So as promised earlier this week I’d deliver you something lighter, because we’re in dark times and while there’s plenty of fucked up shit I could rant on about, we could all use a good laugh. And why not laugh at my dumb ass? And I’ve done a lot of dumb shit. I find great solace in looking back and laughing at myself. When we take ourselves too seriously, not only does life become bogged down and miserable, but we drive people away. We’re that guy nobody wants to talk to because it’s all serious and damn, man, I don’t want to hear that shit right now. So I’ve compiled this Top 5 list for you to give you something to laugh at, derived, (the Top 5 list concept), from one of my top 5 favorite movies, High Fidelity. The main character had a Top 5 list for everything and I’ve been making them since I saw that flick back in the 90’s and read the book. So if you ever meet me, I’ll probably ask you a Top 5 question. So here goes, and these probably aren’t the dumbest, but the lighter in humor and mainly the ones I can remember in detail… Here goes.
And before we get into it, I think it goes without saying, don't do any of this shit. It's all bad and asshole behavior. And yes I can look back and laugh at what a fucking dumbass I was when I was younger. I'm not condoning any of this shit nor am I excusing it. I learned from it and I made peace with it, corrected the shit I needed to, so hence I can laugh about being a dipshit. Can you tell i'm sick of writing common sense disclaimers? This is the last one, after that figure it's a given.
Now on with the show!...
1) Fucking Up The Neighbor’s Shit On A Sunday Morning
I was in the 10th grade. The last year I’d attend high school. I had dreadlocks, black lipstick, combat boots and a shitty attitude. I’d had it with the dumbass kids I went to school with and sick of getting fucked with. And I was bored. The public school I went to was right on the border of the poor kid school most of my friends went to and the one the rich kids went to. I got stuck on the side the rich kids went to. Needless to say I didn’t catch a break from the shit but took it in stride.
Anyway, a friend of mine had spent the night. We got up relatively early telling my mom we were going to go for a walk, which was true, but really we were going on a walk to smoke cigarettes and talk shit. And low and behold when I got to the top of the driveway our mailbox was smashed and the trashcan we kept up there on the dirt road was gone. I mean who the fuck steals a goddamn trash can? I’ll tell you who, this goddamned, fucking asshole kid that relentlessly gave me shit. This was the third mailbox and this time the trashcan wasn’t dumped over, the fucker straight up took it. In school he used to yell faggot and freak at me. He broke into my locker and put a box of mice in it once. I took them home and kept them as pets. And him calling me faggot had turned into a chant amongst his turdy friends. That morning I’d had enough. Goddamn mother fucker. My friend and I turned back down the driveway and went into the garage. His house was probably a mile or so from mine. I grabbed a baseball bat and plastic bags to pick up the morning’s dog shit with to bring with me. Payback time, Shitbird.
So off we went. Chain smoking, talking shit about the asshole and how we’d get him back, baseball bat and bags of dog shit in tow. We got to their house. It was a whopper and on the market. My friend was trying to rip the big ass for sale sign out of the ground, swearing up a storm while I was busy taking out my teenage angst on their mailbox via bat. When I was done I helped smash the shit out of the sign and together we ripped it out off the ground and flung it in the middle of their driveway and proceeded to cover it in dog shit. They wouldn’t be getting any calls on that house that day.
When we decided our work was done, I decided to change my mind and in fact it was not done and that I’d take the beat up mailbox as a trophy like a fucking serial killer. Off we went down the road, mailbox and baseball bat in hand. Then coming toward us was a big ass, white, Lexus SUV. Fuck. That was them. The dad was a plastic surgeon and mom was a bimbo that liked to hang out at the local bar, but they put on a good front that they weren’t assholes and that their kid wasn’t either.
The car stopped next to us and the tinted window rolled down. The dad looked at me and the mailbox. The asshole name caller was in the back seat. “You know stealing a mailbox is a federal crime, young lady.” I shrugged my shoulders and took a drag off my cigarette and just looked at him and then nodded at the fucker in the back seat. The father continued on that he could call the cops, more shoulder shrugs, he’d call my parents, another shoulder shrug and drag. Then he asked for the mailbox back. I begrudgingly handed it through the car window and told him his kid was an asshole and turned around and walked away while he was babbling on about some shit. I told my friend we were inevitably going to get into some shit and she’d better head home, it was my idea so I’d deal with it. Smashing shit, covering it in shit and taking trophies in broad daylight around the time church was getting out was a real bad idea. I didn’t think that one through. So we parted ways and I walked back home with my bat over my shoulder.
And I shit you not; the moment I got home there came the Lexus down the driveway. Fuck. Here we go. Get ready to get my ass chewed out. The good ‘ol doc and his bleach blonde, bimbo wife got out and came up to the front door, still in their Sunday best, of course. My dad looked at me and asked what the fuck they were doing there.
It was common knowledge they were royal assholes and that their kid relentlessly fucked with me. The senior turd recanted the story. My dad let him ramble, looked at me and said, “Why do you have to act like white trash like them?” I just stared and my dad continued on about how their kid had smashed enough of ours and he wasn’t coming to their house crying about it and no he wasn’t buying them a new one and sure he’d talk to me about it and then shut the door before they could say anything else. Just left them standing there like a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses.
He turned and looked at me and said, “Broad daylight, really, Kid? You do that kind of shit at night. But nice work anyway.” And then he walked off to go read the paper. I stood there for a minute, puzzled. I didn’t get in trouble, my dad had delivered a backhanded comment to the turd squad and then told me I was an ass for getting caught and the proper way to do it instead. Well, I learned some things that Sunday. Mainly don’t smash the shit out of things in broad daylight and don’t haul around the evidence… but hey, everyone’s a dumbass when they’re young, right?
2) Cold Cocking A Clown
So I hate clowns. And I mean I fucking hate them. Like shit my pants and run, terrified of them. I’ve hated them since I was a kid. I’d slap the TV screen and scream if Bozo was on and god forbid one tried to give me candy at a parade, I’d throw the candy back at the poor bastard and scream. What can I say, they freak me out…
So in my late teens, me and my asshole friends went to a haunted house.
I love Halloween and creepy shit. I knew there’d be clowns, always, is, but I knew I could run and scream into the next section, it wasn’t a fucking clown house, so I was safe. We walked our way through, it was an ok one, bloody butcher, pretty good, half assed werewolf, typical vampire and some creepy other fuckers. I managed to lose my friends. I power walk and don’t meander through those things.
Up ahead I saw a neon yellow hallway with blue and red spirals circling around the walls. Great, clown time, time to run, Bitch. They’d be jumping out of every fucking nook and cranny and I didn’t feel like pissing my pants or looking like a pussy in front of my friends screaming like a little bitch if they caught up to me. So like a track meet, I got in the running position and took off. One of those face-painted creepy fuckers jumped out and got ahold of my shoulders.
I remember screaming and next thing I knew I was watching the clown’s head swing to the side in slow-mo like in a movie, my fist and arm outstretched and retracting from the blow. I’d cold-cocked the fucker right in the face. Fuck… I saw the clown turn and look at me with murder in his eyes and yell some shit, next thing I know he’s charging at me, my ass booking it through this damn haunted house, crawling through shit, dodging shit while looking over my shoulder only to see it wasn’t just the clown chasing my ass down to knock my ass out, he had his pack of pals with him, the half-assed werewolf, the goddamn vampire and fucking butcher. I was looking at a serious beat down.
I darted out past the people at the end that were supposed to ask if I had a good time and ducked under the closest car I could find. This was it. I punched a clown, and now I was going to get my ass beat to a pulp by him and his friends and they could hide my dead body in plain sight in that damn house until I started to stink. Fuck me. This is what I got, but in my defense, I mean they’re not supposed to touch you right? Anyway they flooded out into the parking lot, search and destroy… I could hear them yelling. “Yo, where is that bitch that punched you, Charlie?” “I don’t know but find her ass!” “Spread out, she’s got to be here somewhere!” (Yes, I made up the name.) I combat crawled from car to car as I heard them getting closer until I got to the last row and crawled under a car and laid there, heart racing. I didn’t care if I got run over. Better than death via clown and freak show friends. But they’d have to go back to work right? Well, maybe not Charlie. I probably broke his nose, whoops.
I heard their boss hollering for them to get their asses back inside and get back to work, there were people to scare and I’m pretty sure I was fucking up their sales. A haunted house isn’t shit without the freaks. Then I heard my friends yelling my name and the typical where the fuck are you? I slowly crawled out from underneath the car, covered in shit from slithering all over the trash lot of a parking lot.
I waved after making sure the coast was clear. I was ducking through the cars to get back into the piece of shit ride we all shared. When asked what the hell happened I explained that a clown jumped out, caught me by the shoulders and I hauled off and socked him in the face. The responses were laughter, the we can’t take you anywhere shit, we can’t come back here next year, and goddammit, Kates I was used to hearing. Couldn’t I ever behave? Now I was punching clowns and getting chased down by his pissed off friends? We all came to the mutual conclusion that I was a fucking idiot and then changed the subject to who had the best fake ID to score some booze.
Needless to say I haven’t gone to one since. And if I ever do, apparently I’ll have to wear a straight jacket. Punching clowns is a bad idea. They’ll fucking come after you. Poor Charlie. Ah well, fuck it.
3) Fake ID Fail & Don’t Call Your Older Friends “Mom” – They Don’t Like That
I was 17 working at Blockbuster with a forged work permit rewinding video tapes and restocking shelves, later to get bumped up to running the register. You had to have a card, if you didn’t you needed an ID to get your pile of VHS tapes to rent. I was a shitball teenager trying to get by on minimum wage while counting cards at a casino on the side. I needed to make a living and well, get loaded with my friends, that shit’s important, right?
Most of mine were older or had fake ID’s. I could sneak into the casino with them and as long as I looked like I belonged there and had my sunglasses on I’d be fine. Then I’d have one of my older friends cash in my chips. But I wanted my own fake ID to get in there but also the clubs. That one I was screwed on.
I’d skim through the pile of left behind ID’s whenever I’d go in for my shitbag night shift which it was usually just me and the manager who was always putzing about or leaving to go to the bar or strip club around the corner until it was time to close.
One day this lady came in who looked close enough to pass as me, (or so I thought), I was getting desperate, and hot damn, she didn’t have her card. I looked at the ID, inspected it like I was doing my job, when really I was seeing if the photo was passable. She had been younger when it was taken and she was 23. 5 years was pushing it but fuck it. So set it on lower part of the counter and as I was scanning her VHS tapes casually flicked it under the register, my back to the shitty, old camera. I could pull it out and play the oops it slipped card if she asked for it back. My normally quiet ass made small talk to keep her occupied, going on about how great one of the movies she was renting was and then told her to enjoy and have a goodnight, she smiled and left. I waited until the end of my shift, nervously waiting for the phone to ring asking about a left ID that would foil my master plan or her coming back. Looking at the clock I had a few minutes until my boss would be back and jimmied the ID out from under the register with the pen and jammed it in my bra. Moments later in he came smelling like a Victoria’s Secret dressing room and covered in glitter. I gave him the wave and my drawer, left and got in my car. Now I wasn’t one to nick shit. The last thing I’d stolen was a pack of Jell-O when I was a kid, my mom wouldn’t buy it so I clutched it behind my back. I remember her making me go back in and hand it over. I think I was like 6 or some shit. I felt weird, I did a lot of illegal shit but I didn’t steal, that was my rule. Except to later lift other people’s drugs, but that’s another story.
Anyway I kept the ID, waited for the calls or questions about Mary whatever’s ID and for the weekend to come so I could test the fucker out at this shithole club my friends all went to.
Friday night came. Already knowing how to forge shit I signed this chic’s name over and over to get it right because I knew that was part of the test from past friends’ fails ending in ID confiscation and cops getting called if they didn’t run fast enough. Now one of the girls in our pack, (why the hell she hung out with us I don’t know), was much older. Like pushing 30. I think she just like fucking younger guys, which were most of my friends. So I stuck with her, she was an all access pass to all things I shouldn’t be doing, a goldmine of a broad.
When she finished inspecting my hair and make up, looking at the ID photo and me, she said we were good. We got in her car and headed to the club we’d be meeting our friends at.
Now I was getting sweaty. Normally I kept my cool, why I was getting so worked up about this shit I didn’t know. I didn’t like security or cops and was always dodging them so I’m guessing that was it. We walked up the steps, they all knew her, she did a spin and shook her ass and breezed by. Then it was my turn. She waited for me by the next set of doors telling them I was her friend. They told her they still had to card me, she did the pout face, (bitch totally gave me away with that one), the one gave her and I the raised eyebrow and look of what kind of shit are you trying to pull and asked me to fork over the infamous ID. He looked me up and down several times, then called his buddy over to have a look. I could tell she was getting antsy and didn’t feel like getting caught up with this shit so she pretended to inspect her manicure like nothing was happening other than her own impatience. And then out came the dreaded board. The one where I’d have to sign three times to see if it matched. I know I looked guilty as hell but took the damn board and scribbled the name three times then handed it back. The guy seemed impressed; he was even smiling, then he started laughing. He held up the board and pointed to the signatures. He then held up the ID and was shaking it and said, “The name on the ID is Meredith, not Maryanne you dumb kid, now you better get the hell out of here before I call the fucking cops!”
Now for whatever reason I didn’t scram like a smart person would, instead I asked for the ID back insisting I had made a mistake, I was told fuck no on getting the ID back and again they could call the cops and have my ass hauled off for identity theft, which at that point my “friend” dipped into the club doors as to break all association with my stupid ass. As she was darting through I yelled, “But that’s my mom! She said it was ok!” The bitch shot me a look, like bitch I’ll kill you and then she disappeared into the darkness and flashing lights I wouldn’t be seeing that night.
The guy then told me fucking mom or not I better get the fuck out of there and two other bouncers were encroaching on my ass so like a smart person this time, I bolted through them, down the stairs almost eating shit in the damn platform heels I had on, kicking them off in a half limp run so I could move faster and cleared the parking lot into a strip mall across the street, cleared that, then got my ass to the nearest payphone, dropped a quarter and called my friend Joe to come get my ass.
“What the hell did you do this time?” was his response after I told him he had to come pick my ass up at the corner of whatever and whatever and get me to my car, and fucking now. I told him I’d explain later but to hurry it the fuck up and I’d be in the bushes next to the gas station on the corner and to flash his lights once he pulled up and I’d get in. There was some grumbling on the other end of the line and I did the come on mother fucker, I don’t have another quarter and I’m not getting pinched by the fucking five-O tonight. So he told me to get to the bushes and he’d be there in ten. He didn’t live too far away. So there I sat. Bush branches stabbing me in the faces, dirt covering my ass and picking gravel out of my feet, hoping no bugs would chew the hell out of me, contemplating the evening’s events and hoping Joe would make good on his promise of him using his good fake to buy some shitty Mad Dog 40’s that I’d pay for, for his troubles. And sure as shit, Joe pulled up, flashed his lights and my dirty ass flung myself in the passenger’s seat.
I’d learned my lesson, no more nicking shit and I’d just keep paying my friends off to buy my booze and that calling someone mom in hopes to save my ass doesn’t work. I never did talk to her again, I mean fuck, I don’t blame her ass, that shit’s just straight insulting. Maybe I’d get lucky and find a mother fucker who could make me one? Which of course never happened. I just got real good at finding the right colored wrist bands in parking lots, scrubbing x’s off my hands, (which is ironic as hell now), and slamming the top of my hand on someone else’s who got stamped as twenty one, before the ink dried. Fuck it. And I never did go back to Blockbuster after that. Once you get caught stealing, you don’t go back to the spot you stole the shit from. So I got a job at a shitty bakery across the street from the shitty club I tried to get into with my shitty ass fake and pilfered ID, a constant reminder of what a dumbass I was. Irony at it’s best. Now you can stare out the window at it, Bitch! Hardy, har har!
4) How Pretending To Do Glamour Shots For Your Mug Shot Is A Bad Idea
As we all know I wasn’t a saint in my youth and managed to pick up two DUI’s in my early twenties. Luckily no one was ever injured or killed. Just my pocket book and criminal record. I was also really bad at behaving while on probation which landed me in sobriety court, which whenever I’d have to go in for random drug and alcohol testing I’d frequently and righteously fail. The correctional officers at the local clink knew me well, by name. I got one bitch that slammed my head against the wall as I was refusing to get one of my mug shots taken fired, they all hated her in there so somehow I became the jailhouse hero. Anyway. I was there a lot. If I violated probation I’d have to do a weekend in the can. 11 mug shots deep one of the officers had the bright idea that since I was there so much and had so many pictures, the next time I came in I should do it up like Glamour Shots. Now I thought this was funny so of course I agreed. We both knew I’d be back, so fuck it, might as well have fun with it. Real smart.
Now during this shit parade I was also filming and staring as the lead female in this shitty B horror flick. Now here’s the thing, I didn’t think things through back then or observe things going on around me, like what local papers were for sale in gas stations. That intel would have spared me some major what the fuck, goddammit, humiliation in the future, but hindsight is twenty twenty…
A few weeks before the premier I fucked up again, pissed dirty, (I had figured out how to flush the booze out of my system to pass a breathalyzer and they knew it, so unbenounced to me they started piss testing me for alcohol). Rad. So in the can I went for another weekend with my friends. And I kept my promise. I got up early as hell, did my hair and makeup looking like a half assed Paris Hilton and went in and got my picture snapped. We all agreed it was a good one. I got extra apples in my lunch bag for it, isn’t that sweet?
The night of the premier came and I was dressed to the nines ready to sign posters, DVD’s and see myself on the big screen. I walked in to salivating faces eager for me to sign shit they had clutched in their hands. It didn’t look like a poster or swag, it certainly wasn’t a DVD; it looked like a mini newspaper. Those dollar ones you could get at the gas station that were full of gossip and coupons. I knew they existed I just never purchased one.
So this one guy jumped in front of me, holding the thing in front of him, the cover blaring at me. There was my Glamour Shots mug shot. Right fucking smack dab in the center… And the name of the gas station rag, Busted Magazine. A collection of all the fuckers that got locked up in a plethora of counties in the state spanning the past two weeks, and there I was. Hot off the press. Apparently looking like Paris Hilton got you the cover. I think a toothless wonder or some of my really bad ones like the one where I looked like Nick Nolte in his would have been better choice, but nope. I was the chosen one.
Luckily the producer was drunk and didn’t care. Used the famous line of bad press is good press. I asked why the fuck he didn’t tell me and he just claimed he figured I knew, so what was I to do? Refuse to sign my mug shot that this salivating line of gossip hounds were clutching or just give in and do it. Granted there were a few unpleased people that were pissed that a drunken criminal was cast as the lead, so with that I proceeded to have my date be my errand boy of bringing me stiff drinks one after the other. So away I signed. Busted Magazine, movie posters and DVDS. And then people started asking where they could pick it up, and then I learned, well, any local gas station. Perfect. The ones that didn’t have this spectacle would be going out and coming back with them for me to sign.
I don’t remember much of the movie; I continued to drink through the film. Kind of a bummer when you don’t remember that kind of thing but it was edited like shit from what I was told, rushed to meet the premier date and no background music was added, so I guess it was a good thing I don’t remember. I have a copy of the DVD somewhere and still haven’t watched it. When you hear a movie sucks, what’s the point of watching it, right? And my fame, well, that came from being a drunken asshole, which is exactly what I was when the theater lights came on.
The isle was surrounded by people with magazines. I told my friends to act like security and keep these fuckers away from me and they followed suit. And then I was informed I was giving the crowd the finger as my “security” friends escorted my wobbly, drunken ass out.
Once we got to the car I insisted we stop at a gas station to pick up this piece of shit, I needed to examine it and to see what it said I did inside. I’m curious, what can I say? So they obliged my raging wishes and stopped. I got out, saw the thing at the top of the little shit rag newsstand and grabbed it. Skimmed through it and found my smaller black and white picture. Huh, I guess you only got a color one if you were on the cover. Lucky me. So I flung it on the counter and handed the clerk a couple bucks. He looked at it, looked at me, repeated this a few times and by that point I’d had it. “Yes it’s me, just take the goddamn money so I can take my trophy!” He did, and I walked out without getting my change. The rest is a blur. Don’t remember the party at the hotel party or how the fuck I got home or managed to hang onto the damn magazine that had followed me home and was waiting for me on my bedroom floor as a reminder of the night before. All I know is my number to come in and piss in a cup didn’t get called the that morning, so I was happy about that. It’s the little things you know?
After that I tried to keep it together the last few months of my probation to escape any more mug shots. I decided I was good. I had enough to put together a Kodak calendar so I figured I was set and my narcissistic ass didn’t want to be on any more covers of that damn magazine. So I leveled out at 12 for a while until number 13 hit in NYC which would be my final one, which I decided could be the cover of the Kodak calendar I could make and also it being my lucky number I really should stop there. It seemed like a rational idea, and well. It stopped at 13. And luckily, NYC did not have Busted Magazine…
5) Don’t Get Tattoos When You’ve Been Drinking For 24 Hours Or Dump The Artist’s Pal
Now this would be my last year in MI, living there for any length of time. I was even more of a raging drunk and just hitting 25. And I had added cocaine to my list of things to do.
In one of these multi-day benders my drunken pal and I stayed up all night ripping rail after rail of dog shit blow, stepped on like feet on grapes in a winery, drinking bottom shelf, grocery store, off brand vodka. The sun had been up for a while and we decided it would be a great idea to go to the zoo. Not the Detroit zoo which was not too far from where I was staying, but the Toledo Zoo… In fucking Ohio. This sounded like a great plan and we both decided they’d have a better selection of animals. So we stopped at a local grocery store, one of those 24 hour ones that had everything. Bought a 6 pack of Squirt bottles, a half-gallon of vodka, swizzle straws and matching Hannah Montana T-shirts from the kid’s section.
We dumped out half of the contents of the Squirt bottles in the parking lot and filled them back up with vodka, changed into our Hannah Montana kid shirts and away we went. She drove, I had just gotten off probation months prior and she claimed she was the better driver, so it seemed like a plan, all the while sucking down the contents of the Squirt/vodka mix through the swizzle straws. We managed to get to the zoo in tact and flung the 4 remaining bottles in our purses and went in. I know we got one of those big headed pictures drawn, I vaguely remember sitting in a garden finishing the last of the Squirt mixes and deciding we should go before the drugs and alcohol wore off and bonus, our dealer might be up by the time we got back.
Now as I promised in my video post, I’d be writing about stories I remember, these are the parts. I don’t remember getting home, vaguely remember getting tattooed in the middle of nowhere, somewhere on the journey back and waking up the next day wondering why both my ring fingers were one, stuck to my sheets, and two, hurt like hell. Only to discover that I had decided to have my knuckles tattooed in my drunken, coked out stupor. I examined my hands the best I could with blurred eyesight. One was a red bow. Probably a joke so I wouldn’t forget anything, that made sense, and then, on my right hand, my shaking hand, a creature that I do believe was supposed to be a snake but had a very strange resemblance to a sperm… I mean let’s be fucking honest, that’s exactly what it looked like.
Months later I was subletting a spot in NYC and crashing with a dude in Michigan to save on money. I was modeling heavy at the time and needed this sperm covered up; it was a problem, a very airbrush-able and dermablend-able problem, but still a problem.
Now unfortunately for the guy I was crashing with, he liked me a lot, so when I told him after I came back from the bar I’d be packing my shit and moving to NYC permanently, the next day, he started crying. Now I had a tattoo appointment early the next morning before my flight so I really didn’t have time for this shit. I just kept staring at him reinstating that I was an asshole and there was nothing to miss. Poor bastard thought he loved me and the crying continued and he said he was going to have a panic attack and needed to call his mom because he was so upset. Now it was like 2:30 in the morning at this point and I didn’t need this lovesick, lunatic pestering his poor mother at the wee hours in the morning, so I decided clocking him in the face to knock some sense into him would do the trick.
He blinked, put his hand over his eye and looked at me and asked what did I do that for. I pointed out that he wasn’t crying anymore, so that was the rational behind me socking him in the face. He looked like he was going to cry again but was smart enough not to because clearly that led to black eyes and dropped it. I had proven my point that I was a fucking asshole and there was no point crying over my departure and he’d have a shiner to remind him the next day should any lovey dovey, I miss that Bitch, thoughts cross his mind.
I passed out on the coach, he went back in his room.
The next morning I got up, packed the rest of my shit and drove to the tattoo shop his friend worked at. That also did all of his work. Yes, I was that stupid. They guy seemed cool. I blabbed on about some job I had coming up and a slew of other horseshit, all of probably 30 minutes worth. This cover up that was supposed to look more like a snake was taking a long time. I just thought he was one of those artists that worked slower, and his hand was blocking my view. He cleaned it, slapped a few Band-Aids on it, took my hundred bucks, smiled, told me to have a nice trip and off I went.
I had already sold a friend of mine my car, so I headed to his house so he could drive me to the airport and keep the car. Cars had gotten me into a lot of trouble so I was happy to be rid of the thing.
I went into his apartment, decided I’d take a piss before going to the airport then wash my finger off and slap a few new Band-Aids on it.
And there it was, in all it’s fine glory, my new tattoo, the cover up that would prevent the end of photoshop and dermablend… And what, my Dear Readers was blaring up into my retinas? A giant dick with a smaller dick shooting off the side of it. Double dick tattoo. Two cocks in one. Just a mini collection, (because two is a collection right?), of penises. So the guy I had socked in the face had called his friend, told him what a colossal dick I was, and I got a colossal dick tattoo for it in payback. And ya know, I wasn’t even mad. In fact, I did one of those, “heh” laughs, which my friend asked me what I was laughing about so I stuck my finger up at him. “Is that a dick, with a dick?” he asked. “Yes, yes it is.”
And then we got into now his car and dropped me off at the airport. I thought of having it blacked out while on the plane, but then said fuck it. I had too much shit going on, and well, I was a fucking dick.
And I still have it to this day, no shit. It’s a good reminder for me to not be an asshole. You act like a dick, you get two dicks. On your finger. Don’t be dick, and hey, you won’t end up with them. But in all seriousness, I did keep it, even when I was a fucked up mess to try to remind myself not to be an asshole or go around punching people or smashing shit. It kind of worked, the best it could anyway. It was battling against a lot of substances that shut Mrs. Nice Lady down.
And after getting clean I tossed the idea around of blacking it out, but I’ve kept it all these many years, years over a decade now, as a constant reminder not to be a dumbass and/or… a dick.
I hope my slew of mishaps and dipshit antics have made you laugh, even a little bit to take your mind off the bullshit going on in the world. Granted punching people and stealing shit isn’t nice or good behavior, but I made my peace with it, I did end up apologizing to the dude in Number 5, who still told me he loved me which made no goddamned sense, but more to the point…
Like I always harp on about we have to reconcile with our past, do our best not to repeat asshole behavior, learn from it and later, instead of letting it haunt us, once the previous list of things have been done, laugh at it. We were all young and stupid once. And there’s some humor in that shit. Now the people that never stop, ehhh they’ve got problems. But I promised to keep this light.
Again, I hope you got a good laugh out of my ass, fuck knows we all need it. And like I said, this shit will eventually blow over, so hang onto your ass, laugh at mine and find shit to laugh at in the meantime. We’re all in this together.
Until next time…
And don’t go out and get any dick tattoos for those of you who have shops open in your state to remind you to laugh. It’s a terrible idea. Unless you really want one, then fuck it…
And before we get into it, I think it goes without saying, don't do any of this shit. It's all bad and asshole behavior. And yes I can look back and laugh at what a fucking dumbass I was when I was younger. I'm not condoning any of this shit nor am I excusing it. I learned from it and I made peace with it, corrected the shit I needed to, so hence I can laugh about being a dipshit. Can you tell i'm sick of writing common sense disclaimers? This is the last one, after that figure it's a given.
Now on with the show!...
1) Fucking Up The Neighbor’s Shit On A Sunday Morning
I was in the 10th grade. The last year I’d attend high school. I had dreadlocks, black lipstick, combat boots and a shitty attitude. I’d had it with the dumbass kids I went to school with and sick of getting fucked with. And I was bored. The public school I went to was right on the border of the poor kid school most of my friends went to and the one the rich kids went to. I got stuck on the side the rich kids went to. Needless to say I didn’t catch a break from the shit but took it in stride.
Anyway, a friend of mine had spent the night. We got up relatively early telling my mom we were going to go for a walk, which was true, but really we were going on a walk to smoke cigarettes and talk shit. And low and behold when I got to the top of the driveway our mailbox was smashed and the trashcan we kept up there on the dirt road was gone. I mean who the fuck steals a goddamn trash can? I’ll tell you who, this goddamned, fucking asshole kid that relentlessly gave me shit. This was the third mailbox and this time the trashcan wasn’t dumped over, the fucker straight up took it. In school he used to yell faggot and freak at me. He broke into my locker and put a box of mice in it once. I took them home and kept them as pets. And him calling me faggot had turned into a chant amongst his turdy friends. That morning I’d had enough. Goddamn mother fucker. My friend and I turned back down the driveway and went into the garage. His house was probably a mile or so from mine. I grabbed a baseball bat and plastic bags to pick up the morning’s dog shit with to bring with me. Payback time, Shitbird.
So off we went. Chain smoking, talking shit about the asshole and how we’d get him back, baseball bat and bags of dog shit in tow. We got to their house. It was a whopper and on the market. My friend was trying to rip the big ass for sale sign out of the ground, swearing up a storm while I was busy taking out my teenage angst on their mailbox via bat. When I was done I helped smash the shit out of the sign and together we ripped it out off the ground and flung it in the middle of their driveway and proceeded to cover it in dog shit. They wouldn’t be getting any calls on that house that day.
When we decided our work was done, I decided to change my mind and in fact it was not done and that I’d take the beat up mailbox as a trophy like a fucking serial killer. Off we went down the road, mailbox and baseball bat in hand. Then coming toward us was a big ass, white, Lexus SUV. Fuck. That was them. The dad was a plastic surgeon and mom was a bimbo that liked to hang out at the local bar, but they put on a good front that they weren’t assholes and that their kid wasn’t either.
The car stopped next to us and the tinted window rolled down. The dad looked at me and the mailbox. The asshole name caller was in the back seat. “You know stealing a mailbox is a federal crime, young lady.” I shrugged my shoulders and took a drag off my cigarette and just looked at him and then nodded at the fucker in the back seat. The father continued on that he could call the cops, more shoulder shrugs, he’d call my parents, another shoulder shrug and drag. Then he asked for the mailbox back. I begrudgingly handed it through the car window and told him his kid was an asshole and turned around and walked away while he was babbling on about some shit. I told my friend we were inevitably going to get into some shit and she’d better head home, it was my idea so I’d deal with it. Smashing shit, covering it in shit and taking trophies in broad daylight around the time church was getting out was a real bad idea. I didn’t think that one through. So we parted ways and I walked back home with my bat over my shoulder.
And I shit you not; the moment I got home there came the Lexus down the driveway. Fuck. Here we go. Get ready to get my ass chewed out. The good ‘ol doc and his bleach blonde, bimbo wife got out and came up to the front door, still in their Sunday best, of course. My dad looked at me and asked what the fuck they were doing there.
It was common knowledge they were royal assholes and that their kid relentlessly fucked with me. The senior turd recanted the story. My dad let him ramble, looked at me and said, “Why do you have to act like white trash like them?” I just stared and my dad continued on about how their kid had smashed enough of ours and he wasn’t coming to their house crying about it and no he wasn’t buying them a new one and sure he’d talk to me about it and then shut the door before they could say anything else. Just left them standing there like a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses.
He turned and looked at me and said, “Broad daylight, really, Kid? You do that kind of shit at night. But nice work anyway.” And then he walked off to go read the paper. I stood there for a minute, puzzled. I didn’t get in trouble, my dad had delivered a backhanded comment to the turd squad and then told me I was an ass for getting caught and the proper way to do it instead. Well, I learned some things that Sunday. Mainly don’t smash the shit out of things in broad daylight and don’t haul around the evidence… but hey, everyone’s a dumbass when they’re young, right?
2) Cold Cocking A Clown
So I hate clowns. And I mean I fucking hate them. Like shit my pants and run, terrified of them. I’ve hated them since I was a kid. I’d slap the TV screen and scream if Bozo was on and god forbid one tried to give me candy at a parade, I’d throw the candy back at the poor bastard and scream. What can I say, they freak me out…
So in my late teens, me and my asshole friends went to a haunted house.
I love Halloween and creepy shit. I knew there’d be clowns, always, is, but I knew I could run and scream into the next section, it wasn’t a fucking clown house, so I was safe. We walked our way through, it was an ok one, bloody butcher, pretty good, half assed werewolf, typical vampire and some creepy other fuckers. I managed to lose my friends. I power walk and don’t meander through those things.
Up ahead I saw a neon yellow hallway with blue and red spirals circling around the walls. Great, clown time, time to run, Bitch. They’d be jumping out of every fucking nook and cranny and I didn’t feel like pissing my pants or looking like a pussy in front of my friends screaming like a little bitch if they caught up to me. So like a track meet, I got in the running position and took off. One of those face-painted creepy fuckers jumped out and got ahold of my shoulders.
I remember screaming and next thing I knew I was watching the clown’s head swing to the side in slow-mo like in a movie, my fist and arm outstretched and retracting from the blow. I’d cold-cocked the fucker right in the face. Fuck… I saw the clown turn and look at me with murder in his eyes and yell some shit, next thing I know he’s charging at me, my ass booking it through this damn haunted house, crawling through shit, dodging shit while looking over my shoulder only to see it wasn’t just the clown chasing my ass down to knock my ass out, he had his pack of pals with him, the half-assed werewolf, the goddamn vampire and fucking butcher. I was looking at a serious beat down.
I darted out past the people at the end that were supposed to ask if I had a good time and ducked under the closest car I could find. This was it. I punched a clown, and now I was going to get my ass beat to a pulp by him and his friends and they could hide my dead body in plain sight in that damn house until I started to stink. Fuck me. This is what I got, but in my defense, I mean they’re not supposed to touch you right? Anyway they flooded out into the parking lot, search and destroy… I could hear them yelling. “Yo, where is that bitch that punched you, Charlie?” “I don’t know but find her ass!” “Spread out, she’s got to be here somewhere!” (Yes, I made up the name.) I combat crawled from car to car as I heard them getting closer until I got to the last row and crawled under a car and laid there, heart racing. I didn’t care if I got run over. Better than death via clown and freak show friends. But they’d have to go back to work right? Well, maybe not Charlie. I probably broke his nose, whoops.
I heard their boss hollering for them to get their asses back inside and get back to work, there were people to scare and I’m pretty sure I was fucking up their sales. A haunted house isn’t shit without the freaks. Then I heard my friends yelling my name and the typical where the fuck are you? I slowly crawled out from underneath the car, covered in shit from slithering all over the trash lot of a parking lot.
I waved after making sure the coast was clear. I was ducking through the cars to get back into the piece of shit ride we all shared. When asked what the hell happened I explained that a clown jumped out, caught me by the shoulders and I hauled off and socked him in the face. The responses were laughter, the we can’t take you anywhere shit, we can’t come back here next year, and goddammit, Kates I was used to hearing. Couldn’t I ever behave? Now I was punching clowns and getting chased down by his pissed off friends? We all came to the mutual conclusion that I was a fucking idiot and then changed the subject to who had the best fake ID to score some booze.
Needless to say I haven’t gone to one since. And if I ever do, apparently I’ll have to wear a straight jacket. Punching clowns is a bad idea. They’ll fucking come after you. Poor Charlie. Ah well, fuck it.
3) Fake ID Fail & Don’t Call Your Older Friends “Mom” – They Don’t Like That
I was 17 working at Blockbuster with a forged work permit rewinding video tapes and restocking shelves, later to get bumped up to running the register. You had to have a card, if you didn’t you needed an ID to get your pile of VHS tapes to rent. I was a shitball teenager trying to get by on minimum wage while counting cards at a casino on the side. I needed to make a living and well, get loaded with my friends, that shit’s important, right?
Most of mine were older or had fake ID’s. I could sneak into the casino with them and as long as I looked like I belonged there and had my sunglasses on I’d be fine. Then I’d have one of my older friends cash in my chips. But I wanted my own fake ID to get in there but also the clubs. That one I was screwed on.
I’d skim through the pile of left behind ID’s whenever I’d go in for my shitbag night shift which it was usually just me and the manager who was always putzing about or leaving to go to the bar or strip club around the corner until it was time to close.
One day this lady came in who looked close enough to pass as me, (or so I thought), I was getting desperate, and hot damn, she didn’t have her card. I looked at the ID, inspected it like I was doing my job, when really I was seeing if the photo was passable. She had been younger when it was taken and she was 23. 5 years was pushing it but fuck it. So set it on lower part of the counter and as I was scanning her VHS tapes casually flicked it under the register, my back to the shitty, old camera. I could pull it out and play the oops it slipped card if she asked for it back. My normally quiet ass made small talk to keep her occupied, going on about how great one of the movies she was renting was and then told her to enjoy and have a goodnight, she smiled and left. I waited until the end of my shift, nervously waiting for the phone to ring asking about a left ID that would foil my master plan or her coming back. Looking at the clock I had a few minutes until my boss would be back and jimmied the ID out from under the register with the pen and jammed it in my bra. Moments later in he came smelling like a Victoria’s Secret dressing room and covered in glitter. I gave him the wave and my drawer, left and got in my car. Now I wasn’t one to nick shit. The last thing I’d stolen was a pack of Jell-O when I was a kid, my mom wouldn’t buy it so I clutched it behind my back. I remember her making me go back in and hand it over. I think I was like 6 or some shit. I felt weird, I did a lot of illegal shit but I didn’t steal, that was my rule. Except to later lift other people’s drugs, but that’s another story.
Anyway I kept the ID, waited for the calls or questions about Mary whatever’s ID and for the weekend to come so I could test the fucker out at this shithole club my friends all went to.
Friday night came. Already knowing how to forge shit I signed this chic’s name over and over to get it right because I knew that was part of the test from past friends’ fails ending in ID confiscation and cops getting called if they didn’t run fast enough. Now one of the girls in our pack, (why the hell she hung out with us I don’t know), was much older. Like pushing 30. I think she just like fucking younger guys, which were most of my friends. So I stuck with her, she was an all access pass to all things I shouldn’t be doing, a goldmine of a broad.
When she finished inspecting my hair and make up, looking at the ID photo and me, she said we were good. We got in her car and headed to the club we’d be meeting our friends at.
Now I was getting sweaty. Normally I kept my cool, why I was getting so worked up about this shit I didn’t know. I didn’t like security or cops and was always dodging them so I’m guessing that was it. We walked up the steps, they all knew her, she did a spin and shook her ass and breezed by. Then it was my turn. She waited for me by the next set of doors telling them I was her friend. They told her they still had to card me, she did the pout face, (bitch totally gave me away with that one), the one gave her and I the raised eyebrow and look of what kind of shit are you trying to pull and asked me to fork over the infamous ID. He looked me up and down several times, then called his buddy over to have a look. I could tell she was getting antsy and didn’t feel like getting caught up with this shit so she pretended to inspect her manicure like nothing was happening other than her own impatience. And then out came the dreaded board. The one where I’d have to sign three times to see if it matched. I know I looked guilty as hell but took the damn board and scribbled the name three times then handed it back. The guy seemed impressed; he was even smiling, then he started laughing. He held up the board and pointed to the signatures. He then held up the ID and was shaking it and said, “The name on the ID is Meredith, not Maryanne you dumb kid, now you better get the hell out of here before I call the fucking cops!”
Now for whatever reason I didn’t scram like a smart person would, instead I asked for the ID back insisting I had made a mistake, I was told fuck no on getting the ID back and again they could call the cops and have my ass hauled off for identity theft, which at that point my “friend” dipped into the club doors as to break all association with my stupid ass. As she was darting through I yelled, “But that’s my mom! She said it was ok!” The bitch shot me a look, like bitch I’ll kill you and then she disappeared into the darkness and flashing lights I wouldn’t be seeing that night.
The guy then told me fucking mom or not I better get the fuck out of there and two other bouncers were encroaching on my ass so like a smart person this time, I bolted through them, down the stairs almost eating shit in the damn platform heels I had on, kicking them off in a half limp run so I could move faster and cleared the parking lot into a strip mall across the street, cleared that, then got my ass to the nearest payphone, dropped a quarter and called my friend Joe to come get my ass.
“What the hell did you do this time?” was his response after I told him he had to come pick my ass up at the corner of whatever and whatever and get me to my car, and fucking now. I told him I’d explain later but to hurry it the fuck up and I’d be in the bushes next to the gas station on the corner and to flash his lights once he pulled up and I’d get in. There was some grumbling on the other end of the line and I did the come on mother fucker, I don’t have another quarter and I’m not getting pinched by the fucking five-O tonight. So he told me to get to the bushes and he’d be there in ten. He didn’t live too far away. So there I sat. Bush branches stabbing me in the faces, dirt covering my ass and picking gravel out of my feet, hoping no bugs would chew the hell out of me, contemplating the evening’s events and hoping Joe would make good on his promise of him using his good fake to buy some shitty Mad Dog 40’s that I’d pay for, for his troubles. And sure as shit, Joe pulled up, flashed his lights and my dirty ass flung myself in the passenger’s seat.
I’d learned my lesson, no more nicking shit and I’d just keep paying my friends off to buy my booze and that calling someone mom in hopes to save my ass doesn’t work. I never did talk to her again, I mean fuck, I don’t blame her ass, that shit’s just straight insulting. Maybe I’d get lucky and find a mother fucker who could make me one? Which of course never happened. I just got real good at finding the right colored wrist bands in parking lots, scrubbing x’s off my hands, (which is ironic as hell now), and slamming the top of my hand on someone else’s who got stamped as twenty one, before the ink dried. Fuck it. And I never did go back to Blockbuster after that. Once you get caught stealing, you don’t go back to the spot you stole the shit from. So I got a job at a shitty bakery across the street from the shitty club I tried to get into with my shitty ass fake and pilfered ID, a constant reminder of what a dumbass I was. Irony at it’s best. Now you can stare out the window at it, Bitch! Hardy, har har!
4) How Pretending To Do Glamour Shots For Your Mug Shot Is A Bad Idea
As we all know I wasn’t a saint in my youth and managed to pick up two DUI’s in my early twenties. Luckily no one was ever injured or killed. Just my pocket book and criminal record. I was also really bad at behaving while on probation which landed me in sobriety court, which whenever I’d have to go in for random drug and alcohol testing I’d frequently and righteously fail. The correctional officers at the local clink knew me well, by name. I got one bitch that slammed my head against the wall as I was refusing to get one of my mug shots taken fired, they all hated her in there so somehow I became the jailhouse hero. Anyway. I was there a lot. If I violated probation I’d have to do a weekend in the can. 11 mug shots deep one of the officers had the bright idea that since I was there so much and had so many pictures, the next time I came in I should do it up like Glamour Shots. Now I thought this was funny so of course I agreed. We both knew I’d be back, so fuck it, might as well have fun with it. Real smart.
Now during this shit parade I was also filming and staring as the lead female in this shitty B horror flick. Now here’s the thing, I didn’t think things through back then or observe things going on around me, like what local papers were for sale in gas stations. That intel would have spared me some major what the fuck, goddammit, humiliation in the future, but hindsight is twenty twenty…
A few weeks before the premier I fucked up again, pissed dirty, (I had figured out how to flush the booze out of my system to pass a breathalyzer and they knew it, so unbenounced to me they started piss testing me for alcohol). Rad. So in the can I went for another weekend with my friends. And I kept my promise. I got up early as hell, did my hair and makeup looking like a half assed Paris Hilton and went in and got my picture snapped. We all agreed it was a good one. I got extra apples in my lunch bag for it, isn’t that sweet?
The night of the premier came and I was dressed to the nines ready to sign posters, DVD’s and see myself on the big screen. I walked in to salivating faces eager for me to sign shit they had clutched in their hands. It didn’t look like a poster or swag, it certainly wasn’t a DVD; it looked like a mini newspaper. Those dollar ones you could get at the gas station that were full of gossip and coupons. I knew they existed I just never purchased one.
So this one guy jumped in front of me, holding the thing in front of him, the cover blaring at me. There was my Glamour Shots mug shot. Right fucking smack dab in the center… And the name of the gas station rag, Busted Magazine. A collection of all the fuckers that got locked up in a plethora of counties in the state spanning the past two weeks, and there I was. Hot off the press. Apparently looking like Paris Hilton got you the cover. I think a toothless wonder or some of my really bad ones like the one where I looked like Nick Nolte in his would have been better choice, but nope. I was the chosen one.
Luckily the producer was drunk and didn’t care. Used the famous line of bad press is good press. I asked why the fuck he didn’t tell me and he just claimed he figured I knew, so what was I to do? Refuse to sign my mug shot that this salivating line of gossip hounds were clutching or just give in and do it. Granted there were a few unpleased people that were pissed that a drunken criminal was cast as the lead, so with that I proceeded to have my date be my errand boy of bringing me stiff drinks one after the other. So away I signed. Busted Magazine, movie posters and DVDS. And then people started asking where they could pick it up, and then I learned, well, any local gas station. Perfect. The ones that didn’t have this spectacle would be going out and coming back with them for me to sign.
I don’t remember much of the movie; I continued to drink through the film. Kind of a bummer when you don’t remember that kind of thing but it was edited like shit from what I was told, rushed to meet the premier date and no background music was added, so I guess it was a good thing I don’t remember. I have a copy of the DVD somewhere and still haven’t watched it. When you hear a movie sucks, what’s the point of watching it, right? And my fame, well, that came from being a drunken asshole, which is exactly what I was when the theater lights came on.
The isle was surrounded by people with magazines. I told my friends to act like security and keep these fuckers away from me and they followed suit. And then I was informed I was giving the crowd the finger as my “security” friends escorted my wobbly, drunken ass out.
Once we got to the car I insisted we stop at a gas station to pick up this piece of shit, I needed to examine it and to see what it said I did inside. I’m curious, what can I say? So they obliged my raging wishes and stopped. I got out, saw the thing at the top of the little shit rag newsstand and grabbed it. Skimmed through it and found my smaller black and white picture. Huh, I guess you only got a color one if you were on the cover. Lucky me. So I flung it on the counter and handed the clerk a couple bucks. He looked at it, looked at me, repeated this a few times and by that point I’d had it. “Yes it’s me, just take the goddamn money so I can take my trophy!” He did, and I walked out without getting my change. The rest is a blur. Don’t remember the party at the hotel party or how the fuck I got home or managed to hang onto the damn magazine that had followed me home and was waiting for me on my bedroom floor as a reminder of the night before. All I know is my number to come in and piss in a cup didn’t get called the that morning, so I was happy about that. It’s the little things you know?
After that I tried to keep it together the last few months of my probation to escape any more mug shots. I decided I was good. I had enough to put together a Kodak calendar so I figured I was set and my narcissistic ass didn’t want to be on any more covers of that damn magazine. So I leveled out at 12 for a while until number 13 hit in NYC which would be my final one, which I decided could be the cover of the Kodak calendar I could make and also it being my lucky number I really should stop there. It seemed like a rational idea, and well. It stopped at 13. And luckily, NYC did not have Busted Magazine…
5) Don’t Get Tattoos When You’ve Been Drinking For 24 Hours Or Dump The Artist’s Pal
Now this would be my last year in MI, living there for any length of time. I was even more of a raging drunk and just hitting 25. And I had added cocaine to my list of things to do.
In one of these multi-day benders my drunken pal and I stayed up all night ripping rail after rail of dog shit blow, stepped on like feet on grapes in a winery, drinking bottom shelf, grocery store, off brand vodka. The sun had been up for a while and we decided it would be a great idea to go to the zoo. Not the Detroit zoo which was not too far from where I was staying, but the Toledo Zoo… In fucking Ohio. This sounded like a great plan and we both decided they’d have a better selection of animals. So we stopped at a local grocery store, one of those 24 hour ones that had everything. Bought a 6 pack of Squirt bottles, a half-gallon of vodka, swizzle straws and matching Hannah Montana T-shirts from the kid’s section.
We dumped out half of the contents of the Squirt bottles in the parking lot and filled them back up with vodka, changed into our Hannah Montana kid shirts and away we went. She drove, I had just gotten off probation months prior and she claimed she was the better driver, so it seemed like a plan, all the while sucking down the contents of the Squirt/vodka mix through the swizzle straws. We managed to get to the zoo in tact and flung the 4 remaining bottles in our purses and went in. I know we got one of those big headed pictures drawn, I vaguely remember sitting in a garden finishing the last of the Squirt mixes and deciding we should go before the drugs and alcohol wore off and bonus, our dealer might be up by the time we got back.
Now as I promised in my video post, I’d be writing about stories I remember, these are the parts. I don’t remember getting home, vaguely remember getting tattooed in the middle of nowhere, somewhere on the journey back and waking up the next day wondering why both my ring fingers were one, stuck to my sheets, and two, hurt like hell. Only to discover that I had decided to have my knuckles tattooed in my drunken, coked out stupor. I examined my hands the best I could with blurred eyesight. One was a red bow. Probably a joke so I wouldn’t forget anything, that made sense, and then, on my right hand, my shaking hand, a creature that I do believe was supposed to be a snake but had a very strange resemblance to a sperm… I mean let’s be fucking honest, that’s exactly what it looked like.
Months later I was subletting a spot in NYC and crashing with a dude in Michigan to save on money. I was modeling heavy at the time and needed this sperm covered up; it was a problem, a very airbrush-able and dermablend-able problem, but still a problem.
Now unfortunately for the guy I was crashing with, he liked me a lot, so when I told him after I came back from the bar I’d be packing my shit and moving to NYC permanently, the next day, he started crying. Now I had a tattoo appointment early the next morning before my flight so I really didn’t have time for this shit. I just kept staring at him reinstating that I was an asshole and there was nothing to miss. Poor bastard thought he loved me and the crying continued and he said he was going to have a panic attack and needed to call his mom because he was so upset. Now it was like 2:30 in the morning at this point and I didn’t need this lovesick, lunatic pestering his poor mother at the wee hours in the morning, so I decided clocking him in the face to knock some sense into him would do the trick.
He blinked, put his hand over his eye and looked at me and asked what did I do that for. I pointed out that he wasn’t crying anymore, so that was the rational behind me socking him in the face. He looked like he was going to cry again but was smart enough not to because clearly that led to black eyes and dropped it. I had proven my point that I was a fucking asshole and there was no point crying over my departure and he’d have a shiner to remind him the next day should any lovey dovey, I miss that Bitch, thoughts cross his mind.
I passed out on the coach, he went back in his room.
The next morning I got up, packed the rest of my shit and drove to the tattoo shop his friend worked at. That also did all of his work. Yes, I was that stupid. They guy seemed cool. I blabbed on about some job I had coming up and a slew of other horseshit, all of probably 30 minutes worth. This cover up that was supposed to look more like a snake was taking a long time. I just thought he was one of those artists that worked slower, and his hand was blocking my view. He cleaned it, slapped a few Band-Aids on it, took my hundred bucks, smiled, told me to have a nice trip and off I went.
I had already sold a friend of mine my car, so I headed to his house so he could drive me to the airport and keep the car. Cars had gotten me into a lot of trouble so I was happy to be rid of the thing.
I went into his apartment, decided I’d take a piss before going to the airport then wash my finger off and slap a few new Band-Aids on it.
And there it was, in all it’s fine glory, my new tattoo, the cover up that would prevent the end of photoshop and dermablend… And what, my Dear Readers was blaring up into my retinas? A giant dick with a smaller dick shooting off the side of it. Double dick tattoo. Two cocks in one. Just a mini collection, (because two is a collection right?), of penises. So the guy I had socked in the face had called his friend, told him what a colossal dick I was, and I got a colossal dick tattoo for it in payback. And ya know, I wasn’t even mad. In fact, I did one of those, “heh” laughs, which my friend asked me what I was laughing about so I stuck my finger up at him. “Is that a dick, with a dick?” he asked. “Yes, yes it is.”
And then we got into now his car and dropped me off at the airport. I thought of having it blacked out while on the plane, but then said fuck it. I had too much shit going on, and well, I was a fucking dick.
And I still have it to this day, no shit. It’s a good reminder for me to not be an asshole. You act like a dick, you get two dicks. On your finger. Don’t be dick, and hey, you won’t end up with them. But in all seriousness, I did keep it, even when I was a fucked up mess to try to remind myself not to be an asshole or go around punching people or smashing shit. It kind of worked, the best it could anyway. It was battling against a lot of substances that shut Mrs. Nice Lady down.
And after getting clean I tossed the idea around of blacking it out, but I’ve kept it all these many years, years over a decade now, as a constant reminder not to be a dumbass and/or… a dick.
I hope my slew of mishaps and dipshit antics have made you laugh, even a little bit to take your mind off the bullshit going on in the world. Granted punching people and stealing shit isn’t nice or good behavior, but I made my peace with it, I did end up apologizing to the dude in Number 5, who still told me he loved me which made no goddamned sense, but more to the point…
Like I always harp on about we have to reconcile with our past, do our best not to repeat asshole behavior, learn from it and later, instead of letting it haunt us, once the previous list of things have been done, laugh at it. We were all young and stupid once. And there’s some humor in that shit. Now the people that never stop, ehhh they’ve got problems. But I promised to keep this light.
Again, I hope you got a good laugh out of my ass, fuck knows we all need it. And like I said, this shit will eventually blow over, so hang onto your ass, laugh at mine and find shit to laugh at in the meantime. We’re all in this together.
Until next time…
And don’t go out and get any dick tattoos for those of you who have shops open in your state to remind you to laugh. It’s a terrible idea. Unless you really want one, then fuck it…