Peanut Butter Nips and Other Tales

I’m not a great storyteller.  Let’s just get that out of the way from the get-go.  I’m not the type of person who can enthrall a group of people with my intriguing stories about larger-than-life things that happened to me.  Part of the problem is that I can’t bring myself to embellish and exaggerate on things that happen to me, because quite frankly, I find it to be a lame, desperate, attention-seeking thing to do.  If I went out to get milk and left my wallet at the 7-11, that’s the end of the story.  I’m not going to add in an armed robbery or an alien invasion to spice things up and make myself seem more interesting.  If a story isn’t that interesting, then perhaps it’s not a story worth telling in the first place.

That being said, I’m going to attempt to rattle off some stories from the past that might be slightly amusing at best, since I refuse to spice them up with mistruths and inaccuracies.  There might be a few small inaccuracies here and there, given that some of them happened many moons ago, but there won’t be any gang-wars or deaths added where none actually occurred.  To have any hope of making them interesting, I’ll have to put my best adjectives and flowery padding sentences to good work.  Wish me luck.


Peanutbutter Nips

Back in the day when I was in college, we used to do this thing called “hanging out and drinking”.  It was serious business, and quite frankly I don’t have the time to explain all the intricacies to you.  Nevertheless, this activity was taking place one night when there was a knock upon the front door of our abode.  Somebody in attendance got up and opened the door, only to see a few ladies standing there.  One of them, who I’ll call “Esmeralda” since I have no idea what her real name was, stated that they were playing truth or dare.  She went on to explain that it was her turn, she chose dare, and her dare was that she had to lick somebody’s shoe.  I’m sure she could have just licked a shoe over at their place, but my expert intuition told me that this was more of a ploy to get to meet some hot dudez, five of whom happened to live in the establishment they chose to visit.

She ended up licking someones shoe, we all pretended like it was zany and not a completely lame excuse of a dare, then they scurried back off to their place.  We went back to our serious drinking business, and after a few minutes, someone had the great idea of coming up with a ridiculous counter dare in order to get to go over to their place.  After very little brainstorming, it was decided that the dare would be for one of us to have peanut butter licked off our nipple by one of the gals.  It was so crazy, it just might work.  I thought it was a pretty funny, if obvious dare, but changed my tune after I was nominated as the candidate.  Today I wouldn’t blink an eye at something that tame, but at the time I was merely an insecure, inexperienced, young lad.  The thought of being put on the spot was unsettling.

After trying multiple times to get out of being “the” guy nominated for the mission, I finally accepted my fate.  We headed over to their place across the way and knocked once or twice, perhaps even thrice.  They answered, no doubt completely unsurprised that it was us, and let is in.  We told them that we too were playing truth or dare, and that I had taken a dare, of which my penance was to have peanut butter licked off one of the nipples in my possession.  I forget how it happened exactly, but by some intervention of the cosmos, the girl who either stepped forward or was nominated to engage in the peanut butter festivities was actually quite nice looking.  I’ll refer to her as “Jessica Alba”, since I have no idea what her actual name was, and she bore more than a passing resemblance to that actress, who was popular at the time.

So long story short, “Jessica Alba” licked peanut butter off my nipple and everybody probably went back to hanging out and drinking in their respective places of residence.  You see, there was so much hanging out and drinking back in those days that every day started to bleed into every other day and details became blurry.  In fact, maybe this story never actually happened, but instead exists as a completely fictitious account that I made up while inebriated all those years ago.  Maybe I actually died in that tragic Magic The Gathering™ accident and I’m not actually typing out all these words that I’m currently typing.  That would technically make Peanut Butter Nips a ghost story though.  So was it scary?  Yea it was.  It was scary good.  You’re welcome.  Next story.


The Frailty of Youth and Poorly Constructed Wooden Structures

This one time a bunch of us were hanging out and drinking on the front porch, when a lady friend and myself engaged in a hug, and another friend of mine totally yelled out “Group Hug” and bum rushed us, and we all ended up getting pushed up against the railing, which gave way and we all fell over the side in a tangle of wooden boards onto some bikes that were below us, but it wasn’t that bad because it was only like a four foot drop, so nobody really got hurt, so then we just went back to drinking and hanging out.


The Frailty of Youth and Cheaply Plastered Domicile Walls

Back in the day when I was in college, we used to do this thing called “hanging out and drinking”.  It was serious business, and quite frankly I don’t have the time to explain all the intricacies to you.  Nevertheless, a lot of the time while we were engaging in this activity, things would end up getting broken in the vicinity of our persons, as tends to happen in life.  Perhaps a bottle would get broken here, or a piece of furniture would get broken there, as tends to happen in life.  Every once in a while though, the walls would get broken, as tends to happen in life, and to a lesser degree in stage plays and television productions.

Sometimes, in our journey through this mortal coil, the need arises to put one’s fist, foot, and/or head through a layer of budget drywall and off-white paint.  The place we lived at the time was no different, as is to be expected, being that it was merely a microcosm representing the greater whole of life in general.  In the world there exists laughter and tears, joy and strife, wisdom and folly.  All these things existed in our residence as well, along with ample amounts of “hanging out and drinking” and wall hole producing.  Sometimes strife leads to wall holes.  Other times, joy leads to wall holes.  Wisdom rarely leads to wall holes, but It’s completely feasible, so one should never rule out the possibility altogether.

Throughout the course of the year, there were many joyous and strifeful occasions, and many wall holes to go along with those occasions.  A wall hole or two isn’t really that big of a deal, but if wall holes become too abundant, situations can tend to get a little complicated.  One such complication we were faced with was the existence of an individual called a Resident Advisor, or “R.A.” for short.  One of the many jobs of an R.A. is to make sure that everything is cool and that folks aren’t acting up.  Wall holes tend to give off the impression that things aren’t cool and that folks are acting up.

To keep the R.A. off our backs and to protect the sanctity of our place of drinking, hanging out, and wall hole production, we needed to give off the impression that no wall holes actually existed.  This was done through the careful act of placing glossy pieces of paper called “posters” over such holes.  This technique is quite brilliant, as it not only makes it seem as though no wall holes exist, but it also serves to make the environment seem more cultured and interesting.  A Randy Rhodes poster here, an advertisement for 15% off TempurPedic Sealy mattresses over there, and we quickly started to look like a cultured and interesting bunch of individuals.

By the end of the year, things looked a little suspect, with posters plastered all over the walls at heights both way higher and way lower than any poster would ever realistically be hung.  A few holes were so large that posters wouldn’t do the trick, and the use of dark cloth tapestries needed to be employed.  It looked like we had employed a blind person who may or may not have also been mentally retarded to decorate our living quarters.  It might not speak very well of the R.A. that she never seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, but then again she was an R.A., and they tend to not give too much of a shit about anything in general.

As summer quickly approached, we reflected on our many accomplishments that year, including: drinking, hanging out, and wall hole acquisition.  We also realized that we needed to rid ourselves of our wall hole collection, lest we incur the wraith of the housing board in the form of arbitrary, unreasonable fees.  Luckily, one of the strapping young lads amongst our ranks was a wiz in the field of home repair.  He patched up the holes, painted over the evidence, and we all shed a tear at the loss of our most prized possessions.  We bid each other adieu for the semester and went our separate ways.  Later that summer, we each received a bill from the Department of Housing and Fascism charging us a few hundred dollars each for the repainting of our former housing unit.

The moral of this story is: Collecting wall holes is an enjoyable, yet expensive hobby, much like polo or yachting.  Make sure you truly understand the pros and cons of this activity before you dive into it.  Thanks.

It’s An Old House. Who Gives a Shit?

What is the deal with society and its ridiculous sentimentality when it comes to old buildings?  I can understand why a building might be designated as a historical location if someone who actually mattered and accomplished something had lived there at some point, like an Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther King, but a lot of historical buildings are held onto merely for the fact that they’re a century old.  One hundred years is really an insignificant amount of time in the grand scheme of things.  A one hundred year old car is neat and historically relevant; a physical artifact of technological advancement through the ages.  A one hundred year old house is just musty-smelling wood that could catch fire at any moment, killing a family of four and their household pets.

I’ve lived in buildings that were 70 or 80 years old, and I’ve never thought to myself “Man I hope they never tear this building down.  This one sure is a keeper.”  If anything, while I’ve lived in older houses, I’ve spent the entire time wishing I lived in a house that wasn’t drafty and musty all the time.  A house that didn’t make me constantly smell like I’m somebody’s great-grandmother.  A house that didn’t get obnoxiously hot in the summer and uncomfortably cold during the winter.  A house that was closer to being from the same century that all my belonging inside the house were from.

That old house is sitting on top of rocks that are hundreds of millions of years old.  Nobody gives a shit about all those old-ass rocks though.  Jesus Christ or King Tut might have picked up one of those rocks and given it a little smooch.  Dinosaurs might have played a friendly game of kick-the- rock using those very stones.  What has more value historically: a rock that Jesus lovingly held in his possession or a house that a few generations of complete nobodies sat around in doing nothing of any relevance.  Lumber doesn’t pick up much in the way of intrinsic value the older it gets unless it’s from an endangered species of tree.  Old, peeling lead-based paint isn’t much of a hot commodity on the buyers market either I would assume.

So why does society care enough about old-ass buildings as to spend serious money to preserve or move them?  After months of tireless research though professionally-bound tomes on the subject, and countless interviews, I’ve managed to find a definitive answer to this question.  That answer being: because society are a bunch of stupid dummies.  They like to hold onto old garbagey things, due to their love of rare, antique things.  It’s an extension of their love of other worthless old things, like vinyl records, vintage clothing and their grandparents.  They’d just assume cling to their dial-up connections and baud rates, rather than get with the times and cop that speedy Comcast broadband for downloading all those booby pictures lickety-split.

So in conclusion, old houses are dumb.  If you live in an old house you are dumb.  I live in an old house, therefore I’m dumb, but I’ve come to accept that.  Cassette tapes are dumb.  Penny loafers are dumb.  Crab grass is fairly dumb.  Argyle is a dumb pattern, unless it’s on socks, in which case stop being in a ska band please.  Toast is a dumb form for bread to be in.  Stop being crispy… nobody likes you  Casseroles are dumb.  Quiche is dumb, but everyone knows that, obviously.  The color chartreuse is so dumb, I’m not even going to explain.  Toothpicks are dumb.  Butterknives are dumb.  Cinder blocks are so dumb, it’s making me quite angry to be frank with you.  Cauliflower is dumb, as are cork boards.  Don’t even get me started on how dumb beehives are, and this article is so dumb that it just about infuriates me to the point where I want to start breaking things.