Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Hey, Look Mom! A Boob!

A monstrous, pinchy beetle tried to crawl up my ass once at Girl Scout camp causing me to basically de-pants myself while screaming as though I was being hunted down by villagers with torches and stabbed in the eyes repeatedly with ice picks, in front of a couple hundred kumbaya-ing little girls and their mothers.

This may explain my hatred for camping...until beer was introduced of course.

You see, the lack of adult beverages is why Girl Scout camp sucked. Sure, it's fun to wander aimlessly around in a circle with a ribbon in hand to make a Maypole with your fellow scouts, proclaim that sticks and rocks glued to paper is "nature art," sleep in wooden shelters on cots that embed spring marks in your back and have a bug the size of Alaska that has yet to be identified by scientists attempt to crawl up your ass, but I bet if we all had spiked our bug juice with vodka, we probably would have been more apt to become one with nature.

Not to bad mouth Girl Scouts. It’s a lovely organization that I think all girls should experience, but I’m just not too keen on beetles creeping around in my pants…pervs…

...Or you could just skip all that shit, hop in a big, rubber raft with several of your friends and float down a river in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere for seven hours while guzzling enough beer to not care that bugs of all kinds are crawling all over you instead.

Yes, the famous summer weekend pastime known as “The Float Trip,” which usually involves camping. Every time I’m asked to go on one of these trips, I think of giant, butt crack diving beetles and hesitate for a split second before remembering all the drunken shenanigans completely unique to a float trip and decide that there’s no way in hell I can miss it.

There's no better place to sport your Boone's Farm tee.

I may still have a small, overly flaily seizure complete with a string of high-pitched screamed obscenities each time a spider skitters across my path or *gasp* winds up in my tent…or a moth flutters past my arm…or I walk into a spider web…or I see something that looks like a bug, but later realize it’s not after said screamy, flaily episode – BUT, I still suck it up and camp…and find that these neurotic episodes seem to subside after a couple beer bongs and shots of Wild Turkey American Honey from a stranger on the river…See, I told you adult beverages make us one with nature.

Last weekend a group of about 20 of us headed down to Noel, Missouri to brave the trickling mighty Elk River along with six billion species of creepy crawlies at our two campsites on Wilderness Island.

Kate and I became instant wilderness women when we were informed that our planned tent arrangement was already full and we had to pitch a tent by lantern light at 10 p.m. Good thing I’m actually a boy scout – always prepared – I research everything before I do it, I carry a pharmacy around in my purse and I threw my tent in the car before we left “just in case.”

After a while, security officers ninja-ed out of the darkness to tell us to turn off our music and shut up – quiet hours were now in effect on Wilderness Island, but instead of doing that, we wandered over to the Late Night Loop where the drunkenness raged until 2 a.m.

After my friend Tom chased me around the parking lot with a hot dog he found on the ground, we found some of Kate’s friends who just happened to camp in style in a short bus.

We then got the pleasure of experiencing the poop closets, also known as the unventilated, wooden bathroom stalls. Sure, there was running water and flushing toilets within walking distance, but there was often a line resulting in the chance that a large, drunken cowboy would come out of one of the stalls and apologize profusely with wide eyes and a sheepish smirk before the shat stank began offending your nostrils. Once inside said poop closet while breathing through your mouth, you almost always noticed a little friend watching you from a web carefully spun from one of the ceiling corners.

However, the real action began Saturday morning when we jumped on a bus, then on a raft and shoved off into the wild blue all while simultaneously cracking open the first morning beer and flinging Jell-O shots between our four rafts.

Ridiculousness ensued immediately when another raft’s offer of beads for boobs enticed one of our ladies to whip out the girls, which then caused her to face flop into the water. I also ended up in the water shortly after her because the force of Jeff diving off the side of the raft catapulted me into an involuntary back flip. I’m pretty sure beer came out of Kate’s nose and then she pissed her pants after that happened. I’m totally funny.

Pit stops are a must on float trips in order for people to jump off random cliffs and branches and, of course, to utilize the beer bong I so graciously remembered to dig out of my closet. That thing is a family heirloom – old, crusty and covered in stickers that say “I Got Bonged.” It was purchased by my older high school boyfriend in South Padre during Spring Break 1999, then brought back to my little 15-year-old self who so innocently asked, “What the hell is that?” My, how things have changed…

Unbeknownst to me, Jeff filmed all of the beach bonging and now there is a video of yours truly beer bonging in a bikini on Facebook. That’s Klassy. Note the capital ‘K.’

Making new friends is also a float trip tradition. I think our favorites were the Army cowboys from Nebraska, Steve and Gonzo, who we promptly nicknamed Stecarlos and Muppet.

Other people who made the friend list were anybody that had a dog, especially a tiny one wearing a lifejacket because there’s pretty much nothing more hilarious and any man wearing “jorts” (stands for jean shorts btw) because they’re usually the sexiest bitches on the river.

Me and one of my many jorts men

Our least favorite friends had to be the white trash couple who decided to have a marital dispute on the bank of the river in front of hundreds of people, which involved their canoe tipping over and the man standing over the woman, getting in her face to call her names and scream “I DON’T WANT YOU SHOWING YOUR FUCKING TITS TO EVERYONE!” while she drunkenly threw rocks and mud at his face.

This brings me to my next concern – why the hell would you bring children on a float trip? There were so many! Perhaps these places advertise some sort of “family friendly” atmosphere and then the parents find themselves surrounded by hundreds of 20 and 30-somethings that are screeching fuck, pounding beers and exposing their 8-year-old to his first boob flash. I mean, the kids (and dad) probably love the fact that their parents are incredibly retarded, but next year they’ll most likely be taking their family vacation at good ole Disneyworld.

By the end of the float, we were just stupid – face planting into the rafts, snorting, tackling each other into the river with full beers – it was time to drag our drunk asses back to the campsite where I nursed my fiery red thighs and a hangover at 10:30 at night.

Oh float trips – how I love thee. And, this one was definitely an outstanding one…even with the risk of ass crack beetles.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Dodging a Bullet

There are countless reasons to dump someone - they're abusive, they're psychotic, they're an unmotivated loser, they banged their co-worker, they've lost that lovin' feeling, they went to the bar and got a glass of water...


Remember that dance club full-o-douche also known as dating that I'm currently trapped in and fucking hate? Yeah, opportunity number one to get the hell out of there...FAILED...already...

I'm not necessarily a believer in rebounds, but I am a believer in seizing opportunities, so when a good looking guy and his friends approached my friends and me the night after I ran screaming from my last relationship a couple of weeks ago, naturally I took the bait said hey, why not?

Throughout the next couple of weeks over the phone, dinner, drinks and meeting each other's friends I found out he was also a police officer with horrendous hours that overloaded his iPod with country music, kept a strict schedule, avoided variety, rarely laughed at my eccentricities, failed to finish college and kept uncomfortably quiet in unknown crowds of people. But, on the other hand, he was also my age, seemingly kind, a compromiser, had his shit together, owned a house, loved dogs, was complimentary and was vocal about his immense interest in me.

Hmmmm, so we've got the good, the bad and now, here comes the psycho ugly...

Everything seemed to be normal Wednesday night - a few drinks with my friends, a few drinks with his - then we stuck around with his friends to play some darts and other games at the back of the bar when the beer and the vodka caught up to me and I suddenly found myself shitfaced. In an effort to avoid doing something to make an ass out of myself such as trip over my own feet and fall down or projectile vomit on my date and his friends while they played Guitar Hero, I excused myself, found an open bar stool at the bar up front and began sipping water.

A happy little drunk, I stared blankly at ESPN listening to my head go "bzzzz" and occasionally chatted with the bartender who was introduced to me earlier by police officer and his friends who knew him, until a while later when police officer and his pals came up, said we were leaving and we headed out the door.

I soon suspected something was wrong by the subtle hints he dropped such as his refusal to speak to me, his attempt to make my eardrums bleed with blaring, screaming rock music and the giant handful of dip he shoved in his lip then began spitting into an empty water bottle. Fucking SICK. Why didn't he just drop trou and take a fat shat on the dashboard in front of me?

Instantly annoyed with his unjustified reaction to whatever the hell set him off, I hung out and waited until he parked in front of my apartment to turn down said angry mohawk rock to ask, "What's wrong?"

It took a couple of tries to get him to spit it out, but he eventually turned to glare at me and replied in a slightly raised, I'm-done-with-you, condescending tone, "You left me in the back to go up to the bar so you could flirt with other guys."

The week before he told me he could get jealous sometimes, but that nonchalant warning didn't quite prepare me for this magnitude of douchebaggery. I'm not sure what he was jealous of - the barstool because it delicately cradled my ass or the straw in my glass of water because I constantly had my lips wrapped around it.

Once it was out, he turned to stone. I talked to a brick wall for a few minutes, explained the situation, reiterated the fact that while I did nothing wrong, I was also NOT his girlfriend and I was also allowed to do things on my own, you know, like that whole women's lib thing. And, we were still getting to know each other - behaviors, reactions, personalities - and this was just part of the whole getting to know you process - nothing to get upset about.




He was clearly done with this whole thing and not because I was abusive or psycho or banged my co-worker, but because I had gotten a glass of water. Just to make sure, I asked, "So you're just going to end this over a glass of water?" "A GLASS OF WATER?"


At that point, although it's a bit blurred with vodka and disbelief, I believe I called him a fucking douche in some form or another, slammed the car door behind me and tromped up to my apartment, alone and barefoot with my stilettos dangling from my fingers. I haven't heard from him since.

Before he revealed his inner, hidden jackass, he was just...OK - Nothing spectacular, nothing wonderful; vanilla, and that's simply just not good enough for me. However, even though I dodged a bullet, it's still disheartening. There's a huge difference between dating somebody, then realizing that you're just not compatible and dating freak after douche after psycho.

I mean, shit, it shouldn't be this hard to find somebody to hang out with that doesn't call me a cunt for my lack of commitment to domestic responsibilities or run away from me when I put party hats on my boobs like Madonna's cone bra in the middle of a crowded bar...or fling himself into a jealous rage over a glass of H2O.

*SIGH* Next time I'll just forget about the water and go ahead and let the chunks fly...all over doucherocket, his obnoxious friends and the goddamn, arcade style Guitar Hero. Perhaps that would a little more ladylike.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

How About a Honk?

I read so much about "sensual boob honks" on my regular blogs and now it's totally my turn to chat about boob honkage...except I wouldn't so much describe mine as sensual, but more like violent and punchy.

Since I'm currently jobless and have lots of spare time that I'd rather spend doing something productive instead of sitting there drunk with my thumb up my ass, I went through training at the Humane Society of Greater Kansas City and am now officially a volunteer. Last Thursday and Friday I experienced my first dog adoption event at Starlight Theater, a local outdoor theater that just happened to be showing "Legally Blonde" the musical those nights. Basically, each volunteer is assigned a dog and we just walk around with the dogs for a couple hours, talk to people, answer questions about the specific dogs and the organization and hopefully get people interested in adopting an animal.

Seems simple and all Good Samaritan-ish, right? Thursday night went pretty much without a hitch. The little black Lab puppy that I had nearly knocked over the Humane Society sign, which then almost took out the entire tent and I sweated like a whore in church because it was so goddamn hot, but eh details...

Friday...hmmmm...yeaaaah. From the very beginning I felt a little shunned as "the new girl" even though I had just done the same thing the night before. There were different people, which created a different vibe and I ended up with a different dog - a sweet, lil fatty whose life goal was to find treats even if it meant ripping my arm out of the socket and taking about 800 shits that were my responsibility to clean up. Oh holy shit, there's nothing better than scraping and bagging doggie soft serve off the grass on a hot summer evening. BLEH, BLAH, I'm dry heaving just thinking about it...

One of the other chicks had a hyper ass, strong yellow Lab that would randomly decide to bucking bronco and jerk her around the grassy area. At one point, while my dog took a break from shitting, she crossed leashes with hyper ass yellow Lab who, right at that moment, decided it was the perfect time to bolt. Yellow Lab handler chick then spun around and went flying through the air with her arms outstretched preparing to fall face first to the ground, but before face planting, my left boob helped break her fall. The sudden palm punch to the tit then caused me to fall backwards straight on my ass.

I, of course, start laughing hysterically because there's pretty much nothing funnier than people falling down and when you throw in an unscripted, stranger to stranger boob honk, it's just pure comedy. However, yellow Lab chick seemed absolutely mortified as she peeled her face from the indentation the crash left in the grass. "Did anyone see that?!" She asked one of the guy volunteers that witnessed the whole thing. "Are you OK?!" She asked me.

Yeah, other than getting Charley Horsed in the tit, I was just fine, but I decided not to bring that up since the chick was so embarrassed. I just wish I had a little more padding to help cushion her fall.

As for my 4th of July - It involved drinking beer, blowing shit up, drinking more beer, meeting an elfish soccer player from Hawaii and randomly picking up one of my friends who was walking down the street at 3 a.m. carrying a jug of water in one hand and a giant dog bone in the other, so you know, the usual. Nothing too exciting.

The "sensual" boob honk was definitely the weekend highlight because, you know, they always are.

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