Wil: You ever want to just generally fuck yourself up? Watch CNN World for two hours. The human race is not long for this planet. Me: Agreed. Hopefully my unborn child will get something out of it all before it blows up. Wil: I am kind of counting on him/her to fix it all, actually. Is that not going to happen? Me: If he/she takes after the wife, yes. After me? We are doomed. Wil: Your spawn has been spoken of in a Nostradamus prophesy.“And she who kicketh ass in softball shall breed with he who has odd hair of the face, and together the savior is born.” Me: Wow. Thanks? Let us hope said spawn makes the animals go bonkers at the zoo ala The Omen. The original with Gregory Peck. Not that bag of dicks remake with Julia Styles. Wil: Well played, sir. Going to go get some dinner here in Barcelona. If I can find a place with an early bird special at 8:30 PM, that is. The Spaniards do not like to sleep. Me: Save for the daily siesta? Wil: Right. Adios.
I do not feel sorry for A-Rod (I think he is serving punishment enough for having coital relations with the Crypt Keeper) and am indifferent over this professional baseball steroid issue. I could care less if a guy is injecting himself with elephant hormones and the back fat of an aborted pig fetus. Pick up a goddamn bat and hit that baseball to China. Nobody (except maybe Wil and DJ) watch baseball to see guys hit singles and bunt in winning runs. Professional baseball should embrace steroid abuse. Not only should players be allowed to do steroids, they should be allowed to use aluminum bats, too. Who will be brave enough to play third base when a juiced meathead three times the size of Mark McGwire digs in at the dish? Let pitchers inject performance enhancing drugs until their fastball is touching 110 mph and their arm vaporizes on the mound. That is something I would pay money to see. Most baseball purists argue that the steroid era has sullied the sanctity of the game and has ruined professional baseball’s image. To them I say Pete Rose, Marge Schott, John Rocker and the Black Sox Scandal. Does taking performance enhancing drugs make you a cheater? Probably. But fans like me will only take steroid abuse seriously when professional baseball starts to taking it seriously.
For those with an aversion to evacuating their bowels in the in the woods, I present you the shit box.
I like it when my pay-per-view smut is uncomplicated. This digital cable menu reminds me of my trip to Vegas when Wil and EZ were going through the Spank Vision listings. We stopped giggling like middle school girls huffing ether when we landed the she-male feature With or Without.
It has to be tough living in Alex P. Keaton’s shadow and all, but damn Andy, settle the fuck down. I long for the day when my friend working in the Boulder County DOC splits Andy Keaton’s skull with a nightstick for getting “mouthy” in lock up.
Wil: This communique may be brief. Damn third world countries and their third world internet. Me: It is the rebels I am guessing. Monitoring for subversive conversation. Wil: Could be some Sandinistas. I am in their hometown after all. Birthplace of Sandino himself. Me: Well in that case, Viva Sandinistas! We love you! Wil: Nice. Leon is also where that crazy poet gunned down Somoza. There are statues of him everywhere. Rigoberto Perez, I think it was. Cold John Lennon’d his ass. I could be wrong. I have had many Victorias. Me: Well, when you are a dictator you have it coming. I mean, you have to know someone will pop a cap in your ass. Wil: Yeah. Leon is like Boulder. Total liberal town. It would be like Pat Robertson coming to Boulder and making derogatory remarks about wheat grass. Some hippie would kill his ass. Me: Or just try to offer him some really choice weed. Wil: Ha! Tomorrow I head to Granada because this town sucks. Much like Boulder. I want wear a Somoza Rules t-shirt make a statement similar to your Shut Up Hippie bumper sticker. It might end up worse than someone keying my car, though. Me: They tend to cut off your head for freedom of expression down there, Willie. Wil: Man, if prison had air conditioning I would do anything to get thrown in. It is hot down here, Holmes. Me: Like flames of hell hot? Wil: Like sweat indoors but do not realize it until your shirt is soaked through hot. Me: Like your balls sticking to your legs and smelling of old cheese hot. Wil: Exactly. I stink really bad right now and there is a water shortage so I cannot do any laundry. Me: You are in the jungle, dude. Fuck it. When we were in St. Lucia showers meant nothing to me. Mostly because after taking a shower I would not be able dry off for three days. Wil: Good point. But my jeans are especially bad. Alright, I have to get the hell out of this steamy internet cafe because it is making me sweat more and smell worse. Me: Remember to rubber up. Wil: Will do. Adios!
Saturday saw the send off for my buddy Wil who is walking the Earth for the next six months to a year. He will return home whenever his money or his transsexual hooker sugar daddy connections dry up (literally). We procured a limo for his last evening in the city and took a dive bar tour of Denver in style. Some highlights:
The limo was compliments of one of my work clients who hooked us up with an amazing deal. He gave us a two week old Mercedes Benz limo for the night and stocked it with complimentary beer, gin, whiskey and champagne. The whip was so new that the stereo could only play CDs as the sound system was like the Death Star in Return Of The Jedi and not yet fully operational. We only brought one CD between the seven of us. Said CD was a shitty local techno band and ended up being fired from the limo window by night’s end.
Number of individuals in our group that ordered bacon: 2.
Number of individuals that asked the waitress to “Look away” as he attempted to pick up and eat a strip of bacon that fell of the floor: 1.
The Hilltop, my favorite college-era haunt, did not fail to disappoint (except for the omission of “Ballad Of The Green Berets” from the jukebox which was the traditional way to close all drinking benders back in the day). While walking into the bar a guy came out yelling “Who needs some blow? Some meth? Some X?” While sitting at the bar some troll-looking kid was attempting to start a fight with the a gentleman three times his size. The bartender encouraged smoking after asking if we were cops and than proceeded to light up and “fuck the anti-smoking laws.”
Changing the name of a strip club from Cheerleaders to The Player’s Club does not make your joint instantly classier. You still have to wash the vomit and sweaty ass from the carpet.
Number of individuals in our group that had their wife pick them up from The Player’s Club: 1.
Number of individuals in our group that lost an electronic device sometime during the night: 2.
Number of individuals in our group that were called by the limo company with the whereabouts of their lost electronic device: 1.
Be sure to rubber up in the jungle, Wil. Once you establish your white warlord presence in Belize, we will be down to slaughter cattle with machetes in front of the locals as a lesson not to cross you. In short, be safe and enjoy your adventures.
Enemies Made: a black stripper from the Spearmint Rhino and a fat pit boss named Bill.
Best Quote From Dave: “Right now I have more alcohol in me than sense.”
Best Quote From Erik: “When I see you again I will buy you $100 in bourbon.”
Seen In Abundance: Wisconsin fans, hooker trading cards and fake boobs.
Seen In Scarcity: Street sweepers, museums and my judgment.
New Coined Marketing Slogan To Be Sold To The Las Vegas Chamber Of Commerce: Welcome to the Sex Ashtray.
Gambling Maxims Proven Correct: Never hit on 13, respect the sixes and a “push” is a win.
Gambling Maxims Proven Wrong: No craps game goes seven straight rolls without making the point.
Best Casino Game: Pai Gow, which is Chinese for Slow Money Bleed Super Happy Fun Drink Time.
Worst Casino Game: Money Drop, or as it is more popularly known “Let It Ride.”
Best Run: Six and a half hours at a Pai Gow table on $40 that yielded countless free drinks, death threats from dealers named Gene, screams of free Hooters calendars and chicken wings, continual verbal assaults directed towards a fat pit boss named Bill and eventually, free Hooters T-shirts and shot glasses that Ming the Hooters Casino High Roller charged to his room.
Worst Run: Ten minutes at a craps table that took $100.
Best Eats: Steaks at Mon Ami Gabi and Bailey’s ice cream shakes.
Worst Eats: My bag of Fritos and pack of Starbursts for dinner and Will’s infamous “last breakfast” from Nathan’s which consisted of a chili dog, a handful of soggy crinkle fries and twelve over-cooked chicken wings.
Best Sports Bet: Wil for putting it on UNLV to cover the spread versus Wisconsin.
Worst Sports Bet: Me for putting $20 on the Colorado Avalanche to win the 2008 Stanley Cup.
Wil: I think if I could be reincarnated, it would be as a hot chick. Me: That would be cool. I would get giant fake breasts, rub my implants endlessly, smoke cigarettes and do cocaine off Jenna Jameson’s ass. Wil: Absolutely. I would do everything off her ass; fold clothes, eat a TV dinner, etc. It would be like my coffee table. Me: Yeah, that is a good idea. Wil: Keep a nice candle and a jar of potpourri on there. I would even make my guests use coasters. Me: And no putting out smokes in her orifices. Wil: No. That is not cool. I would be totally respectful. Me: Well, as respectful as one can be using another’s ass as a coffee table. Wil: Right.