ster's adventures

Homophobia?

2006-03-13T16:30:00.000-06:00

{On the Podium of Shame}

ster: "Hear ye, Hear ye"
You: "Booooooo!"
ster: "ESPECIALLY the ENTIRE State of Texas..."
You: "Hook 'em" OR "Whoop"
ster: "I hereby denounce myself as having a homophobic experience."
You: {collective gasp}

I'm serious. The only open-minded person on the planet --- and constant speaker against ALL prejudice --- has stumbled from atop his pillar. But before I beat myself up too bad, let me explain the circumstances (insert "my excuses").

I have a gym next door to my place. Although I don't like working out, my recent fall has given me cause to use the sauna/steam room/jacuzzi.

EDITOR'S NOTE: You will be happy to know I am now "Ladder Certified" by my employer, not kidding.

Ok, so I check out the facilities. Unlike any health club I've belonged to before, the spa-like stuff is all segregated by gender. Which is just WRONG. Until today, I thought it was SOLELY because I wasn't able to check out gals in swimsuits. Nuh uh. Because the spa-like stuff is in the men's locker room, the idea of swimsuits has simply gone away.

Naked men should not be sitting next to each other in hot, sweaty places. I still believe this to be an undeniable truth, but it is NOT "homophobia." I do not FEAR naked men. Especially heterosexual men. I just don't want to see them naked, and if I have to, I would prefer they didn't sit too close.

Damn. This is really sounding closed-minded. Please note, this is just how I feel.

Back to the point, so I walk into the steam room. It is the size of a coat-closet and you can't see ANYTHING for the steam. So, I freeze. Stop. Listen. Finally, I hear "Over here!" Not knowing whether or not this is a warning or an invitation, I politely excuse myself.

A little nervous. But not fearful.

I head to the sauna, brightly-lit and empty I was suitably comforted. I went inside and used the towel to cover my FACE and not my package. Convinced that I was "ok" with this swimtrunkless world I live in.

Man, was I wrong.

I hear the door open. I keep the towel over my head and concentrate on my taffy-pulled back muscles on the hot cedar boards beneath me. From the conversation, apparently 3 men walked in. I had envisioned this to be a 3-person sauna, and with me lying flat on my back, I'm concerned how the other fellas squeezed in.

I tell myself, "Think about my back. They won't talk to me."

Wrong again. They did. Asked where I was from. I peeked from under my towel to see three OLD GUYS. Not old like me, or old like your grandparents... old like your math teacher. A little calmer. Three naked, balding old guys are no reason to instill fear in ME.

That is THREE times I was wrong. Didn't make it right.

It was at the point the conversation that one of the guys (Yeah, he had a lisp --- but that doesn't mean anything) told me that "I look pretty good for a 30-year old." That's it! I'm uncomfortable. I am CERTAIN that if all of these conditions are met, I should be:
1) I'm naked.
2) Naked old men too.
3) Closed-in 190F temperature room

NOBODY should be complimenting another man's body!!! Especially one in the room! ESPECIALLY MINE!!

My mind was spinning. I've lived in Austin for 4 years. I know gay men. I like gay men. I'm NOT a homophobe!! I live in College Station, Texas!! They're simply ARE NOT any gay men!!

I got out. Fast. I found my way back to the steam room. Alone, I gather my thoughts. I've been under a lot of stress, and I'm still a good person. Fast forward 60-seconds. Whereas ONE naked old man followed me to the steam room at stood at the entrance looking around.

Then I hear myself say "Over here!" (funny how that worked out)

Dude sat right next to me. There was more room in steam room. He was too close. He asked me how long I've been "working out."

I got up. I left. Quickly dressed. I went home. I was afraid. I was never so happy to be clothed in my entire existence. I haven't taken my clothes off since. So, I admit it. I've since had some time to think about it, and I've given myself time to change this into a learning experience.

And not fall off any more ladders. Ever.

ster

ps - pic for the few that are not sick of Chester pics!

Warning: This is GROSS. Really

2006-03-12T12:22:00.000-06:00

"Dating for Dummies." You won't believe this, but they DO have a book.I've even read a little bit. However, it is NOT helping!!! Speaking as"King of all that IS dumb," with my kingdom being primarily the VoodooLounge and "my people" being those who frequent this dive --- I thinkI'm qualified to proclaim that my dating techniques are CLEARLY flawed.Maybe you can help.

Oh yeah, and bugs in Texas are NOT small. Unrelated? Not entirely.But don't worry, I'll explain after I tell ya about this HORRIBLE date Iwent on this week.

First, she wasn't that cute. Not ugly. Just not going to be anyromantic intererest without a lot more drinking than I intended for aTuesday. We went to my favorite mexican restaurant and the conversation was NOT going well. Honestly, I wish it would've just STOPPED. You'llsee why in a second. The conversation steered toward theoft-unnecessary topic of "Past Dates." My offering? I simply spun atale of one of my previous dates that began with "Hello" and ended with,"She told me she was 18!"

Her opening salvo? Let me preface by noting this is a direct quote:"The last date I went on, the jerk masturbated in my bathtub."

*THUD*
*thud*

That sound was my chin hitting the table. Followed closely by my desire to ever date again.Things have gone horribly awry. I simply did NOT know how to handle this. I consulted my book. Nowhere in "Dating for Dummies" does it provide you a retort that is sufficient to deal with this situation. It did however mention some key topics that are NOT to be discussed. Feel comfortably assured that MASTURBATION is very high on this list.

I was shocked, unsettled, and an iddy biddy bit intrigued. I was mostly unhappy because she had COMPLETELY trumped my entire bad date story withone poignant sentence. And it was a LEADING sentence.

I did NOT want to know the rest of the story. Not to be a masterbation-basher, but SHEESH! The word is completely taboo amongst all but your closest friends, and then only with written permission. I think the ACT itself is banned in Utah.

The best response I could come up with, short of screaming "FIRE!" was"Whuh?" So, against my wishes she continued a DETAILED description beginning with the dude flogging the baby seal and calling her in towatch the grand finale. By the time she had gotten to the gory bathtubclean up details, my chimichanga had lost all appeal. Dating sucks.

Betchya you're wondering how I'm going to seamlessly segue to the Big Texas Bugs story? Bear with me.

I'll admit, I've spent WAY too much time in apartments. For approximately 10 years, I've lived in a veritably sterile environment. My apartment complexes have taken care of ALL pests. Insects, rodents,Amway solicitors... you name it.Unfortunately, my new house needs a visit from the Orkin Man. And he better be packing heat.

It was early morning. I was into my routine getting ready for the day. I was getting into the shower, (yes, THAT shower) and I found it wasalready occupied. My first ever cockroach. And it was a DANDY.

Fully the size of many household pets, "Big Nasty" was unimpressed with myfinding him.. The thing that really "bugged" me (pun intended) was that the roach was NOT intimidated by ME. That is just wrong. Bugs should not exhibit bravery. So I shrieked. Threw on a towel and went to my roomie (still sleeping) for help. Seeing as how it was HIS house, I figured it was HIS responsibility to kill it. I was wrong. If the bug was found in HIS shower, it would be HIS responsibility. I think he added a slurred "Screw you" for good measure.

I had limited options. I wasn't prepared. I checked my bathroom and the most threatening choice I had was Shower Cleaner. It kills "germs, soap scum, and bacteria." Certainly Big Nasty was vulnerable to it. Not a chance. I doused him with half the bottle. Chemical warfare was uneffective. I think he liked it.

Remembering an episode of "Three's Company" whereas Tripper killed athreat to their house with a shoe, I found a weapon. Armed with a Reebok, I pounded Big Nasty. Twice. I was most surprised with the sheer density of the bug. It felt like hitting a jawbreaker. The first shot pissed him off, the second blow cracked the bugger (pun!) open. He basically exploded. Innards EVERYWHERE. Mixed with the shower cleaner, I made a "Big Nasty Stew" that was definitely of the chunky variety. It wasn't a pleasant or quick mess to clean up... but I can think of WORSE ONES!

See? Bathtub messes. Bugs and Jerk-offs. Congrats to me!

ster

The Shower Incident

2006-03-11T17:50:00.000-06:00

My shower exploded this morning... more on this later.

This weekend was interesting. Dating-wise, I think I might be heading
for a level of infamy that is seldom achieved without a the word
"scandal" tagged to it.

First, I dumped Tats. Hard. Three times. Twice on the phone. Why
twice? The first one didn't take. I NOW know that when girls have
suggested to me that "we just be friends," they MEANT "go away or I'll
have to pretend I don't know who you are." Ignoring my almost-pleasant
attempts to sever ties via SW Bell, she found me at a bar Thursday
night and did her best impression of my shadow. I considered using heavy
explosives, but settled for legally changing my name to "Notwith Tats."
It was a bitch, but she's gone now. NEXT!

So then I went out Friday and threatened to put a quick end to my life.
Have I ever mentioned Karen? Well, she's great. Really cute and very
personable. I've mugged down on her a couple random times at random
bars at different random strata of inebriation.

Friday was no different. This is a good thing, right? Nuh uh. Two
problems. One, she is 6'0". That is the equivalent of 3 solid inches
of nearly palpable insecurity. I'm not tall. I know this. Apparently
she doesn't. I've seen pictures of us together. Have you ever seen
Sonny and Cher? I'm a bushy mustache short of singing "I've Got You
Babe."

The other problem? She has a boyfriend. Not always, but often. You
know the type, the "has-a-boyfriend-but-they-break-up-once-a-week-type." So, being the
newly-cautious fellow I am, I ASKED. Point-of-fact, "Karen, do you
have a boyfriend?" She said, "No, we broke up." I said, "then bend down
here and kiss me!"

She did. Life is good. Then her boyfriend showed up. Life started
sucking. I can't wait for the time that she forgets to mention her
dynamic relationship and dude (who is a full Sonny taller than I am)
shows up and uses my head like Gallagher uses watermelons. I start
reconsidering my break up with Tats... only to quickly reconsider that
reconsideration. The dating world is evil and full of liars...
excluding ME of course.

Remember Ruby? The married gal? Well, she called at 1am on Saturday.
Note, there is very little that a person could possibly want to talk
about at 1am. I know, because I make phone calls at 1am. I think the
approved topics are limited to "sex" and "my car is broken down, I need
a ride."

Ruby's car is fine.

That means that I'm one step removed from being a "bootie-call." Since
I wasn't home to answer the phone, I was able to avoid a potentially
messy moral dilemma. Drunk as 37 emus playing battleship, would I
allow for this oh-so-clear breach of dating etiquette? Doubtful, but always
put $2 on the long shot.

Back to my shower exploding.

So one problem I have with my new house is that MY bathroom (unlike my
roomie's) doesn't have a shower. Just a bathtub. I'm guessing from
the odor that the old people that lived here weren't big on showering.
Unfortunately, I AM.

So, doing his best Jeff Spicoli impersonation from Fast Times, my
roomie says, "I've got this killer set of a tools... I can fix it." In his
defense, he DID try. He spent $9.95 at Home Depot on this contraption
that is essentially a condom attached to a garden hose. Essentially,
it wraps around the bathtub faucet and funnels the water to a sprinkler
that mounts to the wall.

Apparently, the designer forgot to add LOTS of DUCT TAPE to the
do-it-yourself installation kit. To put it quite simply, water doesn't
compress. I didn't make up the laws of hydrodynamics, I just follow
them. So, as you increase volume of water going through an orifice,
you increase the pressure. Something has to give.

This morning, my new-and-improved shower "gave" until it hurt. Me.
The rubber mounting had sufficient pressure built-up behind it to BLOW OFF
with an almost comical *POP* sound and a flying superball-like funnel
clubbing me in the knee-cap. Ouch.

So there I sit. Holding my knee-cap, caustic soap dripping into my
eyes, searing my contacts like a pre industrial LASIK surgery guinea
pig. It is this point that ALL logic goes out the window. Blind as a
bat, I try to RE-ATTACH the funnel so I can get the soap out of my eyes
and hair. Not smart. Remember that little dutch kid that tried
plugging the dike with his finger? I hope the mental picture is as
vivid as my memory. Water is spewing everywhere EXCEPT on my head.

I finally give up the ridiculous attempt and try something EQUALLY
impossible. I begin to crane my neck under the spigot to rinse my eyes
and hair. You know the joke about "if I could give myself a blow job,
I'd never leave the house?" Similar concept. Similar results. I
think I might have cracked a couple vertebrae and I still have at least two
ounces of Pantene affixed to my scalp.

Why do I have a feeling this is not going to be a good day? My
birthday is Sunday, send me Bob Vila and a shower cap.

ster

Bongo Naked

2006-03-10T16:32:00.000-06:00

So, I am to meet seven of my friends from Seattle in Vega$. Long story
short, it takes me 21 hours to get to Las Vega$ from Austin. No, I did
not take a camel. Thank you very much to American Airlines for routing
me through Chicago after bumping me off my flight.

Chicago, for those without an atlas, is NOT "on the way" to Vega$ from
Austin. And the SEVEN HOUR unscheduled layover was a treat. Airport
time is the slowest incremental measurement of time in the known
universe. There is only SO MANY ways you can plot a screaming child's
death before it becomes boring.

Children should not be allowed on airplanes without trigger locks
installed to their mouths.

So I arrive in Vega$ at 3:30am. WIDE AWAKE. My internal alarm clock is
ringing "BLACKJACK!!!" Blackjack is crack. You can't stop playing even
if you tried. I sit down at a table and one of the drunk crackjack
players asks me, "heyyy dude, wherrr ya frommm...?" Smelling the
pre-vomit, I shrug out, "Austin."

"BONGO NAKED DUDE!!!!" *thumps the crackjack table*

Californians. Can't live with them. Can't shove a stick of dynomite up
their nose. And a special thank you to Mathew McBonghehey (sp?) for
making THAT what Austin is known for in California.

I was staying at the Rio, and they have some of the ugliest blackjack
dealers I have ever seen. It is amazing how ugly a person has to be to
get demoted down the Vega$ food chain to "Blackjack dealer, 4am shift."

I think the progression goes, "waitress-stripper-whore-blackjack
dealer-Oprah." Something like that.

So the ugly blackjack dealer is ALSO the unluckiest wench ever. In a
matter of 2 hours I am up about $700.00. Of course, 3 hours after that
I am only $400 up, but the Californian has left and that is "Cool...
Dude."

It is 10am. I haven't slept yet. No need. My friends are starting to
wake up, we hit the buffet. For $14.95, The Rio will slay a spotted owl
and serve it alfredo, delicately poured over a cloned sheep. Nice
buffet.

It is after brunch that things get ugly. And I don't mean Oprah.

My friends start goading me into drinks. I haven't slept, but I've had
my full of crackjack and Rum & Coke is an excellent stimulant. Five
"stimulants" later, we are at a strip club. It takes quite a few drinks
for me to enjoy a strip club. "Quite a few" in this case is about 15.
At one point I remember looking at the table in front of us and seeing
19 drinks and 8 bare breasts. Life is good.

We bumble out of the strip club about 9pm. We hit the hotel for a quick
change and shower. Strippers smell nice, but smell a LOT. And they
leave about a gallon of nasty stripper perfume all over your lap...
errrrrr, I mean FRIEND'S lap. Sorry Mom.

We are sterilized and drunker than 37 emus-playing-craps by 10pm. We
head to the Venician and their swank night club, "C2K." I don't know
what C2K stands for I and I don't care. Just serve me $8 drinks and
throw a bunch of near-naked drunk women INTO your club, and I'm there.

This is where we start to break rules in a town where there ARE --- NO
--- RULES. I don't even think they have LAWS. If you've seen the
strippers, you KNOW the law of gravity has at the very least been
suspended.

It is 12:30am and I'm popping No-Doz like they are Tic Tacs. I'm
CHEWING them. Pulverized caffeine, mixed with enough alcohol, is the
equivalent of pure heroin. My eyes are GLOWING and my heart was doing
the macarena.

I find three blonde swedish women. I'm not kidding. With a drunken
lisp and a caffeine-induced facial tic, I order these women to "cut out
thaaaat stupid ack---sent, I know ya are jusssst trying to sound cool!"

Passports don't lie. They were from Sweden and I now know how to say,
"Screw you jerk-off" in swedish. For some reason, the gals take a
liking to me and it is at this time that I do something that I have
NEVER done before.

I drink a cute girl ugly.

No. I didn't mix that up. I know, normally if I have enough to drink,
I lose some of my natural genetic filters that allow me to SEE ugly. I
have a pair of beergoggles, that I can pull down like a visor,
permanently-affixed to my temples.

Saturday night, they broke.

After about 35 hours without sleep, about $200 worth of rum and cokes,
and enough No-Doz to choke a full-grown grizzly bear... something
snapped. One of the swedish gals decides that I'm not such a bad guy.
One of my friends tried to convince me that I should "go for her." I
told HIM that, "I ain't gonna 'go-fer' any gal 'dat ugly."

He thinks I'm crazy. It's 3am and I'm convinced that he is trying to
screw with my skittle-sized mind.

He keeps prodding. I finally cave and dance with her. I make out with
her. I can't wait to get away from her. Really. She's heinous. My
friend is sticking to his "she's cute" story the whole night. My other
friends are selling the same story the next morning. I ain't buying it.

I just developed the pictures from our trip. She was cute. THAT is how
drunk I was. At 4am, I leave the club and taxi drivers won't even stop
for me. I must've looked like fur ball that a drunk white tiger
coughed-up. Ugh.

I wake up on Sunday and pray for an early death. I'm face first on the
couch and I'm not even sure we HAVE a couch. I would trade my manhood
for a Vicodin. But at least I'm alive. Another Vega$ trip down,
another mental scar gouged into my moral fortitude.

My roomie is heading to London for a "Korn" concert tomorrow. He won
the trip from a local radio station. He's bringing his brother. Me?
You aren't going to believe this, but I'm going BACK to Vega$ on
Friday. My sis is going to be there and I wouldn't miss it for the
world. Maybe Helga will still be there!

And I promise to do something stupid.

ster

ps - the pic is me "and da boyz." Would YOU let that motley crew in
YOUR limo?

Vega$ II, the Electric Boogaloo

2006-03-09T20:35:00.000-06:00

Ugh. I'm SO sick. Sick of Vega$. Metaphor aside, I'm seriously
hurting. What was I thinking? Vegas twice in two weekends? $atan
would be proud. I'm beat. Screw that, I'm clinically dead. Suffice it
to say, next weekend is going to be somewhere that is NOT Vega$. I'm
going to stay home and lick my wounds. How I'm going to lick my brain
is still a myStery.

Last weekend, I was painting Sin City red with the boys. This weekend,
I was with the girls. ALL of them. My sister, her friends, my friends
from Austin, and their friends from Cleveland. Almost exclusively
women. 15 women to be exact.

That is a lot of estrogen.

But I'm a trooper. We arrive in Vegas about 3pm on Friday. That gives
me seven hours of advanced drinking before we go out. Unfortunately, I
take FULL advantage of this time to reconnect my ass to a chair at a
blackjack table. Felt good too. Like a glove. Like a
cigarette-smelling, rum-and-coke-dripping, double-8-dealing faux leather
glove.

It is at this table that I meet a waitress that I will NEVER forget.
Maude, the Bad-ass Biker-bitch from Mars.

I really only sat down at the blackjack table in order to get a comped
drink, so I was delighted when almost immediately this attractive older
woman in a french maid-like uniform takes my order. It is at this point
I do a double take. This is NOT an attractive woman. I don't even know
WHAT this is. From a distance, you didn't notice the actual DEPTH of
this woman's make-up. This tart had enough spackle on to caulk a hot
tub. I know, "Who cares, she's bringing free booze!?! Shut up and
drink."

I get that. I drink that.

But about 6 rum and cokes and 12 hands of blackjack later, I start to
notice the disturbing trend... this waitress meant business. Drinks, in
those iddy biddy 6oz casino glasses, were coming FASTER than I could
drink them. Please note, in all my years of drinking, a waitress has
NEVER been able to take my order as fast as I could drink my order.
Especially inVega$. EXTRA especially in those iddy biddy glasses.

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Iddy biddy glasses of rum and coke, in large
enough numbers, CAN kill you.

I wonder out loud to the table, "how can Maude be so efficient AND so
attractive?" She takes this not-so-well. Maude issues a challenge.
She lets me know, in no uncertain terms, that she is "ON IT."

Like there is a grading system, and she is bucking for extra credit?
Remember, I just wanted a free booze. I completely space off my
blackjack games. I'm concentrating on my drinking. The dealer starts
concentrating on kicking my ass. By any account, Maude was the clear
and decisive winner.

My Dad once told me that I didn't know the value of a dollar. I NOW
know the value of $230. Thirteen rum and cokes, three COMPLETELY
unneccesary "double downs," and a waitress with an attitude.

Sour grapes? Probably. Was she still ugly? Definitely.

So it is 10pm and I am well-oiled. I fetch the women from their
primping.

ALL the girls I went with are GORGEOUS. None will sleep with me.
Ever. But I do decide that I simply MUST HAVE one of the Cleveland
women. She was really cute but talked REALLY funny. People from
Cleveland have the WORST accent. The nasally-phonyms were annoying, but
I wasn't leaving Vega$ without throwing myself at her. LET'S PARTY!!!

So the bunch of us head to the Luxor night club, "Ra." You'd think for
the $15 cover, they could afford another letter. C2K only charged $10,
and they even had a number. The doorman recognizes me, sees the company
I'm keeping, assumes I've got a drunken-idiot for a twin brother.

So I pounce on the Cleveland gal. She put up a struggle, but when she
started making out with another guy, I knew she was just trying to make
me jealous.

So I start scamming on the rest of the bar. Then I remember what my
buddy told me last weekend.

EVERY woman in Vegas is a "pro."

Simply put, THAT means I can have ANY woman in the bar. For a price.
And seeing as how I have 73 bucks left, I don't think even Maude would
sleep with me. But I'm drunker than 13 hippos playing pinochle, so I go
back to hanging out with the girls.

The girls are all dancing with each other. I jump in. It is at THIS
point I start stealing dance moves.

No, not from Gregory Hines or even Vanilla Ice... I choose to copycat my
best friend Dave. Dave is a VERY BAD dancer. But he is fun to watch.
PLUS, he always looks like he is having a good time. So, since the last
memory I had of partying in Vega$ is WITH Dave, my stupor took on a
Dave-flavored salsa-styled jig.

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Cleveland women would think Dave dances like
a dork.

New strategy. Everybody in Ra is wearing some sort of neon glow stick.
I decide to get everybody a glow wand/stick/necklace. I double wrap one
of the necklaces around my friend's arm. Make a note, THIS is a bad
idea. An hour later, my friend --- put delicately --- explodes? She is
COVERED in glowing-blue Predator blood. Dripping this Plutonium-239 goo
from her gown, I go to her rescue. Somehow, some of it gets on my
fingers... then to my mouth. How this happens, I don't have a clue.
All I DO know is that I have irridescent fluid on my tongue.

Pre-emptive rhetorical question: "Hey, I wonder if "glow stick goo" is
going to taste worse than ANYTHING in the known universe?"

That pretty much put an end to my night. It was 3:30am. My sis had
left, my glowing friend was ready to head home. I just wanted my
stomach pumped.

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Going to Vegas will make you want to have
your stomach pumped.

ster

Ps - the pic is me and two of the fifteen gals that I went with. Life
sucks, right?

Pps - Yeah, I know I only covered one night. My therapist says that if
I try REALLY hard to forget, the sinning doesn't count.

Dear Santa

2005-12-19T17:27:00.000-06:00

Mr. Christopher Cringle
100 Reindeer Lane
North Pole

Dear Santa Claus,

I know it has been awhile. I haven't written you since I was 8 years
old and asked you for an Atari 2600. Yeah, I know you are too busy to
be delivering me the PlayStation 2 with all the truly deserving little
brats out there. Besides, I don't have a fireplace and don't like old
dudes visiting in the middle of the night.

So, I just assumed that your email addy was at AOL because old people
keep AOL even after they realize it costs more and sucks. If this is
misaddressed? Quit pretending you are somebody you are not.

First and foremost, please do not forget to get all my friends and
family what they want. This is important as I am deathly afraid of the
mall. I went yesterday. My mind in a haze of twirling candy canes and
the echo of commerically-designed Xmas songs, I tripped over a bench
(decorated like a present) and nearly killed a mall elf. Not at the
same time though. The trip was accidental, the "elficide" was entirely
intentional and nearly a full hour later.

With that request out of the way, I have a few smaller requests:

Give me a President. I don't know how government works at the North
Pole, but here it sucks. Simple request: Tell all Americans that the
Republicans cheated and that the Democrats need to quit whining about
it. Then appoint Harrison Ford President of the United States. His
movies don't suck and everybody seems to like him.

Get Brittney Spears in Playboy. The time has come. The little tart is
just DYING to shed those leather pants and I find it morally
reprehensible that they may wait until she is age 50 and broke to do
it. (See: Farrah Fawcett)

Kill Regis Philbin. Now. Please.

Give me a stock tip. Really, any ol' stock will do. I've tried
EVERYTHING. If I buy a company, it goes south. Automatically. My IRA
is single-handedly sending us into a recesssion. I've tried every
system. I even tried, "stock-the-name-of-my-friends-cat." It was
named
"Dell." Too bad it wasn't named "CSCO."

Find me a rich, caring, and honest girlfriend. Notice that I did NOT
ask for "attractive" to be included. I've tried dating hot chicks.
Too
many other guys want them. Nopes, just give me a nice rich gal so I
can
quit my job, start a family, get fat and find a mistress.

Lastly, I want my memory back. See, I KNOW I've done some REALLY bad
things and could learn some VERY good lessons from them.
Unfortunately,
I am almost exclusively DRUNK when these alleged things happen. I
always wake up with an Etch-a-Sketch brain that magically shakes the
slate dry.

I know, you are "busy." But if you get the chance, I'd appreciate the
help.

ster

Oh, and by the way, thanks for the Atari!

Santa Parties

2005-12-06T17:25:00.000-06:00

Santa Parties. Yeah, I know that "Parties" is poor grammar and not a
verb, but I'm tired. But, this IS kinda funny. Remember my letter to
"santaclaus@aol.com?" Well, he/she/they responded, it was unexpected
and maybe a little unsettling. You decide:
____________________
Dear ster,

Merry Christmas! Rudolph, and Mrs. Claus say "Hello."
Thanks for letting me know what you want this year! I've got to say,
however, that your Christmas list is quite different from the other
lists I get from girls and boys! Thanks for letting me know what you
want this year! I always find getting letters like yours extremely
helpful, since it helps to give me a better idea of what you and other
people just like you want for Christmas. About finding you a girlfriend
and that Britney Spears stuff -- your wish, however, is a little more
complicated than a toy, making it a little harder for me to pull
through. Please remember that if you do not get exactly what you
wished
for, it doesn't mean I didn't try my hardest!

Now, remember to be good all year round -- my elves and I are always
watching!

Santa
Mrs. Claus, the elves, and the reindeers =)
_____________________________

So, somebody read that damn thing, took it serious enough to respond,
and then threw-in a subtle threat with that "elves watching" thing. So
Santa parties and digs Britney Spears? Pedophilia and Xmas. Ya gotta
love it.

Ok, I admit it. I'm confused. I've got Sunday's paper in my hand(s)
and I THINK that it is saying that George W. will be my next president.
Not because more people voted for him, but because the USA couldn't
give
a rip anymore and the Supreme Court(s) has decided we should be paying
more attention to Ally McBeal then to all this political hullabaloo
(not
a word I've EVER used before, just sounds like something that Strom
Thurmond would say).

Read my lips. No more new recounts. Just make Harrison Ford President
and Michael Jordan Vice Pres. Not one person in this country would
oppose.

My only question is HOW IN THE HELL did Jeb Bush SCREW this up THIS
bad!?!? George W. owes Jeb a wedgie. Big time.

And I also want to know where Madonna got that BIG ASS gap between her
front chompers. That's new, right?

Right now I'm eating egg nog on Capt. Crunch. That makes me either 1)
stoned or 2) REALLY really lazy (I'm out of milk). You decide.
Regardless, it tastes awesome and it is REALLY chilly outside.
Yesterday, volleyball weather. Today,
make-do-with-what-is-in-the-fridge weather.

What about the weekend? Ok, but I should warn you that it is a tad
fuzzy.

I can tell you that due to the gaseous permeability of my contact
lenses, I have absorbed enough cigarette smoke that they are acting
much
like the Nicotine patches that people love. Except that that they are
stuck to my eyes like Saran wrap.

And I have my car back. Das Cabrio ist sehr gut. I know, who
cares!?!?

I've been going out WAY too much. I think I need another hobby. I
went
out Thursday, Friday, AND Saturday.

Thursday night we went to the "Last Chance for Romance" party at
Momo's. That pretty much sucked as I was unable to find any romance.
Just some sleezy older ladies and a nasty hangover.

Friday night I went to "Ropers" which is a Kicker bar where even
sleeziER and oldER women hang out. I hooked up with the same gal that
I
hooked up with the LAST time I was there. What a great concept...
wouldn't it just be GREAT if you could have a regular girlfriend and
any
number of different bars? No? You're right. That is sick and wrong
and I apologize. {crosses fingers}

Saturday night was little more interesting in that I set an all-time
precedent. What could I POSSIBLY have done on 6th St. that I hadn't
done before, EVER?

Well, I working really hard on this one gal at Elements. It is a
pretty
swanky N.Y. poser club. Lots of lights, over-priced drinks, and women
baring their midriffs. All the stimulation you want in a bar. I
distinctly remember the hispanic gal that I was making out with looked
a
LOT like Jennifer Lopez. Granted, my FOOT probably looked a lot like
my
ASS to me... but normally my beer goggles are FAIRLY accurate... just
skewed toward the better.

I just got the pics back. Not only was she NOT attractive, but she was
ASIAN. Never before have my beer goggles dynamically effected
somebody's ethnicity. Ever. I'm quite impressed with myself. I'm
just
surprised I didn't act out the Kristi Yamaguchi fantasy beer goggle
that
I patented years ago.

Maybe I should just go now. You know where to find me...

ster

The Little Things That Make Me Happy

2005-06-13T17:44:00.000-05:00

I'm 12 days into June and I only have two drinking days left.

That is a daunting statement. I'm staring at that sentence and
wondering if I could find a crack dealer. I've never even seen crack
before, I don't even know if they still make it, but I'm guessing it'd
make an effective substitute for making me fall down a lot.

Oh, this just in --- I fall down a lot. AND I lost my milk. I'll
explain that further if I get a chance... promise.

Quick breakdown of the weekend. Picture RAIN. Lots of RAIN. It RAINS
harder in Austin than anywhere on planet earth. The RAIN here pours so
hard it HURTS. So, this weekend was essentially ster vs. Mother
Nature. The victor? Ma Earth in a torrential downpour. BUT, Steve
and
I built an ark and found our way downtown both nights. Nobody goes out
when it rains. The first night we watched senior citizens sing karoke.
'Nuff said. We paddled our ark back home.

The second night was not without incident.

First and foremost, do you remember the 6' tall gal that I have NO
business making out with? Well, we were back in business. She dumped
her boyfriend (again) and wound up falling for some of my really bad
lines (again). Fortunately, she didn't literally "fall" though.
Another of my friends wasn't as fortunate.

Ok, I confess. I like to dip. Not (just) chewing tobacco. I like to
dip women. Almost exclusively when I'm a dancing. My reason? I'm a
bad dancer. And I KNOW this... after this weekend there is an OFFICIAL
MORATORIUM on my dipping of women. It is official because there was a
vote. Of the 5 women I dipped this weekend, the vote was 5-0 for me to
NEVER be allowed to dip again.

But I at least know the origin of the word "dipshit" now. It starts
when begin "dipping" a gal and then forceably exclaim "ohhhh SHIT!"

Yeah, I dropped one of my best friends. Hard. She's still pissed.
Rightfully so I guess. Dancing is not supposed to be an X-treme sport.
I don't even know exactly how it happened. I'm normally a pretty good
dipper. I do know that our legs got tangled, in a very unproper way,
and we fell. The tangled legs made it impossible for me to get back
up. Yup. We had fallen and couldn't get up.

If you don't think that is funny... you are not alone. I'm gonna be
doing a lot of dogsitting to make up for that, my final dip.

I was just thinking how fortunate my friends are that the "ILOVEYOU"
virus never found it's way to my computer. Do you have ANY idea how
fast I would *click* on an attachment that said "ALOVELETTER4U?"

For ME? Yes, I would like to read that. Twice.

And AFTER I had sent little viral code to each of my friends --- Twice?
I would try to open that attachment AGAIN and AGAIN. I'd be like a
love
letter junkie.

I would LOVE a love letter. I think the last love letter I got --- and
NO, those stupid web-greeting cards don't count --- was during my
sophomore year in college. Stacy Parker, from my home town and just a
senior in high school, put together one of the most elaborate love
letters ever written. Complete with glitter, cut-out pictures, and I
think... a spritz of perfume.

I still have that letter. I break it out every year or so, just to
remind me what it feels like to have somebody REALLY care. Two weeks
later we broke up. But she can't have the letter back!

(Please note, I don't use MS-Outlook. According to the newspapers,
that
is analogous to being a crack-smoking, heroin-shooting,
gay-transvestite
who is alergic to latex, and asking, "Would you sleep with me?" So
you
won't be getting one of those viruses from me. Promise.)

Besides loveletters, I've decided that there are a lot of little things
that make me happy. Sno-cones. Grape Kool-aid. An afternoon off
work. Women wearing belly-shirts. My favorite baseball team on T.V.
That Katrina and the Waves song, "Walking On Sunshine." Finding my
sunglasses.

Wait a minute. Belly-shirts are MUCH better than ANY of those things.

One thing that does NOT make me happy is losing my milk. No, that is
not a metaphor. I actually LOSE MY MILK a lot. I just did it. I had
a
glass of milk. Now I do not. No idea where it could possibly be.
I've
retraced every step in my house. No milk.

Actually, LOSING my milk isn't so bad. It is FINDING my milk that
makes
me grumpy. Because, no matter how good of a job of losing my milk that
I do, I always wind up finding it eventually. This is a bad thing.

See, I've already given up the search for this particular milk. I just
got another glass. And I know it won't be (too) many days that pass
before that peculiar olfactory experience, that IS the discovery of my
lost milk, occurs.

No more crying over lost milk. I'm gonna start thinking of new and
interesting ways of finding loveletters and belly shirts. A
rededication of sorts. I'm now officially dedicated to getting a
loveletter from a girl in a belly shirt. And I only have two more
nights of drinking to do it. And no more dipping!

Wish me luck. And hope my roomie doesn't find my milk first.

ster

Survivor

2005-03-09T12:12:00.000-06:00

I am a total sell-out. I admit it. I have given in to Corporate
America and all that they stand for.
If they are selling it, I’m buying it. Two of ‘em. Please give me
more.

Yeah, I’m talking about “Survivor.” The compelling testosterone-ridden
amalgam of The Real
World meets Gilligan’s Island. I love it. Can’t NOT watch it. I’m
serious. I actually caught
myself rescheduling my day yesterday so I could set my butt down on the
couch and gawk at a
bunch of idiots who volunteered to get banished to a hell-on-earth with
the remote chance of
getting their grubby (literally) little hands on a million dollars.

Is a million dollars still a lot of money? I think so. But ever since
Regis started shelling it out like
so many gummi bears, I’ve had my doubts.

Who cares? I’m still gonna watch. As a matter of fact, I’m buying it
ALL. Everything. I love
selling out. I’m heading to the Gap right now. After that? I’m going
to buy the soundtrack to
Mission Impossible 2 and a Pokemon Happy Meal. Thank you Big Brother,
and “Yes, I would
like another.”

It has taken me a little while to throw my entire life away, but I’m
making up for lost time. I’m
actually having homicidal tendencies toward the fat-ass Anti-Christ
“Richard” on the show. And
“Colleen?” DAMN. What is scary is that Colleen has been on this stupid
island for 28 days
without a razor, shampoo, make-up or even that sparkly glitter cream
that strippers wear ... and she is STILL hotter than ANY gal I've EVER
dated. Screw it. I'm making a raft and floating my ass to the South
China Sea, I'm gonna fish for some stupid Cuban kids floating out there
while I'm at it ...

And here is what is REALLY pissing me off right now. I've been looking
forward to the skin
flick "Coyote Ugly" for about two months now. In the commercials they
just keep showing hot
chicks dancing on bars. By definition, this is my perfect movie combo
right? It is rated PG-13.
Ya gotta be kidding me. I'm 2 1/2 times older than I need to be to see
this stupid movie. I'm
gonna watch X-Men and have some screwy dreams about a chick with blue
scales.

So what is new other than selling my self to The Man? Oh, let’s see...

First, I’m cursed. Big time. Don’t believe me? Well, give me a second
here. Friday night,
everything is normal. I’m making out with a 40 year-old in hot pants at
Polyesters at 3am.
Nothing new here. However, my exit was EPIC.

(I should note that this recount is ENTIRELY second-hand. I don’t
remember anything. But to
my buddy’s credit, considering the evidence, it sounds credible.)

To hear my buddy tell the story, I pointed myself toward the entrance
(not exit) of Polyesters and
against the warnings of the doorman, continued out toward the street.
Sounds fair enough. It is
here where my memory gets a little fuzzy. The way I understand it,
Polyesters entrance is
RAISED about 2 feet off the street on a pad of concrete.

In retrospect this is good information. Why? Because in my stupor, the
only thing that I see is
the life-giving roof-light of a taxi, BEGGING to be hailed. I hailed.
He stopped. I dropped. I’m
licking asphalt at high speed.

Again, my buddy is telling me the story, but I guess I fell hard and
fast. This is where those silly
laws of physics come into play. Somehow I had to absorb all this new
kinetic energy that I had
picked up on my descent. Most of it wound up as friction on my poor
khakis and my newly-
charred knee. Ouch. Some of this energy went into a nifty scab on my
palm and the REST went
into a not-so-coordinated ROLL. Yup. I rolled up on to this taxi cab
and without skipping a beat
said “Home please.” and “Ouch.”

Ok, so my life sucks AND my left knee isn't symmetrical with my right
knee anymore. Not
enough whining for you? Don’t worry, we are just to Saturday. I’m
still dogsitting Cole, a black
lab. It is still 100+ degrees out and this dog ain’t reflecting any
heat. He just keeps sweating.
Somebody told me that “Dogs don’t sweat, they pant.” If this is true,
Cole has the smelliest
tongue EVER. The dog-stink was not confined to the room he was in, it
actually carried at least
two to three airspaces from wherever he was. At one point he stunk up
the garage. That is no
small task, I’ve tried to do this myself.

So I start up my first ever dog washing facility in my bathroom. Just
to make sure, I asked my
roomie if there was any trick to washing dogs. My shampoo says “not
tested on animals” and the
last thing I wanna do is get PETA peeved by chemically scarring poor
Cole. He tells me no
worries.

Long story short — too late — my bathroom is a disaster area, three
towels are ruined, , the dog
still stinks and it looks like I tried to stuff a Furbee into my shower
drain.

Still not convinced that I’m cursed? One last story for ya then. Hey,
I’ve been slouching lately,
give me some room, OK? Thanks.

Consider THIS my new personal ad:

“SWM seeking cute blonde gal with great eyes, tight jeans, slow drawl,
and a penchant for
SWERVING into my lane”

Yeah, you guessed it. The Cabrio is kaput. This is the first time I’ve
wrecked my car since I was
in high school and that doesn’t count ... drinking and driving was a
sport back then and the car(s)
belonged to my parents anyway.

The details? Simple. Cabrio going 45 mph in one lane. Stupid bitch
going left from the right
lane. Cabrio bounces off Stupid bitch and careens into median.

When you get into a relatively serious accident, you are forced to pause
and consider your
mortality... Uh, wait a minute, the chick that hit me was CUTE!!!
Whiplash schmiplash. I just
want this gal’s digits. Irony of ironies is that in Texas it is the LAW
that she gives me her phone
number! Finally, I catch a break.

Not so fast. Stupid bitch isn’t from here and she lies to her insurance
company about the cause of
the accident. Fortunately, I have pictures and a cop as a witness.
I’ll try to keep you updated as
my neck heals. I’m still trying to figure out how to blame the scab on
my knee on the accident.

ster

Kissing Thresholds

2004-04-22T19:20:00.000-05:00

Ok, this is the LAST embarrassing moment I share for a while. I've been humbled. It would be nice to have a *little* self-esteem built up in time for starting a family. Which my best friend JUST DID. Happy "born day" to Mr. Sammy J. Allessio, Dave's first progeny.

I hope he turns out half as great as his parents.

Ok, enough with the sentimental stuff. Let's get ugly.

After dating the 20yo gal for about 6 weeks and realizing that we really have NOTHING in common, it was time to put an end to the farce that was my attempt to get intimacy without hurting her. Basically, I flailed. But DAMN, she is a full DECADE younger than me!

She doesn't know who "Jack Tripper" is/was. Doesn't "get" the Breakfast Club. Likes Brittney Spears but considers Madonna old. See, I'm loyal to my age. I will ALWAYS love Madonna in ways that I couldn't possibly share and give it justice. See, Madonna got ME laid. Really.

Madonna came around at a time when teenage girls needed a role model. And unlike Whitney Houston or any other "superstar," Madonna was just plain SLUTTY. And teenage girls ran with it. Being a teenage boy? Well, I remember that George Michael was one of MY idols. In retrospect, I might have had more than a couple psychos as idols. Michael Jackson, Prince, and ALL the hair bands come to mind.

I just remember being 17, wearing a mullet, an earring and "O.P." shorts one summer when one of the Madonna-wannabes made me a man. Thank you Joy Pillian.

And Madonna still turns my crank for that reason alone. Thank you.

Oh, was that a tangent? Sorry, but this story IS embarrassing. It is/was funny, and so I gotta share. And I won't pull any punches. I took the time to digest the event and have made it into a learning experience. At the end of this, you can choose if I am
A) A pathetic loser
B) Insightful into my failed relationship.
C) Paranoid Schizophrenic
D) In need of a mullet

So the 20yo and I are having our break-up talk. The one where I explain that it isn't her fault and that she is REALLY great and that I have learned to date in my own generation (cross-your-fingers, please). She takes it pretty well, and we talk and chat and actually have MORE fun together that we ever had. When I drop her off, I give her a goodnight kiss...

She tells me she HATES kissing me.

A 20yo gal thinks I'm the worst kisser EVER. If THAT doesn't send you to the Quack Shack, nothing will.

I thought about the situation. Do I REALLY want to enter into this discussion? I mean, I don't want to tell HER that I've said the same thing about HER to MY friends. This could turn into a drama-like thingy that I despise worse than abortion protesters..

No. I can't fight back. I'm just going to leave. Do the right thing.

No, I'm not. I'm going to find out what this little belly-shirt hottie MEANS by "hates kissing me." Big mistake. She goes onto explain in detail, "BOY! Ya GOTTA gets that tongue MOVING!" She might even have snapped her fingers. My ego was already fragile, but my libido now had the structural integrity of that tasty candy shell on a melted M&M.

And I decide that it is "ok," and said goodbye. Almost gracefully. I went home and REALLY thought about it. I called some younger friends and asked them. I called my OLDER friends and asked THEM. And I came to the conclusion that, with as much PRACTICE I've had kissing, this was just a part of growing up.

A learning curve of sorts

I actually REMEMBER when I was age 19-21. I was a tongue fanatic. I was tickling tonsils and cleaning braces with ernest sublingual probing. I liked that. It was new. I was kewl. It was RIGHT for that age.

I eventually moved on. Kissing like they do on T.V. or at the movies. Slow, direct, deep breathing through my nose. An occasional sigh. LOVE THAT.

But I can't just spin my tongue like pinwheel at first contact anymore. Kissing is a preliminary activity. One of my FAVORITE activities. But, to a 20yo, I suck. Literally, and NOT figuratively.

Regardless, I still think she is cool.

But I can't REGRESS in my kissing. If I allowed it, I'd have a similar blow dealt to my relationship life when I go a decade OVER my age. And don't think it can't/won't or HASN'T. I'd be freaking women out with my goodnight kiss that added a teeth cleaning.

So, you decide. A,B,C or D.

ster

Pain in the Neck

2004-02-22T19:21:00.000-06:00

I'd like you to just take a second and thank God for your health. Why?
Because for the love of all that I hold holy, you do NOT want to get
mixed up with the "health care" industry. YeeeeOUCH.

Ok, I should preface this rant by noting that after my car accident (Das
Cabrio ist kaput) I had a stiff neck. Nothing tragic, it just bothers
me... especially when I sit typing for a long period of time. Don't
worry, I'm laying in bed and typing with my toes. So, I go to the
doctor and say that I have a pain in my neck. Diagnosis: Whiplash.

Damn. That sounds bad.

But then Doc Happy tells me that his prescription (it even came on a
little prescription card) was "Physical Therapy, 3 X Week for 3 weeks."
Physical therapy huh? Instantly, my little delusional mind starts
forming images of some hot swedish blonde massaging my poor, aching neck
while I lounge in a jacuzzi and let out an oh-so satisfying
"AHHHhhhhhhh...."

Enter Healthsouth, my corporate-driven caretakers. And Robin, the
not-so-hot and not-so-swedish taskmaster that makes me go
"yeeeeeeEEEEOUCH!"

Actually, it didn't start out that bad. "Robin," or "Mistress of Pain"
as I like to call her, started me off with a bunch of neck stretches.
Ouch. But not a big deal. However, not a swedish love goddess either.

Did I mention that Robin can talk? Like a LOT? Yeah, about anything.
Except anything interesting. I've found she uses her hypnotic banter to
lull me into forgetting that she is putting the Vulcan death grip on
me. Ouch.

Then we are off to the work-out room. This place sucks. I swear it
looks like a room where every garage sale piece of fitness equipment got
dumped off after it didn't sell. The Ab Blaster, old-school Nordic
Trac, weighted golf clubs and those silly strap-on ankle weights. They
all came here to die.

This is wear I pull on rubber bands while other dorks hang from the
ceiling by their feet and random doofuses ice their bruised elbows.
These are my people.

Then Robin goes midevil on my ass. She --- and I SWEAR this is true ---
sticks four patches on the back of my neck. These patches are attached
to wires. The wires are attached to a box. And the box is attached to
wall socket. In effect, my brain is set up to serve as an incandescent
light bulb.

This is where I get a LITTLE nervous.

She tells me that I'm going to feel a "little sting." I ask HER what
THAT is supposed to mean. She responds by hitting the switch.

THIS is the most unnatural feeling in the world. My neck muscles start
flexing and REflexing at about 5000 oscillations per minute. My
shoulder heaves into my ear. My cheeks peel back toward my eye
sockets. My hair is standing on end and my goatee is shooting sparks.
I'm amped.

I have stiff neck and modern medicine turns me into a bug zapper.

I'm going to need MENTAL therapy.

ster

Bachelor's Life

2003-04-05T20:16:00.000-06:00

I think I just DEFINED being a bachelor living
alone...

I am laying on the couch, eating taco bell (border
select #1 minus red sauce) in my boxers watching
football. Suddenly, I notice my toenails are too
long. I blow it off. Twenty minutes later, I look
again and I cannot stand it. I get up and look for
toe nail clippers. I don't have any, this might
explain WHY they are too long. So, I go through my
drawers and find a steak knife. Sharp little
bugger... it'll work. I subsequently cut all my toe
nails to the desired length.

I put the steak knife back in the drawer. Life is
good.

ster

Straight Tequilla Nights

2003-03-05T20:12:00.000-06:00

So, we take the girls home and lose some shirts.
Yeah, that is the non-negotiable ending to a hot
tub evening, ya gotta give up a T-shirt to a gal
who spends the night. So, we are minus two
t-shirts. Big deal.

No, this is NOT the end of the story. This is
just where I defer to Steven "Darkside" Lacey. I
was just an innocent drunkstander. As a matter of
fact, I wasn't even planning to go out on Saturday
night. Tequila hurts. A lot. But Darth Lacey
handed me a Margarita, and away we go!!!

It was the two of us and Marco. Marco scams
pretty well. I hold my own. Steve is making up
ground. By 11:30 we are casing out one of the
local meatmarkets and Steve... I don't know how to
put this so that it doesn't sound really really...
true? He JUMPS on two beergoggles. First, they
were dancing by themselves, then they were dancing
with Darth Lacey.

Marco and I bolt. We take our chances. We figger
we can do better. We do, but we still come home
alone.

3am, we come bumbling in to the apartment prepared
to see Darth Lacey crashed. Not a chance. Dude
isn't home. Dude hasn't called.

4:30am, Darth Lacey walks in with BOTH beergoggles
arm in arm. A fearsome battlecry of "LET'S GO
HOTTUBBING!!!!" bellows from his thorax. He is
outta control. Of course, since he has an extra,
Marco and I flip a coin. I win and get to go to
bed alone. Lacey loses another shirt and gains a
place in history as the guy who knocks 10 years of
maturity off his Id in 6 months of living in
Austin. Congratulations Mr. Lacey.

ster

Allergy Shots

2003-03-03T20:11:00.000-06:00

Ahhhh... there is nothing like the smell of wet
asphault drying against your forehead at 5am. It
makes you wonder, "Uh, where the HELL am I and WHY
is there an angry bird pecking at my forehead?"

Honestly, the answer has not been easily
forthcoming. I do know one thing for certain
though; I am allergic to shots.

No, not shots with needles. I just HATE those
shots. "Shots" were invented in a pre-Captain
Morgan era when some not-so-bright pirates said,
"Screw the mixer! Give me some of that there rum
straight up!" The bartender looked at the already
inebriated pirate and said, "I've never heard of
that before but I'll give it a 'shot' for ya..."

That pirate woke up face down on the poop deck.

Now, I've been a BIG FAN of avoiding shots for
long time now. I remember thinking that they were
a good idea "back in the days." Unfortunately,
"back in the days" I also thought that Def Leppard
and parachute pants were cool. My judgement had
been much keener for quite some time.

Until Saturday. Ouch.

Did I ever mention that bartenders are not only
ALLOWED but ENCOURAGED to drink while at work in
Texas? Ok, I don't know if it is really LEGAL,
but I do know that it is commonplace to just kick
back with your fave bartender and buy him a drink
instead of tipping him. Of course, then you run
into the occasional "loose cannon" who will TAUNT
you into doing shots WITH him. This just isn't
fair. See when a bartender OFFERS you a free
shot(s), you only have two possible courses of
action:

1) Say, "No, I can't cuz I'm a major wuss."
2) Say, "Yes, I can cuz I'm a major dipshit."

Suffice it to say, I was a major dipshit about 18
times on Saturday. Rumplemintz, Absolute Vodka,
and Jello were my downfall. I will go ahead and
defer on the vodka... that stuff is just evil.
But Jello should NOT be a threat to my immune
system. It's FOOD. Trust me, there is NOT always
room for Jello. And Rumplemintz? That stuff is
just mouthwash! I look at it as good oral hygiene
to have a couple of those! Just being
responsible.

No such luck. As it turns out, I am VERY allergic
to shots. Most of the stories from Saturday night
I had to hear second-hand. Marcia, my very cute
bi-sexual friend, was babysitting me. She says I
rode home in the back of the cab in her lap. See,
Marcia has a very NICE lap, I would like very much
to be conscious if I ever get the good fortune to
spend any serious time in her lap again. I was a
155-lbs of toxic wasted by 1am and Marcia was
doing her damnest just to keep me outta jail.

She succeeded. But she left me for dead in my
parking lot. I was purging like there was no
tomorrow. Actually, it already WAS tomorrow. So,
I passed out. Marcia went to my place and crashed
and I hurled until the nasty combination of red
gelatin and vodka was all gone. My breath was
minty fresh though!

I KNOW that is gross. But what was WORSE was that
no less than 5 birds were grubbing on my bile the
next morning. I just peeled my face off the
asphault and went to bed... wiser today now
knowing that I have an allergy to shots.

ster

Cat Fight

2003-03-02T20:10:00.000-06:00

"Nobody ever wins a fight." Patrick Swayze in
"Road House"

"I just wanted to help..." - me

Famous last words that express my good intentions
that wound up being misguided, misunderstood, and
will most certainly lead to painful orthodontia.
"What?"

Give me a second here.

I should preface this entire message with a
confession: I am NOT a good fighter. Really. I
have had the good fortune of being in very few
fights. The methodology for this fact is simple.
If NOBODY ever WINS a fight, then only I lose ALL
fights. ALL fights. Even ones I'm not IN.

So completely ignoring that logic path, on Friday
night when a grissly battle broke out, I stepped
in to break it up. I wouldn't normally suscept
myself to bodily harm to protect two drunk
testoSTERone-laden dorks from pummelling each
other at a bar. Besides, they are normally
fighting for a good reason, like, "Cuz he started
it..."

But this was WOMEN fighting. Not two, not three,
but FOUR women fighting. Mental note, women fight
differently than men. Men SUCK at fighting. Men
fighting is more posturing than actual violence.
Occasionally one of them will slip-up and land a
stray punch and the rest of us men jump in to make
sure that nobody ACTUALLY gets hurt. Just enough
pushing and shoving to assure that a victory can
be pronounced... by BOTH sides.

Women fight to kill.

So, when these four wildcats started going at it
on the bar floor, I had a brainfart. Unlike all
the OTHER men, who did the sensible thing and GOT
THE HELL AWAY from the mele... I stuck my
otherwise unscathed nose IN to help break it up.
I was just trying to help. It was an EPIC fight.
One gal had the other one pinned to the ground and
was clawing the living hell out the other while
the another was seriously POUNDING another's head
into the concrete. Violence in the movies have
NOTHING on a good chick fight. It looked like one
of those cartoons when they show the cloud of
smoke as the occasional head and/or foot pops out
of the frenzy just long enough for you to catch a
glimpse.

Then the bitch broke my tooth.

I don't even know HOW. All I know is that I'm
missing the bottom-half of one of my precious
canines. NOBODY came to MY rescue. As a matter
of fact, I think most of the dudes were pretty
pissed I was trying to break it up. Most dudes
would rather watch a good cat fight than the Super
Bowl. Throw in some bikinis and some baby oil and
you have a Pay-per-view blockbuster.

This was just a toothbuster. I hate fights. I
don't even know who won. I'm pretty sure that one
of the gals has her nose on-backwards and another
looks a lot more like Darth Maul. I wonder if
they were even friends? Me? I'm thinking about
getting one of those gangSter gold caps just to
keep it real.

I'd like to take a moment to thank Seattle for
showing the world that all it takes is a little
rain to end a riot. I'm surprised it took this
long to get those freaks in the street. 1000
Starbucks have been shoving double-tall
caffeine-achino's into that city for too long.
That's a lot of tension for those nutburgers to
handle.

*From now on, I'm carrying tear gas to the bars.

ster

Two Birds With One Ster?

2003-02-23T20:09:00.000-06:00

First, congratulations. This is unprecendented.
I received no less than 11 responses and some good
names from my "call to feathers." I'm mulling
over some of the creative names you have come up
with, I think my faves are "Guido," "Keister," and
"Petey." However, "Eyball" is just about
irresistable. Dave came up with none of these and
therefore I'm bumming. I had my money on Dave,
but "Roy" and "Larry" just weren't up to snuff.
Naming my bird hopefully just wasn't a priority.

HOWEVER, y'all should know something. This is a
dumb bird. Not "dumb" like any ol' bird is. This
bird would be referred to by Marlon Perkins as
"stuff that alligator just ate." This damn bird
is basically about as sharp as sweater lint. Its
ok though, I've dated girls that are dumber, I can
handle this.

How dumb? First, he's afraid of heights. This is
not a joke. If I place him on a perch. He jumps
and poops himself, falls to the ground and walks
around on the floor like a rat.. He refuses to
sit anywhere higher than an ottoman. It is SOOO
funny to watch him when he gets (put) on a high
perch. He consistently jumps for a lower ledge,
BANGS into it with his head (thrashing his wings
the whole time) and bounces into about 3-4 other
hard objects on the way down. Well, I admit I
kinda set him up for it. Its kinda like bird
Plinko. (Sensitive ones, I'm KIDDING!)

2) He likes his cage. Well, "likes" is hard to
tell. He HATES leaving it. I know this cuz he
bites me whenever I try to get him out of it and
LOVES going back in. He is also fond of biting me
and pooping on my stuff. His crap is small
though, I'm glad he's not a pelican.

3) He can't fly. Not a lick. They clipped his
wings. Cruel? Maybe. It seemed like the right
thing to do at the time but now I feel bad. He
can't fly AT ALL. I just didn't want him to fly
away and get eaten by a cat . . . As it is he
might be eaten by my vaccum cleaner, he ain't very
fast.

4) He doesn't eat or drink. This puzzles me. He
poops. He just doesn't eat. Can a parakeet just
WILL itself to poop whenever it wants?

5) He doesn't (didn't) chirp. This disturbed me.
I want this damn bird to TALK, he does a good
Charlie Chaplin though..

So, what do I do? An obvious failure at raising
the fine species "aves crapitus," I bought another
damn bird. Now they chat away like Ann and
Caroline after 3 shots of Tequilla. I'm thinking
about firing up that vacuum cleaner.

ster

Bird Brain

2003-02-21T20:00:00.000-06:00

Ok, I admit it. I have WAYYYYYYYY too much free
time. While everybody else is always complaining
that there is not enuff time in the day, I am
always finding new and interesting ways of messing
up my life in my free time. So, today I went
shopping. For what? I didn't know. I just knew
I needed to spend some kaye$h and my life was not
complicated enough.

(segue) For those that don't know, I am
in-training for a long-term relationship. I
started out with a plan. Phase I was to get a
plant. I figure that I could get a plant, nurture
it and eventually move on to a fish, then a dog,
then a girlfriend, then a wife, finally a child.
I figure to have the child with the wife and keep
the girlfriend too. Well, Phase I has lasted 4
years and 5 plants. I keep killing the damn
things. Jessica gave me one, sorry Jess, its
detritus now. HOWEVER, I have now lasted 8 months
with a LARGE plant flourishing in my apartment!
Hahahaha! I am ready for phase II.

So, the liquor store was closed. So, PetSmart was
next door. First, I hate fish. Fish smell. Fish
die. You can't even touch fish. Phase II sucks.
So, I walked around PetSmart for 25 minutes before
I saw it . . . a bird. Birds are easy! They are
cheap, dumb, quiet, and they don't smell so bad.
I want a bird.

So, I walk to the "bird department" and spend 15
minutes staring at the parakeets. There are about
75 different birds hanging out. They range in
color and and size. I find one bird that catches
my eye. He is trying to open the ceiling lamp in
the large cage. I'm impressed. He's like
MacGyver. All the other birds are pecking each
other, bobbing there heads and looking about as
confused about their predictament as I am with
mine. However, MacGyver Bird is looking like my
kind of bird. An overachiever! So, I go to Mr.
PetSmart and say "that one." Shoulda been EZ!
Not even close. He sees my bird, darts behind the
first layer of glass and takes his
bird/fish/monkey net and starts wacking at my
bird.

Instant chaos. See, it was a finite space with 75
birds and 76 million different colors. They ALL
flail. Instantly it was like bobbing for apples.
Once you get your head wet, you don't care which
apple you get, just that the damn thing comes up
and you can breathe and dry off. Such is life.
So, I got the first bird that couldn't avoid Bubba
and his net.

Come to think of it, this is kind of like Darwin's
survival of the fittest. The slowest, dumbest,
and weakest bird gets caught. MacGyver-Bird takes
some duck-tape and makes himself an escape pod.
So, my bird is a weak seed. Come to think of it,
my bird is a lot like me.

Anyway, I have a bird. My bird has no name. So,
I am depending on ALL of my friends creativity to
name my bird. Please help. No, you don't have to
copy everybody else with your suggestion, except
Dave of course cuz his will be funny and will
probably stick. There will be a prize for naming
my bird. What? I don't know yet.

ster

Dave

2002-05-21T20:17:00.000-05:00

Everybody has a "buddy Dave." You know who I'm
talkin' about...? "Daaaaayve." That guy that
works like a funbucket full of Prozac to fix
whatever ails you. That person that has a unique
ability to make you feel really, REALLY good just
by being in the same room as you. I've known MY
"Dave" since high school... and everyday I see him
I remember what it was like when I was in High
School and how I had it MADE! No jobby job. No
bills. No condoms. Life was good and Dave made
it better.

God I love Dave. I mean really. I envy people
that get to work with him. I'd pay good money to
have a "Dave" at the office! Somebody that would
make my 8-hour day pass just a little faster.
Probably keep me from my soon-to-be infamous day
that I go POSTAL on my boss.

Dave came to visit me this weekend. His first
time in Texas and I had to show him a
"Texas-sized" good time. Everytime I THINK that I
KNOW how to party... Dave shows me that I'm a boy
in a Man's world.

Dave parties like no other. He can just walk into
any bar and sing karoeke... don't hold that
against him. The dude gets off the plane with
beer in his hand and a smile on his face. He's
the type of guy ya gotta give a BIG HUG the minute
you see him. It was Thursday night and we went
down to 6th Street and I'm not sure who came out
of worse... Dave or 6th Street.

The results? Dave was vomitting for 2 hours in my
bathroom at 3:30am. And like the trooper he is,
he chatted with me with a big (and spew-tainted)
smile until about 5am with intermittent breaks to
punish my growler (toilet). First round winner:
6th Street.

So we started out Friday at a strip club. With
Marcia. THAT does NOT suck. Ok, not a normal
thing to do, but things aren't normal when Dave's
in town. I don't NORMALLY make-out with
stripper-waitresses either. Strip club waitresses
and I actually have a history, but that is another
story... Go figure, the ONE gal in the WHOLE
place with clothes ON and I make her my first
mistake of the evening. Dave told her I was a
"catch" and she bought it (Dave could sell crack
to the Pope). Can you get the Clap from kissing?

About 9pm we headed down to 6th Street and Round
2. The bell rings... Dave was fantastic. He was
like a kid in a candy store... I don't think there
was a woman that I saw that Dave wouldn't pimp me
to. He'd show his wedding ring and the gals would
be trapped/mesmorized by a committed man on 6th
Street. He'd introduce me, I'd stumble through
some bad lines and Dave would make them seem
charming.

Dave was digging the piano bar. Singing bad Jimmy
Buffett songs makes him happy.

We we're out until about 4am and Dave was without
naseau. The proud and decisive winner of Round
two.

This is where the "boys among Men" analogy becomes
notably poignant. It's Saturday morning and I
have had less MINUTES of sleep than NUMBER of
shots. After two days of this I'm thinking Dave
isn't such a great friend. Just a stinky drunk
dude on my couch with fluorscent green
jello-shot-looking bile drying on my growler. I'm
in a mood that would make Newt Gingrich look like
Happy Gilmore. Dave? He's hurting but STILL
warms me over with just one "sterrrrrrrrrr." How
does he do it? He wound up golfing all day, I
wound up with 19 aspirin and two shots of Nyquil.

We start Round 3 at about 10pm... and the only
bell ringing was in my head. We made another
SERIOUS go at taking down 6th Street. Pretty much
the same story except that Dave rallied like a
champ and I had to bow out for an hour and a half
to watch my new bi-sexual friend perform some
really good music at Fat Tuesdays. She rocked. I
drank something purple.

Who won? Dave and 6th Street called it a draw and
I wound up flat on my face at 3:30am in my parking
lot. Dave came out and got me when I was done
exorcising the purple stuff outta my body. Ya
just gotta love Dave... and I sincerely hope that
you all have a "Dave" that can make your day
brighter... but you can't have mine.

ster

ps - pic is Dave on Monday morning... verrrrrry
ready to go back home to Seattle.

Spring Break Uncensored?

2002-04-01T20:57:00.000-06:00

This pains me to write. Really. I am wondering if I could "get away" with just pretending my keyboard was broken and avoiding the email beating I would take for NOT telling you about South Padre. Then again, who's integrity is being compromised? Mine. And I gave up on that for the weekend. Just know that I REALLY regret what happened. Deep down. Where my Id tells me that I should be married and having kids.

Not partying with kids.

I must preface this by saying I will NOT lie to you. Every story I write is true. However, I may choose to {omit} details to protect what little self-respect I have left. Also, it should be noted that MORALITY is a VERY subjective. It is scalable. Scary, but true. If you think about it, most everybody will compare what is "right" and what is "wrong" to their socio-demographic strata.

In other words: "When in Rome do as the (large-breasted) Romans (let) you do."

Ok, let me set the scene: I arrive late by plane and so my buddy has "RedBull and Vodka" waiting for me at the airport. Redbull and Vodka (R&V) is essentially booze laced with crack cocaine. If you ever need to wake up, ONE Redbull has enough caffeine, taurine, and ephredine in it to jump start a big block El Camino. RedBull and Vodka is the teat that the depraved feast upon before they scam on unsuspecting Spring Breakers.

I have SEVEN double R&V before we even get to the hotel. I'm amped up like a ferret on crack. And at check-in, the front-desk gal made sure that I was humbled. NOT requiring me or my buddy to wear the official spring break arm band. This gets funny later.

The first night was at "Louie's" which is a bar that caters to those with relaxed moral values. On a bet with my new buddy "Nacho" on who could mug down on the first girl in the evening. I set my personal record at 17 seconds. Trust me, this is not self-edification, this gal was a 6.8 on the "Rickster" scale (damn I'm funny!) but it WAS a bet.

What was my 17-second move? "Hey, I'll buy you a drink if you make out with me." Response? "Ok."

THIS SCARES EVEN ME. The rest of the evening my "mack daddy" moves don't get any more developed, but were nonetheless VERY successful. I have at least 17 pictures with my tongue tickling random women's tonsils.

{Omitting rest of evening for fear of ending my future political career.}

Suffice it to say, I had more fun than one person should be allowed. Really. Every dog has his day. I had two days. And they just happened to be in Paradise. The hotel (Radisson) should be condemned as a "public nuisance" as it is designed to cause any red-blooded American man to make those {gulping} sighs that they make when they see 176 Brittany Spears Look-a-likes lying around the pool. Wearing swimsuits? Barely.

The water fall is hereby dubbed "Viagra Falls."

It really wasn't fair. To walk around this pool is to accept that EVERYBODY is going to watch you make your best impression of a compass pointing north. I've never said (or heard) "Did you see THAT?" so many times in my life. Our room opened up to the pool. I saw more thongs pass by that window than a grown man should be allowed to without at LEAST a Class C misdemeanor for voyeurism.

Oh yeah, I convinced two ex-strippers to UNretire for a private dance. {Omit that ENTIRE story, sorry.}

No, I can't do that. I'll give ya a *little* more. The conversation went like this:

Me: "Wow. THAT is what a swimsuit is SUPPOSED to look like!"
Skanks: "Really? We used to be dancers."

They went on to explain how they didn't have enough money to party for their last night out. I gots kaye$h. I'll play along. And when you OFFER money, you would EXPECT the incredibly hot women to KNOW IT WAS A JOKE. They didn't. They basically called my bluff.

{NOW we omit}

Seriously. But rest assured, "I did not have sexual relations with this (these) women." Because THAT would be wrong.

I think you are getting my point. I was running around this town like a gnome with an overactive thyroid. Every woman I hit on was receptive. I can't remember ANY names and I am CERTAIN that I was the topic of this exact conversation Saturday morning in at LEAST five girl's (women?) hotel rooms.

Roommate: "Damn girl, do you remember ANYTHING from last night?"
Unsuspecting Hungover Gal: "Uh...ouch... what did we do.. and quit yelling."
Roommate: "Do you remember mugging down on that OLD guy for a round of tequila?"
Deserving trollop: "... i think i'm going to puke... can we go home now?"

Ha! If I had a nickel for every morning I've had my friends told me I made out with an unattractive woman?!?! Sheeesh! I'm SOOO glad to be the "beergoggled" and not the goggler anymore! Uh, that's not a good thing, is it?

And then there was the hottie that punched me. Damn. This story is going to take a minute. First, I hit on a woman. Later she hit ME. NOT because I did something inappropriate, but because I ASKED for it.

First, she was too cute to fall for the "Ya wanna make out with me?" line. So I'd moved on to the "Let's get you REALLY drunk" line. It worked. Unfortunately, it took a long enough time that I had to learn a little about her. She blah blah blahs me until I hear that she is a professional boxer.

WHAT?!?!

I wish I could've gotten some of those "blah blahs" back. Because THIS is interesting. Sure enough, she really was paid to FIGHT other women. Not a lot, but she was a "pro." Anyway, I of course being: drunk, stupid, 10-ft tall and bullet proof --- you get the idea. I put up my hands in a mock, "let's get it on!" pose. I GOAD her into punching me.

And she did. Right in my gut. It hurt.

I don't mean like I-got-hit-by-a-girl "hurt," I mean she crushed my abs. Trying to catch my breath, trying NOT spit my drink up, and holding back the tears that are welling in my eyes... I gag out a "nice shhh(COUGH) shot." Tonya Harding had pulverized my buzz. I thought I was going to puke.

That's when I see "Nacho." He's my new buddy staying at Viagra Falls and who is too drunk order a drink. So I order him one, and THEN I get evil. I don't even know why, but I walked up to Nacho and said, "this girl wants to fight you." See, this gal is still in a slappy mood. I mean, she got drunk, stuck her tongue in my throat, AND kicked my ass. No telling what is next, but she is ready for it.

I tell Nacho she wants to fight him. "Go after it, Nacho!"

Nacho, being a drunk tough guy, goes after it with even MORE machismo than I did, closes his eyes and sticks his drunk nose out. (BOP) She punches him square in the nose. Dude is bleeding. It was my fault... he fell back.... but I could NOT stop laughing!!!! Told you I was evil.

Don't worry. Nacho turned out ok, and the strumpet moved on to some more unsuspecting dudes. Too funny.

The night gets a little hazy. I know two things, I have a girl's number "CiCi, 956-6XX-????" penned on my arm. I think she gave me a ride home. The other thing I remember with absolute certainty? I have now officially "pitched a fit." Remember the wrist-band thingy that did NOT require me to wear at this journey's origin? Well, apparently it is for security to stop those drunks that want to hang out at Viagra Falls on the evening... makes sense now.

But at the time? I was drunker than 13 emus playing air hockey and had NO interest in anything but getting my butt in my room and getting to the jacuzzi. Not a chance. The first "security guy" let me through because I had a key and a "leave this guy alone slurrrr."

The second layer of security had an atmosphere less pleasant than the MOON. At the door to the pool? They wanted this arm-band. They didn't want to hear my story. They'd heard 'em all. I DIDN'T GIVE A DAMN. I'm drunk. I'm OLD. And I do NOT need a damn wristband!!! So, I pitched a fit. I called no less than three dudes "mall cops" and they nearly carried me to the front desk. Where of course, I could not remember my room number or PRONOUNCE my name.

THIS is drunk.

So I made a scene. Letting everybody in the lobby --- all partying spring breakers --- that I was getting IN FRONT of the line and getting my darn wristband. After I passed through? I struggled, but I ripped that thing off at THREW it at the window.

WHAT AN A-HOLE!!! That's how drunk I was. For 48 hours. Enough for a LONG time.

I feel morally-challenged. The guilt hangover lasted a WEEK. I couldn't sin again if I TRIED. I will NEVER do this again. I went to church 3 times on today (it's Easter, they'll let anybody in). I'm contributing to charities. I'm going to make a better man of myself by the time I reach 31 (this Tuesday in case you were wondering!).

But it was fun. Serious fun.

ster

Perversion?

2002-03-21T19:58:00.000-06:00

There comes a day in every man's life that he takes a good, long look in the mirror and decides to grow up. A metamorphosis takes place ... a boy becomes a man. He takes responsibility for all his actions. He chooses "right" vs. "wrong." He makes personal commitments of vast depth and terrifying permanence.

He does NOT go on Spring Break.

Yes, it is true. I am going to South Padre (first-timer) this weekend.
Yes, it is true. I am a dirty old man.

At 30 years old, I stood in front of that proverbial mirror and considered that, I was offered the opportunity to do something that 1) I wanted to do 2) legally CAN do 3) was NOT my idea. 4) will never have the chance to do again.

Three decades of knowledge-seeking have taught me that that there are few undeniable truths. I will get old. I will die. Regis Philbin is the Anti-Christ. Looking at 19-year old women in bikinis is always cool, even when you get old.

I also understand that I am WAY past the "borderline" of belonging on spring break. I am treating this as a guilty pleasure and not a perverted overture of finding my lost youth. My chances of scoring? Meet my friend "Slim," who will not be using his real name, and "None" which is my alias.

Speaking of aliases ... I wonder if my buddy and I could just LIE? I mean how ELSE am I going to convince some buxom blonde college senior that she should choose ME, versus the young guys who haven't got FAT yet? Maybe I'll be rich or famous! I mean let's face it, these gals are there to party ... if I'm EVER going to score with a young hottie, this is the weekend.

So I'm trying to figure out how to lose 5 lbs in 2 days without amputation. Do (did) my morals WEIGH anything now that they are gone?

Believe it or not, some thought went into this decision. I asked around. Not one guy said they'd turn the chance up, if they were in the same position as me. Of course, most of them are married, have lives, children, and a truly full life. I, on the otherhand, have a dog.

A couple of younger gals said "Hell yeah." But my gal-friends that are nearer my age felt that I was genuinely out of line. I tried to explain it ... but even I know that the line between "Dirty Old Man" and "Guilty Pleasures" is wearing thin with me. I'm a mullet and a cheezy mustache away from being the guy that I remember thinking, "what a dork" when I saw him at MY Spring Break 8 years ago!

Screw it. I'm going to go. I'm going to drink. I'm going to have fun. I'm going to drink more. I'm going hit on any woman that shows interest in my over-the-hill ass.

I'm going to strike out a LOT.

I wonder if I should wear my class ring? Maybe I'll pretend I'm a doctor? Or maybe I should just go ahead and start digging a hole that will eventually get me to my rightful place in Hades.

Yikes.

ster

Flatulent Furniture

2002-02-14T17:10:00.000-06:00

Somebody left me a present. For all I know, it
could've been me. But in all my 28 years on this
planet, I've never had to utter these words:

My chair just farted.

I could not make up something this bizarre if I
tried. But I can't think of any other
explanation! I just sat down on my chair and it
farted. Smelly one too. Best as I can figure,
the last person who sat in my chair, "let one go"
at PRECISELY the same time that he/she got up.
This (theoretically) caused the compressed foam to
absorb the gaseous blast instead of the ambient
air. I guess it stored up the fumes, and released
it when I sat down. Gross.

Regardless, farting chairs suck. Make a note of
that.

In other news, I'm thinking of having myself
committed into a psychiatric institution on an
"in-patient basis" VERY soon. Not because I
attribute stinky biological functions to inanimate
objects; but because I am STILL developing crushes
like the standard pre-pubescent 14 year-old boy.

"Huh?"

Give me a second here... Many years ago, before
they even invented erections, I developed
crushes. I think my first real "crush" was either
on Erin Gray (from Buck Rogers) or Tina Louise
(Ginger on Gilligans Island). At that age it was
"ok." My subsequent adolescent crushes evolved on
to Meg Ryan, Lea Thompson, and Kelly LeBrock. At
age 17, this is not only "ok," but expected.

During my college years, I focused my "crushes" on
real people. Chicks in my classes, gals who lived
in my apartment complex, and my Speech Com 101
teacher. Oh yeah, and the chick in the Whitesnake
video! She was SMOKING. This was a natural
progression to what should have developed into a
mature and controlled fantasy life.

Not anymore. Somewhere, somehow, my crushes have
actually REgressed. I'm actually a little
concerned. My last three crushes, in
chronological order have been:
Nicole Eggert
Jennifer Love Hewitt
Brittney Spears

Notice a trend here? THEY are getting YOUNGER.
I'M getting OLDER. The culmination of this
horrible trend is I have recently discarded these
three hotties and am NOW in love with Christine
Aguiliara (that Genie in a Bottle girl).

*pause for dramatic effect*

This is just wrong. I think she is 17 and fresh
off the Mickey Mouse Club. As a matter of fact,
regulation-free internet or not, I'm pretty sure
that I can be arrested just for HAVING this
crush. Documenting it is just plain stupid. If
this mentality doesn't stop soon I'm going to be
subscribing to the Disney Channel instead of
Skin-a-max.

God, please help me. And while your at it... stop
feeding my chair refried beans.

ster

Try This at Home? You decide...

2001-06-19T17:16:00.000-05:00

You'll never believe this, but my LASIK surgery is already paying
dividends in ways I NEVER would have thought of. But before I get
ahead
of myself, let's review:

As you may recall, my 150-mile commute has not been without event...
most notably, my three recent traffic citations. I've donated so much
money to little shit-towns between Round Rock and Hearne, I'm actually
considering starting my own charitable foundation.

The public coffers are plenty full --- there will be a volunteer fire
department in Hutto, you are welcome.

And just to show that my life DOES indeed blow, my company has me
working Saturdays. Ouch. And let me fill you in on a little secret,
drinking on Friday is NOT a good idea when you have a SATURDAY commute
at 5am.

So I drag my sorry ass out of bed, head for the shower... not a chance.
Maybe if I stink enough, they'll quit asking me to work Saturdays? I
throw on a fine film of deoderant and hop in the car. Floor it.
ZOOOOOOM!!!!

{segue -- bear with me}

Ok, I'll admit it, my life just isn't that exciting. But I STILL get
an
adrenaline-rush like NO other when I see the red and blues flashing the
macarena behind me... BUSTED.

You guessed it. I get the tell-tale red and blue sparklies in my
rear-view. Damn!!!! And not two seconds before Kleetus pulled me
over,
I had put in my (soon-to-be mandatory) anti-biotic eyedrops from LASIK
surgery. Like my eyes weren't ALREADY red from the night before? Then
it hit me...

FINALLY... I get over on Johnny Law.

I will NEVER be a "good" liar. But every dog has his day. So instead
of explaining to the 5-Oh that I just had LASIK and being treated like
a
dot.commer with an extra $5K to blow on eyeball correction, I LIE. Big
time.

I tell him I have Pink Eye.

The ever-so communicable contagion Pinkus Eyeballus.

It's like cooties. Never hurt anybody, but you get it just by touching
ANYTHING. And YOU don't want it. I've had it, I know. You look like
a
dork and nobody wants to be NEAR you. Like its fatal? Back to the
story...

Ever-so cautiously --- I hand him my license, with the caveat, "BE
CAREFUL" I said, "I just put in my eyedrops (show tiny bottle to him)
and I haven't washed my hands yet." He sets it cautiously on his metal
ticket folder.

{awkward look}

Seeing as there is NO way to STOP this lie, I keep talking. "See my
eyes (pointing), I'm just getting over 'pink eye.' Awww it probably
isn't contagious anymore." He bites. And I kid-you-not when I say he
NOTICABLY keeps his eye on my possibly-contaminated license. Genuinely
concerned. He gives me the cursory warning, asks me to "please take my
license and be careful."

He didn't even take the infected card back to his car! It is 5:45am
and
Johnny Law doesn't want any part of this. Dude was probably just about
done busting drunks. Let ONE slip by!

This trick should be patent pending!

But in all humility, THAT was truly a FINE bit of thinking on my
feet...
or "ass" in this case.
Sack up, TRY THIS AT HOME. All you need is a little bottle of
eyedrops,
a little eye-rubbing (substitute drinking binges or bong-hits if you
prefer), and a fear of losing your license.

I'm actually a *tad* worried that this email is going to get forwarded
around to a point where I'm gonna have ZERO credibility with the blue
an
white. Like I had any before?

ster

ps - I know I've been slacking. Life is approaching the "grueling"
stage, but I have some good stories to tell. Sooner-than-later, I
promise.

What was I THINKING?!?!?

2001-04-19T17:14:00.000-05:00

I think that it was Sigmund Freud who first developed the concept of
the "Id." Your ego/libido/voice in your head. That thing in your head
that you talk to when you are alone, trying to make decisions.
Unfortunately, my Id is a bit of moron. Sure he means well, but DAMN
does he get me in trouble!

Just when you were wondering, "What would it be like to be in the mind
of ster?" Lucky you, I decide to share.

Welcome to my Id. This is the transcript of an ACTUAL conversation
that I had with myself on Friday night... at least what I remember of it.

Me: "Man, am I SICK of being alone."
Id: "But dude, the last girlfriend almost KILLED you."

{shiver}

Me: "Thanks. Like I needed to remember that. Why don't you think of
something PLEASANT!?!"
Id: "Jennifer Love Hewitt, Anna Kournakova, and a lot of Jell-O"

Me: "Nice."
Id: "Who luvs ya bud?"

Me: "You do. But I'm STILL alone..."
Id: "How 'bout the Brat?"

Me: "Awww, I don't know. She's kinda getting getting old."
Id: "Not any faster than YOU are "

Me: "I didn't mean it that way. I meant that we've known each other
for almost a month... If I go to her for the nookie, she's basically my
girlfriend."
Id: "Ohhhhh... so you are afraid of committment."

Me: "NOT TRUE!! Just don't want another short-term girlfriend."
Id: "You are SO making excuses."

He's probably right. I know I need to settle down. Really. And I AM
working on it. But that does NOT mean that I'm going to jump into a
relationship with just any gal, ditch my friends and start sharing in
the symbiotic bliss that the rest of the world has.

Id: You REALLY think that they have that?"
ster: Sure. They say they do.

Ok, this has NOTHING to do with Friday night... time to confess. So,
I'm wookin' pa nub in ALL the wong places... "Wong places = Ropers.
Yeah, Ropers. Slut Central. Why would any person in their RIGHT mind
GO to Roper's? Uh... Slut Central?

Id: Hey, we're looking for something long-term.

Shut up. I'm just happy finding SOMEBODY to put up with me.
Short-term So, it is Friday night. And I'm out with my friends. None
of THEM have morals... and we wind up at Roper's at about 12:30am.

(Editor's note: ANYBODY out at 12:30am is wookin pa nub in all the
wrong
places.)

Coincidently, I find a pair of VERY nice legs that wants VERY MUCH to
take me home. Yes, the legs ARE attached to a gal. I'm not entirely
sure how to deal with it though... fortunately I have an EX-girlfriend
there that tells her that I am a "catch."

I buy her a drink for $2 bucks and make my miggidy mackdaddy moves.
She
falls for them. Now what?

Id(iot): Do I have anything to say about this?

No. You don't. I'm serious. It is time for me to STOP falling for
women that I could not POSSIBLY find attractive at a reasonable hour.

(Stup)Id: She is SO digging you. Go for it!!! You are SINGLE... that
is WHAT YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO DO.

Sigmund has a point, I AM single. BUT, I'm not without scruples.

Long story short (too late) I decide that my rendition of Dirty Dancing
is a GOOD thing regardless of the risk of PDA. I'm still just
basically
SHOCKED that the gal in question is interested in my drunk ass.

Id: "dude, let's get this chicky baby home..."
Me: "you are not any help anymore. Your drunk."

So, I'm snockered. So is my buddy "Id." AND we have a long-legged
friend. How does THAT happen? No idea. But I'll betcha that I'm
STILL
going to do "the right thing."

Id: Betcha he doesn't!

Shut up.

ster

Death and Taxes

2001-04-11T17:17:00.000-05:00

I'm going to jail. Really. Why? Because I am a bad person. That,
AND I'm the biggest idiot on this, or any other planet. Specifically, I am
incapable of understanding Title 26 of our country's Code of Federal
Regulations:

Tax Law.

ARRRRRRGH!!!

I blame this all on my Mom. She did my taxes until I was 23.
Pathetic? Yuppers. But if she wasn't 2500 miles away, she'd still be
doing my laundry.

I figger that if MY "two cents worth" (my average annual tax liability)
REALLY causes national budget concerns... we are ALL screwed. My
mistake. I worked for the TNRCC for 9 months and THEN took a signing
bonus to ruin my life.

Long story short, I wound up with FIVE different tax forms mailed to
me. With FOUR different home addresses. And THREE different
employers. A partridge and a peartree were involved somewhere... So
his
year, I forced myself to the section of the library where they had the
"smart people forms." I grabbed the book-sized instruction guide and
headed home.

I would've had a better chance of dividing by zero, don't think I
didn't try. In the end, I just punched my screen the way old people did with
Florida's tax ballot.

Somehow, in filling out the form, I owed $371,437.31.

Do they take credit cards? So, considering my good-fortune with
playing on the internet, I went to IRS.COM and filled out my new
computer-fun-filled online form.

So, like H.A.L. in "2001, a TAX Oddessy' my computer gave me direction.
And like a good monkey, I followed my commands. I'm paraphrasing a
bit... but this is (sort of) how it went

"Ster, are you:"
___ married
___ single
___ head of household
_X_ master of your domain

"How much money did you make in 1999?"

$______(omitted)

"Hahahahahahaha! You are kidding, right?"

___ Yes
_X_ No.

"So Please Explain Exactly Where you 'worked' in 2000?"
___ Volunteered at a crack clinic
___ For 3 months at a '.com'
_X_ The State of Texas

"Do you realize that G.W.'s tax cut will save you the equivalent of a
#4
Border Select Combo at Taco Bell?
___ Yes.
___ No.
_X_ I hate rich people.

"How many married women did you sleep with in 2000?"
___ 1-2
___ 3-4
___ 5+
_X_ I choose to donate $3 to the presidential campaign fund.

"How much money did you contrbute to charity in 2000?'
___ $10 - $50
___ $50 - $250
___ $250 - $1000
_X_ A LOT

"Strippers don't count."
_X_ $10

"How much money did you spend on booze in 2000?"
___ less than $100
___ more than $1000
_X_ don't remember

"You are a drunk and a misogynist. Complete form 1040SLC 'Move Your
Ass to Salt Lake City' and attach."

READ AND SIGN BELOW:
"Under penalties of perjury, I declare that I am a moron. I have
examined this declaration and accompanying schedules and statements,
and

to the best of my limited knowledge and religious beliefs, they are
true, correct and complete. I am sorry for any sins I have committed
against church or state and accept that I probably will be going to
federal prison. Please screw me BIG TIME."

ster 4/11/01

Waycross

2001-02-16T17:21:00.000-06:00

Sorry it has been so long since I wrote, I spent the greater part of
February in Waycross, GA. Please note, that if you were to want to spend a
large amount of time ANYWHERE on this planet, Waycross GA is not
ANYWHERE on the list.

I'll get back to that in a minute.

Oh yeah, I'm I'm STILL a psycho-magnet. Actually, I might be the
largest, liquid-cooled, super-conductive, lithium-ion-powered
MEGAPSYCHOMAGNET on this planet. If you were to place me on the
equator, all psycho women would be instantly polarized, lined up
perpendicular along the Prime Meridian.

For example, THIS was the follow up email to my last (first) date:
______________________________
"did you have fun saturday night? when i got home (3 am) my
ex-boyfriend was at
my apt. he said that he had called your cell phone. i am so sorry that
he called, i didnt know he would do
that shit. i have broken up w/ him so many times and he just wont go
away. i dont know how to get rid of
him? i am trying to meet people and actually have a life again and he
seems to always fuck it up (excuse
the french). i really do like you. im sorry that he called you. i didnt
know he would be at my freaking apt. at 3 am. i am so
sick and tired of his shit. i dont know why i cant have a life b/c this
asshole wont leave me the hell
alone?

please give me another chance. i think that we would get along really
well.

hope to talk to you soon,
[name removed to protect paycho]
_________________________________

That's how bad my love life is. And no, I did not give her another
chance.

Temptation Island update: Could they have created any MORE doubt in my
mind that women are the devil? Ok, so men suck too... but DAMN! I
thought only guys were supposed to be dogs?!? I've been living in a
world where I am persecuted almost daily for my gender and their past
indiscretions. Yeah, Bill Clinton and Rev. Jesse Jackson aren't
helping much, but a couple of those tarts are REALLY pushing the
envelope.
Especially on the "available" side of this game.

Honestly, which side would YOU choose to be on?

Waycross, Georgia sucks. And I have a "V" on the back of my
neck. Related? Kinda.

It started out when I agreed to go to Waycross, GA. If
Austin is "Deep in the HEEEART OF Texas," then this is the
buttcrack of the United States.

I shit you not when I say that I am within 30 miles of the
"Okeefanokey Swamp." I could be spelling it wrong, but most
people here don't know how to spell. They are working on
reading though...

The Okeyfanokee (another try) is a tourist attraction. They
have fliers. Boat rides. Gift shops. Lots of alligators.

I'm a "tourist" and I have ZERO interest in seeing "Gayters
in der truw enVYronnment."

(Please note: I give up. I can't bastardize the english
language clearly enough without spelling wurds wrong. I
think the locals would appreciate my use of phonetics
anyway.)

The only place I want to see alligators is underneath a
sign, clearly noting: "Alligators Down Here." This sign,
would be WAY up high, where I am. An arrow, pointing
downwards, will direct my eyes DEEP into a concrete pit
where nothing can escape without doing differential
equations.

That should keep the population of Waycross from getting IN
the pit.

So, as if the trip wasn't sucking bad enough, run into a
problem.

I need a haircut.

Not a dire need, but on the list of hierarchy's this hair
was just about as much of a problem as I was willing to deal
with without the benefit of an interpreter.

I found a JC Penny's. It isn't Nordstroms... but is as
close as I'm gonna find in this town.

Not to worry, when I asked the front desk lady if I could
get a hair cut, she says:

"Are ya picky?"

Errrr... yeah? Actually, I don't know IF I am indeed picky,
but the way she posed the question I was CERTAIN that as of
RIGHT NOW, I would qualify as "picky."

Damn.

Suffice it to say, I got butchered in a big way. But just
to make certain that I would be wearing a baseball cap
indefinitely, she shaved a WWF-styled "V" in the back of my
unsuspecting head.

I looked at it. Thought about what my options were, thought
better of the "throw tantrum" option, and simply asked why
she would do this to my head.

"Awwww... square and round back necks are 'out' now."

Damn. I wish I would've known this. I am now "in" here in
Waycross and wanting to be back "in" Austin.

And please rest comfortably assured that racism is alive and
well in the South. I won't get into details, but the question that
begs to be answered is, "Just because I'm white, does that mean
that any ignorant bigot and drop racial slurs on me without offending
my delicate, politically-correct ears?"

Answer: No. I tried a lot of different ways to stop the storm of
crap this dude was spewing, but the best way I found out was just
to get the HELL OUT OF WAYCROSS.

Let ALL the bigots live there. Like-minded people like to live near
each other, just ask the population of Utah.

ster

Sterike Three!!!

2001-01-18T17:24:00.000-06:00

Strike three! I'm out.

Revoke my license. I am a menace to the traffic community. I was able
to pull off the seldom-achieved "Speeding Super Trifecta" by receiving
my THIRD speeding ticket in my THIRD stupid small town this morning.
Unlike my first two, both in November, at least THIS one wasn't in a
school zone.

And Amber is total bitch. But I'll get back to that.

So along with "Hutto" and "Thrall" I can now add "Rockdale" to my list
of community service donations. It was 6:15am and the donuts must've
been a little stale, because Kleetus was a TAD grouchy. One of my
co-workers told me that if I get pulled over I should show my hands out
the window. Why? Because the officer knows you aren't gonna shoot
'em. That, and it makes you look and feel like a total dork in the
rain.

Considering that we have SEVEN not-so-nice prison escapees on a
shopping/shooting spree here in Texas, I figure that being a cop right
now is about as much fun as calming as electroshock therapy. With the
amount of thought Johnny Law thought about using discretion on this
ticket, I might as well as just given him my credit card and had him
call my insurance company. I was busted and Rockdale gets a new public
urinal.

Ya gotta love my commute. If you are wondering, that leaves ONLY
"Thorndale" that has not had a chance to tap into my life savings for
moving violations.

So I gotta take Defensive Driving. Texas' version of compassion to the
driving community. Take an 8-hour class and you can have one ticket a
year dismissed from your record. Pretty cool huh? Nope. I tried it
once about 3 years ago. It is AMAZING how many people you would NEVER
want to meet in person --- and spend 8-hours with --- attend these
classes. It sucks. Plus it basically blows a day away. So it sucks
and it blows.

However, being a technophile... I discovered the solution. Defensive
Driving ONLINE. Now THIS I can do. Sit in front of my computer, open
a
bottle of wine, watch T.V. and take this silly class in my underwear.
Life is good. So I log-on and INSTANTLY I am made PAINFULLY aware that
this is NOT going to be a cake walk.

"Giving fraudulent, incorrect, or false information, is a crime
punishable by a maximum of 2-10 years in a prison and a fine not to
exceed $10,000.00"

Ok, that sucks.

Five minutes into the course it hits me, I'm at home. Nobody is
watching me. Why am I paying attention?!?! I know how to drive damn
it! So I space off, put some pasta in some boiling water and it is out
of the corner of my eye the phrase:

"The third letter of the code word is 'd'"

Whuh? "Code word?" I'm screwed. This thing is playing spy games on
me
and I forgot my decoder ring. So the trick is, they hit you with
pieces
of a word that you must provide to get out of the chapter. Simply put,
I'm scanning my screen like I'm playing "Where's Waldo" looking for
hidden letters.

Not fun.

But since my rigatoni is burning, I chill and head off to save supper.
THEN a big yellow screen pops up:

YOU HAVE 60 SECONDS TO ANSWER THE FOLLOWING
"how many pets do you have?" _________

You've gotta be kidding. I get the idea, they are checking to see if
I'm really staring at the dipshit in the blue car taking two lanes and
running Mr. Red Car off the road. By asking me a question that I
should
know, I am apt to be a good monkey and interact with the computer. But
I'll be damned if this thing asks me about my personal life. I
remember
actually trying to count to zero, questioning if I was SURE and then
answering "0" ... tentatively clicking "SUBMIT." And off we go
again...
that was easy enough. We have confirmed I have no pets.

Big Brother IS watching you.

The bonus with taking this class online is that you can come back to it
whenever you want, you just have to properly exit the program.
Unfortunately, I'm not good at following rules! Apparently I "missed"
one of the questions or cheated by putting "slow" as the code word
having spotted "s_ow" and so I guessed a little. {I didn't even think
of "sNow!"}

This is when I get THE NASTIEST SCREEN. Big and Red letters say:

"Your account has been suspended. Please call the number below to
discuss."

So I call the 1-800 number.

Them: "Txdrivers.com, this is Amber speaking, how can I help you?"
Me: "Well 'Amber,' there must be some mistake... my account has been
suspended and..."
Amber: "What is your account sir?"
Me: "S-T-E-R. And like I was saying Amber, I have this screen that
says..."
Amber: "Sir, where were you when the flash question was asked?"

Answer? I fixated on "Weird Science" and just didn't notice it. But
what do I do? I lie. Badly. And I get caught!

Me: "My computer just locked-up on me! I don't know what happened.
I..."
Amber: "Sir, our computer-tracking shows that there was not a
disruption between it and the machine."
Me: "Errrr... But, it..."
Amber: "Sir, I will unsuspend your account. You will repeat Chapter
3. Please try to avoid this in the future."
Me: "Yes Ma'am."

That bitch just put me on probation!!! This isn't sane. I thought
this
was supposed to the Internet! How did some bitch bust me down to 3rd
Grade detention class writing "I will not cheat anymore, I will not
cheat anymore, I..." 300 times on my computer?

Don't worry "cut and paste" came in handy on that one.

One piece of guidance from my little Internet class I'd like to share
with you... just in case you aren't aware of the proper protocol when
getting carjacked:

The most important thing to
remember if you are the victim of a
car jacking, especially if you are
threatened with a weapon, is to not
resist. Hand over your keys, money,
or whatever the car jacker wants. A
car is not worth your life!

THIS is good advice? I hope that no potential-carjackers are online
yet! This is Texas... I didn't even know we HAD carjackings. If they
ever do, this career shows promise as apparently, if I am ever
carjacked, I'll be sure to hand the dude my girlfriend and testicles
why'll I'm at it!

But I did get to pay for it online. So the moral of the story?
Netbanking good Netdriving bad.

Oh yeah! And if you don't think I'm COMPLETELY sucked in by the
concept
of "Temptation Island," you need to wake up and smell the rubbing oil!
My God, I have needed this show for YEARS. The chance to watch these
rightfully-narcissistic goofballs try to get-their-groove-on with their
soon-to-be spouses is EPIC. There is not a soul-to-be-saved on that
island.

Hedonism rox.

ster

MonSter Truck

2000-12-01T17:29:00.000-06:00

You really aren't going to believe this, but I gotta share. Ok, let us
review: Stupid-but-cute-gal rams into my car on JULY 24th (Das Cabrio
ist kaput). Subsequently, I wind up in THREE separate rental cars,
each
progressively better. Started out with the Altima, then went to the
Cherokee, and finally the Caddy... including my car, that makes 4
different cars that I have made my home (literally) in four months.

I get my car back. Yesterday the transmission turned into spaghetti.
I
was stuck in front of my apartment without a ride and a bunch of
noodles.

SIDE NOTE!!! My ex-girlfriend moved out of my apartment complex.
{containing excitement} Apparently, living 3 air spaces away from your
ex-boyfriend is grounds to terminate your lease... shucks.

Let's get back to me and my car. Long story short, I'm screwed. What
else is new? Well, cows for one. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'll get back to the cows.

So my NEW (that makes four rentals) "car" is a Bad Ass Black King Cab
F-150 Pick 'em Up Truck. I am a GOD in Hearne. I *almost* feel like a
true Texan. This damn thing is HUGE. I'm staring down at other cars
and actually feeling sorry for the foolish ones who do not have a 15
foot wheelbase. I'm chawin' tobacky and spitting it out the window on
whoever gets in my way. I jack up the stereo (I think it only plays
country) and just ROLL. The feeling of omnipotence that this bad boy
inspires in me is truly a gift.

That feeling lasted exactly 32 miles.

I can't park it. I can't stop it. And I definitely am NOT qualified
to
DRIVE it.

Enter my stupid 150-mile-round-trip commute. Just add some nasty fog,
sprinkle some black ice in there and "ster" in an over-full bladder.
Combine with my cognitive abilities at 5:30am and you get a tasty
concoction with "DANGER - Accident Waiting to Happen" written ALL OVER
it.

I take the WRONG exit. A MUCH steeper turn, going MUCH too fast,
inside
a MUCH too big truck. My brakes were locked and I am suddenly VERY
awake. It happened so fast that all I could remember was thinking that
I was going piss my 501's as I went flying BACKWARD down this ravine.

I'm a premature organ donor.

The only thing I was missing was the inevitable impact. I closed my
eyes. And quietly, the beast just stopped. I was staring at cows
returning my stare into my headlights. I didn't hit ANYTHING. No
railings. No posts. No sign saying "SLOW DOWN." Not even a fence.
Just a "moo."

I will live to have many more psycho ex-girlfriends and see the
Brittney
Spears/N'Sync's Holiday Specials.

And the truck? Well, after I relieved myself in the shallow of my
bunker/pasture. I checked the truck and, with the obvious exception of
the awkwardness of its predicament, it checked out A-OK. But I was
still stuck 20 feet down the embankment and I was in grass taller than
most of my tales...

The cows looked at me like I was an idiot. The cows were right.

I hopped in, dropped that bitch into Four-Wheel-Drive and busted that
hill like L.A. Cops bust Robert Downey Jr.

Published Writester

2000-09-30T17:29:00.000-05:00

Apparently, I've been asked to continue writing for Access magazine.
Take a look at what she wants me to write about this month! {page
down,
then come back up here} First it was a bar review, THEN it was being
single, and NOW it is about women "ditzing" men.

Like THIS is going to be a difficult task? I wonder if I might be able
to pull a couple past experiences together about getting dissed on by
gals? I might PERSONALLY own the ACTUAL world record in this category!

I wonder what the NEXT assignment will be like?

1) Ways to get drunk and hook up with ugly women.
2) How to meet psychopaths.
3) Auto Erotica: The basics.
4) "Roundrockia" - Term relating to mental withdrawls from leaving
Austin.
5) The 2001 Cadillac DeVille. You can drive one too!

I'm not kidding on #5. Since my convertible is STILL in the shop (it's
only been 2 months since the accident) I've moved on to a $60,000 car
that had 17 miles on it when I picked it up on Tuesday. 17 miles. A
2001 Caddy. Now it has nearly 1000.

Mental Note: You will NEVER get to put the first 1000 miles on a car
this choice.

Granted, I'm the only person under 55 that is driving one of these bad
boys. It IS your father's goldsmobile. Screw it. I don't care. The
damn thing rides like dream. A very nice dream. I'm not going to be
making any phone calls to Allstate whining about when my VW is ready!
I
don't even wanna know how much this joy ride is setting 'em back.

Just don't care. The first car I drove was an Altima. I was nice.
Clean. White. Boring. But I thought it was only going to be for a
WEEK!! About a month ago I got fed up and told them I wanted something
different. I wound up in a new Cherokee. Pretty nice, at least when I
got it. By the time I gave it back a month later? There was chew spit
in the cup holders and the tranny and the back door wouldn't open.

And now, The Caddy.

This damn thing has so many buttons I haven't even found half of them
yet. It even has buttons in the back seat! I love buttons.
Especially
buttons I've never pushed before. It has 17 buttons alone on the
steering wheel... love this car.

I pushed one button --- and I swear this is true --- the cd changer cut
out and "Linda, the Northstar Operator" was talking to me. This thing
has a direct line cellular phone built-in that can help me if I've ran
out of gas, got a flat tire, or need another beer.

You GOTTA love that.

And getting back to the back seat, can you IMAGINE how much fun it
would
be to have SEX in the back seat of a BRAND NEW CADILLAC DEVILE. This
puppy is nicer than my bed. All leather and it just SMELLS of success.
My bed smells like futility.

Why would it be SO great? Because this car is brand new AND it is a
rental. I hope you understand what I'm saying here. I mean... WHO THE
HELL CARES!?!? As it is I'm treating it like '73 Chevy Nova with
coilsprings popping out the front seat and a muffler dragging on the
ground.

It is a RENTAL car!! I figure I've ALREADY depreciated the car by at
least $5000. Last night I spilled my drink on the floor. Couldn't
care
less. Imagine how little I'd care about doing something HORRIBLY
inappropriate in a car of this stature! I better stop... I think I'm
starting to give serious consideration to this idea...

Nah, I couldn't. Could I? I wonder if "Linda" from Northstar would
like to listen? Damn. This is starting to sound like TOO much fun!!!

ster

_________________________________________________________
Subject:
November issue assignments
Date:
Tue, 26 Sep 2000 21:48:46 +0200
From:
"Nettie Hartsock"
To:
"ster"

Rick, did you send your updated address? Did you get your feature
story

check and did you like the feature? also, would you be interested in
writing
a 200 word club strip filler that is sarcastic and caustic for the
November
issue. it would be due no later than October the 13th and could be on
how
females ditz you at clubs or something like that similar to your
article

sidebars. the publishers really liked your article. e-mail me back if
you
can do it. Nettie.

Sterrrrike!

2000-09-26T17:32:00.000-05:00

Wow. How quickly life can change. I now live in Round Rock, TX which
is reportedly named after {insert your guess here}. ButI work in
Hearne, TX (pronounced "Where?") which is 75 miles from where I live.

SEVENTY-FIVE MILES.

Sorry, but I can't help but stare at that number KNOWING that it was MY
decision to do this. One nifty trick the company pulled on me was to
tell me, on my second day on-the-job, that I am supposed to be AT work
AT 6am.

Let me do the math for you... this means I am supposed to LEAVE my
house
at around 4:45am. Technically, I think that means I am to wake up at
(carrying the 3 snooze buttons) around 4am.

4:00 AM.

Sorry, but I can't help but stare at that number too. That is SO far
before the "crack" of dawn. It isn't even the "crease" of dawn. Don't
worry, so far I've just pretended I didn't hear 'em and been showing up
at 7am. Still, do you realize how DANGEROUS it is to even SHOWER, much
less DRIVE that early in the morning?!?!

But the work IS exciting. Yesterday I hopped into my ATV, drove out to
a 33,000 gallon railcar, vented it for Butyl Acrylate, opened that bad
boy up with a wrench and hammer, put on a full-face respirator and
"verified" the contents. That amounts to me saying "Yup. That's butyl
acrylate alright." Then I spit tobacco. Then I wish I took my
respirator off first. Ick.

STERGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Chewing tobacco is bad for you. Don't do
it. Ever. Chicks will hate you. BUT if you are a wussy "colleje kid"
and want to get along with United Steelworkers of America, you better
bust out the Copenhagen and accept it. Lip cancer or a hick with a
welding hat thinking you are "girly?" You bet your ass I'm chawin'
tobaccky with the best of 'em.

{Splut----tink!}

I don't think these people know that I've worked for the government for
the last 10 years. On paper, that means I have a lot of experience.
In
theory, I know everything you would ever need to know about butyl
acrylate. I've read the books. In reality? This is the first time I
have EVER seen butyl acrylate.

Long story short, I work in Hickville, USA and these people look to me
because I have a college degree and can SPELL butyl acrylate. Earlier
in the day, I was surfing the 'Net for baseball scores when my boss
walked in. He asked me what I was doing. I said, "calculating the
vapor pressure of that sodium bisulfite car to verify the lower
explosive limit for human entry."

He said, "Uh, good job."

Sodium bisulfite is about as dangerous swimming after eating a hot dog.
But HE doesn't know that. He just knows if I have a calculator in the
"on" position then I'm doing something smart. That makes him happy.

So, just as I think I've got this job licked. The labor union is
voting
to strike. Saturday. I'm "management" so I don't HAVE a union. I
don't want one either. All I know is that I don't like the idea of
doing ANY of the real work myself, so I hope they don't strike. If
they
do? I'm taking my calculator and going on vacation... to my apartment
complex.

My new apartment complex is like Club Med. It comes complete with two
great swimming pools a great sand volleyball court and TONS of
beautiful
women. It took me, and this is NOT an exaggeration, 90 minutes after
moving in to meet my new ex-girlfriend.

What a rollercoaSter ride THIS has been. First, she's beautiful. She
is sweet. She is kind. Soft-spoken and really pleasant to be around.
AND she digs me. And convenience? You gotta be kidding me! She lives
3 doors down from me!!! No driving. No stupid phone calls. And when
the date is over, she goes HOME. It's like a married couple living in
a
DUPLEX!

Life is good.

Uh oh. three doors down? Much like my decision to commute a distance
measured in COUNTIES, I hadn't given much thought to possible
reprecussions. Can you conceivably imagine a WORSE scenario than your
EX-girlfriend living 3 airspaces away from you? You'd see her
everyday! Out at the pool, at the mailbox, leaving for dates... YIKES!

And then we have MY track record. I have about as much a chance at
making a relationship work as I do successfully marketing a combination
hammer/featherduster.

Life is precarious at best. To date, this gal and I have broken up 5
times. 8 days, five breakups. She just called. I'm not sure if we
are
back together or not. I don't think she knows either. It isn't REALLY
her fault. I KNOW I'm difficult to fight with. As an example, our
last
breakup (Saturday) went as follows.

Me: "Good morning sweetheart."
Her: "Good morning. What's wrong?"
Me: "Nothing."
Her: "Well, you seem grouchy."
Me: "I'm not."

{silence}
{more silence}

Her: "You know, maybe we shouldn't date."
Me: "Ok."

{silence}

Me: "bye?"

{click}

This is almost exactly like the last four break ups. Lots of drama.
No
yelling, just drama. I think I've been seriously "dramatized." But
since she lives next door, and I don't fight, we are forced to get back
together. Daily. She needs a GOOD reason to break up with me.
Something that makes sense to her when she goes back home. I'm
guessing
I'm going to have to do something really bad. I hope not.

Or I could just blow up a railcar full of butyl acrylate. That would
solve my problems.

Or date the girl in Building 13?

ster

SAKS SCHMACKS...

2000-09-17T17:34:00.000-05:00

I am scum. This is not insecurity. This is not a
plea for contradiction. This is not paranoia.
This is fact. I am scum. See, I always thought
of myself as an upper echelon shopper. Not a big
claim, but a fair one. I've taken down the Bon
Marche, whooped up on Nordy's and treated
Dillard's and Foley's (their equivalent in Texas)
like my bitch. Shopping is fun.

So, today I head over to a snazzy part of Austin
dedicated to high class shopping: The Arboreteum
(pronounced "No riff-raff") and thought to
myself... "mmmmm LUNCH." Being the self-involved
psuedo-stud that I am, I decided to skip the
formalities and go right to the "Centerpiece of
Pretentiousland" and venture into my first ever
"SAKS FIFTH AVENUE" *trumpets blaring*

Not so fast scum-boy. Get in the back of the
bus...

First of all, my rental car (Cherokee) was definitely not up to
snuff in the parking lot. I was afraid they would
send a wrecker to haul it off as debris. Its NOT
your father's Goldsmobile.

But, this is where things get ugly. I walk in to
the palace and find myself thinking, "hmmm... I
don't think I belong here." I check myself. I
got Dockers, Doc's, and a respectable
loose-fitting shirt on... I'm ok. So why is
everybody staring at me? I know my Oakley's are
knock-offs but sheesh! I've been in the store for
about 10 seconds before a salesman, this I swear,
BLOCKS me off from the Men's section. WHAT?
Well, he zigged and I zagged and I was in. 45
seconds later, I get the "can I help you" with
just a scent of "we don't have public bathroom" in
his voice. Well, "Montegue" is obviously not happy
that I am stinking up his stuff. So, of course, I
touch EVERYTHING. Twice. Just to show that I'm
not the scum they have mistaken me for, I don't
even look at the prices... like I don't care.

When I get around to deciding I wasn't leaving
until I provided Monty with a good look at my
Platinum card, I start paying attention... this
was a BAD idea.

T-Shirts: $100.00
3 button shirts: $155.00
Hawaiian shirts: $175.00
Suits: $1750.00 (does that include an Integra?)

I don't even know who Armani or Versace ARE!
Didn't OJ kill one of them?

My shoulders slump. My posture bends. My penis
introverts. I admit it, I am outta my league.
But then I see it! UNDERWEAR!!! So, I pull my
Johnson back out and strut over to the underwear
section with a strut that the Stray Kats woulda
been proud of! I am now the proud owner of a pair
of "SAKS" boxers. I'll think about Monty
everytime I defacate. It was a shallow victory,
but I feel better with my $36.00 boxers. I am
scum.

ster

Back-asswards Ster

2000-09-05T17:35:00.000-05:00

I honestly wish I wasn't doing this, but I'm going to recap Saturday
night EXACTLY how I'm remembering it... from end to beginning. This is
because I drank enough to kill a small pachyderm and I have enough
questions to make me as nervous as George W. Bush in a high school
History class.

{note: you might wanna start from the bottom}

The room is spinning. I'm in the living room. And all I can think of
is, "Why did I leave that really attractive girl that I was making out
with at Soho's?"

"Fourrrrrrrrr bucks?... herrrz my wallet." - Me.

I somehow dig my wallet out of my pocket and give it to my roomie. I
only remember this little tidbit of info because I was lying face down
in our driveway hurling Jell-O shots for distance at the time. Ok, so
that is a bad thing. But ya GOTTA trust me, it was all I could do to
NOT spew in the cab. Props to me. I'm just glad to be home. Well, at
least I'm AT home. I'm not IN home until Steve helps me off the
driveway.

I don't know what time it is, but that's not because I've lost my
watch,
I've lost the ability to tell time.

Boy am I glad to see Steve. IfinI wouldn't have met up with him at
exactly that moment I might have had to ask the bartender at Element if
I could I could pass out in a garbage can.

Where am I?

I've lost EVERYBODY. It is down to me. I started out with 10 friends.
Added at least three random gals and lost them all. I check up at the
psychodellic light show and decide that I must be at Element.
"Element"
is the snazziest club in Austin right now. All the really pretentious
people in Austin flock to this place to pretend they are being
over-charged for drinks in a New York night club.

My vision is blurry. I think I just got done dancing with a very
unattractive woman. I wonder if the girl from Soho is still AT Soho?
I wonder if I could FIND Soho? My tummy is grouchy. I'm pretty sure
that those grape jello shots were NOT the ultimate panacea I had made
them out to be.

Well, we all made it to the Element. Damn. That was a struggle. I
don't normally have really attractive women ask me if I would like to
stay with them and NOT go. I hope she calls. I'd like another try.

Screw it, it isn't even midnight and if THIS girl fell for my mack
daddy
moves, they ALL will right? I can't deprive the ladies of a night when
I got my "A-Game" working... {sigh}

I can't believe she is making out with me! I only met her like 7
minutes ago! I don't know WHAT Suzanne said to her but I am CERTAIN
that I could not POSSIBLY live up to it. Good looking gal, but
everybody is saying they want to go to Element. I like it right here.
I like this girl.

So we go to Soho, a nice bar but there isn't many women. I see one gal
that definitely fits "my type." I sic Suzanne on her. "Tell her that
I
like her." She breezes off like this is going to be a cake walk.

No air conditioning?!?!? It is like 95 degrees outside! We are OUTTA
here. Soho is right across the street and my Jello shots are kicking
into gear.

I keep everybody together, we head to Logan's. Normally a pretty nice
bar. We spent most of last weekend there. It is swampy hot inside
though... we asked the bartender what the deal was.

Suzanne is bitching about going to Logan's. I'm just glad I still have
the original 10 of us together and that Cheers has started making GRAPE
Jell-O shots. DAMN. Those are GOOOD!!! We gotta order another round.

"Jell-O shots for everybody!!!" We order two full trays. We should've
just ordered a couple of sledge hammers and started pounding each other
senseless. I say this because it is at THIS point where my drunk kicks
in HARD. Tonight is going to be a good night.

Off to 6th Street. We go to Melagio's for some kick back drinking. I
probably had 5 rum and cokes to add to the four previous ones. I like
Melagio because it is kinda quiet. The kinda place you can have a
couple of drinks before your buzz DEMANDS that you start YELLING for no
good reason.

Ok, so the Saxon Pub is NOT on 6th Street. My plan didn't work out so
well. We'll get it straightened out.

I have a friend of a friend who is playing at the Saxon Pub. They were
really good, the $8 was not. So basically, I just talked 10 people to
go see a band they've never heard of and cash out $8. I'm a bad guy.
But I thought that at least we would already be downtown... so who
cares?

Since my new job doesn't start until the 18th, I'm on vacation. I'm
still going to work, but on MY terms. Meaning? I'll go when and if I
feel like it. And if somebody annoys me, either they leave or I do.
End of story. That means time to go out and play!!

ster

{you think this was hard to READ? Try writing it with a hangover at
Defcon 2}

The Truth, the Half Truth, and nothing but the ster...

2000-08-31T17:36:00.000-05:00

So ya wanna know what is new with ME? Well...

I'm rich.
I'm famous.
I'm moving.
I'm in love with a stripper.

ALL of these statements true. Sort of. In an exaggerated way. I
guess
I should just explain part-by-part so that I don't confuse you.

I'M RICH.
Ok, I work for state government. By definition, that makes me: 1) lazy
2) stupid and 3) BROKE. This is NOT an exaggeration. I spent five
long
(drunk) years in college to get a degree designed to save the
environment and make me money. I could trade it in for a certificate
from ITT Technical Institute and make a LOT more money chasing Sally
Struthers and her dot.com friends around.

Long story short, saving the Mother Earth is not lucrative.

Or is it? I just got a new job. I will be running the environmental
program for a "company." See, being a government worker, the word
"company" is about as relevant as "bonu$e$," "stock options," and the
like... See, "companies" MAKE money. Governments don't. Government
make bitter, self-pitying, lazy jerks. I am living proof of this.

The company gave me the big fat raise. And a big fat signing bonus.
I'm selling out. Big time.

(ps - don't worry, there is a catch... my life still sucks)

I'M FAMOUS
I can now add "published writer" to my resume. I think I should add
the
caveat, "The Goofy Stuff Category" to be fair. I'm not kidding.
Access
Magazine just published two of my stories. This month's is just a club
review, but September's edition is using MY article as its feature!
"Single in Y2K" is the title.

Of course, they spelled my name wrong in the first one. So I decided
to
go by "Ster" in the feature. Unfortunately, they will probably change
THAT to "stir" making me a verb in the present tense, as opposed to
just
a goofy suffix.

The magazine is free. Blockbuster has bunches of them. 185,000 copies
of, what boils down to, a 3000 word email that I write for you FOR
FREE!!! Grab a copy, write the editor and tell her I'm the "gosh darn
funniest dork in the biz!"

Ok, so I'm not REALLY famous, but it was still a big deal for me.

I'M MOVING
Ok, this is very true. Remember the great new job I got? Well,
unfortunately it is 80 miles out of Austin. THAT sucks. And since the
closest place I could live was College Station --- I freaked. So I'm
moving to Round Rock. I'll make a 60 mile commute. All in the name of
selling out so that chicks will like me.

I'M IN LOVE WITH A STRIPPER
I know, it sucks you had to get ALL THE WAY DOWN HERE to read the only
interesting part of this story. First and foremost, I need to profess
that I am NOT a frequent stripbar patron. They make me nervous.
Probably sensory overload.

So I go to a strip bar. And I FORGET that the rules of the common
world
do NOT apply in strip bars. It is kinda like Bizarro World. All women
WANT to take their clothes off for me. They all think I'm
GOOD-looking. They all want money from me... Ok, so it's not TOTALLY
Bizarro World.

Anyway, one of the tramps takes a liking to me. I take a liking to her
lack of clothing, inhibitions, and morals. I have about 7 beers and
then it happens... I TOTALLY break the rules. I gave the stripper my
phone number. My friends tell me that EVERY dork does this and says
they will call.

I say different. This gal loves me. And I love her. Really. This is
"drunk-guy-at-a-strip-bar" defined to perfection.

Ok, so I don't remember much of anything after we left the strip bar.
I
know we went to a bar in the REAL world whereas all the women kept
their
clothes ON. I spend most of the night convincing them ---
unintentionally --- to keep them on.

I wake up with the worst hangover I've had in ... days? I probably
wouldn't have woke up at all if it wasn't for this SCREEEEECH going-off
in my ear. It was my phone. Caller ID? "Pay phone."

It was stripper gal. Apparently, I promised her we would go to a
matinee. Apparently, I was really really drunk. Not-so-apparently,
this stripper forgot the rules. She wasn't supposed to call. I am in
NO shape to be dealing with this clear breach of stripper/patron
protocol.

So I tell her to come over. I give her directions to my house. I hang
up.

No, I'm not kidding.

After nearly having a nervous breakdown trying to figure out WHAT I was
thinking, I analyzed my situation. First, I have an very attractive
woman on her way to my place. Second, she probably has Guido the
Killer
Pimp accompanying her. Third, the deadliest object I have in my house
is a spatula.

And what if she DOESN'T have some thug with her that wants to take my
stuff and shoot me in the head? I STILL have NO idea how to handle a
stripper-date. I don't even think they HAVE stripper-dates. There are
lapdances and prostitutes.

AND stripper dates. We had a great time!! We rented a movie, ordered
a
pizza, and talked about stuff that didn't have ANYTHING to do with
normal-everyday-stress-stuff. We climbed the tree in the backyard. I
thought about asking for a pole(tree) dance, but blew it off. What a
wonderful date.

Nice gal. One problem. She's a stripper and I don't know her number.
More importantly, she's a stripper. And I am a jealous, close-minded,
shallow and tortured soul that would never be able to tolerate my
girlfriend being naked for a living.

But I do have 20 buck$... I wonder why her parents named her
"Dizzy-Rae?"

ster

Pain In the Neck

2000-08-17T17:38:00.000-05:00

I'd like you to just take a second and thank God for your health. Why?
Because for the love of all that I hold holy, you do NOT want to get
mixed up with the "health care" industry. YeeeeOUCH.

Ok, I should preface this rant by noting that after my car accident
(Das
Cabrio ist kaput) I had a stiff neck. Nothing tragic, it just bothers
me... especially when I sit typing for a long period of time. Don't
worry, I'm laying in bed and typing with my toes. So, I go to the
doctor and say that I have a pain in my neck. Diagnosis: Whiplash.

Damn. That sounds bad.

But then Doc Happy tells me that his prescription (it even came on a
little prescription card) was "Physical Therapy, 3 X Week for 3 weeks."
Physical therapy huh? Instantly, my little delusional mind starts
forming images of some hot swedish blonde massaging my poor, aching
neck
while I lounge in a jacuzzi and let out an oh-so satisfying
"AHHHhhhhhhh...."

Enter Healthsouth, my corporate-driven caretakers. And Robin, the
not-so-hot and not-so-swedish taskmaster that makes me go
"yeeeeeeEEEEOUCH!"

Actually, it didn't start out that bad. "Robin," or "Mistress of Pain"
as I like to call her, started me off with a bunch of neck stretches.
Ouch. But not a big deal. However, not a swedish love goddess either.

Did I mention that Robin can talk? Like a LOT? Yeah, about anything.
Except anything interesting. I've found she uses her hypnotic banter
to
lull me into forgetting that she is putting the Vulcan death grip on
me. Ouch.

Then we are off to the work-out room. This place sucks. I swear it
looks like a room where every garage sale piece of fitness equipment
got
dumped off after it didn't sell. The Ab Blaster, old-school Nordic
Trac, weighted golf clubs and those silly strap-on ankle weights. They
all came here to die.

This is wear I pull on rubber bands while other dorks hang from the
ceiling by their feet and random doofuses ice their bruised elbows.
These are my people.

Then Robin goes midevil on my ass. She --- and I SWEAR this is true
---
sticks four patches on the back of my neck. These patches are attached
to wires. The wires are attached to a box. And the box is attached to
wall socket. In effect, my brain is set up to serve as an incandescent
light bulb.

This is where I get a LITTLE nervous.

She tells me that I'm going to feel a "little sting." I ask HER what
THAT is supposed to mean. She responds by hitting the switch.

THIS is the most unnatural feeling in the world. My neck muscles start
flexing and REflexing at about 5000 oscillations a minute. My shoulder
heaves into my ear. My cheeks peel back toward my eye sockets. My
hair
is standing on end and my goatee is shooting sparks. I'm amped.

I have stiff neck and modern medicine turns me into a bug zapper.

I'm going to need MENTAL therapy.

ster

Survivor

2000-07-27T17:38:00.000-05:00

?I am a total sell-out. I admit it. I have given in to Corporate
America and all that they stand for.
If they are selling it, I’m buying it. Two of ‘em. Please give me
more.

Yeah, I’m talking about “Survivor.” The compelling testosterone-ridden
amalgam of The Real
World meets Gilligan’s Island. I love it. Can’t NOT watch it. I’m
serious. I actually caught
myself rescheduling my day yesterday so I could set my butt down on the
couch and gawk at a
bunch of idiots who volunteered to get banished to a hell-on-earth with
the remote chance of
getting their grubby (literally) little hands on a million dollars.

Is a million dollars still a lot of money? I think so. But ever since
Regis started shelling it out like
so many gummi bears, I’ve had my doubts.

Who cares? I’m still gonna watch. As a matter of fact, I’m buying it
ALL. Everything. I love
selling out. I’m heading to the Gap right now. After that? I’m going
to buy the soundtrack to
Mission Impossible 2 and a Pokemon Happy Meal. Thank you Big Brother,
and “Yes, I would
like another.”

It has taken me a little while to throw my entire life away, but I’m
making up for lost time. I’m
actually having homicidal tendencies toward the fat-ass Anti-Christ
“Richard” on the show. And
“Colleen?” DAMN. What is scary is that Colleen has been on this stupid
island for 28 days
without a razor, shampoo, make-up or even that crazy glitter cream that
strippers wear ... and she is STILL hotter than ANY gal I've EVER
dated. Screw it. I'm making a raft and floating my ass to the South
China Sea, I'm gonna fish for some stupid Cuban kids floating out there
while I'm at it ...

And here is what is REALLY pissing me off right now. I've been looking
forward to the skin
flick "Coyote Ugly" for about two months now. In the commercials they
just keep showing hot
chicks dancing on bars. By definition, this is my perfect movie combo
right? It is rated PG-13.
Ya gotta be kidding me. I'm 2 1/2 times older than I need to be to see
this stupid movie. I'm
gonna watch X-Men and have some screwy dreams about a chick with blue
scales.

So what is new other than selling my self to The Man? Oh, let’s see...

First, I’m cursed. Big time. Don’t believe me? Well, give me a
second
here. Friday night,
everything is normal. I’m making out with a 40 year-old in hot pants
at
Polyesters at 3am.
Nothing new here. However, my exit was EPIC.

(I should note that this recount is ENTIRELY second-hand. I don’t
remember anything. But to
my buddy’s credit, considering the evidence, it sounds credible.)

To hear my buddy tell the story, I pointed myself toward the entrance
(not exit) of Polyesters and
against the warnings of the doorman, continued out toward the street.
Sounds fair enough. It is
here where my memory gets a little fuzzy. The way I understand it,
Polyesters entrance is
RAISED about 2 feet off the street on a pad of concrete.

In retrospect this is good information. Why? Because in my stupor,
the
only thing that I see is
the life-giving roof-light of a taxi, BEGGING to be hailed. I hailed.
He stopped. I dropped. I’m
licking asphalt at high speed.

Again, my buddy is telling me the story, but I guess I fell hard and
fast. This is where those silly
laws of physics come into play. Somehow I had to absorb all this new
kinetic energy that I had
picked up on my descent. Most of it wound up as friction on my poor
khakis and my newly-
charred knee. Ouch. Some of this energy went into a nifty scab on my
palm and the REST went
into a not-so-coordinated ROLL. Yup. I rolled up on to this taxi cab
and without skipping a beat
said “Home please.” and “Ouch.”

Ok, so my life sucks AND my left knee isn't symmetrical with my right
knee anymore. Not
enough whining for you? Don’t worry, we are just to Saturday. I’m
still dogsitting Cole, a black
lab. It is still 100+ degrees out and this dog ain’t reflecting any
heat. He just keeps sweating.
Somebody told me that “Dogs don’t sweat, they pant.” If this is true,
Cole has the smelliest
tongue EVER. The dog-stink was not confined to the room he was in, it
actually carried at least
two to three airspaces from wherever he was. At one point he stunk up
the garage. That is no
small task, I’ve tried to do this myself.

So I start up my first ever dog washing facility in my bathroom. Just
to make sure, I asked my
roomie if there was any trick to washing dogs. My shampoo says “not
tested on animals” and the
last thing I wanna do is get PETA peeved by chemically scarring poor
Cole. He tells me no
worries.

Long story short — too late — my bathroom is a disaster area, three
towels are ruined, , the dog
still stinks and it looks like I tried to stuff a Furbee into my shower
drain.

Still not convinced that I’m cursed? One last story for ya then. Hey,
I’ve been slouching lately,
give me some room, OK? Thanks.

Consider THIS my new personal ad:

“SWM seeking cute blonde gal with great eyes, tight jeans, slow drawl,
and a penchant for
SWERVING into my lane”

Yeah, you guessed it. The Cabrio is kaput. This is the first time
I’ve
wrecked my car since I was
in high school and that doesn’t count ... drinking and driving was a
sport back then and the car(s)
belonged to my parents anyway.

The details? Simple. Cabrio going 45 mph in one lane. Stupid bitch
going left from the right
lane. Cabrio bounces off Stupid bitch and careens into median.

When you get into a relatively serious accident, you are forced to
pause
and consider your
mortality... Uh, wait a minute, the chick that hit me was CUTE!!!
Whiplash schmiplash. I just
want this gal’s digits. Irony of ironies is that in Texas it is the
LAW
that she gives me her phone
number! Finally, I catch a break.

Not so fast. Stupid bitch isn’t from here and she lies to her
insurance
company about the cause of
the accident. Fortunately, I have pictures and a cop as a witness.
I’ll try to keep you updated as
my neck heals. I’m still trying to figure out how to blame the scab on
my knee on the accident.

ster

Wisdom is (not) Ster

2000-07-16T17:40:00.000-05:00

I take it ALL back. Austin ain't so cool. Screw that, Austin is
scalding HOT!! It is like 383 degrees Kelvin outside with about 120
percent humidity. I swear I'm not kidding, my Pastor this morning led
the church in a prayer for cooler weather. It is that hot. A couple
things I should make clear:

1) I'm miserable.
2) I melt at about 373 degrees Kelvin.
3) The sun landed in Austin today.
4) I'm sitting on a block of ice.
5) "I ain't seeeeeen 'hawt' yet!"

That is the part that is KILLING me. I walk back into the office from
lunch Thursday, I look like the Swamp Thing. My clothes have absorbed
about three or four quarts of perspiration. My gooey hair has burst
aflame... SD Alcohol 40 IS flammable. I've lost motor movement from
lack of salt. My nose would make Rudolph envious. So, what do I say?
"DAMN, its HOT!" Everybody in my office (in harmonious unison) say:

"You ain't SEEN hawt yet!"

I think I work with morons. Like its gonna get SOOOO much hotter than
100 degrees? What? When? HOW? Unless a thermonuclear device was set
off in my rectum, I could NOT feel "that much" hotter. It feels like
I'm a bug and God has this really big magnifying glass and he's playin'
"watch that little ster guy combust."

I was wrong. It got hotter. Unfortunately, it wasn't the only time
I've been wrong in the past few days.

So I'm chugging Wisdom. No, that is not an analogy... I'm not capable
of making one right now. I don't even think I could make a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich right now without being spotted
pre-spread-bread (hmmm... that's not a bad idea!)

STOP ME NOW.

ALL of my ideas, by definition are BAD ideas. Starting with my choice
of beverage, "Wisdom" by Sobe. Apparently, all ya gotta do is put a
lizard on the bottle, pour some St. Johns Wort and Gingko Biloba into
some kool-aid and I'm dropping $1.79 for it. "Wisdom?" I'm pretty
sure

there is an oxymoron buried in there somewhere.

Damn, I'm still gripping about that rectal thermonuclear device
thing...

that's a mental picture I wish I could erase, sorry.

Bad Ideas In History:
1) Jell-O Shots on an empty stomach
2) Any Pauly Shore Movie
3) The WNBA
4) Shaving your nose
5) Recycling girlfriends

I'm only directly responsible for 3 of these... of course all three
have

to do with my (lack of) sex life. I should start by saying that about
two years ago I used to date a gal that looked a LOT like Baby Spice.
THAT was the ONLY reason I dated her. An ex-stripper, she was
certifiably insane. Not that I'm much better, I was the one with a
Spice Girl fetish. Still dig "Sporty."

It wasn't long before I realized she was a nutburger, and I cut-ties.
She was married three weeks later. Gotta love that. Unfortunately, it
didn't take. So, in mourning for her divorce, she chose to wear hot
pants on 6th Street. I'll betcha 8 Jell-O shots that we found each
other and hooked-up.

You lose and I already put the Jell-O shots on your tab. Somehow I
lost

all my friends and wound up at Polyesthers about 3am. I was with Baby
Spice, but not for long. I found ANOTHER old girlfriend and decided
she

would make a BETTER ex-current-ex-girlfriend. THAT was an even WORSE
idea than the first.

I am now swearing off ALL ex-girlfriends and Jell-O shots. I hope your
weekend went a LOT better.

Me? I've got a cohd in my nohze. HaaaaaaaCHOOOO! How in the hell did
I get a cold in the very same nose that is PEELING from a sunburn? No
idea. What is worse is that I had a (bad) date and my own personal
vanity clause would not allow me to pick her up with my nose
unravelling.

My first attempt at ex-folliation? Rubbing it with a napkin. *POOF*
My nose looks like cauliflower. White-on-red and I'm grouchy. So I
skip all the logical next steps and go right for the razor blade. Yup,
I shaved my nose. I've done some REALLY stupid stuff in my life, but
for such a simple task, this one takes the cake.

Although I succeeded in removing most of the dead skin, I added
razor-burn to a my sunburn. I don't think it possible to combine more
acute pain with a goofier appearance. Deep red racing-stripes of pain
down each side. I look like I stuck my nose in a pencil sharpener.
Props to me.

And I'm dogsitting. I've got a black lab sitting here that truly
wishes

he was being dog-sat by you and not me. He's bored, but I've been
beaten. Completely defeated. It wasn't even CLOSE. The way I see it,
the score is:

Texas Heat - 107
Ster's Ass - 00

I've completely shut down. I'm channel-flipping, contemplating
life-changes and reading a book. The dog? He's just staring at me
saying, "Hey dude, whattya say we get out of this house and go play?"

I just stare at him and whimper.

fahrenheit fourfiftyster

Ignorance is Ster

2000-06-20T17:43:00.000-05:00

Please make a note:

THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE IS STER-E-O-TYP-ING.

Stereotyping is BAD. STEReotyping isn't quite so bad. Because I KNOW
that what I'm about to say is, in fact, not true and completely
unfair... it is not IGNORANT stereotyping... it is blatant instead.

Ok, it is still bad. But here I go!!!

1) ALL people from Lake Jackson, TX are idiots of the highest order.
2) ALL people who eat at Dan's Hamburgers in South Austin are stoners.
3) "Skeeters" are bad.

Bold statements? Yeah, kinda. But I am prepared to back them up with
nothing but rhetoric and misleading statements that only a bigot could
truly appreciate. Enjoy.

First, I should mention that it has been 2 years since I broke up with
Tommy Jean Redneck. No, her last name isn't REALLY "Redneck" but I've
seen Deliverance --- and as remote as the possibility is that they have
even HEARD of the Internet is --- I ain't about to piss off her family.

Tommy was a hottie. Looked GREAT naked. Tommy was also an idiot, a
racist, a bigot, and a bad girlfriend. She took it upon herself to
"break me in" to some of the less-desireable traits that Southerners
sometimes share. Why did I date her? Did I mention she was a hottie?

Tommy was from Lake Jackson, Texas. In the three months that we dated
I

met 3 of her relatives and 7 of her friends. Of them, three of the men
had unkempt mullets, two of the women had black eyes ("cuz they
dezurvdit"), eight of them smoked (Marlboro Reds, hard box) and ALL
were

born, (in)bred, and raised in Lake Jackson. From what I've seen, that
alone is a nasty disadvantage at birth, trust me.

ALL of them were openly racist. They didn't care that I objected to
this... they didn't understand how or why I could object. I, in turn,
didn't understand how a family tree could so closely resemble an
asparagus stalk.

Enough with the lecture. MLSter Day isn't a holiday. This is about a
date I had with a gal yesterday. Cute gal. I met her at her condo,
pool-side. She was wearing a bikini that looked more like three
eyepatches linked together by anal-floss. Not that I'm complaining...
I was quite happy with her choice of first date-apparel.

It wasn't long before the flirting started. I was scratching her back,
she was scratching my calf... we were doing a LOT of scratching. I
didn't think much of it at first, but then I started wondering when I
started ITCHING this bad? I then noticed a bump on my pinky.

I don't normally have bumps on my pinky.

So I asked, "What's this all about?"
She says, "Skeeters, they are everywhere."

"SKEETERS?!?!"

As you might have guessed by the prelude, it is at THIS point in time
that the metamorphsis took place. I think her teeth actually, is this
a

verb, "bucked?" Unbeknownst to me, she was from Lake Jackson. It took
all of 2 minutes for us to realize that she knew my Tommy Jean quite
well. It took me all of 5 minutes to realize that I should have an
IMMEDIATE check for STD's.

And malaria. Malaria --- I think --- is commonly communicable through
mosquitos. I now have more skeeter bites than I have had sexual
experiences much less partners.

EPA recently banned "Dursban" a common and POTENT pesticide. I
starting

a lobby as of RIGHT NOW that says that I don't give a crap how many
flipper-babies are spawned by this terotogen. I would have been
willing

to BATHE in Dursban ifinit would get these damn "skeeters" off of me!

I have three bites on my right pinky. One more bite and it will be the
size of my thumb (one bite). My wrist is so swollen fingers, I can
barely type.

Back to the date. After donating enough blood that I asked for a
receipt, the redneck-hemorrhaging continued. Turns out that, according
to my date's account:

"Terri Lynn Redneck, ya know Tommy Jeans cuzzin, used to be married to
ma brothur Billy Jack back whens Suzy Jen was preggent with ma cuzzin
Peggy Sue. I used to screw around with her ex-boyfriend Jim Bob..."

(Then the banjo music started.)

Jed Klampett popped out and told us that we were to be gettin' out of
the cement pond.

This hillbilly dissertation continued. The only thing that I was made
quite certain of was that my ex-girlfriend was a slut. That, and I
think by definition, ANY sexual contact in Lake Jackson is incestual.
By now, my date's buck teeth were the size of china plates.

So I run. Fast. On the way home, I stop at a local fast food joint
called Dan's Hamburgers. This place is a shameless munchie magnet for
stoners. EVERYBODY in the place is stoned. It isn't as if there were
two kids in the corner giggling with red-eye. This place was packed
with stoners, kids and adults, many with children in-tow. Amazingly
enough, you could actually smell the cannibus SATURATED in these folks
CLOTHES.

The workers were stoned too. All of them.

Then I figured it out, the Menu. It was munchie heaven. Chicken-fried
steak, chicken-fried chicken, chicken-fried cod, and even something
called "chicken-fried fritter." I don't know what a "fritter" is, but
I'm guessing that it is the resultant of the sad demise of a "critter."
I bet they serve them in Lake Jackson too.

Do I sound bitter? Could be that I have NO days left to drink in June.
Ouch.

ster

Deconstructing ster

2000-06-08T17:46:00.000-05:00

June is a BIG month for me. I'm going to spend the better part of this
month trying to figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my
life. What this means? First, it means I'm only allowed to drink 5
times during the entire month of June. Second, it means that during
this moment (or two) of clarity...

Make that 4 times. Friday night. Ugh. My brain couldn't be any more
slowed if I mounted a parking brake to my frontal lobe. What clarity?

I'm trying really hard to remember what I did Friday night, but my
roomie has to keep filling in the blanks.

"blanks" - periods of time, an aggregate of 4 hours, from Friday night.

I remember saying to myself, "Self, you gotta stop drinking so much.
Really." Therein lies my plan. Only drink 5 times for the entire
month
of June. No big deal to all you responsible-like folks out there, but
this kid doesn't know what else to do on the weekends! But I SWEAR I'm
gonna make it. Yes, even if I have to get a girlfriend... FIVE TIMES.
That's IT.

Well, I'm down to four. #1 was a doozy. We started out at Melagio's
and I remember saying to myself, "Self, you only got FIVE nights...
better make 'em count!"

After about 13 drinks, I forgot HOW to count. It was only about 11pm
when my buzz was kicking like a bull with it's testicles strapped into
one of those leather jock-straps. Ouch. But I was feeling GOOD. Of
course, it was at this point when the Jell-o shots started calling...

"Oh ster... there is ALWAYS room for Jell-o..."

I set down 10 bucks and got 20 jello shots. I was with three friends.
I think I drank 10 shots. My friends suck, and yes, "drank" is the
proper term. These things were TOXIC. Really. And they weren't even
SOLID. I swear. I think the Jell-o Chef must've forgot that alcohol,
a
strong solvent, needs at least a LITTLE gelatin to solidify. Asshole.

Fast forward to 2am. This is where the "blank" comes in. I'm at
PolyeSter's. I'm making out with a scantily-clad OLD woman. Yeah,
OLD. I don't know how old. Damn, I don't even know how I got to
Polyesthers! All I know is this 40+ year-old woman thinks that I rock.

So I said to myself "Self, you rock."

And myself REPLIES, "Dude, you are gonna HURL."

By now, I've decided that talking to myself is a BAD idea but listening
to myself is a GOOD idea. Next thing I know, I'm in an alley. By
myself. Holding on to the sidewalk, keeping myself from falling off
the
face of the planet... telling myself to shut up and find a cab.

One down, four more to go. I'll keep ya posted.

ster

Inspiration?

2000-05-26T17:46:00.000-05:00

Apparently, one of my friends was inspired by one of my recent stories
and
wrote THIS. It is kind of a redneck-without-punctuation version of one
of my weekends. Thought ya might like it. -rick :-)

i have awoken twice on consecutive days this week at 3:30am, couldn't
go
back to sleep, decided to come into work. at 5am. after 48 hours with
about
4-5 hours of sleep,i hit the wall yesterday.

i went home around 2:30pm, stopped at the liqueor store for rum.
paying

for the booze, my credit card broke. literally, it snapped in two.
too

much use. heavy residue buildup deemed it unreliable a long, long
time

ago. have been cleaning the strip on a regular basis. its never
fails
to
amuse me, handing my card to a store clerk, waitress etc, with
obvious

residue still remaining on the edge of the card. have received some

weird reactions from those people. i just smile back and wink at
them.

weirdos.

had to purchase the bottle with folded, crumpled, and rolled dollar

bills, left over from the night before. and loose change. god, i
hate

people that have to pay like that. now i have joined their sick
club.

got home, took a nap, awoke to answer a page. i made a drink,
stepped

outside to smoke while returning the page, and locked myself out. no
big
deal i thought, i would wait until the roommate got home. locked out
in
only my boxers, with smokes, beverage, and phone.

i had my cordless, my smokes, and my rum and coke (which represented
my
biggest fear- that I could not nurture my beverage long enough until
the
roommate got home). i am not a sippin man. in fact, an ex girlfriend

referred to me as tumbler boy, as i refuse to drink wine out of a
gay

wine glass. i prefer a big, solid tumbler. prefferably glass,
plastic
if
necessary.

it was about 4:45 at this time. 2 hours and 15
minutes, my roommate would be home, and i could replenish my
beverage.

this is where things started to get serious. very serious.

while locked out, i decided to call my daughter. hoever, the battery
on
my cordless died. shit, i was planning on killing time by talking
to
my
daughter, friends, etc. now, that was not an option.

2 hours, and counting.

the ice in my beverage was almost completely melted, and i am not a
fan
of warm cocktails, so i regretfully slammed it before it reached
that

state. "so long, friend of mine", i thought to myself. too bad i
didn't

bring the bottle outside with me.

1 hour 45 minutes, and counting.

i cleaned up the backyard, watered some areas with new grass, did
all
i
could basically do regarding yardwork, with the limited amount of
devices i had available. that took all of about 10 minutes.

found a wasp sitting on the inside of the bug zapper, knocked it
into

the
electric grids, zappppppppp. that was cool, electricty rules!
spent about 2 minutes doing that.

amused myself with fire for a little while. got the mosquito candles

going, which was somewhat of a chore due to having to dig the wicks
out
of the wax. my lighter was getting very hot, glowing hot in fact.
and

then IT happened.

while trying to light the second candle, my lighter practically self

destructed(this is when i KNEW that IF there was a god, he had just
took
a huge, steaming, pulsating, turgid shit on me). the roller and
spring

fell out, into the burning wax. there was no point in trying to
salvage

it. it was broken, beyond repair.

so now, i am without communication, without beverage, and without a

lighter. had plenty of smokes, though. so i decided to sustain the
two

candles i had going for the 1.5 hours remaining. no big deal, i
thought.

it was very windy, but i constructed wind blocks out of the patio
furniture. that seemed to work. 1 hr 15 minutes and counting.

lost the first candle after about 10 minutes. hey, no problem, i
just

have to keep the second candle going. i was not a boy scout, but i
am

VERY proficient with fires. 1 hour and counting.

decided to start chain smoking my remaining cigarettes, just IN CASE
the
second candle went out. pretty smart, ey? stepped out behind the
back

fence, into a greenbelt area, to take a piss. while pissing, looked
down
at my foot which had about 50-100 ants crawling all over it. i had
stepped right onto an ant mound. started to hop and do this weird
dance

in order to remove the ants before too much damage was done. took
care

of that, managed not to piss all over myself in the process, and
went

back to the patio.

god, i was getting stressed at this time. however, my stress
management

teachings kept coming back to me- stay calm, its no big deal, do not
get
stressed.

i really, really needed a drink at this time. 45 minutes and
counting.

sat down, started to think about the bad, nasty things i could do to

this female engineer i had lunch with. that got me through, oh about
5
minutes. couldn't concentrate, though. my dog kept f*cking with me.

lost the second candle while taking a piss. no problemo, i had
planned

for this exact scenario, continuing to chain smoke my remaining
smokes.

40 minutes, counting.

i really did try to see the humor in all of this, but it escaped me.

grew tired of chain smoking, after about 6-7 consectuve cigarettes.

extinguished the last one, looked at my watch, only about 30 minutes

remaining until roomy got home.

when the roommate got home, i was out front, acting as if nothing
unusual had happened. i was so glad he was home, wanted to hug him.

the subsequent rum and coke was probably the best one i have ever
had.
Delete Reply Forward Spam M

Singles Bowling

2000-05-25T17:48:00.000-05:00

Ok, exactly how DESPERATELY single does one have to be to go to a
bowling alley looking for love?

Final answer = Me. (Yes Regis, I'm sure.)

Enter "JB and Sandy," a morning talk show that I love. All week, I am
listening to them tout how "If you are single you simply must call-in
for 'JB and Sandy's Singles Bowling Night' or you will miss your chance
to meet Ms. Right."

No, I didn't win the call-in. It is actually WORSE than that. I am SO
enticed by the thought of meeting Ms. Right, I actually crashed the
bowling party. How I got a lane, I have no idea. (Hint: Buy Sandy a
beer.) But I should preface this rant with a couple of facts...

First, bowling sucks. Second, and MORE importantly, I suck at bowling.
I know this because I spent the better part of my adolescents learning
what sports I sucked at... football, baseball, horseshoes and origami.
Yes, I suck at bowling too. For those of you at home, that leaves just
bobsledding and professional wrestling as sports I haven't tried and
might be good at. I'm pumpin' iron and shooting for the wrestling gig
mid-July.

Ever BEEN bowling? Of course you have. Ever been bowling in Texas?
Probably not. See, I thought they closed all the lanes down back in
11th grade when "We," as a world united, decided not to wear each
others
shoes.

Well, as it turns out, they have NOT closed all the lanes. They have
however incorporated INTO the game some video game characteristics.
Complete with screens telling EVERYBODY IN THE
DAMN PLACE your score and a rating of your last shot, including graphic
details of your gutterballs. Survey says:

X

First, I don't believe in their scoring system. 10 frames, 10 pins,
each pin worth 1 point, 300
points possible. You don't have to have an abacus handy to see that
something is screwy here. Do they give points on "originality" or
handicap you due to the amount of bowling-pin shaped Budweisers you've
had? No. The machine scores you with some odd equation that would
have
left Einstein scratching his head and splitting atoms. There is
definitely some trigonometry involved. Of course, last time I played we
JUST CHEATED which made the game infinitely more fun. Survey says:

XX

However, as everything here in Texas, things are "differnt." So they,
based on my personal
observations, added some other scoring options.

First, if you have a shirt with your name on it, you get 100 points
added to your score AND you get to buy your own shoes. If you have a
John Deere Hat on, you get 50 points and strange little wrist thing
that
gives you an unfair advantage in a nose picking contest
(coincidentally,
that was held at 9:30pm --- I won.)

Second, if you sit in the non-smoking zone (3 of 130 lanes are
"non-smoking") they subtract 75 points as a handicap due to your
inherent health advantage.

Third added bonus? If your name is "Shawn, the Cardiologist" you win.
Bowling AND all the single women. This dude is bigger than Elvis with
this crowd. AND he knows how to bowl. That is just wrong.

Unrelated but important, they did figure a way to avoid waxing lanes.
DEEP FRY EVERYTHING. You get the oil/wax on your hands and clothes and
eventually you distributed it to the lanes. The cumulative effect is
pretty gross. Survey says:

XXX

"XXX" by the way is NOT a rating for my favorite movie, the label on my
favorite drink, or even the
name of the newest "hip" rapper. It is a "turkey." No idea. I can
guess it means that, like a turkey shoot, if you have a SHOTGUN, you
could pick up the infamous "300" by shooting the damn pins.

So, I spent most of the evening making a turkey out of myself. I was
actually TRYING to talk to women, but --- well, bowling sucks! To add
to my misery, about an hour into our Singles Bowling Night, they turned
OFF the regular lights, turned ON the blacklights, and started spinning
the disco ball. Like I wasn't a threat to others' safety with the
lights ON? So like a bad scene in Boogie Nights, with my shoes GLOWING
bright green, I try an up-till-now unprecedented series of bowling
pick-up lines.

I should have just dropped a 16-lb ball on my foot and poured beer down
the front of my pants. You've gotta be kidding me! See surprisingly,
there were some attractive women in attendance. Not-so-surprisingly,
they all wanted Shawn to check their heartbeat. Even my buddy found a
cute blonde to latch on to.

I just want to go to bed. Really. I'm the only person at the alley
that doesn't like bowling. I'm also the only person at the alley that
DOES like me. I try to bail, my buddy conveys my intentions onto his
new-found love... and THEN things get ugly.

I should've just left him. Explained to him in the morning that I had
a
vicious bowling anxiety attack, stemmed from my lack-of-ability... my
hindsight is 20-20. It is at this point that his blonde friend points
out to Sandy (of "JB and...") that I'm leaving.

God forbid that you EVER have to try looking cool in this situation.
Dude is all over me. Apparently, morning DJ's don't sleep. They stay
up really late and learn new and exciting ways to make other guys feel
neutered. Sandy let me have it. I crawl home without my friend. But
not without getting the phone number of a very cute school teacher...
maybe bowling doesn't suck?

Survey says?

XXXsterXXX

Summertime Blues.

2000-05-08T19:56:00.000-05:00

The past two mornings, I have woke up next to the same, wonderful gal.
A small blonde who thinks I'm wonderful and I, without fear, reciprocate
the love. Her name is Summer. We've been hanging out all weekend. She
doesn't say much and she uses a LOT of tongue when she kisses... but it
is worth it. One problem. She sheds. A lot.

Summer is my friend's dog. I'm dogsitting.

Yeah, I know. I could've milked that for more. But considering how
litigious our society is, and that I haven't taught Summer how to type
yet, I'm not going to give PETA any ammunition! Besides, I've got a
couple of other things I've got to write about...

Everybody was outta town this weekend. My roomie is in N.Y., and almost
everybody else I know decided it was a good weekend NOT to spend with
me. So I busted out my phone book and started calling for ANYBODY that
wanted to play.

Fast forward to Saturday night. I put a crew of friends together and
put a challenge down. Something to the effect of, "drink this" and I
pointed to the bar. The ENTIRE bar. A couple of my friends were up to
the task. May God have mercy on their souls.

I should mention that not EVERYBODY is built to drink from 5pm to 3am
without taking a breath.

The good news? Everybody made it back to my place. Not with me, but
they made it. When I came bumbling in after a night of striking out
with EVERY girl that would listen to me babble, the place was a zoo.
Four drunk idiots and TWO dogs were running around my house. Trying to
figure out how to use every electrical appliance in the place. Summer
and her canine guest were the most coherent of the group. I'm guessing
they would have done better in standardized testing.

It was at this point the circuit breaker "broke?"

I'll admit, I'm not smart enough to figure out why or how my electricity
works. I AM smart enough to know, in retrospect, that I have NO
business trying to FIX electricity when I'm hammered. Somehow, I was
able to restore power just in time to hit my pillow.

When I woke up. NOBODY was here. No cars. No people. One dog. Life
is good. But my bathroom door was locked. From the inside. This is
bad. So, while trying to figure out HOW one of my friends had locked
the door, I heard a noise from inside.

Someone was SNORING in my bathroom. MyStery solved. My friend had
found his faith where only a binge drinker can... the Porcelain God. I
banged loudly at the door, and heard the tell-tale guttural wheeze
acknowledging me, and wanting me to go away. He survived. Rest assured
he'll never pick up the "drink that" gauntlet again.

He owes Summer an apology though, I found spew in her water dish.
Gross!

It's a brisk 92 degrees outside. I've got the AC set to "cryogenic."
Summer is doing her best imitation of Walt Disney while I'm considering
the ramifications of turning her into a dogscicle. I'm in Vega$ next
weekend. I promise to do something stupid.

ster

The pic is of Summer and I.

House cleaning.

2000-03-22T17:52:00.000-06:00

I'm having a house cleaning.
It's time.
Really.
I'm turning 29 on April 2nd. This is not a significant milestone to most, but to me it means that I will be too old to:

1) Start a Boy Band. The Backstreet Boys eldest statesman is 28.
2) Say that I am "mid-20's."
3) Ever need my damn ID anymore.
4) Ignore Rogaine sales... its never too early!
5) Retire at 30.

It has become painfully apparent to me I am leading EXACTLY the same lifestyle I was when I was 24. Screw that, I'm worse. And to top it all off, none of the "good stuff" that supposedly "comes with age" is happening to me! How come I still look like a retard when I (try to) grow a beard? Was it just a JOKE when they said that acne would go away when I grew up? Maybe if I get married...

House cleaning. Consider me the Publisher's Clearinghouse of psycho-nutburger rabbit-killing girl-acquaintences. I have TONS (by weight) of nutty gals that "Simply MUST GO!! I'm going out of business!!!" Married women? I'm having a fire sale. Tats? Ghandi. Free trip to Cabo? Yeah, that part sucks, but it was a package deal. It HADDA be done! As of this very moment, I'm single and starting ALL OVER again. New strategy:

SWM seeking SWF that understands that the "S" does NOT stand for "Separated," "Sadistic," "Seeing-somebody," or "Sychotic." Whoever said they had to be able to spell?

I'm looking for a book, "Dating for Dummies." If you see it, I'm buying. Granted, I'm insane and need therapy. Near-term. But who isn't nowadays? I just need to find somebody that either doesn't notice OR (preferably) has a Ph.D. in Sychology. Whoever said I was able to spell?

The house cleaning isn't simply metaphorical. My roomie bought an old house. I'd say a "new" house, but that would be a MAJOR stretch. However, it is A house, which is more than I have. I think it was built when Abraham Lincoln was still a big fan of theaters. So, I've been downgraded from "roomie" to "tenant." I wonder if he knows he is my landlord now?

I think my biggest gripe with the house is that it has "old person smell." You know how old people's houses smell? Well this house has a pocket full of old people and is not afraid to share.

What happens when you get old? What IS that smell? Maybe the elderly have heard all the stories about old people slipping in the shower and hitting their head? Maybe it is ear hair. I don't know. All I AM sure about is that when I walk into my new "pad," my nostrils flare, my eyes water, and I pray for an early death. But at 29... I better stop making fun of old people.

One good thing, my landlord can't evict me. All of "our stuff" is MY stuff. Unfortunately, all of my stuff sucks. I'm staring at it right now. Sanford and Son was decorated better. Everything I own was given to me by someone else who thought it sucked. And THAT was YEARS ago. You know it is time for new stuff when you have to divide it up into categories:

1) Stuff that goes with you.
2) Stuff that goes into the dumpster
3) Stuff that came OUT of a dumpster
4) Stuff that is murky-green and fuzzy.

Most of my stuff falls into categories 2-4. There isn't enough Lysol or Pledge in Austin to save this stuff. I'm taking donations. Even stuff that Goodwill won't take is an upgrade.

ster

Pet Band

2000-03-14T17:53:00.000-06:00

SITUATION: I was lonely.

Posed with a similar situation, most people would either 1) Get a dog.
2) Get a rock band. 3) Sleep with a married woman.

Ok, only number one is a seriously viable option. Guess which one I
did
NOT do? I guess I should make it simple... I don't need to shop for
Alpo.

HOWEVER!! I do need to explain myself a little... first of all, I
still
haven't found my morals. If you know where they are, tell them that I
miss them and that I NEED them.

Not really. I'm not THAT morally bankrupt. I just need to learn to
ask
some SIMPLE questions BEFORE I start dating a girl. Do you remember
the
gal from Fat Tuesday? Well, she decided to make it a "Fat Friday" too.
I admit, I didn't know her too well.

"REALLLLLLY?"

I toldja, I admitted it. Quit being uncooperative. I DID know her
well
enough that if she called Friday morning and says, "can I come over?"
The answer was a definite, "yes." And I think I might have added a
"please."

The questions I SHOULD have prefaced my answer with were:

1) Are you married?
2) Are you Satan incarnate?
3) Have you seen my morals?

I didn't ask when it mattered. But I DID ask at breakfast. She
explained to me that she has been "living with a guy" for 4 years and
has she a daughter. THAT is useful information! Not that it makes ANY
difference in my long-term chances of going to Hell. My
air-conditioned
office was secured in college.

"What is this about a ROCK BAND?"

Oh yeah. They just moved in. Much like a pet rock, I now have a pet
rock band. It is SXSW which means that 600 bands are in town pimping
their wares. Unbeknownst to me, until now, they are not given free
shelter. So, because my roomie is such a kind heart (and best friend
of
the lead singer) and I'M not smart enough to THINK about it, WE get
seven new roommates!

I just checked, my apartment is NOT big enough for SEVEN new people. I
live in a sock-pile that never ends. Do you have ANY idea how BAD nine
dudes can STINK after a short while? Picture a bunch of smelly rats
crowded around a grossly decaying cadaver... those rats are HIDING from
my living room funk.

Next time I wish for a Rock N' Roll band, I'm pulling for the Go-Go's.
C'mon... Belinda Carlysle was a hottie and you know it.

Actually, its not too bad. They ARE really good. I know this cuz they
gave me their CD... and they have more tattoos and piercings than Blink
182. Their name is Local 808 (that is just coincidental) and they are
playing at the Atomic Cafe (666?).

So, if you want to find me, go to the Atomic Cafe at 9pm on Wednesday
and I'll be THERE. Please go. If they get rich and successful, I
might
get to meet Christine Aguiliara! And if you see my morals? Please
bring them.

ster

Phat Tuesday

2000-03-10T17:55:00.000-06:00

I don't really even know where to begin. What a CRAZY weekend. Long
one too. Just ended about 15 minutes ago. Weekends are NOT supposed
to
end on WEDNESDAY.

I have morals, I really do. I doubt that Pat Buchannan would buy 'em,
but I KNOW that Jim Bakker would! However, it is these morals that I
hold so true to my heart that I LOSE sometimes. And sometimes I just
don't WANT to find them!

Wow. Mardi Gras in Austin is simply NUTS. First, the ground rules.
1)
Men must lie, cheat and steal to get as many beaded necklaces as
possible. 2) Women must show their breasts, at the mere offering of the
aforementioned beads.

"WHAT?!?!"

It's a Southern-thing. I don't understand. Don't really CARE to
either! It is a simply WONDERFUL thing!!!

Mardi Gras creates a uniquely cajun economic system. It is based on
the
"3 B's" (Booze, Beads, Breasts) and it is rooted deeply in Mathusian
supply and demand. Booze is in LARGE supply. Therefore, I think it
was
free. Because of the HUGE supply, it doesn't enter into the equation,
except as a catalyst. Beads are like money. They are plastic and
shiny
and of ULTIMATE value on the evening of Pardi Gras. Men NEED beads.
They search for them. They offer favors, drinks, houses with servants,
ANYTHING for the almighty beads. With no beads, and a great buzz (from
the catalyst), women offer what they DO have that men WANT that IS in
short supply. Bare Breasts. Now, the damn beads very worthwhile. If
you gots 'em you gets to see breasts. Ifinya don't, you doesn't.
Supply and demand, free enterprise, and "mammarian economics." Simple.

So Friday night I partake and I am a very active participant. I also
make out with one friend, one BEST friend, and a best friend's best
friend... you think this is confusing for YOU? However, I DO get home
safely ALONE with lots of lipstick and no beads. Morals still intact,
but not entirely functional.

(insert similar crap from Saturday through Monday)

Damn. Mardi Gras never ends. Really. It is like a 5 day drinkfest
that culminates with "Fat Tuesday." Ancient religious tomes speak of
people partying as much as they physically can in the wake of the
eventual "Ash Wednesday" and the corresponding fasting and other
sacrifices.

Enter ster. No idea how to handle this. I KNOW it's a weekday. I
KNOW
I don't play that hard on weekdays. I DON'T know if I can party that
hard anymore. My morals are already MIA. But, "When in Rome... party
really hard and don't even consider the consequences?"

So at 8pm, which is ungodly early, we meet up with Ruby. Ruby and I
spend that few awkward moments whereas: She, wonders if I'm for real
and
I, wonder if this is the gal I want to marry.

After that, things went well. She's cute and nice and, I THINK, easy.
AND she's DRINKING! Life is good. Granted, this is not a very "moral"
attitude, but it IS Fat Tuesday. Sinning is mandatory.

Then at about midnight, BAM. Smack right into Tats. I've been dating
Tats for about 3 months.
Tats has recently invited me on an all-expense-paid trip to Cabo San
Lucas. Seeing as how I have no business in a serious relationship with
a 22-year-old with fake breasts, I say, "I'm sorry but I can't." But
out loud it sounded more like, "Yes, of course."

*RING*
My Morals: "Ster?"
Me: "Hey Morals, you all right?"
Morals: "No ster, where the hell are you? I'm LOST!"
Me: "Stay right where you are. Don't panic. I'll be there to pick you
up."
Morals: "WHEN?!?!"
Me: "Errrrr... tomorrow.
*CLICK*

With that pain in the ass gone, I STILL have a dilemma. On one hand I
have Tats. On the other I have Ruby. In my foot, I have about 32
Jello
shots. On the other foot, I have the remnants of my morals I just
kicked to the curb.

So, like a dog locked inside the house that needs to pee, I panic. I
grab Ruby, from right in front of Tats and bolt. Don't say a WORD to
Tats. The rest of the story is a trade secret. Why? Because I got
the
love from Ruby, Tats then spent the night, I'm still going to Cabo, and
I just picked up my morals in time to *forget* how I pulled it off.

Maybe I'll remember when it comes time to write my memoirs "Hangovers
Are a Modern-Day Penance and Other Self-Righteous Bullshit."

ster

Dogs Love Beer.

2000-02-01T17:58:00.000-06:00

Good news! My roomie and I are heading to CANCUN
next week!

Bad news! I'm in piss poor shape. And it's
getting WORSE!

I'm not certain, but the way I understand the
Health and Safety Code, I think that I now qualify

for a handicapped parking permit Why? Cuz I
can't walk. Why? Because my legs have been
reduced to very painful reminders that I'm not 18
anymore. Why? Cuz I just REFUSE to accept the
fact that I will NEVER (ever-ever-ever) be in even
reasonable cardiovascular "shape."

The only excuse I can come up with is Darwin's
Theory of Evolution. I have evolved into a
SITTER. My center of gravity is located PRECISELY
where I sit. I'm a very accomplished SITTER. I
can sit all day. Everyday. I'm sitting right
now. Very happy about it. Things OTHER than
sitting? Very limited.

So, against my better judgement, I went RUNNING
yesterday. Actually, what I did would be a WAY
liberal use of the word "running." Jogging? No.
Walking? Maybe. Waddling? Could be. Crying?
Yes. More than 3 miles of solid, unadulterated
and clearly-UNnecessary AGONY. About a mile into
this trek, I start WHEEZING. I didn't know that I
was even capable of WHEEZING! Overweight women,
pushing their children in strollers, while SMOKING
were passing me. Sitting good, running bad.

All this pain in such skinny little
legs...amazing. Just so that I can PRETEND that
I'm still in college for ONE WEEK. Hot sun. Hot
chicks. Cold beer. Ok, so it IS worth it.

Cold beer? That reminds me, how did you like the
Superbowl!?!? I was more than a little
disappointed with the commercials.

|^^^^^^^^^^^^^| ||__
| B u d w e i s e r | ||'|"\,_
|_..._...______===|=||_|__|..,]
"(@)'(@)"""""|(@)(@)**(@)*I

"Dogs love beer." - Augustus Busch
"Dogs are funny." - Superbowl Audience
"Animals pimping beer sucks." - me

Whatever happened to the shameless exploitation of
scantily clad women to sell me beer? I think it
is a CLEAR violation of my civil rights to
substitute frogs, lizards, ferrets, dogs, furbees
or ANYTHING else for hot chicks. I don't want to
sound sexist, but unfortunately I AM.

"Hey, why no more stories about drunk escapades?"

Ok, you asked for it!

My Friday nights need to get shorter. Really. I'm
not sure exactly WHEN I decided that Friday
night should begin at 5pm and should end at 4am on
SATURDAY, but I'm pretty sure it was round about
the same time I came to the conclusion that Keith
Richards was my role model.

I'm actually pretty good ifinI don't start
drinking until 8pm. That gives me 5 solid hours
of boozing it up before the panic that IS last
call hits. Around 1pm I assess my buzz. If I'm
feeling good, I drink. If I'm feeling --- well,
ANYTHING at ALL --- I drink A LOT. If I'm
hammered? I belly up to the bar and drop a
challenge on the bartender. Last Friday night was

just such and occasion.

Belligerent drunks suck. Belligerent ster's suck
down booze like Monica Lewinsky sucks... you get
the point.

So Friday, Steve and I hit downtown about 5pm for
a happy hour. Long story short? That's EASY!
About 11pm I've lost Steve, my sense of direction,
and my last moral. I kinda remember hitting on
this one girl --- how do I put this and keep up
with current street slang? Well, if "phat" is a
good thing... she was "Phat Phree."

(Insert 4 hours of your own creative imagination.
I'd just be guessing.)

Then BAM. I bumble right into Tats. Actually,
considering the size of her breasticles, I guess I

ran smack into Tats' tats? Anyway, she can see
that I have lost all motor skills and tries to
help me. I think the conversation went a little
like this:

Tats: "Are you ok?"
Me: "Whuh... errr... blah"
Tats: "You don't look so good, do you wanna go
home?"
DrunkieMe: "home? yes. bed. Hoooo're you?"
Tats: "Let's get you home."

I'm not really sure what went wrong. I remember
that I was hanging my head out the window, like a
beer-loving dog, lapping up life-giving air...
then it gets a little foggy. She says that she
stopped at a light, I got out of the car...
stumbled away. Where?

Into a bush. Face first. Fell asleep.

Took her 30 minutes to find my dumb ass and coerce
me that the bush was NOT my bed. I guess I put up
a pretty good arguement for a stupid drunk. Happy
hours in bars = Nappy hours in bushes.

I wonder if they even HAVE bushes in Cancun. I'll
letcha know!

ster

Bras, Band-Aids and Elvis.

2000-01-19T17:59:00.000-06:00

Men should not own bras. With the noted exception
of Mr. Costanza (Manssiere) on Seinfeld, bras are
for women. Case closed.

Then why is it the everyday, THOUSANDS of men buy
bras?
Why am I asking this question?

Well, I just bought my SECOND BRA.
Just put it on.

Maybe I should preface this contention with a very
true, very unfortunate and very megabummer story?
Ok. Well, it all started about 20 years ago when
the pissing-contest, that IS the *big truck*
industry, erupted. When Datsun, Toyota, and Mazda
had figured out how to make a pick-up truck
smaller ... Ford and Chevy responded by linking
small trucks with small penises. THEN they
started playing dirty. Slowly but surely, every
year Ford's and Chevy's come rolling out a few
horsepower BIGGER, a couple inches LONGER.

Texas rednecks didn't stand a chance.

Bubba's Motto: "NO WAY dat sum cityslicker
colleje boy is gonna have a bigger peni.... errr,
I mean TRUCK bigger than mine!"

For years, that was enough. Hillbillies could
just keep buying LARGER trucks, RAISING them,
putting BIG tires on them and rest easy that their
libido would be appeased.

Then came these damn SUV's. It wasn't long that
every idiot in town owned one. It's a pick up for
pretentious house dogs. "Ooooooh, I couldn't put
Pookie in the back of a pick up!" Four-wheel
drive, all-terrain suspension, on-board GPS
tracking system and anti-terrorist brakes. All
standard.

Have you EVER seen one of these things even a
little DIRTY? Not too many GenX yuppy dorks go
mud bogging on the way to Dave and Buster's.

"Whoa freakerboy, what in the HELL does this have
with you buying a BRA?"

I'm getting there. So now the SUV's are getting
BIGGER. I saw one run over a HumVee last week
just for fun. And I'll be damned ifin every one
of them doesn't have a big 'ol trailer hitch on
'em hanging down at JUST the SAME height as the
license plate on my poor little car.

Another MyStery solved. I got in a fender
bender. Don't worry, nobody got hurt I just dove
the nose of my car at the back of an SUV like
George W. dives into a mirror full of ... campaign
contributions? Don't get me wrong. This was 100
percent MY FAULT. The genetically enhanced
mini-van was at a complete stop. It's not like I
couldn't SEE it. However, considering the
planet-like size of this thing, I'll have to
consider whether I could sue for "Wrongful
Gravitational Pull."

So I hit the SUV. I don't even think the bitch
noticed. When we pulled over, you could see there
was a clear winner. FORD EXCURSION 1, vw cabrio -
o.

Fortunately, I remembered what I did the LAST time
I decided to park in a person's trunk. I bought a
BRA. It works a LOT like a bandaid. No see no
damage, no worry no damage. Looks good as new.

I used to think that dudes that had bras on their
cars were freaks. Now I know they just have no
brakes!

In other news, I went to Nashville this weekend.
I have a girlfriend that lives there and I wanted
to meet Elvis. Unfortunately, Elvis lives in
Memphis. The cast of Deliverence lives in
Nashville. (insert banjo music here) It's 83
degrees outside in January. I'm gonna go work on
my tan. Cancun in 3 weeks!

ster

Dear Smoker:

2000-01-07T18:01:00.000-06:00

To: Y2K@Paranoidlosers.com

I know, I haven't written since the averted
catastrophe that is "Y2K" passed. You are
WELCOME.. Yes, I am taking FULL credit for curing
the virus. I am working on getting a retro-patent
on the solution to whole damn problem. The
complicated, code-heavy, techno-geek ANSWER to the
biggest threat to national security since the
Spice Girl's invasion? Well, I'll remove all the
cyber-jargon (worth $120 billion) and break it
down for you:

1) Take a deep breath.
2) Hit the "power" button on your computer.
3) Crack open your beer.

Now you owe me five bucks. That was IT. My
computer was more threatened by "Good Times," and
I mean the T.V. show! J.J. Walker is still
Dy-NO-Mite!

How was my New Year's? The abridged version is
that I spent Y2K with more than 200,000 of my
closest friends downtown. Yes, there WAS an ugly
girl at the stroke of midnight. The highlight of
the night was watching my friends "Ginger and
Sarah" play some fresh music... it doesn't hurt
that they have a tendancy to wear tight T-shirts
with no bras while performing. Did I mention it
was a tad nipply here Friday night? Verrrrrry
nice.

"Ster, what's this 'Dear Smoker' all about?"

Oh yeah! I forgot to mention that I'm a smoker
now. Not by choice or by action. Just by name
and by possession. For some yet-to-be determined
reason, my friends at Winston sent me a gift.
Three days ago I received a gift box, wrapped and
everything, from Winston. Contents? I
shit-you-not ("ster shits me, ster shits me
not...") four PACKS of cigarettes. Not just a
sample, I got 80 full-on cancer sticks from the
wonderful people at Winston. Red box, Lights,
100's, Ultra-lights... you name it, I gots it.

It was addressed to me by name, and begins, "Dear
Smoker:" and goes on to tout their mission to
continually improve the taste and quality their
products. "In order to serve me better..."
instructions follow that I should:

1) Smoke enough cigarettes to "form an opinion."
2) Answer the questionaire.
3) Call the 1-800 number...

One problem. I don't smoke. At least I didn't.
I don't know what GENIUS picked MY name outta the
hat, but I think now that I OWE it to them to
START smoking just for being so generous! $20
worth of near-contraband is worth it don'tcha
think? If not for the economics, how about for
the wonderful odor? I needed to change my cologne
anyway. The yellow teeth? I'm a BIG fan.
*Coughing* is a terrific way to begin a
conversation with a lady, right?

I'm saving the letter. Seeing as how I made it 28
years without picking up this WONDERFUL habit, I'm
figuring that this kind of in-your-face marketing
campaign would simply HAVE to be worth some
serious Kaye$h down the (tobacco) road when I'm
dying of lung cancer. Didn't these losers just
get bent-over for a GAZILLION dollars by the U.S.
government? Where's Johnnie Cochran? I'm taking
down Big Tobacky! But first I got some SERIOUS
smoking to do! Wish me luck.

ster
(sponsored by Winston... for that PURE smoking
satisfaction)

SICK OF ISP's!

2000-01-05T18:03:00.000-06:00

This isn't even my normal bitch session... this is
me just lettin' ya in on something. I finally got
SICK of paying 20 Smolies+ taxes and other
assorted CRAP my ISP was charging me. I started
looking around and checking prices and "spam
policies" and the length of my email name
(ster12383@whatever.blahblah sucks) and the like.
WT.NET won. I'm paying like $9 a month now and
it is working GREAT.

I was worried about a lot of things... checked 'em
all. These guys have the best deal in town and
the service works perfect. Not getting
disconnected or spammed or anything else that
sucks. I wouldn't suggest the even cheaper
"wtez.net" service. It's cheaper but you get
spammed.

Ifinya like your service, keep it. Ifinya don't,
give these guys a call. Office, 647-9863. If
you tell 'em "ster sent me" I get a movie ticket
or something stupid like that. Don't really
care. Just trying to help.

ster

Tick Tock...

1999-12-31T14:16:00.000-06:00

Ok I admit it, I'm a little scared. I'm huddled
next to my computer with a genuine fear. In just
a few hours the Nostrodaumus-like prediction of
the apocalypse will be tested. With a silent
"tick" of it's internal clock, my computer will
pull the trigger in a cyberworld game of Russian
roulette. My computer will scratch off "99" and
enter in "00" and subsequently either exhale a
tremendous sigh of cyber-relief or simply go
tits-up.

My computer will either be "Y2K-ready" and sprint
into the year 2000, a modern wonder undaunted by a
mortal threat --- OR it will be magically whisked
away to the year 1900 and will revert to... I
don't know... a BUTTER CHURNER?

They call it the "Y2K Virus." I call THAT
absurd. This "virus" is a digitized nightmare! A
virus?!?! In twelve hours the whole world could
end! Planes could crash, power could be disrupted
world-wide, and our economic system could
irreparably be destroyed! Even worse, I could
lose all my emails! What would happen if I woke
up on January 1st unable to get the latest "urban
myth" forward?!?!

** By the way, I GET IT. I promise to NOT flash
my brights at the louzer with his headlights off.
Rest safe. **

A virus? No. It wasn't spread across the world
like a STD. I didn't catch it by some stupid
co-worker's misguided cough. The Y2K virus was
purposely PROGRAMMED into every freaking computer
into the world because Bill Gates was too LAZY to
put two extra keystrokes into my stupid Windows 95
twenty years ago!

Besides, if it was a virus, my computer would have
it worse than any computer on the planet. My
computer is a cyberSLUT. I get emails from all
over the planet. I've "clicked" on every stupid
blue URL that I've ever come across. It's like an
addiction! I can't help it! "Want to see more?"
Yes, I would. "Then just CLICK HERE." You got
it! *click* Wow, thank you.

I wonder if Jennifer Love Hewitt would get grouchy
if she knew I have a boot-leg pic of her head
super-imposed onto some hottie's naked body? I
hope not. And it gets worse...

I download. A lot.

I NEVER use protection. I don't even OWN an
anti-virus program. I LOVE downloading. Games.
Pictures. Screensavers. ANYTHING. I wouldn't be
surprised to find my computer has AIDS.

Unfortunately, it isn't that simple. Y2K is less
than twelve hours away. I'm scared. I'm giving
my computer a warm hug and telling it that its
gonna be ok. Offering it little consolation in
the fact that I will be downtown, drunker than 27
baboons playing scrabble, when Y2K hits. I don't
wanna be here when my computer is forcibly morphed
into an abacus. Cross your fingers. In the
meantime, you might wanna download "How To Live
Like the Amish" just in case.

Well, I hope you get this. It might be last
email. EVER.

ster

Book of Love

1999-11-29T17:56:00.000-06:00

I don't know WHO wrote the "Rule Book of Dating"
but I AM certain it was a woman. Fortunately, I've
learned a couple "tricks of the trade" and therefore
don't fall for ALL of them.

Unfortunately, my roomie isn't as smart as I am.

One of the most tried and tested of the "tricks"
played by women is the "Get the guy to hold on to
some of your stuff at the bar" scam. It is more
commonly referred to as the, "hold this" maneuver. It
is devastatingly effective at removing ANY chance of
ditching a girl once you've met up at a particular
place.

Perhaps you are familiar with the ploy? For some
unknown reason, it is generally understood that
women are not capable of having pockets or a purse on
the weekends. Don't ask me why, it's in the book.
So, whether it is their drivers license, their keys,
or their money (yeah, right) they have the guy they
are with carry it with THEM. This serves two distinct
purposes:

1) Forms an unbreakable bond with that guy for the
evening.
2) Makes the guy feel like a dork.

You simply cannot just LEAVE a gal at a bar
without her identification... it is just WRONG. So
for quite sometime now, I've been VERY leery of the
"hold
this" scam. A leash by any other name still makes ya
YELP like a dog when your Adams Apple tests its
strength. Doesn't matter HOW great the gal is, I
don't like leashes.

So, when my new pseudo-girlfriend (who I
affectionately refer to as "Tats" and "Rack" due to
her newly-purchased breasticles) tried handing me
her cell phone, I responded with a very curt, "No." I
thought the point was made. Why BRING your cell
phone if you can't CARRY it? So Friday night I win
Round One. No leash. No stay. Big fun.

Round Two? Unbeknownst to me, Saturday night she
asks my roomie to hold her KEYS! Louzer's response?
"Yes." He musta been mesmerized by her tats. So,
when my roomie conveniently disappears from the bar, I
head
toward the nearest exit.

*stretch* "YELP....!!!"

What the hell is that all about? I checked my
pockets. No stuff! Tats comes up to me and tells
me HER miserable predicament, MY roomie has HER
keys... and not-so-coincidently, HIS freedom. I have
to take Tats and her friend home with me AGAIN. Round
two? Rack by a landslide. My roomie is in the
doghouse BIG time.

I know this doesn't SEEM like such a bad scam.
But I SWEAR that I would rather chew on a tasty combo
of glass shards and aluminum foil than hang out at a
cheezy dance club with a girlfriend. I hate dancing.
I only tolerate it with girls that I have never seen
naked.

I hope you had a great Turkey Day. I've still got
about 3 lbs of undigested pumpkin pie I'm working
on. Wish me luck.

ster

Eyeball...

1999-09-06T16:29:00.000-05:00

Ok, my eyeballs are NOT good. Seriously. I have
had more eyeball problems in the last two weeks
than I even knew EXISTED. I challenge any
opthamolgist to a duel o' rama.

First of all, I get an ulcer in my right eyeball.
Yes, an ULCER. I don't have any idea how that can
happen. Have I been drinking wrong? Ocular
indigestion makes exactly ZERO sense. I don't
remember sticking stomach acid in my eye. Pouring
Pepto Bismol into is didn't SEEM like fun.
Regardless, it hurts like hell. Doc gave two
really wonderful solutions to this little dilemma.

1) Put this crap in your eye.
2) Bionics.

I've always wanted that bionic eye thing. Steve
Austin had it made. Imagine how much fun that
would be! What kinda crap was that they gave the
bionic woman? A bionic ear? Who cares.

But, seeing as I am a little short of being the 6
million dollar man (umm... anybody gonna let me
borrow about $5,999,990?) I settle for the "crap
in the eye" solution. It was like vaseline in a
tube. Basically hurt like hell and made things
really blurry. Kinda like a hangover.

Well, that went away JUST IN TIME for my left eye
to develop a RASH. Ok, so it is actually on the
OUTSIDE of my eye, but I'm pretty sure that it was
just "left vs right" jealousy issue. My doctor
had two great solutions to offer here as well:

1) Put THIS crap all around your eye.
2) Heard of Stevie Wonder?

So, I'm there. Unfortunately, so is the rash.
I'm praying its gone by this weekend, because
unfortunately for me, this damn cream is
IRRIDESCENT in black lights (I won't get into how
long it took Lacey to finally tell me this) and I
live in crappy bars. Crappy bars are required by
federal statute (codified in 1969 by Sonny Bono)
to have black lights.

That enough? NO. This last eyeball problem is
SEVERE and it is NOT MY FAULT. It has nothing to
do with genetics, drinking, or making out with
ugly women. It simply is an unforeseen problem
with no (current) cure.

I have yellow eyes.

This is not a joke. If you know me, you know my
irises are yellow. Bright yellow actually.

"Dude, your babbling, what does this have to do
with ANYTHING?"

Shut up. Your probably at work anyway. Well, I
just ordered my new contact lenses. Normally a
relatively benign process. I still have a bunch
of left contacts, so I only ordered my right eye.
About $100 worth. Well, they came in yesterday.
I put them in my eye. My right eye is now BLUE.
Damn. Like yellow eyes wasn't bad enough... now
I'm just yellow EYE.

I call the gal up (Wal-mart, cuz I'm loaded) and
tell her that there must be a mistake. She
informs me that I have "visi-tint" lenses and that
the blue is in case I LOSE the lens. The tint is
absolutely indiscernable.

Uh... I tend to disagree. So, I ask around my
office, everybody agrees that I have "one blue eye
and one yellow eye." So I call again. She isn't
buying it. So, cuz I'm nice (and LOVE Walmart) I
go to show her. She tells me that I am indeed a
freakshow. She apologizes and tells me that she
will order some more blue ones for my LEFT eye.

This is just not fair. How do you argue with THAT
logic. 28+ years of having yellow eyes and my
little Princess Walmart has cured me. NO! I want
CLEAR contacts. "They don't make 'em anymore she
says." Well, then I want my money back. "Can't
do that, we don't refund."

Apparently, they are only a "distributor" which
means she can only TAKE money, not GIVE. From now
on, I'm a "distributor" too!

So, I ask to speak to the manager. "I am the
manager." So, I ask to see her high school
diploma. She gets grumpy. We go back and forth
for a VERY long time, now my eyes are red. My
rash is acting up and I think I'm developing a
REAL ulcer.

So far? I have eyes like a bad two-tone paint job
(blue and yellow?) and cannot win. I do have a
phone # for some gal in Houston that may be able
to act as "Gozer the Keymaster" and get the gal to
give me back the kaye$h. Either that or I "can
apply the credit to more contacts." Maybe they'll
let me apply it to some bionics?

Dating Game... Part Deux

1999-08-30T15:58:00.000-05:00

That's it.

I give up.

No more dating. Ever. I tried following the
rules. I really did. When last we left off in
the continuing curriculum of "Dipshit Dating 101,"
I was making a concerted effort to change my ways
to conform to the standards that society has set:

1) Call a girl.
2) Define a set of options and an agenda for a
date.
3) Just do it.

I tried. It failed. So, my new pseudo
relationship is OVER... at least I think it is.
It is actually kinda confusing. It started out
GREAT. Definite Hottie, same age as me,
out-spoken, and an incredible GIFT at sex. I know
that shouldn't be an issue, but WOW, I would
delinquent in my duties to NOT mention this GIFT
that she shared, it was definitely noteworthy. I
thought that I had tried enough stuff to get me
arrested in many conservative states, but this gal
must've trained overseas.

[Explicit details censored by Big Brother (i.e.
The Gap)]

I have NEVER had a problem keeping enough condoms
in the house. Expiration dates are normally a
larger concern. In two weeks, I had to go
shopping in the shamey section of the drug store
TWICE. At the register, Mr. Whipple looked at me
like "Yeah SURE buddy." Like I had a craft
project brewing or something?

Passionate gal. Why such a short-term
relationship? Because as strong as her talent was
in the bedroom, it was nearly overshadowed by her
NEED to FIGHT. We fought continually. This is a
problem seeing as I don't fight with ANYBODY! I'm
a passivist by nature. So, she would get angry,
yell at me, then proceed to continue until she was
certain that a fight had actually taken place.
For example:

Her: "Why did you do that?"
Me: "Do what?"
Her: "THAT"
Me: *puzzled look*
Her: "Just FORGET IT!"
Me: "I'm sorry."
Dominatrix: "Shut up."
Me: "ok."
Sybill: "I'm leaving."
Me: "ok."
Minion of Satan: "I'M NEVER TALKING TO YOU
AGAIN!"

Then she would storm out! Leaving me with nothing
but a stupid look on my face and an inbred
responsibility to CHASE her. Why? No idea, it
seems to be a genetic code... a man must chase
after a woman who runs away. So I'd chase after
her. After catching her, I would apologize AGAIN
for whatever I did.

We'd go back inside and have sex.

This cycle repeated itself at least 4 times in
just two weeks. That is just too much drama for
my poor heart to handle. Doc says "stay away from
the malls during Christmas and women with
tempers." So, the last time it happened (Saturday
night) and she dumped me, I said "ok." She spent
the night ANYWAY. We never made up. I swear.
When we woke up, the relationship was still
technically severed. I'm relatively certain that
this premise would hold up in a court of law.

Not-so-fast Kemosabe.

In this Nutburger's world, if she didn't actually
LEAVE, the contract was voided. In the immortal
words of George (not W.) Bush, "Read My Lips!" No
more relationship. I got up, went to church and
prayed for my old life back. When I got back, she
was gone. Haven't heard from her... yet. As you
may have guessed, the tart conveniently left her
earrings on my nightstand. I know DAMN well I
will have at least one more opportunity to get
yelled at... and probably some more sex.

On a less chaotic note, I now wear seatbelts. At
least in MY car. In all seriousness, they just
didn't serve a purpose, so I abstain(ed) from
their use. See, in a Cabrio (pronounced "Size 16
rollerskate") a collision with another vehicle of
any size larger than a bumper car is a test of a
seldom used theory of Physics:

"When an irresistable force hits an object with
the structural integrity of a wet noodle, you
lose."

All the airbags and seatbelts in the world would
not stop me from becoming creamed asparagus. So I
just drive safe. I don't think I even wanna be in
my car if I get in a wreck... I'd rather get
thrown out into traffic where I have fighting
chance at dodging. HOWEVER, I would very MUCH
like to STAY in my car when it is NOT in a wreck.
If you can't see where this is going, consider
what would happen if you hit a really big bump
while driving a really small car without your
trusty seatbelt... BANG. You'd hit your head on
the roof. When driving a similar car, sans roof?
No "BANG." But you get a really interesting view
of what your car looks like in motion from an
AERIAL perspective. Nearly broke my chin on the
windshield re-entering the earth's orbit.

Seatbelts good. Dating bad.

ster

Totally TUBULAR!

1999-08-10T19:24:00.000-05:00

What's black and white and RED all over? My
scorched hide lying in an innertube. I don't know
who's bright idea it was to take a perfectly good
innertube and turn it into a floatation device but
from now on I'm going to be stealing airplane
seats... innertubes EXPLODE. You cannot imagine
what a dork REALLY looks like until you see some
sap, 3 miles away from his car, sitting neck deep
in (very cold) water with nothing but scraps of a
Michelin and a beer buzz to show for his very
existence.

Fortunately, that sap, was not me. UNfortunately,
our tubing trip was not without incident. I
wasn't able to escape the adventure without my
share of war wounds:

1) A two-inch gash on my index finger.
2) A 3-day hangover.
3) A notary public stamp

The gash is a direct result of trying
(unsuccessfully) to save an open beer from the
perils of the whitewater. Those inner lips are
sharp! The 3-day hangover is the direct result of
my attempt to cram 18 hours of drinking into a
18-hour period. I deserved it. The notary
stamp? No idea. Apparently one of the bars on
6th Street is notorizing their visitors.
Apparently I frequent that bar. I cannot confirm
this however because the ENTIRE day, much less
NIGHT is a blur.

Damn it. I'm getting ahead of myself. Sorry.

It all started out when a bunch of my friends
asked me if I would like to go "tubing down the
Guadalupe" this weekend. The friends were girls
and I was promised beer would be abundant. My
answer? "Yes. Please." The ensuing nights were
filled with wonderful dreams of multitudes of
coeds, adorned in bikini's --- all meandering down
a river --- all losing track of time and their
inhibitions. Life is but a dream...

I'm stoked. I even came home early Friday night.
Why? I needed to take care of my best friend, Mr.
Cooler. I spent a good two hours getting Mr.
Cooler ready for the trip. Constructive planning,
diagrams, and calculations were all prepared.
With considerable forsight, I was able to pack Mr.
Cooler with 31 beers, some sunscreen, a camera, my
wallet, four cookies and three sandwiches. Every
last bit of airspace was full. Whoops, one
problem. No ICE! So much for the sandwiches.

I carefully loaded Mr. Cooler into his very own
innertube and off we went. Me and every other
college-age drunk with a dream to fulfill. Girls
everywhere. Beer where it belongs. Sun, hot.
Water, cool. Life is a wet dream...

Tragedy strikes.

Please note, not one person warned me about
rapids. Yes, I know WHAT they are. No, I do NOT
need them erupting upside my head when I'm trying
to drink. My dream had started to become a little
unsettling. The magnitude of these rapids seemed
to increase almost exactly with the amount of beer
drank. I can actually remember thinking they
looked like fun to ME at first...

I forgot to consult Mr. Cooler. Damn.

My dream became a nightmare of biblical
proportions.

I shoulda known better. He had WAY to much beer
in him to be trying to navigate the rapids alone.
I left his side for MAYBE twenty minutes. Mr.
Cooler went it alone. He hit the first set of
nasty rock formations and you guessed it... he
hurled. He was spewing beer cans and tossing my
cookies (all four, lost). Mr. Cooler was now an
empty shell of the buddy I knew and loved. ALL
his beer was gone. My friends tried to save what
they could, but the damage was done. "Who cares
about the damn wallet! I'm on this god-forsaken
river for three more hours!!!!"

SO, new game plan. I ditched Mr. Cooler and I
became everybody else's friend! Paddling from
donor-to-donor, I was able to maintain just enough
of a drunken state to actually forge new territory
for mankind.

I got free shorts.

Since the early days of drunken sleepovers, I have
ALWAYS lost clothes somewhere in the transition
between "want to see her naked" and "want her to
go home." Girls always win. I think I have
donated a enough clothes to women to qualify as a
non-profit charity. Maybe that is why I never
need to go to Goodwill? Well, anyways... FINALLY
I WON. The gal I went home with didn't want me
sleeping in wet clothes. She gave me a pair of
cool Umbros and I sit here wearing them, the proud
and decisive winner. Life IS a dream.

ster

... attached is a pic of some of us almost ready to
launch... yeah, the red dude to the far left is
"Mr. Cooler" before he fell victim to the rapids.

Class of 1989 ... the Memories?

1999-07-04T17:55:00.000-05:00

I'M BACK. Whew. 5000 miles of flying, driving,
and drinking and I'm finally back in Austin. My
10-year reunion --- and subsequent minor aneurism
--- are OVER. Well, if you wanted to know how
much could have possibly changed in Richland,
Washington in two years... let me fill you in:

They now have a Jack-in-the-Box.

That's it. Other than that? Nothing. I spent
the greater part of my formitive years in a town
that can finally say, with total conviction, that
they have a bunch of cars with little white
styrofoam balls with faces on them stuck on their
car antennas. Did I mention that small towns that
are isolated from the rest of society SUCK? I can
write this safely because I don't think they have
internet service yet.

So, after the shock of the "Big Jack" news wore
off I found my way to the local bar where my
reunion, and my newly-developed long-term mental
block, were proudly on display. When did
everybody get so damn fat, short, and bald? I
distinctly remember(ed) a couple of not-so-dorky
people that graduated with me... I must have
juxtaposed a couple of episodes of Saved By the
Bell into my psyche. Nevertheless, it wasn't 10
minutes after I walked in that a subwoofer-sized
wedgie started crawling up my backside. Four
years of neurosis do not die easily...

I kid you not. The whole damn bar was broken up
into the same social strata that I remembered from
my sophomore year in the cafeteria! There was a
"cool" table. I knew better than to approach
those folk until I was given clearance. The
mormon contigency was carefully staying as far
from the bar as possible. A couple of geeks were
playing dungeons and dragons in the corner and
looked at me with some recognition. There was
even 7 stoners in the parking lot... united in
their non-conformity. I basically felt just like
10 years ago... didn't belong.

Luckily, I don't live there anymore and "Vitamin
Beer" still destroys my inhibitions.

So, about 5 pitchers deep I start socializing with
anybody that so much as made eye contact. Of
course, a LOT has changed in 10 years...
especially appearances. Fortunately, the
organizers (bless their "most popular" souls)
provided us with name tags with pictures.
UNfortunately, that meant that in order to say
"hi" to a gal with any semblence of sincerity; I
had to stare at their CHEST until my blurred
vision gave me an idea of who she was. I SWEAR I
was being as covert as I could about this...
didn't matter. I got caught EVERY time and was
screwed either way. I was either checking out
their mammaries OR had forgotten them entirely.
No winning here.

It does get worse though. How? Well, try
slathering a girl with compliments and confessions
of crushes once held --- then finding out the
object of your affection was somebody ELSE. It
happened. As luck would have it, she ALREADY
hated me anyway:

Me: "Wow, you look great."
Gal: "Thanks."
Me: "I remember thinking that you were the best
looking girl in Ms. Anderson's class."
Gal: "I wasn't IN Ms. Anderson's class."
dork: "Ummm... (staring down at chest) OH... You
hated me didn't you?"
Gal: "Yes."
goof: "Uh, hear about the Jack-in-the-Box?"

I think the best part of the whole damn reunion
was by buddy. I actually had a conversation with
one friend BEFORE the reunion. He was stoked. I
had no idea why, so I asked. His response?
"Dude, I'm gonna get laid!" My buddy was pretty
cool "back in the days" and is still single.
Seeing as how I did not date ONE girl from my
graduating class, I had to live vicariously
through him.

SCORE!!!!!

Wouldn't you know it? "Most likely to screw the
first guy she sees" had a crush on my pal "back in
the days" and her WHOREmones hadn't gone into
remission. The ensuing complete and total public
display of affection (and glands) was not-unlike
where the inspiration for "Porky's" was spawned.
So, for most of the night the major topic of
conversation could be overheard at ALL tables:

"... don't care, dude is gonna SCORE." (cool guy
table)
"... whatta SLUT!" (cool girl table)
"... yeah, she used to have a crush on ME too"
(nerd table)
"... quit bogarting the joint butthead." (WHOA!
What was I doing in the parking lot?)

Resting assured that my pal would capture the
essence of the Class of 1989 later that evening...
hopefully in the reservoir tip of a STRONG latex
condom... I hooked up with an ex-girlfriend.
Yeah, she was an underclassman from a DIFFERENT
high school. Some things never change.

Except of course for the new Jack-in-the-Box...

ster

Eyeball Problems

1999-06-16T19:52:00.000-05:00