Regel nummer en... (engelsk historie)

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Vet at dette er et norskt forum, men denne historien og situasjonen rundt gjorde værtfall at jeg synes denne var i særklasse.

 

Dog ADVARSEL, historien inneholder voksent innhold og andre ord noen man kan finne støtende.

 

Jeg har ikke skrevet den, men som sagt synes jeg det er en av de aller beste historier jeg noensinne har lest. Historien er hentet fra en tråd på et annet forum.

 

 

The #1 rule, when a crazy chick ur banging keeps calling... Dont pick up

 

Without adieu i give you friday night and saturday afternoon:

 

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Plucking Flowers in the Garden of Evil A True Story by Evil Sulu

 

Memorial day. The Super Bowl of drunk beach holidays for americans lucky enough to live in latitudes where corona commercials are made. It is an event celebrated with sand, water, sunshine, boating, excessive drinking, sheer bikinis, excessive drinking, nudity, laughing, shouting, loud booty music, drug-use, angry threats of physical violence, sunburns, excessive drinking, fistfighting, police arrests, and alcohol induced boating collisions. This exquisite orgy of binge drinking, bare flesh, and potential for violence, incarceration, and/or bodily harm has a way of jacking up party-goers' adrenaline well into the evening after the party moves from the beaches to the bars. The wonderful thing about memorial day is that it doesn't just last for a day; it lasts for an entire weekend - from sundown Friday to sundown Monday. The days blur together, you can hardly remember what or when you did it, and in the end, you're just left wondering who caught the license plate of that truck that just hit you. Invariably, when you're sitting holding your aching head on Tuesday morning, trying to boil it all down to its most basic elements... what you get is a lot of fighting and fucking. Oh, and drama, sweet drama.

 

It's friday night, and there's an energy in the air tonight that makes me want to roll down the window of my car and howl like a motherfucking rabid werewolf. The scent of pussy is in the air, the hunt is on, I've got a hardon that's pressing against the glass of my sunroof, and I'm seriously considering pulling over to bury it in this nice lady jogging across the bridge with her huge jennifer lopez shaped onion booty wedged into a pair of jogging shorts two sizes too small. As I'm leaning out the window to shout out "WOOP WOOP! PULL OVER THAT ASS TOO FAT!" I regain focus and remember what I’m about. First thing's first. Before all the let's get retarded shots action starts up, I need to get some food in my stomach so I'm driving to meet some longtime family friends for dinner. For the purposes of this story, we'll call my friends Sam and Sarah, their daughter Ashley, their pain-in-the-ass son Alex, and his boring girlfriend whose name I can't be arsed to learn. I just call her cuntface for short. As I alluded to earlier during a moment of clarity sometime last week, since Ashley (whom I've known since she was fairly young) has started attending college in the last year or so she has become a heavy flirter whenever I run into her. Her parents and I go out and drink/party on the weekends, and she’s been tagging along a lot lately. It started out that she would just subtlety touch my arm or bump into me. I didn't think anything of it because I honestly didn't think of her that way. Lately, its been a lot less subtle... rubbing the inside of my legs when people aren't watching, running her hands through my hair when there's other chicks around, and giving me the eyes. You know the look I'm talking about - the one that women do that transcends both language and culture. It is the unmistakable, universal 'I want to fuck the living shit out of you' eyes.

 

Up until now, I've been able to ignore it through a mixture circumstance (e.g. was still dating my psychotic colombian ex-girlfriend, or had a regular piece of ass on the side) and self-control (e.g. delusions of not really seeing her that way, or the social taboo of banging your buddy's daughter). Either way, I've come to realize that whatever metrics I had in place to stop this shit from happening were breaking down faster than a middle-east peace talk. Did I mention she's really good looking? Has an ass you can bounce quarters off? Tight like an man's aaa-nus?

 

End of introspective reverie. So I'm sitting down at a restaurant I hate, and of course the only open seat is next to Ashley. I sit down and try to preoccupy myself with eating shitty fucking beef tacos and trying to wash them down with lots of light beer while doing my best to ignore her charming conversation and not notice how good those jeans make her ass look. I'm struggling through the meal, and my buddy Pablo shows up (he's a little older than me, also friends with Sam, and is clearly already a little drunk) announcing that we're all going out to a bar. Sam and Sarah are tired from driving and decline; Ashley announces that she's going and will be riding with me. After some reservations from her parents, Pablo says he'll make sure she stays out of trouble and gets home at a reasonable hour and I just keep my mouth shut (In retrospect: the slippery slope begins). We go out, and the bar is going off. I pound four jaegerbombs, and dive into a table of vagina. This chick i used to go with is here - she's just broken up with her latest fling and seems to be giving me the greenlight on a post-breakup noncommittal fuck session. She's put on a little weight, and I'm just not feeling it anyways so I start hitting some more bombs and beers seeing what else it out there. I'm getting fucked up, bullshitting and all, then I notice Ashley near me, sort of rubbing up on me. Blah blah blah.. bar blackout period ensues where you’re having a great time but you can’t remember why or what the fuck you’re doing. Who knows what Ashley and I were talking about, but I do know that when I looked up, it was last call and I wasn’t' ready to stop partying yet. Pablo suggests we go over to the marina where he keeps his boat and have a few more drinks. He's speaking my language, so Ashley and I jump in my car and head over. Pablo as usual is late, because he's trying to round up tail at the last minute. So the two of us get there... we jump on the boat to grab drinks, and the next thing I know I'm holding her in my arms and we're making out. And not in a nice, gentle slow kind of way. She's like a fucking wild animal, biting my lip, raking my back with her fingernails.. and I'm all over it. I pick her up, put her down on the couch and we're tearing each other's clothes off. Then I hear a *THUD*. I'm like "Oh, fuck that must be Pa...b.." then the motherfucker opens the door of the cabin. Now he’s staring at me mouth agape, my pants are half off, she’s half naked on the couch, and fuck me this is an unbelievably awkward situation. To make it worse, he's got two bitches (sisters) we both know in tow standing behind him.

 

He sort of laughs, and says "Ooops, sorry." then closes the door. So much for just keeping this between me and her now. Jesus Christ. We laugh about it, put our clothes back on, make out a little bit more, then try to go outside and act like that didn't just happen. What makes this worse is that the two chicks Pablo has brought back are sisters and know everyone involved here. I've really screwed the fucking pooch on this one. And 20 minutes later it gets worse with an incoming call. Pablo picks up and it's Ashley's mom. He gleefully slurs that he and I have been drinking too much to drive Ashley home, hangs up, and tells me she'll be there in 10 minutes to pick up Ashley. Oh fuck me, thanks for looking out Pablo – this is a complete goat fuck.. seriously this is amateur hour. Ten minutes later, Sarah is on the dock to pick up Ashley – everyone is partying and acting like asses, so she’s none the wiser and I’m in the clear for now. Commence slightly guilt-ridden drink to blackout phase.

 

One blackout later, it’s Saturday afternoonish on the beach with the crew. Drinking brews and having a good time. Ashley and I are chilling out in the water, and she’s playing everything cool as can be. Frosty head on this chick, I like that. Nobody seems to know anything about what went down last night except for my buddy Pablo, who is occasionally giving me comical ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ looks. Hour pass. Lots of beers, shots, laughing, dancing, tits watching, etc. Nothing close to the insanity destined for tomorrow or Monday, just a good lasting party energy. Late in the afternoon the rain clouds move in, so we head back to the marina and put the boat up. My father is on the boat with me (we work together everyday in a family business) and he’s drunk and I’m a little drunk too. He’s getting on my fucking nerves, handing out orders and generally being a prick for no reason which gets my panties in a wad. While I’m washing the boat, he makes some stupid quip and I naturally spray him down with the water hose in retort.

 

As soon as I did I realized I had made a pretty bad mistake, not because I’m a afraid of getting the shit kicked out of me, but because my father was wrapping up the stern anchor at the time and he’s a fucking maniac. As I’m ducking the stainless steel anchor being swung at my head, I’m imagining what the headline is probably going to be in tomorrow’s local newspaper: “Father Kills Son with Anchor in Drunken Memorial Day Argument.” Fantastic, just what I want written on my fucking tombstone: Here Lies Poor Sulu, Incited his Father’s Rancor, So He Hit Him With An Anchor. Now that’s a fucking legacy to leave behind.

 

Fortunately, I’m used to this sort of thing (albeit normally being a less lethal object, typically a chair or small table or whatnot) and could see if coming, for a second I think about just slamming his jaw and knocking him the fuck out, but the last time I did that it caused a lot of serious family problems (it’s a young lion/old lion thing), so I get the fuck away from him and off the boat. Either he’s pretty drunk or I must have really pissed the old bastard off – because he then picks up the closest thing he can find which is a folding pocket knife, unfolds the blade, then acts like he’s going to throw it at me like he’s one of the evil circus twins in Octopussy. For some reason, this strikes me as particularly funny at the time and I begin laughing and say something to the effect of: “you know… you’re the fattest fucking ninja I’ve ever seen.” In retrospect, this was another serious lapse in judgment on my part. My father scowls, looks around the boat for a moment, pauses, adorns a facial expression of satisfied vendetta, drops the knife he is holding, and picks up whatever the fuck he’s looking at - which turns out to be my car keys (electronic key w/no spare set) and my wallet (containing my I.D., credit cards, you name it). Then, he says something along the lines of see how you like this you little bastard then like Joe mutherfucking Montana he hauls back and lobs my shit right into the water. Sulu, you just got served.

 

 

Del 2

 

 

There are certain times in our lives where the earth’s planetary movement momentarily stops, and the absurdity of our existence and our relationship to every molecule that exists in it flattens our brain, delicately rolls it up, lites it, and takes a drag. It might happen after an emotional fight, almost getting hit by a truck, or being an emo fag whenever your current gf breaks up with you. Time stops, but we do not. And like disembodied spirits we can see ourselves for what we truly are: completely self-consumed, self-indulgent homosexuals that need to General Patton the fuck up, mount up a second offense, and reconnect with our inner party animal while chanting the mantra of the zen masters, the Beastie Boys: ooooohhhhmmmm ... Yoooou Haaave Tooo Fiiiiiiight Foooor Yooouuurrrrr Riiiiight Toooo Paaaaarrrtaaaaayyy ... ooooohhhhmmm. So somewhere in this montage of heavenly bodies, celestial motion, molecules, emo-ness, marijuana, homosexuals, meditation, party animals, and the beastie boys I decide that this is the time to shout “THIS IS SPAAARTA” and rock out with my cock out.

 

Most people would have thrown in the towel at this point: No cash, no identification, no ride. I snatch these negative sentiments from thin air and throw them in my pressurized cooking pot. WOOOM! Desperate times require desperate measures, and I know what has to be done: I have to steal my fathers’s car. By now, he’s already left the marina and is headed for home, so I go retrieve my cellphone (which thank fucking christ was located in the overhead compartment and thus spared a watery grave, plz SHC search the terms ‘fishing rod, wedding, bum, cellphone’ to find out what happened to my ex-cellphone) and make a call to my buddy Jay, who drops by to pick me up and take me over to my dad’s place. I explain the simple plan to Jay on the ride over – step 1: get to my father’s house, step 2: input his keyless entry code (which I have memorized) into the numpad on the door and start car with the ignition key he carelessly leaves lying in the cupholder, step 3: steal car, drive to bar, and proceed to get completely fucked up and have a good time. Jay predictably calls me insane; I suppose the madness in my laughter is what gives it away.

 

(Un)Fortunately, after the 30 min ride to his residence, neither my father nor his vehicle is anywhere to be found. To Jay’s enormous amusement, he points out a flaw in my evil plan – that our mark is most likely eating a ribeye at Outback Steakhouse after leaving the (drama)marina. I politely point out to Jay that on the A-Team, Hannibal does all the planning and B.A. Baracus does all the fucking driving, so kindly shut the fuck up and drive me to my fucking house. Fuck, plan B! It is a well-known fact that plan Bs are always significantly shittier than plan As because plan B usually entails doing something that will get your sorry ass killed. And this plan B is no exception; it’s a desperation move that only partially solves my problems despite a high degree of risk of personal injury. Nonetheless, I’m convinced it’s all worth it, and the Heineken Lights I’ve been drinking all day agree.

 

Jay drops me off at my house, and I tell him to round up Face and Murdoc and call me in about an hour to go to this local dive bar we frequent. He just shakes his head as he drives off. I sneak around back to dig up my spare key; I don’t know why I’m sneaking because I own the place. Nonetheless, I unlock the door, snag the emergency roll of greenstamps taped underneath the waterheater, grab my lid and jacket, and open the garage door in order to initiate plan b. Plan b is my 3-week old KTM superduke sitting in the garage calling out to my inner hooligan like a sirens song; for a second I feel the urge to stroke its shiny new iridescent orange plastics and whisper my precious, it burns. Filthy nasty hobbitses. Usually I’m pretty paranoid about riding my motorcycle + alcohol but today something inside me is just broken and I quite honestly feel just like motherfuckin Batman.

 

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Authors Disclaimer: What you are about to read is abjectly stupid. Being on a bike while drunk/drinking is comparable to russian roulette. I honestly wish I had not done this, nor do I recommend you do it either. You have a 1/6 chance the bullet is in the chamber.

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Its 9:00PM Saturday and I’m feeling euphoric riding down I-95 on the back pegs, one-wheel, 80 mph like a maniac with a temp tag and no driver’s license while every law enforcement officer in the state is on duty looking for drunk/reckless drivers. I might as well be wearing a bright red neon sign around my neck that says HEY JERKOFF COP! Please take me to jail you cocksucking pigfucker, sir! I’m heading into town to meet up with Pablo, who does not yet know I’ve made him my newly elected chauffer for the evening so I can proceed to get myself fucked up for the rest of the night without worrying about ending myself like a drunk fool on this goddamn bike. Aside from a few 2nd gear sit downs through town, I manage to calm myself down by the time I meet Pablo at the marina to drop my bike off.

 

Pab’s and I jump in his truck and decide to go to a restaurant; I give Sam and his family a call to meet up with us to eat. Everyone is aware of the tiff I had today, so it’s a repeated topic of conversation and ball-busting. One of the more memorable suggestions is changing the name of my boat to “Anger Management.” I take my licks, and I’m starting to get into a good party mood again. We have some beers then some shots, and everything gets right in the world. Around 10:30PM we head out to that dive bar I had mentioned before. Little do I know that I’m about to stick my dick into a hornet’s nest.

 

We all pile into Pab’s truck and head over to the bar; as we’re walking into the front door I just about shit myself because the first person I see in the place is none other than the crazy chick ur banging keeps calling, aka the bitch who spawned this very thread with her incessant calling me 10 times a day who I haven’t talked to for at least a week but still keeps calling me. This is just what I fucking need tonight especially with my crew, which includes Ashley, in tow behind me. For now, let’s just call this crazy chick Addidas because she’s got a fairly unusual name that sounds like the shoe brand, and because I already call her it behind her back anyways so it makes telling this story easier for me. As I walk in the door, Addidas spots me like a fucking shark smelling blood in the water; and I immediately realize I’m going to have to pop some countermeasures or this bird is going to crash and burn to the ground. I try to pull the smoothass motherfucker friends hug and go, but upon getting closer I can see the obsession in her eyes and that it’s gonna take more than just that. She’s staring at me like a cobra at a snakecharmer when she grabs me by my left arm and asks me how I’m doing and can we talk. Her eyes start to tear up a bit. Someone please call the fucking bombsquad, because we’ve got a walking timebomb here. What to do… Red wire or green wire?

 

Experience tells me to never ever tell a woman no, so instead I try misdirection and say: yeah, sure. Just give me a second to say hello to everyone and I’ll be right back, ok? She buys it, and I quickly but confidently recede into the comforting darkness of the bar with every assurance that no one in my crew notices what’s up. Shortly following my first refreshing swig of Amstel Lite, Pablo leans over so only I can hear and says with a shit-eater grin on his face: “Hey, what’s up with you and your friend there at the door?” Smooth, Sulu, seriously fucking smooth. I just hope he’s the only one that noticed.

 

Hindsight is a motherfucker, because the fucking moment you know what you should have done, you are already completely fucked in the ass with a thick 9-inch rubber cock. When I could feel my arm being grabbed from behind me for the second time only a few minutes later, I knew it was already over and that I should have left via the backdoor of the bar the moment I was free the first time. So here I am, bullshitting with my friends among whom is Ashley, and Addidas (the ex-fuck buddy) grabs me by the arm and turns me towards her. Subconsciously I’m wondering, is that a thick 9-inch rubber cock being inserted up my ass? She’s pissed, and she’s got everyone’s attention within a 20-ft radius; this is a zero damage control situation, a complete fucking trainwreck. You can see the anger in her eyes. Her hands planted in determination on her hips. She knows the answers to the questions she’s about to ask…but she wants to her them from my mouth, holding out for that faintest of glimmering hopes… that I might truly, deep down be as madly in love with her as she is with me. And she doesn't care anymore if the whole world hears. I am a seal trapped in the jaws of a great white shark; please lord, just give me the dignity to die underwater where no one else can see.

 

At this point, even Ray Charles could see that he’s fucked. So I agree to talk and motion towards the door, because all I’m hoping to salvage out of this now is get her outside so no one else can hear the verbal ass beating I’m about to take. We get outside near the dumpsters in the back, and Addidas flips it around and tries to play it cool and friendly again. Why won’t you call me? I know you’re getting my messages. Blah Blah Blah, Blah Blah Blah, Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah. Do you want to come over to my place later tonight? And then she gives me the eyes. Whoa, didn’t see that one coming so soon. In fact, it came out so early in the discussion that it completely fucked me up and I violated one of my own rules. I just blurted it out, but it was too late. I said no to a woman. Needless to say, that was the wrong answer.

 

I’ve seen the exorcist, but let me fucking tell you it’s a whole different experience to see it in real life. She starts making agitated movements, angry hand gestures, and her face turns different hues. While all this is going on, she’s serving up a new batch of 20 questions, and these have a little more Spanish inquisition edge to them. “Who are you here with tonight? Are you seeing someone else? You can tell me. Why are you doing this to me? Don’t you care about me at all? You fucking don’t, do you?” <prop>Cue tear ducts. Cue mascara runs.<end prop> “This is fucking bullshit! Fucking Bullshit! I knew you were completely full of shit! I don’t do this. I’m not a whore. I fucking never do this! Why the fuck are you doing this? You said you were the relationship type of person. You’re fucking someone else aren’t you?! Fucking tell me!” This shit goes on and on and on and on for at least 45 minutes. FOURTY-FIVE MINUTES.

 

I take the beating like a champ, afterall what can you do or say? Eventually, it breaks down to her just alternating between weeping and yelling intelligibly, scaring the shit out of the occasional passerby who are not used to having crazy out of control crying bitches near their spot for smokin’ bones. I’m frustrated by the whole thing by now, and all I want to happen is for her go home so I can go have a beer inside. So I callously tell her to go fucking home, and I’m not interested in you anymore. I really should have anticipated what effect this would have before saying it, but like I said I had just taken a 45 minute beating and really didn’t give a shit anymore.

 

“Why don’t you want to be with me? Just tell me what I did? What’s wrong with me? TELL ME! TELL ME! No, you’re not going back in there without telling me! (grabs me) JUST FUCKING TELL ME!!! WHAT?! I’M NOT HOT ENOUGH?! I’M NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO BEEN SEEN WITH IN PUBLIC?! WHAT AM I A FUCKING WHORE TO YOU? A CHEAP FUCKING WHORE? WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME, WHAT AM I JUST YOUR GODDAMN FUCK BUDDY? etc, etc, etc.

 

It was at this point, leaning against the wall of this godforsaken bar not saying a single word in response, that I realize that this woman is in fact mentally insane and that there are only two possible things I can say that will quell her furious rage: “I want to come over to your place later,” or “I fucking love you.” At this point, I think I’d rather be letting my crazy anchor swinging father use my head for piñata than be here and listen to this shit. At some point during the end of her monolog, I just say to her: “Listen, baby I’m done with this. I’m going inside. Don’t follow me. Just go home.” Then I start walking into the bar. As I’m through the door, I turn and notice she’s following me, and as I turn back to look into the bar I just can’t believe my fucking horrible luck. There’s Sarah and Ashley near the door, watching as I come in stalked by a shivering, crying, upset cave troll with mascara and snot running down her face and wearing an expression that should be reserved only for widows when their husbands die at war. Ashley smiles and says something to me, but I’m quick on my feet and interrupt her with: “Hey, hold on real quick, I gotta go to the restroom, I’ll be back in a sec.” After 60 seconds of pulling my hair out in the restroom, I come out only to conveniently receive a fake call on my cellphone and have to leave the bar again so I can hear the non-existent caller over the music. I’m so fucked at this point its not even funny.

 

The bawling sack of spurned fucktoy follows me back to the dumpster which is starting to feel like my new residence since I’ve been here so much tonight. Please start reading two paragraphs up one more time because that’s the same shit that starts spewing out of her mouth again only with more crying and more emotive expression. Only this time, I can’t take it anymore… So I do what any reasonable person would do who’s only car keys are sleeping with the fishes. I started walking away from her as quickly as I can.

 

At first, I’m encouraged because I hear her angry shouts getting further and further away. But then I hear the footsteps of doom:

 

*CLOP* …….. *CLOP* …….. *CLOP* …….. *CLOP*

 

its the sound of her high heels smacking the asphalt, accompanied by:

 

“YOU FUCKING COME BACK HERE YOU PIECE OF SHIT?!”

“YOU SAID YOU WERE THE RELATIONSHIP TYPE OF PERSON!!!”

“FUCKING BULLSHIT!!! YOU SAID YOU WERE A RELATIONSHIP PERSON!!”

“FUCKING LIAR!!!! YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A GODDAMN LIAR!!!”

 

I can help myself any longer, and I try to resist but I simply can’t help turning around and shouting back:

 

“THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE SAY TO GET LAID! WHAT ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID OR SOMETHING?!”

 

Her reply: “OH NO, YOU FUCKING DIDN’T JUST CALL ME STUPID!!”

 

*CLOP* *CLOP* *CLOP* *CLOP* *CLOP* *CLOP* *CLOP* *CLOP*

 

I pick up the pace a bit, because now it sounds like I’ve got a fucking trotting horse behind me and I can’t help laughing about it. At some point, maybe once we’ve gotten up to 6 blocks or so, I hear a thud behind me followed by a “YOU SON OF A BITCH! I BROKE MY HEEL! THESE ARE MY ITALIAN SHOES AND THEY’RE RUINED!” Upon breaking a shoe, Addidas (lol, god that’s unintentionally ironic but fantastic) pulls off the other one and begins chasing after me down this street in her barefeet. Eventually she catches up with me and tries to grab me again. I tell her not to touch me, and surprisingly she listens. Instead, she starts talking shit to me as she follows me down the street; she has to take breathers between insults because she’s exerted a lot of energy catching up to me. This shit keeps on going for like 10 blocks until I literally run out of road. I cut through an alley headed towards U.S. 1 hoping the lights will scare my stalker away. As I’m turning the bend, she falls down on the ground… either too tired, drunk or both to keep going.

 

Maybe she was expecting me to stop and help her back up, but FUCK THAT! Then instant I see her ass topple to the concrete sidewalk I'm an Ethifuckinopian chasing down an icecream truck. As my ass is sprinting down the street like a fucking madman, I pull out my cell phone and call Pablo to tell him I’m coming in hot. The music is so loud he can’t understand what the fuck I’m trying to say to him though. I sprint the entire way back to the bar; my legs are burning, my chest heaving, and I’m all fucking pumped up and sweating. I've got the urge to start shouting RICKY FUCKING VERONA at the top of my lungs.

 

I walk into the bar and try to appear as normal as one can appear when they’re all jacked up and on the run from their very own personal psychopathic fuck friend. I wade through the mass of people in this fucking place; its karaoke night, and some fat redneck with a cowboy hat is singing my humps on stage much to the delight of the audience. I spot Pablo in the back, and explain to him that I need his keys, yes it’s a fucking emergency, no I don’t have time to explain it, yes I’ll be in the back of the truck, Yes! The fucking back of YOUR truck (which Addidas doesn’t recognize) with the lights off and will call your cellphone in exactly 5 minutes with an explanation. He gives me the keys and I bolt out the back door, and jump into the backseat of his truck. Not thirty seconds later, Pablo stumbles out of the bar screaming at the top of his lungs: SSSSUUUUUUUUUUUUUULLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!SUUUUuuuuUUUUuuuUUUUuuuUUUUUUUUULLLLLLLLLLLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHERE ARE YOU BUDDY?

 

I honestly can’t get a fucking break tonight; I get out, tell him to shut the fuck up, and get into the truck. I explain to him what happened, and after he’s done laughing we agree that its probably best to round everybody up and head out to the next bar. Pablo goes back into the bar and in 10 minutes everyone is piling into his truck. I’m staring out the window for the boogie man, which I soon forget about the instant Ashley gets into the truck, gets into the back seat with me, puts her arm around me, says awww.. poor baby, and starts laughing about how sweaty I am. Seriously, is it a full moon or something tonight?

 

 

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The end

 

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