The Dingo vs The Daigo

I don't consider myslef an urbanite. And I sure as hell am not a country boy. I'm more of a suburbanite. I was born in New York City. However before I had a chance of becoming a Gindaloon (Racial slur for someone who's Italian) from Long Island we moved to the 6th borough. That's right the 6th. Manhattan, Staten Island, Queens, Brooklyn, Bronx and number 6. Broward County Florida.

You doubt Broward County is the 6th borough? Have you ever been down there? There is enough chest hair and gold chains for a Denny Terrio look alike contest. Broward County is where former North Easterners go to kneel out the 4th quarter of life.

I didn't live in New York long enought to tell you which Ray's pizza to go to or what train is the local and which one is the express. But I was there long enough to acquire the accent and attitude to possibly play Tony Danza if there was a Taxi remake. So with that picture painted for you of how uncountry I am let me tell you about my trip into the deep woods of Georgia.

So for Thanksgiving we went to Georgia to visit Mrs. Mexico's family. It's always a good time when we go for a visit. This trip was going to be a little diffrent. We stayed at a few of Mrs. Mexico's siblings houses. One of her sibs who's name will be withheld to protect the innocent lives deep in the sticks of Georgia. It's the type of place where you could dump a body and nobody would know. Come to think of it
Mrs. Mexico just raised my value on the life insurance.......

I also failed to mention where we were going it does not exist on our sissyfied city slicker GPS system. So we used some old fashioned navigation techniques. I was using a hand drawn map on a paper plate. I shit you not! Not only drawn on a paper plate but were given to me under a heavy dose of tequilia. Thanks be to the patron saint of maps that my cartographer( guy who reads maps) skills were keen this cold wet autum day.

So we see the entrance to the sub division. It's not what my suburban mind had pictured. It' looked more like 21st century homesteading. All that was missing was a praire schnooner, 40 acres and a mule. And the names of the "streets" (dirt roads barely wide enough for cars to pass) were Coyote Circle and Bobcat Way. They were named this because these animals live around there. I found this out later. My suburban ignoance led me to believe it was cute theme that most civilized suburbs do to name their streets.

It's actually very peacuful there. An oasis in a sea of redneck jokes. We settle in and hang out. Fabulous home cooked meal, some booze and a comfy place to sleep. Good times. However our dog made the trip with us and I had to take him outside for some relief. Prior to taking him outside, during dinner I ask my inlaws about the coyote sign in their back yard. I was told that they have deer (which I actually saw) and the occasional coyote come through the property. I was also told coyotes are respectful and have an order to them. It's the pack of wild dogs you need to be careful of. WHAT!!!!!????

Where the fuck am I? Coyotes live in the desert and buy shit online from Acme and kill roadrunners right? Or did they immigrate to Georgia because of the road runner fammine of Arizona and New Mexico? Either way I only want to see that mother fucker on tv. Oh I also have to mention the next door neighbor has a 10 foot ladder with a kitchen chair sitting up in the tree. I was thinking man this guy is still pissed over the Civil War. He has a look out still for the Union Army.

With all that in mind I now venture out into the Blair Witch like darkness that is Western Gerogia. As soon as I step outside I see what I thought was going to be the end of me and my dog. Like Brave Sir Robin in Monty Pyhton and the Holy Grail I "RUNAWAY!" I could of sworn it was a dingo! Or maybe a hyena. Whatever it was this city slicker was not going to go nose to nose. So like a chicken shit I retreat inside. I call for my sis in law and inquire about the dingo. "Oh that's Scraps!" Scraps is not a dingo? Or a wild dog? Or the chupacabra? No he was a sweet Benji looking dog that was quite affectionate. Not the rabid killer my suburbanite upbringing had painted him to be.

Friday The Jagerteenth!

Last Friday November 13, 2009 I was attacked by an intoxicant know as the German game master. I barely survived my brush with this superior woodsman. I am lucky to be alive. This ruthless licorice tasting siren seduced and betrayed me. I want to recount my horrifying brush with this atomic bomb of liquor. Hopefully my near death experience will help you avoid this predator.

It started out with excitement. It had been awhile since we've been out. I rushed home from work. Showered (it was Friday after all) and got dressed. I texted friends in anticipation of meeting them for a night of mirth. We tried to save a few dollars on shots by bringing our own. But little did we know the propellant we were bringing along was about to become extremely volatile and take full advantage of my innocence.

I met my friends at an upscale touristy location. My friends had a bit of a gleeful look in their eye. Little did I know, nor the little old ladies sitting next to us know they had already been seduced by this Northern European monster. I make a conservative choice and order a beer. So did all my accomplices. Well except one. She had no affinity for beer. But a lust for liquor. And soon I would discover, I would be cohered into the demons of this licorice elixir.

As I waited for my second round of beer I was cleverly inveigled to try this doorway potion. The cat and mouse foreplay went some thing like this..."Hey uh want a shot?" To which I bashfully said "SURE!!!!!" The bastard liquor crossed me with his cunning dialogue. I held the warm ( but should be consumed cold and suggests that it be kept in a freezer at –18°C (0°F) or on tap between –15° and –11°C (5° to 12°F)vessel inconspicuosly in my hand. I belted it down. Wincing at it's NyQuil like aura. I had entered the front door and was in the foyer of the devil's funhouse.

With beers finished we cunningly dispose of the bottles in those nice unsuspectingly little old ladies jacket. We move our caravan of shock and awe up stairs. In my head I can hear Jim Morrison singing "Oh show me the way to the next whiskey bar, oh don't ask why, oh don't ask why..... More beer and liquor for me hartties! And of course your little dark liquorice tasting friend if he's still around. Which of course he was..... One bottle is spilt amongst some friends, while the other that was passed my way is greedily guzzled. I am now in the evil clutches of this Dark Lord.

We are Oscar Mike! Up stairs to the mass transit device we go. To our next stop. A south seas location. As Douglas Nidermayer said in the great American cinema classic Animal House "We have received more than two dozen reports of individual acts of perversion SO profound and disgusting that decorum prohibits listing them here." Don't worry we will.

We find a table. Order some finger foods in hope of staving off the evils of our Norse master. Too late! Before the antidote of food could arrive, our revelers order something called "Sex With An Alligator." I must say I was enticed with the thought of bestiality. But then I realized it was the name of some sort of concoction that had that bastard in it. He shows up dressed in red. Oh my favorite color. How could I resist. We toast and it goes down easier than Hester Pryne. My friends seem to put up a struggle. They resist the temptation. I however am about to become the table's whore for this drink.

One by one my compatriots start passing their drinks to me. At first I try to put up a fight. Saying no. But as we all know, when you are being seduced no means yes. I became the pivot man in a circle jerk of shots. It was my bukkaki party and I'll cry if I want too! Then one of the revellers spouts off how hung I am do to my nationality. The the dishes and glasses are used for an impromptu Jenga game. Other patrons begin to scatter like roaches. Mother's were ear muffing their children. It was only a matter of time before security would descend on us.

I wound up being a complete whore. I drank everyone's alligators. Dirty dirty slut I am. We were laid on the way to the mass transit. Calm down they were flowers! However one of us I think was trying to turn this young man who laid us straight. We board the train and it's standing room only. One of our friends is really feeling it. Claiming their prowess with being able to do pull ups and somersaults on the handholds of the train. The Northern European miscreant was diligently at work on all of us.

We make it full circle and return to the beginning of the crime. We head to the top of the world for a night cap. I was there long enough to be tempted to lift a wine glass. Ahh another one for the collection. Quickly we get back into the elevator. Lots of looks of disgust from the other patrons. Ahh well, worth the price of admissions for that reaction.

Well how the hell do we get home? Fortunately the others were more clearheaded than me. We all pile into a car. Hope this one is ours! One of us was sober to drive. A quick 10 minute ride to another tavern. On the way some of the female revelers decide to wave to the other motorists through the sunroof. Then the interesting conversations begin. Topics such as exercise, beer and German pornography are discussed. Hmm they kind of go together.

We reach our last stop. Due to our clean living we get a spot up front. We all stumble in. This is the part of the night where things get sketchy. A side effect of this consumption are periods of blankness. I remember patronizing the waiter for his hat. Loud discussions on anal sex, Brazilian waxing and being asked to show tattoos on my legs. Then all of a sudden everybody got up from the table and left. Like a sheep I followed them all out. Not realizing you have to pay for all those drinks you ordered. I learned this when our waiter chased us for three blocks. I give him an autograph and staggered on home. Damn that was a fun night!

Um I guess it wasn't that bad of an experience. And that I was a consenting adult. And the way I was dressed I was asking to get that inebriated. Oh how I cried the next morning swearing I would never do that again. All along secretly wishing for another night of romance with licorice lover.

Network Executive For a Day

Holy shit guys. We are in some bad shape. No really we are. Most guys that watch football have some serious issues according to advertisers. Whether it's erectile dysfunction, poor stream, hair loss, heartburn or promoting shitty beer (funny thing is I think all of these are connected) they have some snake oil to sell you.

Well if the advertisers have already exposed our deficencies as nearing middle aged men that watch football, then let's go the whole nine yards with this. As I mentioned before, I think all of these commercials are connected. First off, we drink beer (and some really shitty tastelss beer) to get a little liquid courage to talk to some of the trim that frequents sports bars. Hold up a second! Would you ever talk to your doctor about erectile dysfunction? No! You would talk with your drunk buddy Smitty in the men's room stall. You're drunk talk is loud enough that the whole men's room hears Smitty say there is a guy he can call on the payphone, outside the bar, about hooking you up with some ED medicine. Sorry for going off track but we're guys and we are too fucking retarded to go the legal and safe way for hard on meds.

Ok we started with beer but I got ahead of myself. I was thirsty and wanted the DT's to stop. So here is how I would want the advertising line up to go. Did anyone else see the Reebok commercial with the chick with the nice ass? I think she was selling shoes, but who gives a shit! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCHKXICefFw) You lead off with that and it gets that inner stalker in all guys started. It sure makes you pay attention. Hey she is nagging me but is still paying attention to me! If I play my cards right, I could hook up with a cardio chic. Hmmmm. Tell me more o soothsayer.

Now we go to beer. Well, you're not quite yourself when you try to talk to extremely hot cardio chic. You need something to soothe your awkwarness. Ether! No, no commercials for Ether. But nothing glamorous about putting a wet rag of Ether over your face. But we need the ultimate equilizer. Jager! The modern day Ehter. Nope, no commercials for that either. Beer! Shitty beer, but, you do what you gotta do to have a chance to score. So you go ahead and risk a painful headache behind the eyes. You drink too much of the insert big internationally owned American beer comapny, to get a chance at sliding into the inverted triangle. And in your mind you are the clever guy from those commercials. However you are really yelling "Brady you're a cunt!" Boy that got her attention.

I said punt! No really I did. Fuck she's gone. Well what's behind door number two Monty? A goat! Fuck! I need Rosetta Stone for profanity. So we have a little too much beer. It's half time. A mad dash for the men's room and payphones to double up on bets. You run to the men's room, and all you see is the dreaded trough. No privacy. But the salty taste and the 6 year old pee pee dance you are doing makes you throw caution to the wind and pee. Hoping it's just shyness, and not a swollen prostate. Flowmax comes across the horizon. What a horrible name for a medicine that allows you to piss. But probably gives you the worst case of violent diarhea.

You run into Smitty. You compare notes on the trim situation. And complain of the eye ache you have from that 10 dollar bucket a beer. All the while the smell of somebdy's chicken nacho leftovers hangs in the air. But your a guy's guy. And nothing will take your mind off of the triangle. Not even some ass slapping stench. Smitty says getting laid will get rid of that headache. He tells you he knows a guy, who knows a guy, who was in the drunk tank with this guy that can get you some ED medicine. Make you last for hours incase you literally blow your load too early.

Now when we want this medicine the 1st thing that comes to mind is not what they advertise. A guy in his wedding day tux. A half ass jug band jamming in a road house. Then riding their bikes. Or you and a woman sitting in a bathtub out in the woods. Who the fuck came up with this shit!!!!??? And if you have an erection lasting more than four hours count your blessings! Use that thing till dust shoots out of it!

So Smitty's contact shows up. He makes the hand off. You pop this pill in the hopes it's going to bring you some mojo. However, today is just not your day. Smitty's contact has just slipped you the commercial they show late in the boradcast. Anti diarheal medicine. Now you are bound up tighter than an Asian woman's feet. Your doubled over and high pitched farting. Fucking Smitty!

We close our commercial with a camera shot of a pair of pants and underwear around the ankles.Praying for a release of a diffrent sort. One that will make you moan but with a diffrent sort of happy ending. Uttering the line "I can't believe I ate the whole thing!"