Gettin out of Jail Cards. I mean, seriously.
I have walked in a Hallmark store and numerous drug stores but I never really thought about how there's not a good section for men’s' needs. So your old lady needs to send you some dope while you're in the pen, there should be dope dipped--- "hope jail is nice" cards. You know, something special for those late destitute nights in solitary. X rated scratch and sniff cards. I'm heading grossly off my initial topic, obviously there's very little to do in jail and any attention while you're there is exciting. I watched a few guys get mail and I was awestruck when the drug dealing Camaro drivin toothless crack heads were reduced to babies at mail time. Yeah he does 400 push-ups a day, but when Roy Lee got a letter from his sister he was a bitch for the rest of the day. People ate his food and pushed him around all day. But what about when he gets out?
Here's where my idea comes in, if you need to know how long til he gets back in the game, when he's going back to court, or if you just need someone to split the cost of an 8-ball it'd be perfect if there was a card for that. I don't think I'm asking for much. I would have enjoyed a card, and it could be simple, like: " Thanks for not being a snitch, next gram is on me."
Or: "While you were gone, someone had to look after your old lady, glad I could be there for you bro."
Anyway, there's a whole untapped market, and with as many drug transactions and arrests as there are around convenience stores it's only common sense to Market these cards to companies like AM-PM, 7-11, and Wal-Mart, cause where else can a crack head go at 3 AM for Motor Oil, Twinkies, and diapers?
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Dry Humping a Virgin
It was the spring of 3 proms. I went back-to-back-to-back. Back before I had much common sense and wasn't too concerned about paying rent or where I was going to sleep I did a lot of temp work in downtown San Francisco and found myself with a substantial amount of time and disposable income. I drank, went to clubs, and sat in coffee shops. All of my activities though were dwarfed by thirst for the blood of virgins and drunk Britpop girls at Popscene. To this end there was a substantial portion of my income set aside solely for shopping. I had connections at my favorite stores, Men's Macy's on the 3rd floor (designer collections) Emporio Armani, Club Monaco, Versace, Villain’s, Wasteland, American Rag, and Agnes B. If there was a designer clearance I was there.
I was going through a few interesting phases and this conincides with the Glam / Britpop era.
If you look once at this picture you can understand why Ethan has such an affinity towards David Bowie music. (and why you never see me wearing brown and pursing my lips at the same time)
I know what you're going to say. I look ridiculous. But do we say David Bowie you looked ridiculous? Fuck No. Ziggy Stardust, nice pants. So let's stay on point here. The pants that I was wearing in this picture are the most fucking hardcore rock n roll item of clothing I've ever owned. Vince Neil or Bret Michaels or God Damned Axel Rose himself would have shat themselves for the pants I was wearing. They were Versace brown snakeskin print vinyl pants purchased using an employee discount. I am sure to this day that the sales associate was honoring cock and gay men and lonely housewives everywhere by helping me to purchase these pants at a more reasonable price point. To this day I cant tell you how many people learned the exact size of my cock from me wearing those god damn pants so much. Think David Bowie in Labyrinth or Sacha Baron Cohen in Sweeney Todd. I effing loved those pants. I literally loved the crotch right out of them. Well, technically I ripped it out while passionately dry humping a virgin in front of her mother.
Not just any Virgin, but a primed and ready virgin blinded by the throes of passion and the hottest fucking pants ever. She was a private school girl from University High School in San Francisco. She is to this day one of the only women to ever make me feel completely inadequate intellectually. Her friends were driven, and clearly headed for success with early acceptance letters from tier 1 schools with hobbies and sports they played with nearly professional aptitudes but for all of their brains and skill they didn't know a thing about teenage rebellion. I think I was her model for rebellion. I know because when I walked into her house and her parents and their guests met me they were nearly speechless. I was wearing the pants, with steel toed grip fast boots, black designer button, with impeccably styled hair, when I walked you could hear the slosh of a half drunk fifth of Jack Daniels in my messenger bag. It was like a calling card, you could hear the sloshing and the heavy footsteps and meet me at the door.
She often did and tried to hide me from the watchful eye of her parents and her older brother. It was a fun game for me, to abide her but to always say hi to them. I liked to think I was out there, I was the rebellious elite, and I was taking her with me virginity and all. She had as many obligations a day as I had pulls off of my Jack Daniels bottle. There was cross-country, soccer, volunteering, yearbook, dinner with her family, movie with her friends, study with her biology partner, and etc. Everything that kept us apart made her want it more. Secretly I was envious of her schedule and obligations and opportunities. She saw them as restricting and coercive; they were what kept us apart. She broke them willfully and anxiously. Her friends and family were mortified. I remember when I took her to her prom, all in black, in the back of a 16-person limousine. I pulled out the jack Daniels, as was part of my habit those days. In unison 3 of the girls and 2 of the boys in their over-priced dept store dresses and rented tuxedos gaped, "you're not drinking before the prom are you?" Who goes to prom sober? I didn’t. I took the bottle and gulped like I was coming up from the ocean’s floor starved for air.
Sometime after that, in her house, in her bedroom with Lauryn Hill playing in the background and her parents making noise upstairs it started. Writhing and petting just as innocent as an 8th grader at a church lock-in. Then it graduated. Hands like flashlights in the dark desperately looking or a light switch. Hotter than she was used to or I expected. You could hear her legs hot and sticky with passion catch on the vinyl of my pants. I was tucked up into the waistband, not prepared to go any farther. I was anxious about her parents and her lust. Intimidated by her defiance in the eyes of her parents. She was going for it and all of my social upheaval was cresting to its climax.
She grabbed me through my pants, pulled, rubbed, grasped clumsily on the outside of them for leverage. Pushed herself down onto me and I could feel how hot she was through my pants and her cotton panties. I can remember the clumsy sound of her fingers on the top button scratching the textured pants, and I could feel the pinch as I throbbed against that constricting waistband and her tight grip on my pants.
The door swung open, not in an alarming way, in an 'I know what you're doing way' type of way. Mom flipped the light switch like a TV sitcom. I rolled off the bed onto the floor, she hid under the blankets as best she could but her mom was red with fear and embarrassment sure that she'd caught us further along than she had.
I left shortly after, I didn’t have to, and she was 18 and leaving shortly for college and defiant with the confidence of someone who already has one foot out the door. I was stubborn and embarrassed, and waiting on the bus when I noticed a draft. I looked down and my walk of shame was exponentially magnified by the torn seam and ripped crotch of my $700 pants. I wanted to turn around and go back, get my $700 worth on her mother's kitchen table. I went to Mel’s Diner and had a cheeseburger instead.
I was going through a few interesting phases and this conincides with the Glam / Britpop era.
If you look once at this picture you can understand why Ethan has such an affinity towards David Bowie music. (and why you never see me wearing brown and pursing my lips at the same time)
I know what you're going to say. I look ridiculous. But do we say David Bowie you looked ridiculous? Fuck No. Ziggy Stardust, nice pants. So let's stay on point here. The pants that I was wearing in this picture are the most fucking hardcore rock n roll item of clothing I've ever owned. Vince Neil or Bret Michaels or God Damned Axel Rose himself would have shat themselves for the pants I was wearing. They were Versace brown snakeskin print vinyl pants purchased using an employee discount. I am sure to this day that the sales associate was honoring cock and gay men and lonely housewives everywhere by helping me to purchase these pants at a more reasonable price point. To this day I cant tell you how many people learned the exact size of my cock from me wearing those god damn pants so much. Think David Bowie in Labyrinth or Sacha Baron Cohen in Sweeney Todd. I effing loved those pants. I literally loved the crotch right out of them. Well, technically I ripped it out while passionately dry humping a virgin in front of her mother.
Not just any Virgin, but a primed and ready virgin blinded by the throes of passion and the hottest fucking pants ever. She was a private school girl from University High School in San Francisco. She is to this day one of the only women to ever make me feel completely inadequate intellectually. Her friends were driven, and clearly headed for success with early acceptance letters from tier 1 schools with hobbies and sports they played with nearly professional aptitudes but for all of their brains and skill they didn't know a thing about teenage rebellion. I think I was her model for rebellion. I know because when I walked into her house and her parents and their guests met me they were nearly speechless. I was wearing the pants, with steel toed grip fast boots, black designer button, with impeccably styled hair, when I walked you could hear the slosh of a half drunk fifth of Jack Daniels in my messenger bag. It was like a calling card, you could hear the sloshing and the heavy footsteps and meet me at the door.
She often did and tried to hide me from the watchful eye of her parents and her older brother. It was a fun game for me, to abide her but to always say hi to them. I liked to think I was out there, I was the rebellious elite, and I was taking her with me virginity and all. She had as many obligations a day as I had pulls off of my Jack Daniels bottle. There was cross-country, soccer, volunteering, yearbook, dinner with her family, movie with her friends, study with her biology partner, and etc. Everything that kept us apart made her want it more. Secretly I was envious of her schedule and obligations and opportunities. She saw them as restricting and coercive; they were what kept us apart. She broke them willfully and anxiously. Her friends and family were mortified. I remember when I took her to her prom, all in black, in the back of a 16-person limousine. I pulled out the jack Daniels, as was part of my habit those days. In unison 3 of the girls and 2 of the boys in their over-priced dept store dresses and rented tuxedos gaped, "you're not drinking before the prom are you?" Who goes to prom sober? I didn’t. I took the bottle and gulped like I was coming up from the ocean’s floor starved for air.
Sometime after that, in her house, in her bedroom with Lauryn Hill playing in the background and her parents making noise upstairs it started. Writhing and petting just as innocent as an 8th grader at a church lock-in. Then it graduated. Hands like flashlights in the dark desperately looking or a light switch. Hotter than she was used to or I expected. You could hear her legs hot and sticky with passion catch on the vinyl of my pants. I was tucked up into the waistband, not prepared to go any farther. I was anxious about her parents and her lust. Intimidated by her defiance in the eyes of her parents. She was going for it and all of my social upheaval was cresting to its climax.
She grabbed me through my pants, pulled, rubbed, grasped clumsily on the outside of them for leverage. Pushed herself down onto me and I could feel how hot she was through my pants and her cotton panties. I can remember the clumsy sound of her fingers on the top button scratching the textured pants, and I could feel the pinch as I throbbed against that constricting waistband and her tight grip on my pants.
The door swung open, not in an alarming way, in an 'I know what you're doing way' type of way. Mom flipped the light switch like a TV sitcom. I rolled off the bed onto the floor, she hid under the blankets as best she could but her mom was red with fear and embarrassment sure that she'd caught us further along than she had.
I left shortly after, I didn’t have to, and she was 18 and leaving shortly for college and defiant with the confidence of someone who already has one foot out the door. I was stubborn and embarrassed, and waiting on the bus when I noticed a draft. I looked down and my walk of shame was exponentially magnified by the torn seam and ripped crotch of my $700 pants. I wanted to turn around and go back, get my $700 worth on her mother's kitchen table. I went to Mel’s Diner and had a cheeseburger instead.
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