, muscle bound oafish looking mooks, that for some reason seemed to follow the Midget Rockabilly King like a couple of cur dogs. It was the tougher looking of these gents that, (despite his follower personality, looked as though he was quite a pugilist) had taken me by the collar.
"Bro!" The Midget Rockabilly King exclaimed, "Bro!".
I looked a bit taken aback, I mean a double exclamation of bro, after his lackey had me by the collar... is that really necessary? Either way, he looked drunk and pissed.
"Bro, did you just throw an Old Milwaukee at me in there?!?" he asked me abrasively.
"uhmmmm... No" I stammer, strictly out of my intense need to urinate and having nothing to do with fear.
I took a closer inspection of the king at this point, and sure enough there was what appeared to be liquid splattered willy nilly all over his clothes.
"I swear I saw you" the king says, and the signs of an inner debate are clear upon his countenance.
To which I slur "Dude, I don't even buy Old Milwaukee, I drink PBR. I think you are mistaken", as if they could even corroborate my story, or as if it was even a decent alibi.
At which point his two muscle men are saying almost in unison, "Is this the dude? Is this the dude?", clearly ready to pound me out like a sorority girl at her first kegger. Which, to be honest, was the thing I definately did not need, to get beat down next to the Oakland airport by the Midget Rockabilly King and his two stooges.
His Droogs, as EggMayne is fond of saying.
Somehow I finally managed to talk these guys down, stating that "I just needed to take a piss, can we talk about it afterward?" and "I'm too drunk to even really aim a beer can properly". So they leave me alone and go walk back inside. And I did pee a little, but only in my boxers... I swear.
Good journey,
- The R3d Scare
Back to work this week, subbing. Which translates to babysitting high school kids. I wish I could be phlegmatic about their seemingly endless repertoire of banal insults, but I am not. I hate them all.
Anyway, the roller derby story I promised to tell:
So after the bull dyke incident, my friend and I we were watching the bout, and the San Francisco All-stars are absolutely humiliating Las Vegas (I think the final score was approximately 113 to 56). The crowd is incredibly gregarious, and thus they are drinking heavily. This in turn leads to an absurdly long line of men waiting to use the restroom. Now at this point I had drank nearly fifteen brewskies and I had to urinate profusely. You know when you have to urinate so bad you start to sweat? That was me.
Long restroom lines and a bad need to urinate culminated into circumstances that forced me to relieve myself outdoors. Now this was not simply due to me feeling like a 60 year old man with a prostate condition. I mean sure, I didn't want to piss my pants like a kindergartener trapped inside an RV for twelve hours straight and not allowed to get out because it might "Screw up the time table" of the family vacation (Thanks dad!), but also I didn't want to see the god forsaken half time show with 300 pound broads doing burlesque routines. I mean, Jesus himself would have averted his eyes and cast judgment, believe you me (according to my friend, the part where some of the broads stripped to reveal they were actually men was an interesting sight).
Needless to say, I walk outside towards the street in order to find a dark corner in which to abate the nagging rage of my bladder. Behold! Not more than twenty yards away lay some bushes, perfect and ripe for me to fertilize with my nutritious urine. I stumbled foreword like a man dying of thirst in the desert, making those last few steps towards his oasis. This corner was a godsend I tell you, nothing less. As I was walking (or most likely stumbling) I hear the pitter patter of dress shoes running upon blacktop behind me. Rest assured, there is no doubt, even in my drunken state, I was able to realize that whoever the proprietors of the shoes were, they were indeed running towards me (maybe even chasing me). Here, I am faced with a choice. Continue to stumble towards my much needed respite or turn and face whatever it is the owners of those shoes had in store for me. In the end, pragmatism reared its ugly head, and someone grabbed me from behind by the collar of my shirt.
Of course I almost piss my pants like the aforementioned kindergartener, as I am yanked back. I grunted and forced my bladder to control itself, as the perspiration increased upon my brow. I wanted to cry.
I turned around slowly, my legs nearly crossed, and before me stood the Midget Rockabilly King of Oakland, and his two stooges. Now I like rockabilly, for the most part I even like rockabilly guys and gals. I especially like hot young Betty Sues all dressed up in their rockabilly getup. So I am not particularly biased in this sort of a situation. And I say this fellow was a midget, but that is just a bit of an embellishment. Sure he was shorter than I, and I am a bit of a short dude (5'9" or so), it might not be fair to call him a midget, but my dear blog readers I assure you, he was as close to a midget as anyone can be (except maybe that guy Oscar in The Tin Drum, which by the way is probably the best German movie ever made). Anyway, this midget is rockabillied out. I mean full tilt booie. Sweet white and black leather dress shoes, hair that is so meticulously groomed you know he didn't do it himself, flannel shirt, toothpick in his mouth, arms tatted up more times than my ex-girlfriend gets banged out (which is a lot in case you were wondering), and of course the tight blue jeans rolled up at the bottom. Rolled up quite a bit in his case. Then there were his two stooges. Each at least a foot taller than the king, muscle bound oafish looking mooks, that for some reason seemed to follow the Midget Rockabilly King like a couple of cur dogs. It was the tougher looking of these gents that, (despite his follower personality, looked as though he was quite a pugilist) had taken me by the collar.
"Bro!" The Midget Rockabilly King exclaimed, "Bro!".
I looked a bit taken aback, I mean a double exclamation of bro, after his lackey had me by the collar... is that really necessary? Either way, he looked drunk and pissed.
"Bro, did you just throw an Old Milwaukee at me in there?!?" he asked me abrasively.
"uhmmmm... No" I stammer, strictly out of my intense need to urinate and having nothing to do with fear.
I took a closer inspection of the king at this point, and sure enough there was what appeared to be liquid splattered willy nilly all over his clothes.
"I swear I saw you" the king says, and the signs of an inner debate are clear upon his countenance.
To which I slur "Dude, I don't even buy Old Milwaukee, I drink PBR. I think you are mistaken", as if they could even corroborate my story, or as if it was even a decent alibi.
At which point his two muscle men are saying almost in unison, "Is this the dude? Is this the dude?", clearly ready to pound me out like a sorority girl at her first kegger. Which, to be honest, was the thing I definately did not need, to get beat down next to the Oakland airport by the Midget Rockabilly King and his two stooges.
His Droogs, as EggMayne is fond of saying.
Somehow I finally managed to talk these guys down, stating that "I just needed to take a piss, can we talk about it afterward?" and "I'm too drunk to even really aim a beer can properly". So they leave me alone and go walk back inside. And I did pee a little, but only in my boxers... I swear.
Good journey,
- The R3d Scare
- The_R3d_Scare's blog
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Comments
Submitted by Caesar on Thu, 08/24/2006 - 06:22