To New York for a week. Business related.
But I'll also be hooking up with a couple of friends, and a net chick I've known for a while.
It'll be my first time EVER hook up with someone I met online - finally, someone with guts, the respect alone wins her a bazillion points. Should be interesting.
Details when I get back? We'll see. Believe it or not, I do keep my secrets.
Be good. And LEAVE COMMENTS. Jesus H Moses.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Why You Put Up With Me
For the COMMENTS
And yes, it seems that I actually am keeping my promise, for once.
No dawdling. Let's just jump right into it. Recent comments covering the last 7 weeks or so.
1) September 19, 2008 10:54 AM... scooter said... Chris - drop me a line. SK
What? Oh why? What the fuck did I do NOW? I haven't bothered with you for years? What do you want for CHRIST SAKES??? Writing tips? Sure, grow an imagination. Start there. And maybe quit watching so much fucking television. Stop sucking the cock of every fucking flash in the pan pop-culture HOT tv show and start reading a book or two. Fucking cumstain.
And you arrogant, fat, ugly beanbag. You drop ME a line. Who the fuck are you to beckon for me. You want me, find me and reach out. AIM will be fine. You know my screen name. Go find it, its the same one I've had for 11 years. You come find me, you fucking dog-face cocksucking pregnant man.
Four books in and you still work a dayjob to pay bills. At what point does "doing it for bragging rights only" lose its luster? When will you peel that sign that says SUCKER off your forehead?
Still a delusional tool.
Unless this is a fake imposter, then forget all the above.
2) August 12, 2008 12:12 PM... Villano 8905 (screw the Roman Numerals) said... only one explanation... HYATTE IS KILLER KOWALSKI!!!
You know, I think I met the dude.
I was at a pool party that someone on my Dad's softball team was throwing. I was somewhere between 8-12 years old. All I remember about it was spending most of the day in the pool, because I love to swim and do underwater handstands and use the water to pretend that I was Spider-Man. Anyway, someone came over and sat down on the edge of the pool and kicked his feet in the water and just hung out with me and we talked and, for some stupid reason, I became convinced that he was Killer Kowalski. I think I summoned the balls to ask and I seem to remember him saying yes, then no, then yes again.
So yeah, he decided to get his rocks off fucking with the head of a little kid.
Then he got into the water and we played "Aquaman and the Mermaid". To this day, I can't figure out which one I was supposed to be. I think we alternated.
Glad Killer's dead, that bastard.
3) August 12, 2008 12:08 PM Moonage Daydream said... Like a lot of New Englanders, isn't he of French descent?
Yes, but there's a wrinkle that I never pointed out before in all my time online.
This is an exclusive.
Are you ready?
Good.
Most of the Southern New England populace set up shop around the 18th and 19th Century, right after the Colonies were erected.
(Southern New England generally refers to everthing south of Boston right down to Connecticut)
And yes, most of Southern New England's first settlers were French. But not just ANY sort of French. No, these Frogs came over here to start a new life from a very particular area.
The Quebec province. Canada
Canadian French.
So yer ol' Pal Hyatte has some Canadian blood in him.
Ain't that a mind blower.
4) September 4, 2008 3:54 PM... stewie said... two big brawls from your bouncer days? Things are getting fisico, er, physical around here.
Stewie, I know you are loving these minor league inside lines, but you really are so far off it makes me smile, but for all the wrong reasons.
But, since you wondered, many times, I'll finally let you in on my thoughts here:
This will be the fifth and final season of Boston Legal. They already announced it. It's over after this year. We get 23 more shows and then BYE BYE.
Why? Well, I think its because David E Kelly's production company works really cheap, and Kelly himself gets burned out on doing the same show after a while so he moves on and his writers stick around and the quality of the show drops.
PLUS, Kelly's company typically signs his stars to 5 year deals. Well, after 5 year contracts end, the stars want to renegotiate for more money. And Kelly is a cheapo, as is the network that contracted his company for the show.
Now, Boston Legal has three headliners and a bunch of inter-changeable supporting characters, and I swear, this show has GOT to have the record for sweeping out supporting characters at a ridiculously fast rate. But these three lead stars, James Spader, William Shatner, and Candice Bergan, hold the show together. Keep it going. Draw the crowds.
And win lots of Emmys.
But, James Spader, who took the gig on a lark after being brought into The Practice to help wrap up its last season and set up the debut of Boston Legal is a movie guy. He makes mostly movies. Maybe he decided to be a Father and Husband and bring home a steady paycheck for 5 years, but movie people generally don't submit to the grind of TV if they know they can make more movies. So if he even WANTS to stay with the show for a few more years, he'll expect a huge pay raise in order to resign.
And William Shatner. Well, every impression I get from ol Bill is that he is every bit the ego-maniac he appears to be. Even though Kelly basically built "Denny Crane" completely around Shatner's strengths while totally hiding his weaknesses, Shatner probably isn't thanking Christ Himself for this major career overhaul, Shatner probably think that Kelly better pay up BIG in order to keep him happy and coming to work and not going to bigger and better things. So HE'LL want a huge pay bump too.
Candice Bergan? Seems like a smart actress who knows only full well just how few roles are out there for a woman of her age. She probably wasn't much of a fuss and only asked for a small bump.
BUT THE POINT IS... the show, which never got outstanding ratings, would've cost too much to continue and Kelly was probably bored with it anyway. So its out. Bye Bye.
Me? I loved the show, loved Spader's character, LOVED Shatner, loved them both together, and have all available shows on DVD... but 3 years from now, no one will be talking about it like they still talk about Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Seinfeld. It was what is was... a fun show with good, likeable characters that ran its course.
And anyone ever notice that no one talks about Friends anymore either? Turns out that wasn't quite the groundbreaking show destined for the archives that everyone thought it was.
5) August 12, 2008 2:00 AM... Anonymous said... Just saw some of RAW. I think the thing to do with Punk and JBL is for JBL to start what he did tonight with the booze, but instead Punk heels JBL for the booze and the audience, and then gets elitist and then retires JBL so he can go back to commentary when Foley leaves. Basically just redo the Punk/Raven shit. Also, Cody Rhodes is already a better wrestler than Cena. Sucked how they gave the kids the belts back but jobbed them after the bell. Come on. B
Or how about Punk challenges for the world title a few more times, keeps losing, then ends up fighting for the I.C title and settles in on mid-card where he belongs and meanwhile, how about they do NOT redo Raven/Punk because its a safe bet no one knows what the hell that was and if they did, they wouldn't pitch it to Vince McMahon for fear of getting thrown out of the building.
Cody Rhodes is boring; Goldust is a much more interesting performer, both in and out of the ring. But everyone says Ted DiBiase's kid is the future.
Punk ain't shit. But then again, it took me a long time to warm up to John Cena, now I sort'a like him.
The irony of the WWE is that most of them have to work for years and years and constantly improve their craft before getting the main event permenant push, and then by then they are so beaten and banged up, their shelf life up top hardly lasts more then a few years, It's what killed Austin, its partially why Eddie Guerrero is in the ground, its why Kurt Angle almost died, and its what's killing Edge right now.
Meanwhile, I sit here, read the spoilers, and I am stunned... just STUNNED that TNA is actually building a Jeff Jarrett/Sting feud as if its going to make them money.
6) September 6, 2008 11:00 AM... Hank Snaredrum said... Wha'?!?
Sorry Hank, but you're off the grid. It's not your fault, you were okay, didn't do anything wrong.
But I really can't deal with what you were created to do. I really fucking hate Facebook. Its not for me. Not my bag. I see no point in it. There's nobody I want to "poke" and I REALLY don't like being just another part of someone's crowd.
Bryan Alvarez recently bragged about having 1000 Facebook buddies and his goal was getting 5000. WHY??? WHY WHY WHY??? WHAT'S THE POINT?
Yet the deviousness of Facebook is frightening. See, you just can't delete your account. You can only "deactivate" it. Which means you can "reactivate" your account with just a click of the button. It's like Satan's tool for getting you to eat the apple.
But then I realize that I have plenty of apples in my fridge. I don't need anymore. Real friends call. Net friends are just fantasies. Boring.
And MySpace sucks too.
There. And I'll do the other half later this week. Topics I am planning on are Eric S, Janine, and whatever else you want to ask.
And then you all can kiss my ass
And yes, it seems that I actually am keeping my promise, for once.
No dawdling. Let's just jump right into it. Recent comments covering the last 7 weeks or so.
1) September 19, 2008 10:54 AM... scooter said... Chris - drop me a line. SK
What? Oh why? What the fuck did I do NOW? I haven't bothered with you for years? What do you want for CHRIST SAKES??? Writing tips? Sure, grow an imagination. Start there. And maybe quit watching so much fucking television. Stop sucking the cock of every fucking flash in the pan pop-culture HOT tv show and start reading a book or two. Fucking cumstain.
And you arrogant, fat, ugly beanbag. You drop ME a line. Who the fuck are you to beckon for me. You want me, find me and reach out. AIM will be fine. You know my screen name. Go find it, its the same one I've had for 11 years. You come find me, you fucking dog-face cocksucking pregnant man.
Four books in and you still work a dayjob to pay bills. At what point does "doing it for bragging rights only" lose its luster? When will you peel that sign that says SUCKER off your forehead?
Still a delusional tool.
Unless this is a fake imposter, then forget all the above.
2) August 12, 2008 12:12 PM... Villano 8905 (screw the Roman Numerals) said... only one explanation... HYATTE IS KILLER KOWALSKI!!!
You know, I think I met the dude.
I was at a pool party that someone on my Dad's softball team was throwing. I was somewhere between 8-12 years old. All I remember about it was spending most of the day in the pool, because I love to swim and do underwater handstands and use the water to pretend that I was Spider-Man. Anyway, someone came over and sat down on the edge of the pool and kicked his feet in the water and just hung out with me and we talked and, for some stupid reason, I became convinced that he was Killer Kowalski. I think I summoned the balls to ask and I seem to remember him saying yes, then no, then yes again.
So yeah, he decided to get his rocks off fucking with the head of a little kid.
Then he got into the water and we played "Aquaman and the Mermaid". To this day, I can't figure out which one I was supposed to be. I think we alternated.
Glad Killer's dead, that bastard.
3) August 12, 2008 12:08 PM Moonage Daydream said... Like a lot of New Englanders, isn't he of French descent?
Yes, but there's a wrinkle that I never pointed out before in all my time online.
This is an exclusive.
Are you ready?
Good.
Most of the Southern New England populace set up shop around the 18th and 19th Century, right after the Colonies were erected.
(Southern New England generally refers to everthing south of Boston right down to Connecticut)
And yes, most of Southern New England's first settlers were French. But not just ANY sort of French. No, these Frogs came over here to start a new life from a very particular area.
The Quebec province. Canada
Canadian French.
So yer ol' Pal Hyatte has some Canadian blood in him.
Ain't that a mind blower.
4) September 4, 2008 3:54 PM... stewie said... two big brawls from your bouncer days? Things are getting fisico, er, physical around here.
Stewie, I know you are loving these minor league inside lines, but you really are so far off it makes me smile, but for all the wrong reasons.
But, since you wondered, many times, I'll finally let you in on my thoughts here:
This will be the fifth and final season of Boston Legal. They already announced it. It's over after this year. We get 23 more shows and then BYE BYE.
Why? Well, I think its because David E Kelly's production company works really cheap, and Kelly himself gets burned out on doing the same show after a while so he moves on and his writers stick around and the quality of the show drops.
PLUS, Kelly's company typically signs his stars to 5 year deals. Well, after 5 year contracts end, the stars want to renegotiate for more money. And Kelly is a cheapo, as is the network that contracted his company for the show.
Now, Boston Legal has three headliners and a bunch of inter-changeable supporting characters, and I swear, this show has GOT to have the record for sweeping out supporting characters at a ridiculously fast rate. But these three lead stars, James Spader, William Shatner, and Candice Bergan, hold the show together. Keep it going. Draw the crowds.
And win lots of Emmys.
But, James Spader, who took the gig on a lark after being brought into The Practice to help wrap up its last season and set up the debut of Boston Legal is a movie guy. He makes mostly movies. Maybe he decided to be a Father and Husband and bring home a steady paycheck for 5 years, but movie people generally don't submit to the grind of TV if they know they can make more movies. So if he even WANTS to stay with the show for a few more years, he'll expect a huge pay raise in order to resign.
And William Shatner. Well, every impression I get from ol Bill is that he is every bit the ego-maniac he appears to be. Even though Kelly basically built "Denny Crane" completely around Shatner's strengths while totally hiding his weaknesses, Shatner probably isn't thanking Christ Himself for this major career overhaul, Shatner probably think that Kelly better pay up BIG in order to keep him happy and coming to work and not going to bigger and better things. So HE'LL want a huge pay bump too.
Candice Bergan? Seems like a smart actress who knows only full well just how few roles are out there for a woman of her age. She probably wasn't much of a fuss and only asked for a small bump.
BUT THE POINT IS... the show, which never got outstanding ratings, would've cost too much to continue and Kelly was probably bored with it anyway. So its out. Bye Bye.
Me? I loved the show, loved Spader's character, LOVED Shatner, loved them both together, and have all available shows on DVD... but 3 years from now, no one will be talking about it like they still talk about Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Seinfeld. It was what is was... a fun show with good, likeable characters that ran its course.
And anyone ever notice that no one talks about Friends anymore either? Turns out that wasn't quite the groundbreaking show destined for the archives that everyone thought it was.
5) August 12, 2008 2:00 AM... Anonymous said... Just saw some of RAW. I think the thing to do with Punk and JBL is for JBL to start what he did tonight with the booze, but instead Punk heels JBL for the booze and the audience, and then gets elitist and then retires JBL so he can go back to commentary when Foley leaves. Basically just redo the Punk/Raven shit. Also, Cody Rhodes is already a better wrestler than Cena. Sucked how they gave the kids the belts back but jobbed them after the bell. Come on. B
Or how about Punk challenges for the world title a few more times, keeps losing, then ends up fighting for the I.C title and settles in on mid-card where he belongs and meanwhile, how about they do NOT redo Raven/Punk because its a safe bet no one knows what the hell that was and if they did, they wouldn't pitch it to Vince McMahon for fear of getting thrown out of the building.
Cody Rhodes is boring; Goldust is a much more interesting performer, both in and out of the ring. But everyone says Ted DiBiase's kid is the future.
Punk ain't shit. But then again, it took me a long time to warm up to John Cena, now I sort'a like him.
The irony of the WWE is that most of them have to work for years and years and constantly improve their craft before getting the main event permenant push, and then by then they are so beaten and banged up, their shelf life up top hardly lasts more then a few years, It's what killed Austin, its partially why Eddie Guerrero is in the ground, its why Kurt Angle almost died, and its what's killing Edge right now.
Meanwhile, I sit here, read the spoilers, and I am stunned... just STUNNED that TNA is actually building a Jeff Jarrett/Sting feud as if its going to make them money.
6) September 6, 2008 11:00 AM... Hank Snaredrum said... Wha'?!?
Sorry Hank, but you're off the grid. It's not your fault, you were okay, didn't do anything wrong.
But I really can't deal with what you were created to do. I really fucking hate Facebook. Its not for me. Not my bag. I see no point in it. There's nobody I want to "poke" and I REALLY don't like being just another part of someone's crowd.
Bryan Alvarez recently bragged about having 1000 Facebook buddies and his goal was getting 5000. WHY??? WHY WHY WHY??? WHAT'S THE POINT?
Yet the deviousness of Facebook is frightening. See, you just can't delete your account. You can only "deactivate" it. Which means you can "reactivate" your account with just a click of the button. It's like Satan's tool for getting you to eat the apple.
But then I realize that I have plenty of apples in my fridge. I don't need anymore. Real friends call. Net friends are just fantasies. Boring.
And MySpace sucks too.
There. And I'll do the other half later this week. Topics I am planning on are Eric S, Janine, and whatever else you want to ask.
And then you all can kiss my ass
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Hyatte vs the Wild Samoan
Look, I'm sorry.
If you can get one entry from me once every calender seven days, then you're lucky. That's just the way it is. If I say I'll be back in a few days, I'm probably lying, or believing too much from myself.
I'm flattered that some of you get so pissy about it, tho'. Maybe I should contribute to my own comment section more, at least then we can get some dialogue going and I can give more immediate answers. Give you all a reason to drop by daily anyway.
Anyway, I'm here, right now, ready to jam. THE WAIT IS OVER!!! YOUR PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED!!!!
And no more drawings. This much is obvious.
I promised tales of nudity and bouncing, but the nudity part isn't all that great a story, now that I hustled up the main plot points in my head, but now that I've started thinking back to my bouncing days, there is a whole world worth of stories which I can tell. Which I will start with tonight. Right now, in fact.
The following is 100% true... at least, as true as my memory from a 14 year old event can recall...
Tale #2: The Windmill Warriors
Show me an undisciplined gang of thugs and ruffians, but mostly part-time brothers and I'll show you a staff of bouncers at any given nightclub in any given city in any given state of our fine Union.
A good doorstaff is NOT made up of angry bodybuilders, borderline-retarded college football players, and general, immature, daddy-hating wannabe tough guys (or, as we call them in Rhode Island: Italians). No, a good doorstaff is made up of four parts smart, sensible, and mature, two parts young and cocky, and two parts big and mean. The smart, sensible, and mature ones are the ones who check ID cards, direct traffic, and try to maintain a calm environment even during a skirmish. The young and cocky ones know how to maintain a post, smile a lot, are ready to jump in if their is a problem in their area, but are mostly more interested in picking up girls then they are in being tough.
The big and mean ones are the big galoots that the smart, sensible, mature ones keep nearby, in case some muscle is needed.
Me? I was smart and sensible. At the ripe old age of 24, I wasn't an old man by any stretch, but I could spot a fake ID from a mile away (at the time, this was considered a skill), I was not into looking for fights either. My specialty was swooping in from behind, usually out of nowhere, )as many a time another bouncer would come up to be after a little skirmish and say, "Dude, you came out of NOWHERE"), wrap my arm around the troublemaker's neck (REAR CHINLOCK!!!!), drive him down with my whole body, and yell in his ear, "I'm a doorman, calm down! Easy does it. Are you okay? I'm a doorman." Then I would invite him to stand up and walk out of there on his own like a man. Most times it worked.
Once in a while, while I was on top of the rabble rouser, calming him down and showing him that his fighting for the night is over, I would have to turn around and kindly ask another doorman - either the young, cocky dude or the big and mean meathead - to please let go of the guy's leg. Daddy had it all under control.
I wasn't even the Head Doorman. That would be Joey. Joey eventually became my best friend and my roommate. More on him later.
So, that was what it was like for three nights a week for any and all doorstaffs that I was a part of. Fun was had, girls were fucked, (and oh baby, did yer ol' buddy Hi-Rate get in on some of THAT), and drunken testosterone was seething, boiling, and properly disposed of. Life went smooth, fights were broken easily, drinks continued to be poured, bootys continued to shake, and everyone had a fun time.
But once in a while, every so often, a full scale riot broke out.
The time: 1994.
The city: Providence
The club: Sh-Booms.
Doorstaff: 12.
It was summer. A tradition at Sh-Booms - which was buried just to the east of downtown, near the Brown and P.C. campuses, but not east enough to run into the trendy, European chic East Side - was to create an extended, outdoor party club by blocking off the parking lot directly behind the club, setting up cheapie bars, sticking a DJ up on the never-used backdoor elevated steps, and partying extra-large, extra-cool, all night long... or until 2:00 am weekends. The owner had a giant mural of Elvis painted on the club's back wall, creating a proper mood. The crowd had a view of the river, the statehouse, and pretty much every skyscraper the city had (1). It made Summer just that extra cool.
Hyatte, that would be me, but with a full, robust, HEALTHY head of shiny, well-coiffed hair (and with a gleam of hope and joy in my eye, long since buried by the grind of life and of little heartbreaking a-holes like YOU) was busy at the front door of the club proper sliding my finger gently over the birthdate of each and every ID that looked remotely suspicious (checking for slight indentions and holes, don'tcha know). For me, I was enjoying my time in the nightclub scene. The crowd was older then I would like, but there were still some hotties around, and some wannabes who weren't quite bad-ass enough to hold a stare-down against me.
And no, if you asked that kid who "Hyatte" was, he would've rumbled, "Who'dafuckizdat?" The wit was only starting to percolate, my friends. A seed that needed years to grow.
Well, the time was closing in on 1 a.m. and the natives were restless. I felt it in the air, as did Joey. There was a darkness over the night. We could feel it, a little tension, some hostility. There were no fights so far, hadn't been for a while in fact. We felt the time was coming, a storm of anger. People were yelling too loud, the dancefloor was hopping a bit too aggressively. It seemed that everyone was aching for a fight.
Including the doorstaff. We were kids and we mostly kept it in our pants, but... well, you got into this business to get laid and to beat up drunks, AND NOT ALWAYS IN THAT ORDER. Anyone who tells you different is a damn fool.
And of course, the best nights is when you did both.
Sh-Booms had its regulars, as did every club. And even though the club was at the tail end of its long, historic, highly profitable run, it still drew a crowd on Friday nights, regulars, hoochies, newcomers, and even a few barely legal teens still made this place a hopping summer nightspot. One of the regulars was... was...
Well, he was fat, he liked to wear Hawaiian shirts, he liked to wear his long, black hair into a traditional native ponytail. Before him, the only Samoans I had ever seen were on Television. And from there, I knew he must have had a hard head. I don't know his name, he never gave it. But he was a regular, and he would've fit right into the WWF in 1994... 04 even 1984... or even 1974.
Think a smaller Rikishi, think a MUCH smaller Yokozuna, think a fatter Umanga.
Fuck it, think either Afa or Sika, or Haku after a year of eating nothing but cake frosting.
And for all the time I worked at Sh-Booms, my second summer, he came in fairly steadily... every Friday night, with friends. He had his fun and he never started trouble. In fact, he never said a word to us. Our exchanges were bare nods. I wasn't about to card him, he was old enough. I was just amazed that he wore shoes... it was the first time I've seen a Samoan not being barefooted.
So yes, he was there, in the back lot. I was up front, griping about this or that and bullshitting with Joey and whoever else was up front with us. Probably Chuck... Chuck was a funny kid, 19 years old and about 6'5 and as awkward as a Priest at a boy scout meeting. I'll tell his story some other time. So we were bullshitting and remarking about the tension in the air (which, to be honest, was a weekly conversation) and all the girls we were banging (lied my balls off, I did), when one of the doorstaff charged, no, I say CHARGED up from the side alley and waved us over and took off quick.
Fight!!
Joey told Chuck (who was useless in a fight, to be honest) to stay at the door and MAINTAIN ORDER... because, heaven forbid, we let some 20 year old in for the one or two drinks he/she can get down before last call, and we took off to the back.
The back lot was sectioned off by wooden sawhorses and orange plastic mesh draped on top. Joey, being a semi-legit bodybuilder, vaulted over the horses with the grace of a ballerina. Hyatte, who wasn't fat by any means but... umm... fuck you... recalled an incident from a year ago where he attempted to vault over the horses and promptly wiped out on his face, taking about three sections of meshed up horses with him and one shooter waitress. Even now as I type this, 14 years later, I still bust a cold sweat recalling the humiliation.
So Captain Badass... ME... deftly slipped UNDER the mesh and, after unclogging his fucking shoe from the mesh and the Budweiser banners, and God knows what the fuck else, entered the battlefield...
Which, of fucking course, turned out to be on the other side of the club's parking lot, with the entire half of the sawhorses already down and mesh all over the place. Idiot doorman decided to take the scenic route to inform us of the chaos.
And it was chaos, a full scale riot, at least 15 people involved. Joey had already charged in. There was no breaking this shit up, it was a war... us against them, drunks vs barely paid, barely professional bouncers. Oh it was on, a nice, juicy, throwdown. I remember smiling. It was time to make the donuts.
I ran in... and was side tackled and sent flying. I landed and rolled and lept to my feet. Adrenaline, children... better than the nastiest heroin.
And blocking my path, looming over me as if it was prison breakfast and I was holding the last piece of toast, was the Samoan.
So I got up and took stock of the situation. This guy never started a nip of trouble before. He was quiet, relaxed, and tipped well. This sort of aggression was uncommon for him. I rationalized that this was all a mistake. I did all this in my mind and all in a split second. I took off past him to join the fun... err... riot.
And he got right in front of me, grabbed me by my arms, and pushed me backward.
Hard.
Note: Whatever you may think of my story, whatever you may wonder just how much is real and how much is exaggerated bullshit, please believe me that the following is now 100% TRUE AND TO THIS DAY STICKS CRYSTAL CLEAR IN MY MEMORY. ONLY BECAUSE THE FOLLOWING IS A SEQUENCE THAT COULD'VE BEEN A FUN, ACTION SCENE IN ANY RESPECTABLE A-LIST ACTION MOVIE
The Samoan didn't just push me, he ran forward and took me with him, clear across to the outer edge of the outer lot, I remember his face right near mine, his teeth gritting in the effort... and they were a LOVELY set of white pearls, I must say. Then he stopped and let inertia ad velocity send me flying.
I remember saying, "WHOA!"
And I crashed into the back bar. Getting nicely doused with partially full cups of beer. The hair, my beautiful, luxurious mane had gone untouched, thank GOD.
I was askew, among empties, plastic chairs, and an overturned table. I looked at the Samoan. He stood his ground, between me and the brawl.
I got up and charged again.
He gritted his teeth, got his 350 pounds in front of me, and shoved.
And I crashed again.
Three times, each time he sent me airborne.
I looked at him, he looked back. We said nothing but he shook his head at me. That was all he needed to say. it said it all. "This ain't your fight, white boy." "I got friends in there and I don't need you fucking them up." "You just stay there nice and quiet and we'll be fine, brother."
He was there to keep me away from the brawl, away from whoever he knew who was in there. I was flattered. Little ol' me was scary enough for him to cockblock.
Oh, of course, now we were in the man zone. Motherfucking fat fuck. NO ONE was going to keep me out of this jam.
I got up slowly, feigning surrender and acting worn down. He didn't move, he was ready for anything.
So I grabbed a plastic patio chair and I tattooed the sumbitch right in the face.
He instinctively bent his head down and covered his face. I wailed the chair on his back, and kept swinging, and kept hitting.
IT WAS A FUCKING PATIO, PLASTIC, 8 POUND CHAIR!!! AS I WAILED ON HIM I KEPT ASKING, HOW THE FUCK IS THIS HURTING HIM???
Must of been the force, the anger, the rage, the Hyatte... the HYATTE!!
Finally, after 8... maybe 9... maybe 17 whacked, he dropped to his knees, head still down, back exposed, like a freak-show turtle whose shell got some weird kind of turtle cancer and rotted away, leaving nothing but slimy quivering fat saggy skin.
And I dropped the chair, and said something brilliant, yet whimsical. I think it was, "Motherfucker!!"
And I ran to him, stepped on his massive back, and stepped on and over him, JUMPED over his fat Island ass, and ran over to the brawl.
Which was pretty much over by then, except for one little piece of business.
When I got over there, the first guy I saw wearing our well-loved Sh-Booms designer jackets, was Joey. Joey was jamming with some guy. I arrived on the scene in time to watch Joey do the world's slowest back spin kick. I mean, the dude could've said the Lord's prayer in Latin... backwards, and enunciate the whole thing perfectly, and would've finished before Joey swung his foot to anything even near the guy's body. I had no choice, I started cracking up. I screamed, "JOEY, JESUS CHRIST!!" and started guffawing, hooting, hollering.. LOLing right there in the middle of the brawl. So I wasn't paying attention when someone sucker punched me on the side.
It wasn't the samoan. I shamed and tamed his ass back at the edge. It was some dude. So I did what we always did during brawls... which was both the dumbest yet the most fun part of any brawl where amateurs, both drunk and employed, did when it's a full scale street fight on the scene.
I charged in and started windmilling on his ass. Precision? What's that? Training? BWAHAHAHAHA!! Shootfighting? Negro PLEASE. I just swung my arms every which way and WAILED AWAY ON HIS LAME-ASS!!
And I windmill chased him down the block. He tried to go toe up with me, but a few lucky shots to the head and face killed the fight he had. He backed up a few steps, gave me a last look, and vanished into the night.
The fight pretty much broke up over that. The rest of the evening was cleaning up, restocking the coolers, sweeping, and then hanging out at the lot recalling the brawl and how we all kicked ASS!!
And the Samoan never came back. If he did, I would'a let him in without a problem. But we would've locked eyes. And I would have nodded to him. And I would've smiled my cocky, 24 year old, world is his oyster, baddest white boy on this block smile.
And he would've known, that he was my 350 pound Samoan BITCH.... before calling someone your bitch was cool.
Plus I would've carded him too. Damn skippy.
The end.
*****
I will answer anywhere from 15-25 comments by sunrise on Monday. That will be the next blog. Believe me or don't. Just check in.
And comment on this stuff here.
See ya's
If you can get one entry from me once every calender seven days, then you're lucky. That's just the way it is. If I say I'll be back in a few days, I'm probably lying, or believing too much from myself.
I'm flattered that some of you get so pissy about it, tho'. Maybe I should contribute to my own comment section more, at least then we can get some dialogue going and I can give more immediate answers. Give you all a reason to drop by daily anyway.
Anyway, I'm here, right now, ready to jam. THE WAIT IS OVER!!! YOUR PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED!!!!
And no more drawings. This much is obvious.
I promised tales of nudity and bouncing, but the nudity part isn't all that great a story, now that I hustled up the main plot points in my head, but now that I've started thinking back to my bouncing days, there is a whole world worth of stories which I can tell. Which I will start with tonight. Right now, in fact.
The following is 100% true... at least, as true as my memory from a 14 year old event can recall...
Tale #2: The Windmill Warriors
Show me an undisciplined gang of thugs and ruffians, but mostly part-time brothers and I'll show you a staff of bouncers at any given nightclub in any given city in any given state of our fine Union.
A good doorstaff is NOT made up of angry bodybuilders, borderline-retarded college football players, and general, immature, daddy-hating wannabe tough guys (or, as we call them in Rhode Island: Italians). No, a good doorstaff is made up of four parts smart, sensible, and mature, two parts young and cocky, and two parts big and mean. The smart, sensible, and mature ones are the ones who check ID cards, direct traffic, and try to maintain a calm environment even during a skirmish. The young and cocky ones know how to maintain a post, smile a lot, are ready to jump in if their is a problem in their area, but are mostly more interested in picking up girls then they are in being tough.
The big and mean ones are the big galoots that the smart, sensible, mature ones keep nearby, in case some muscle is needed.
Me? I was smart and sensible. At the ripe old age of 24, I wasn't an old man by any stretch, but I could spot a fake ID from a mile away (at the time, this was considered a skill), I was not into looking for fights either. My specialty was swooping in from behind, usually out of nowhere, )as many a time another bouncer would come up to be after a little skirmish and say, "Dude, you came out of NOWHERE"), wrap my arm around the troublemaker's neck (REAR CHINLOCK!!!!), drive him down with my whole body, and yell in his ear, "I'm a doorman, calm down! Easy does it. Are you okay? I'm a doorman." Then I would invite him to stand up and walk out of there on his own like a man. Most times it worked.
Once in a while, while I was on top of the rabble rouser, calming him down and showing him that his fighting for the night is over, I would have to turn around and kindly ask another doorman - either the young, cocky dude or the big and mean meathead - to please let go of the guy's leg. Daddy had it all under control.
I wasn't even the Head Doorman. That would be Joey. Joey eventually became my best friend and my roommate. More on him later.
So, that was what it was like for three nights a week for any and all doorstaffs that I was a part of. Fun was had, girls were fucked, (and oh baby, did yer ol' buddy Hi-Rate get in on some of THAT), and drunken testosterone was seething, boiling, and properly disposed of. Life went smooth, fights were broken easily, drinks continued to be poured, bootys continued to shake, and everyone had a fun time.
But once in a while, every so often, a full scale riot broke out.
The time: 1994.
The city: Providence
The club: Sh-Booms.
Doorstaff: 12.
It was summer. A tradition at Sh-Booms - which was buried just to the east of downtown, near the Brown and P.C. campuses, but not east enough to run into the trendy, European chic East Side - was to create an extended, outdoor party club by blocking off the parking lot directly behind the club, setting up cheapie bars, sticking a DJ up on the never-used backdoor elevated steps, and partying extra-large, extra-cool, all night long... or until 2:00 am weekends. The owner had a giant mural of Elvis painted on the club's back wall, creating a proper mood. The crowd had a view of the river, the statehouse, and pretty much every skyscraper the city had (1). It made Summer just that extra cool.
Hyatte, that would be me, but with a full, robust, HEALTHY head of shiny, well-coiffed hair (and with a gleam of hope and joy in my eye, long since buried by the grind of life and of little heartbreaking a-holes like YOU) was busy at the front door of the club proper sliding my finger gently over the birthdate of each and every ID that looked remotely suspicious (checking for slight indentions and holes, don'tcha know). For me, I was enjoying my time in the nightclub scene. The crowd was older then I would like, but there were still some hotties around, and some wannabes who weren't quite bad-ass enough to hold a stare-down against me.
And no, if you asked that kid who "Hyatte" was, he would've rumbled, "Who'dafuckizdat?" The wit was only starting to percolate, my friends. A seed that needed years to grow.
Well, the time was closing in on 1 a.m. and the natives were restless. I felt it in the air, as did Joey. There was a darkness over the night. We could feel it, a little tension, some hostility. There were no fights so far, hadn't been for a while in fact. We felt the time was coming, a storm of anger. People were yelling too loud, the dancefloor was hopping a bit too aggressively. It seemed that everyone was aching for a fight.
Including the doorstaff. We were kids and we mostly kept it in our pants, but... well, you got into this business to get laid and to beat up drunks, AND NOT ALWAYS IN THAT ORDER. Anyone who tells you different is a damn fool.
And of course, the best nights is when you did both.
Sh-Booms had its regulars, as did every club. And even though the club was at the tail end of its long, historic, highly profitable run, it still drew a crowd on Friday nights, regulars, hoochies, newcomers, and even a few barely legal teens still made this place a hopping summer nightspot. One of the regulars was... was...
Well, he was fat, he liked to wear Hawaiian shirts, he liked to wear his long, black hair into a traditional native ponytail. Before him, the only Samoans I had ever seen were on Television. And from there, I knew he must have had a hard head. I don't know his name, he never gave it. But he was a regular, and he would've fit right into the WWF in 1994... 04 even 1984... or even 1974.
Think a smaller Rikishi, think a MUCH smaller Yokozuna, think a fatter Umanga.
Fuck it, think either Afa or Sika, or Haku after a year of eating nothing but cake frosting.
And for all the time I worked at Sh-Booms, my second summer, he came in fairly steadily... every Friday night, with friends. He had his fun and he never started trouble. In fact, he never said a word to us. Our exchanges were bare nods. I wasn't about to card him, he was old enough. I was just amazed that he wore shoes... it was the first time I've seen a Samoan not being barefooted.
So yes, he was there, in the back lot. I was up front, griping about this or that and bullshitting with Joey and whoever else was up front with us. Probably Chuck... Chuck was a funny kid, 19 years old and about 6'5 and as awkward as a Priest at a boy scout meeting. I'll tell his story some other time. So we were bullshitting and remarking about the tension in the air (which, to be honest, was a weekly conversation) and all the girls we were banging (lied my balls off, I did), when one of the doorstaff charged, no, I say CHARGED up from the side alley and waved us over and took off quick.
Fight!!
Joey told Chuck (who was useless in a fight, to be honest) to stay at the door and MAINTAIN ORDER... because, heaven forbid, we let some 20 year old in for the one or two drinks he/she can get down before last call, and we took off to the back.
The back lot was sectioned off by wooden sawhorses and orange plastic mesh draped on top. Joey, being a semi-legit bodybuilder, vaulted over the horses with the grace of a ballerina. Hyatte, who wasn't fat by any means but... umm... fuck you... recalled an incident from a year ago where he attempted to vault over the horses and promptly wiped out on his face, taking about three sections of meshed up horses with him and one shooter waitress. Even now as I type this, 14 years later, I still bust a cold sweat recalling the humiliation.
So Captain Badass... ME... deftly slipped UNDER the mesh and, after unclogging his fucking shoe from the mesh and the Budweiser banners, and God knows what the fuck else, entered the battlefield...
Which, of fucking course, turned out to be on the other side of the club's parking lot, with the entire half of the sawhorses already down and mesh all over the place. Idiot doorman decided to take the scenic route to inform us of the chaos.
And it was chaos, a full scale riot, at least 15 people involved. Joey had already charged in. There was no breaking this shit up, it was a war... us against them, drunks vs barely paid, barely professional bouncers. Oh it was on, a nice, juicy, throwdown. I remember smiling. It was time to make the donuts.
I ran in... and was side tackled and sent flying. I landed and rolled and lept to my feet. Adrenaline, children... better than the nastiest heroin.
And blocking my path, looming over me as if it was prison breakfast and I was holding the last piece of toast, was the Samoan.
So I got up and took stock of the situation. This guy never started a nip of trouble before. He was quiet, relaxed, and tipped well. This sort of aggression was uncommon for him. I rationalized that this was all a mistake. I did all this in my mind and all in a split second. I took off past him to join the fun... err... riot.
And he got right in front of me, grabbed me by my arms, and pushed me backward.
Hard.
Note: Whatever you may think of my story, whatever you may wonder just how much is real and how much is exaggerated bullshit, please believe me that the following is now 100% TRUE AND TO THIS DAY STICKS CRYSTAL CLEAR IN MY MEMORY. ONLY BECAUSE THE FOLLOWING IS A SEQUENCE THAT COULD'VE BEEN A FUN, ACTION SCENE IN ANY RESPECTABLE A-LIST ACTION MOVIE
The Samoan didn't just push me, he ran forward and took me with him, clear across to the outer edge of the outer lot, I remember his face right near mine, his teeth gritting in the effort... and they were a LOVELY set of white pearls, I must say. Then he stopped and let inertia ad velocity send me flying.
I remember saying, "WHOA!"
And I crashed into the back bar. Getting nicely doused with partially full cups of beer. The hair, my beautiful, luxurious mane had gone untouched, thank GOD.
I was askew, among empties, plastic chairs, and an overturned table. I looked at the Samoan. He stood his ground, between me and the brawl.
I got up and charged again.
He gritted his teeth, got his 350 pounds in front of me, and shoved.
And I crashed again.
Three times, each time he sent me airborne.
I looked at him, he looked back. We said nothing but he shook his head at me. That was all he needed to say. it said it all. "This ain't your fight, white boy." "I got friends in there and I don't need you fucking them up." "You just stay there nice and quiet and we'll be fine, brother."
He was there to keep me away from the brawl, away from whoever he knew who was in there. I was flattered. Little ol' me was scary enough for him to cockblock.
Oh, of course, now we were in the man zone. Motherfucking fat fuck. NO ONE was going to keep me out of this jam.
I got up slowly, feigning surrender and acting worn down. He didn't move, he was ready for anything.
So I grabbed a plastic patio chair and I tattooed the sumbitch right in the face.
He instinctively bent his head down and covered his face. I wailed the chair on his back, and kept swinging, and kept hitting.
IT WAS A FUCKING PATIO, PLASTIC, 8 POUND CHAIR!!! AS I WAILED ON HIM I KEPT ASKING, HOW THE FUCK IS THIS HURTING HIM???
Must of been the force, the anger, the rage, the Hyatte... the HYATTE!!
Finally, after 8... maybe 9... maybe 17 whacked, he dropped to his knees, head still down, back exposed, like a freak-show turtle whose shell got some weird kind of turtle cancer and rotted away, leaving nothing but slimy quivering fat saggy skin.
And I dropped the chair, and said something brilliant, yet whimsical. I think it was, "Motherfucker!!"
And I ran to him, stepped on his massive back, and stepped on and over him, JUMPED over his fat Island ass, and ran over to the brawl.
Which was pretty much over by then, except for one little piece of business.
When I got over there, the first guy I saw wearing our well-loved Sh-Booms designer jackets, was Joey. Joey was jamming with some guy. I arrived on the scene in time to watch Joey do the world's slowest back spin kick. I mean, the dude could've said the Lord's prayer in Latin... backwards, and enunciate the whole thing perfectly, and would've finished before Joey swung his foot to anything even near the guy's body. I had no choice, I started cracking up. I screamed, "JOEY, JESUS CHRIST!!" and started guffawing, hooting, hollering.. LOLing right there in the middle of the brawl. So I wasn't paying attention when someone sucker punched me on the side.
It wasn't the samoan. I shamed and tamed his ass back at the edge. It was some dude. So I did what we always did during brawls... which was both the dumbest yet the most fun part of any brawl where amateurs, both drunk and employed, did when it's a full scale street fight on the scene.
I charged in and started windmilling on his ass. Precision? What's that? Training? BWAHAHAHAHA!! Shootfighting? Negro PLEASE. I just swung my arms every which way and WAILED AWAY ON HIS LAME-ASS!!
And I windmill chased him down the block. He tried to go toe up with me, but a few lucky shots to the head and face killed the fight he had. He backed up a few steps, gave me a last look, and vanished into the night.
The fight pretty much broke up over that. The rest of the evening was cleaning up, restocking the coolers, sweeping, and then hanging out at the lot recalling the brawl and how we all kicked ASS!!
And the Samoan never came back. If he did, I would'a let him in without a problem. But we would've locked eyes. And I would have nodded to him. And I would've smiled my cocky, 24 year old, world is his oyster, baddest white boy on this block smile.
And he would've known, that he was my 350 pound Samoan BITCH.... before calling someone your bitch was cool.
Plus I would've carded him too. Damn skippy.
The end.
*****
I will answer anywhere from 15-25 comments by sunrise on Monday. That will be the next blog. Believe me or don't. Just check in.
And comment on this stuff here.
See ya's
Monday, September 8, 2008
Pinkie and the Pain... with Pictures!!
'lo, now that TEH INNERNETS DRAMERZ is over with...
Everything here is all true
Tale #1: NAILED
Jake, my lovely parrot, likes to play during daytime hours which, according to just about everything I know about domesticated pets - and common sense, makes him a perfectly normal bird.
I, however, on my days off, like to alternate between watching TV and napping. Every so often one of the very, VERY, few girls I "date" will have the day free and we'll go shopping, or spend the afternoon fucking each other silly. It's rare, but it happens.... even to yer ol' buddy, Hy-rate.
And I mean ALL afternoon long, you sorry fuckheads.
But this ain't about that. This is about the other week, while I was busy enjoying a nice nap on the couch, Jake decided to crawl over to the end of the couch where my head was and wanted to play... and his favorite game is bite my extremities.
And this fucking bird goes right after my toes, so much so that I sometimes have to punch him to stop it. He hasn't gone after Mr Happy yet... in fact he is kind/smart enough to patiently sit far away and wait while I jack off. Only after I clean up will he come over for finger nipping and kisses and tail pulling.
So, before all this happened, my pinkie looked something like this!
Anyway, he must have picked at my fingers and made noises and tried to get me to play until he was fed up with my inactivity, because my lovely little nap was intruded upon by a nasty pain on the tip of my left pinkie finger. Said pain barged in on whatever dream I was having and TORE ME out of my sleep. I woke up and my finger was THROBBING.
Jake had attacked my pinkie and sliced through the quick of my nail, right in the middle, and sliced it up to the end. Basically, the left third of my pinkie nail was cut in half. Blood wasn't EVERYWHERE, but it was represented.
I looked at my bird, "Jesus Christ, Jake... you motherfucker."
He looked back at me and said, "Hello."
I knocked him off the couch. He had the nerve to act outraged.
Here is what that ungrateful blue and gold cocksucker did to me!!
After washing the wound down, I peeled off the smaller part of the nail, to let the quick grow back and reshape itself without anything blocking it. The pain was what it was but goddammit, I'm a MAN... I can handle pain. Shit, I've slept through major muscle cramps and woke up shocked that my calf was sore.
After clean up, I was looking quite a bit like this!
Two days later I pulled off the bandages - well, okay, the band-aid. (ALL MAN, REMEMBER!?!?) The small part which I pulled off was scabbing over nicely, but the edge of the piece I left was growing new nail crust, the white stuff, the dead skin that God puts on the end of our fingers so we can scratch lottery tickets and become MILLIONAIRES. The nail crust was heading toward the left (west) rim of my finger. I was PSYCHED... I was going to half the coolest pinkie nail in all the world!!
I was wrong. Dead wrong.
It happened at work.
There I was, kicking back at someone's desk after a hard day of (edited by author) when I noticed my pinkie finger felt strange. I examined it thoroughly, poked, prodded, pulled, and licked it all over. Then I asked Ham Slow to lick it and see if it tasted funny. She promptly filed a complaint with human resources. That's another story. Fuckin'... bitch
So then, my pinkie nail, this super cool, badass, its growing like CRAZY, was terribly, terribly loose. I could open it and close it like a door. It wasn't growing fast enough to hook into the ridgeline. It was going to be a nasty, deadly, dangerous piece of bad news that could cause unspeakable trauma.
I mean, let's face it, ever nick a black girl's choochie with a sharp piece of your untrimmed nail? You want to know PAIN, motherfucker?
I was saddened. My plan for a bad ass, cool as fuck pinkie nail was going down the tubes. I knew I needed to level the playing field. I knew I needed to control my own destiny!! I knew I had to do something only dime store torturers from Guatemala do to cursed infidels before Bruce Willis or Rambo Balboa come to save them. SO I took some deep breathes and did the unimaginable!!
And I tore the whole fucking nail right off... or at least the top half.
And... it looked like this:
So what now? I thought. Do I go through life with only half a pinkie nail? Will I be a deformed, ugly, disgusting FREAK!! (Whoa, too late) Will I never be able to dig out those little boggers out of my small nostrils AGAIN??
Well, as it turns out... the quick of the nail DOES grow back, only in layers... and scabby dead skin that flakes away... and purplish wounded skin that TURNS to grey flaky skin and flakes away.
So yes friends, Hyatte will one day have perfectly formed, long, strong, and perfect for vag manipulating fingers... until Jake gets pissed again.
And I'm sure the sumamabitch will... oh yes. This war isn't over yet.
But for now, it's back to business as usual...
The end.
What will happen now is sometime this week I will tell the naked story. Then I will share two of those juicy nightclub bouncer stories from my youth. I will also answer a ton of comments.
So that's like, a LOT of shit over the next 7 days.
For now, though, I'm going to bed.
P.S. click the pics for an enlarged view.
Everything here is all true
Tale #1: NAILED
Jake, my lovely parrot, likes to play during daytime hours which, according to just about everything I know about domesticated pets - and common sense, makes him a perfectly normal bird.
I, however, on my days off, like to alternate between watching TV and napping. Every so often one of the very, VERY, few girls I "date" will have the day free and we'll go shopping, or spend the afternoon fucking each other silly. It's rare, but it happens.... even to yer ol' buddy, Hy-rate.
And I mean ALL afternoon long, you sorry fuckheads.
But this ain't about that. This is about the other week, while I was busy enjoying a nice nap on the couch, Jake decided to crawl over to the end of the couch where my head was and wanted to play... and his favorite game is bite my extremities.
And this fucking bird goes right after my toes, so much so that I sometimes have to punch him to stop it. He hasn't gone after Mr Happy yet... in fact he is kind/smart enough to patiently sit far away and wait while I jack off. Only after I clean up will he come over for finger nipping and kisses and tail pulling.
So, before all this happened, my pinkie looked something like this!
Anyway, he must have picked at my fingers and made noises and tried to get me to play until he was fed up with my inactivity, because my lovely little nap was intruded upon by a nasty pain on the tip of my left pinkie finger. Said pain barged in on whatever dream I was having and TORE ME out of my sleep. I woke up and my finger was THROBBING.
Jake had attacked my pinkie and sliced through the quick of my nail, right in the middle, and sliced it up to the end. Basically, the left third of my pinkie nail was cut in half. Blood wasn't EVERYWHERE, but it was represented.
I looked at my bird, "Jesus Christ, Jake... you motherfucker."
He looked back at me and said, "Hello."
I knocked him off the couch. He had the nerve to act outraged.
Here is what that ungrateful blue and gold cocksucker did to me!!
After washing the wound down, I peeled off the smaller part of the nail, to let the quick grow back and reshape itself without anything blocking it. The pain was what it was but goddammit, I'm a MAN... I can handle pain. Shit, I've slept through major muscle cramps and woke up shocked that my calf was sore.
After clean up, I was looking quite a bit like this!
Two days later I pulled off the bandages - well, okay, the band-aid. (ALL MAN, REMEMBER!?!?) The small part which I pulled off was scabbing over nicely, but the edge of the piece I left was growing new nail crust, the white stuff, the dead skin that God puts on the end of our fingers so we can scratch lottery tickets and become MILLIONAIRES. The nail crust was heading toward the left (west) rim of my finger. I was PSYCHED... I was going to half the coolest pinkie nail in all the world!!
I was wrong. Dead wrong.
It happened at work.
There I was, kicking back at someone's desk after a hard day of (edited by author) when I noticed my pinkie finger felt strange. I examined it thoroughly, poked, prodded, pulled, and licked it all over. Then I asked Ham Slow to lick it and see if it tasted funny. She promptly filed a complaint with human resources. That's another story. Fuckin'... bitch
So then, my pinkie nail, this super cool, badass, its growing like CRAZY, was terribly, terribly loose. I could open it and close it like a door. It wasn't growing fast enough to hook into the ridgeline. It was going to be a nasty, deadly, dangerous piece of bad news that could cause unspeakable trauma.
I mean, let's face it, ever nick a black girl's choochie with a sharp piece of your untrimmed nail? You want to know PAIN, motherfucker?
I was saddened. My plan for a bad ass, cool as fuck pinkie nail was going down the tubes. I knew I needed to level the playing field. I knew I needed to control my own destiny!! I knew I had to do something only dime store torturers from Guatemala do to cursed infidels before Bruce Willis or Rambo Balboa come to save them. SO I took some deep breathes and did the unimaginable!!
And I tore the whole fucking nail right off... or at least the top half.
And... it looked like this:
So what now? I thought. Do I go through life with only half a pinkie nail? Will I be a deformed, ugly, disgusting FREAK!! (Whoa, too late) Will I never be able to dig out those little boggers out of my small nostrils AGAIN??
Well, as it turns out... the quick of the nail DOES grow back, only in layers... and scabby dead skin that flakes away... and purplish wounded skin that TURNS to grey flaky skin and flakes away.
So yes friends, Hyatte will one day have perfectly formed, long, strong, and perfect for vag manipulating fingers... until Jake gets pissed again.
And I'm sure the sumamabitch will... oh yes. This war isn't over yet.
But for now, it's back to business as usual...
The end.
What will happen now is sometime this week I will tell the naked story. Then I will share two of those juicy nightclub bouncer stories from my youth. I will also answer a ton of comments.
So that's like, a LOT of shit over the next 7 days.
For now, though, I'm going to bed.
P.S. click the pics for an enlarged view.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
About that next post
Day or two.
Really, REALLY busy. And pissed off.
I will tell you how I lost most of my pinkie nail, two big brawls from my bouncer days, and why my neighbor had to come over to my landlord and complain about me being naked all the time.
CAN'T WAIT NOW, CAN YA'?????
Really, REALLY busy. And pissed off.
I will tell you how I lost most of my pinkie nail, two big brawls from my bouncer days, and why my neighbor had to come over to my landlord and complain about me being naked all the time.
CAN'T WAIT NOW, CAN YA'?????
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