Tag Archives: bound and gags

A Day At The Beach

We were at one of those beach side bars enjoying the day as we often do on our days off. The sun was rippling off the water causing diamond like glitters throughout. A smooth and cool breeze caused the high shimmering sun to brush gently off my face. We were far enough away from the water so the splashing waves seemed like comforting murmuring conversation. A couple of kids ran down the street excited that they’re sure they saw a shark.

I know if you close your eyes you can transport there and enjoy the moment. Nice, isn’t it?

But if you do, I’ll have to add one more piece to the summertime puzzle.

And their names were Bethany and Madison who were also enjoying this pleasant summer day by ruining it for everyone within a fifty yard radius.

Sadly for me I was at ground zero for the onslaught. At first, because they were sitting next to us, people turning around to give them the stink eye thought there was a possibility we were with this backing up dump truck of a duo. They were ‘ON VACATION!’ and they sure as hell going to let everyone know. Every member of the wait staff who walked past tried to make a subtle, laid back attempt to take the bewailing to a level more befitting this serene scene.

But even the manager walking over and, still gently, chiding them to chill they let him know this was their well-earned vacation and they were going to express themselves freely. They were young, dumb and, potentially later that evening, full of strangers cum and they wanted everyone to know it. They were here to strut their stuff and Rupaul would have nothing on them. I was keeping an eye on them because of the level of activity going on.

They were going through their bags pulling everything out slamming it on the bar. One of them (sorry, they looked so much alike I couldn’t tell which one was Bethany and which one was Madison) made sure to slap down a platinum credit card so the staff could see her father was someone who wanted her out so much he’d give her a ‘go anywhere’ card. And I know it was from him because I could read her name and the company was named Michael The Same Last Name As Bethany, Inc. Paying attention (or as some people would call it snooping) is a vital skill in my world.

Finally the manager knew he had to do something. How did he finally know? A four-top and two other couples pretty much got up at the same time to leave. Even he knows four middle aged customers are going to spend more than a pair of Bethany’s and Madison’s. He walks up to them, puts his hands on the bar, leans in gently and says nothing because Bethany jumped right in with a full blown,

“What the fuck do you want?” The manager just stands there. I guess that’s a reaction new to him. But she’s not done. “If we’re bothering you so much we’ll just fucking leave this piece of shit and never come back.” The manager is still standing there probably thrilled that they themselves were actually going to bounce themselves out of his establishment. Bethany picks up her 75% full  frozen beverage and starts pounding it.

And it was as frightening as you’d expect.

Fluid was dribbling down both sides of her cheeks. Gobs from each side caught up and puddled in her deep suprasternal notch. It was like watching a dog trying to drink water that’s sprayed from a hose. Without taking a breath she polished off the icy contents. I figured she wouldn’t get a frozen headache because that malady erupts in brains and she’s showed no evidence of having formed one of those.

“Good enough for you?” She sneers as ice particles melt off her face and drip to the floor. While this was going on the fast thinking bartender grabbed daddy’s credit card and swiped it to hasten this journey.

She stands up as the bartender comes back with a few napkins and the credit card bill. Bethany sneers at the bill as if their mishandling of this situation is the cause of her self-inflicted consternation. She quickly doodled on the check ignoring the napkins as a dollop of beverage fell where the ‘t’ should have been in her name.

She looks at her face in the mirror and sees that it’s not only wet it’s streaked the color of her drink. She looks at the bartender, still holding napkins, then the manager before turning her head and wiping her cheeks and mouth on the sleeve of my t-shirt.

Yes, homicide was the first thought that passed my mind. I searched the bar for a nearby weapon. It must have been pretty obvious to anyone looking at me, excluding the clueless Bethany, of course, because the manager grabbed my elbow and started wiping my shoulder fairly vigorously. While holding down my arm with some force. I looked at him and nodded. He knew I wasn’t going to disembowel her with a lobster cracker. But I could have easily placed my hand on one. The bartender continued to move all objects off the bar as Bethany and Madison exited the bar complaining about how THEIR VACATION was now ruined.

With my target off my radar I calmed down quickly. The manager is still wiping my shoulder but I waved him off. Worse things have been wiped on me, believe me. After a few seconds of sitting there silently the entire place started laughing. Which allowed everyone a chance to ease the tension and slowly go back to enjoying this beautiful day.

Buy And Sell You

That’s an interesting concept. Let’s forget about the whole ‘ain’t that slavery?’ part of the equation because that would just make this exercise ugly. Let’s concentrate on the what brought us to someone saying to someone else,

“I could buy and sell you.”

It’s never a good situation. It’s never a situation when you’ve run out into the street to save their tottering grandchild who escaped during a moment of distraction from their mother. You never hear,

“I will buy you out of your current work-a-day life and sell you to the highest bidder so as you will live in a heretofore unimagned life of luxury. And, if I find not a suitable purchaser, I will retain you for my own even if I have to sell my own children and rent out my grandchildren to a lesser god to make sure your all dreams and wishes are fulfilled.”

It’s always some pumped up braggart who isn’t getting the attention he (and come to think of it, I’ve never heard a woman say it) feels he deserves. It happened to me recently. I was out with some people and it was a night of warm conversation and other boring platitudes. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice. But who wants to hear people talk about their jobs? And that’s what they’re going to talk about. Most people hate their jobs so what kind of story is going to come out of that?

“And then Brenda said, ‘Capital idea, Mr. Smythengen. Only a great, wise and noble gentleman, such as yourself, could have conceived of such a brilliant plan.’ What an ass kisser she is. And she’s not in the department that now has double the workload. I hate my job. And Brenda.”

After sixty or seventy seconds of that I’m ready to kill the messenger.

I never get into work discussions (unless the story is hilarious). I always say, “Good. Nothing new.” I even said that on the day I had to physically restrain a drug-induced psychotic woman so she’d stop bothering another customer. And I said customer not patient because I don’t work in a ‘go restrain this person’ field. Generally.

After everyone has barfed up their hating work stories someone asked me to tell a specific story. It was a story I’ve told many times including here. It’s a funny story and I don’t mind telling it but I hate to be called upon to unexpectedly perform. It’s not part of the flow of the conversation. Add to that the ‘tell us a story, Chris’ part of it is off-putting. I mean, yeah, I know I can tell this story in a funny manner but, it’s not a story for everyone.

Necrophilia and coming out of a men’s room with a strange woman isn’t a story for everyone.

But, I tell it. Mainly because I didn’t want to hear one more Brenda story. I get laughs where I should and dismay in the correct places. After I finish people are reacting then one person said,

“Ah, you think you’re all that.” I just told a necrophiliac/men’s room with a strange woman story. I obviously don’t think I’m above much. “I could buy and sell you.”

“How much?”

“What?” I can already feel his buyers remorse.

“How much? What’s the going price? I mean, I could give up my current life if someone was willing to put up some cake. What’s the going price for a stud like myself?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You just said you could buy and sell me. To do that, first, you’d have to buy me. So I’m just wondering what that price would be?”

“Are you nuts? It’s just an expression.”

“No,” I redirect him. “It’s not. It’s a statement that monetizes my worth in regards to your perceived worth. Which, as stated, you are worth so much more than I you are willing to pay to make me your property. So, what am I worth to you? I know my girlfriend would like to walk out of here with cash sans me. So what’s the opening bid?”

“You’re insane.”

“Me? You’re the one willing to illegally, in a public place, purchase another human being.”

By now the guy is flustered so I know I have mere seconds to get this to a close.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll set the price.” I stop and think for a second. I can see his flee instinct pushing him. “Seven hundred eighty-six thousand four hundred twenty-seven dollars and thirty-nine cents.”

Everyone is quiet. I smile and look around. “Okay, anyone want to top that bid?” No one says a word. I know some of them want to say something but they’re going to stall their eagerness to jump in to see how this ends.

“Huh.” I say to my new owner as I slide closer to him. “The buying part is easy. But the selling, well, the selling is a bitch for such a rare commodity as I.”

I look him in the face. He pissed. I’m happy. Funny how often those two things intersect in my life. “Guess I’m yours now.” I lean closer. “And you’re fucked because I drink a shitload of Heineken.”

A woman was. . .

. . .telling me she couldn’t pay me because she was just, “Fired from my job at the sperm bank.”

And my first response was, “How do you get fired from a sperm bank? Where you out back sampling the product?”

How Do You Have Time?

I’m serious. Every time I hear someone say something like,

“I just binge watched the entire 187 hours of Breaking Mad Men Of A Certain Age.”

I think, “How do you have the time?”

When someone asks if I’ve watched Stan vs. Evil I’m embarrassed to mention I don’t even know what platform it’s on. And I’m embarrassed to have to mention that it’s on a platform. Can I get it on cable and on line and on demand or just on line and CB radio? Can I plop down on my couch and find it with a remote? No? I have to search my TV listings until I find that’s it’s not there and then go on line and find that I don’t have a subscription to that service.

Back to my original question, how do you have the time?

I just spent thirty-six minutes finding out I can’t get Mississippi and another ten to see I’m so far behind on Angie Trifecta it would take me a month to catch up. Which means I wouldn’t have time to watch the very few shows I have in my queue which means I’d get behind and the DVR would fill up because my girlfriend has more than half the DVR perma-filled with every Harry Potter, everything ever broadcast about the West Memphis Three, the HBO Liberace biopic, some concerts and a bunch of documentaries I’ve watched she told me not to delete but the truth is she’ll never watch.

Let’s add it all up, I have two days off a week which means I have two days to pile in all the chores and adventures a person needs to accomplish to sustain a life. I barely watch TV and rarely go on line those days because I can’t find the time. Then I work a minimum of nine hours a day so tack on an hour before and after in pre and post work activities. Then I try to sleep 6-8 hours a day. So, on a good day, I’m occupied 17-19 hours a day. That leaves 5-7 hours of ‘free’ time.

If there’s an urgent after work chore or plans to meet with people that eats an hour or more. And there’s alays a chore or a meeting. So now I’m down to 4-6. Still plenty of time to chew off a chunk of the first season of Orange Is The New Blackish. But wait, I have to shave. And this one is totally on me.

I have to shave face and head. It doesn’t have to but I make it take an hour. I like to grab a couple of beers, go the basement, fire up the lathe to frighten the neighborhood children and then settle down to shave. I guess during that time I could watch an episode of Fargo but I also have podcasts to listen to. I just finished S-Town but that cut into the ones I try to collect for future listening over the week. Right now I have 63 podcasts waiting on my MP3 player. And what if I would rather catch up on some music during shave time? I did that for a couple of days and my podcast collection went over 70 in a snap.

So now I’m down to 3-5 hours a day of potential show watching time. 21-35 hours a week. That’s not bad, that could burn some viewing hours. But then you forget I have a girlfriend who also has her viewing habits. We have one living room so one TV so that renders going to another room to do my own thing moot.

She has to catch up on her shows. I understand that. Hell, I’d like to do that. She’s busy too so she gets backed up. One of her DVR’d shows is a daily show so that can get behind rapidly. Hell, if we throw on a movie that’s the entire night. So let’s say, on an average night, we watch 2 hours of her programming choice. That gives me 1-3 hours of my programming a night.

Did I mention I’m a sports fan and two of the local teams got to the playoffs this year? Baseball is in full swing and tennis is heating up. Even if I check in quickly that can burn half an hour of my day. So I have to make a choice, do I pound through an episode or three of what I have accumulated on the overcrowded DVR or do I start watching a brand new show that I would love from what everyone has told me?

Fuck it.

By that time I’ve been up 14-16 hours, am beat and just want to crack open another beer, let the ballgame gently wash over me and hope there’s a power surge that wipes out the entire DVR so we can start all this madness all over again.

So, tell me again, how do you have the time?

It was recently. . .

. . .reported that a data error caused a plane to land at the wrong airport in North Dakota.

That’s shocking.

Who knew there was more than one airport in North Dakota.

This weeks top ten list

Top 10 Real Words Donald Trump Thinks Are Made Up

10 Spelunking
9 Varlet
8 Recrement
7 Nosopoetic
6 Jejune
5 Paralogism
4 Spurious
3 Coxcomb
2 Kakistocracy
1 Decency

Because I don’t anyone will look up the words the meanings are:

10 Spelunking – the hobby or practice of exploring caves
9 Varlet – a base unprincipled person
8 Recrement – superfluous matter separated from that which is useful
7 Nosopoetic – producing diseases
6 Jejune – devoid of significance
5 Paralogism – a fallacious argument
4 Spurious – a deceitful nature or quality
3 Coxcomb – a conceited foolish person
2 Kakistocracy – government by the worst people
1 Decency – okay, this was just sarcasm

Go Sports Go

I’m a sports fan. I’ve played most of the sports I watch. I watch curling unironically. I’ve even watched golf if I’m in a place that that has it on and I’m not in control of my own demise. Having played sports, one at a professional level, I have a sort of Zen attitude when viewing them. The stunts these men and women pull off (okay, I mostly watch men’s sports. Except beach volleyball. I never watch men play that) are amazing feats. Take it from someone who’s hurt himself trying them, it’s tough.

Which is why I hate being around other human beings when I’m watching sports. People ruin everything. Case in point, the other night we’re out watching a game (yeah, I know but it wasn’t my choice). It was game seven of a playoff game. Now I know some of you may not know that game seven is a big deal. But you can trust me when I say it is. For one of those teams their season is over and they get to start their vacation. Which doesn’t sound like a bad reason to throw the game but don’t be silly. These guys are professionals with professional pride that keeps them professionally battling until the final piss poor call by a referee ends their broken season. Then they get into their private jets and fly off to a secluded island inhabited only by supermodels.

Except for two thirds of the team who are making the league minimum which allows them a comfortable living but which means they can’t afford security details and lawyers to keep everyone who thinks they helped them on the way up so should get a piece of the pie away. Those are the guys you hear about getting shot during the off-season.

But it’s game seven. Someone is going home. I wish it was me. But it’s not. The bar is just beginning to fill up and the first sign is upon me. There is a couple across from me. The woman hasn’t shut up since we arrived. Now I don’t care if people speak. I only care if people speak and I can hear them. Especially across a large piece of real estate. All that means to me is they’re speaking too loudly. One of the main reasons I’m not a fan of this is, in my life, I’ve never run into a loud person who has anything worthwhile to say.

The game is minutes from starting and I hear a chilling statement from Mrs. Loud,

“I don’t even like basketball.”

Chilling. Absolutely chilling.

You may not think so but it’s because you don’t have the experience I have. When she said “I don’t even like basketball.” What she’s actually saying is, “I’m going to talk through this entire game screaming things like, “Shoot!” and “Foul!” And “Icing!” the moment a player touches the ball. And my husband won’t stop me because he hasn’t listened to me in thirteen years which is why I scream toward strangers in a cry for help.”

Or she’s just an attention seeking asshole. Take your pick.

So, before tip off (or as she may term it, kickoff) I know I’ve got that spinning around my ear hole. And then there is a man next to me. How can I explain him? With words, obviously, so that’s what I’ll use.

He has on blinding white kicks, right out of the box (later he took one off to let me take a gander of it. And I wish I was using my licensed comedic take on that), purchased today because it’s what his favorite player is wearing tonight and he thinks it’ll bring them luck.

His pants have the name of it’s designer up the side of his legs. Nothing says class like some other man’s name up your entire pant leg. And he has on a two sizes too small white t-shirt that not only shows off his pecs but also the gut they’re resting on. And a giant white G-Shock watch that he kept shaking and holding up to catch attention. He had to be wearing it for that purpose because he never once looked at it for the time.

From the opening tip-off I know what guy he’s going to be. He’s going to be the,

“There ya go.” guy.

Every dribble, every pass, hell, every movement is going to come with the phrase, “There ya go.” not once but twice every time his chosen team touches the ball. I know that may sound like I’m being negative but that’s because you’re very judgmental. Let me explain it this way, invite me to your job, let me sit next to you, and every time you move let me say, “There ya go. There ya go.”

I bet you’ll stab me in the eye with a pencil before you take your first sip of coffee.

I also know that “There ya go.” guy is going to work hard to get my attention. He’s going to say,

“There ya go. There ya go. Man, they were ripped off on that possession. You’d think the refs were doing it on purpose so the superstars could get to their private plane that’ll whisk them off to secluded supermodel island before midnight.” Or some other obvious conspiracy theory.

I get through the first quarter with the non-fan across the bar screaming versions of,

“First down!” and “Ace!” and “The stone’s is in the house!” pretty much every time there’s a basketball on the court.

And to my right,

“There ya go. There ya go. If they play tough D and get some offense going they can pull this one out.”

Yeah, and if it’s sunny tomorrow it might not rain.

I know there’s nothing I can do about the sports fan across the bar. But there’s a possibility I can get ‘There ya go.” guy to stop attempting to capture my attention. The thing is telling him to shut the fuck up isn’t an option. That’s too subtle. So I come up with something that will be offensive to some people but, trust me, if you were in my position you’d search your brain for something to escape the constant barrage of inanities pounding into your head.

I turn to him, do fake sign language to get his attention, take out my notepad, write something on it and show it to him. What I wrote was,

“I’m Deaf.”

Sure, I know, me, horrible person, you wonderful person who’s never in their life lied or cheated or finagled themselves out of a situation. Yeah, I know, I caught your first stone.

You know what? I don’t care about your poor opinion of me. And do you know why? Because it worked. He not only stopped trying to engage me he stopped being Mr. “There ya go.”

Which sort of sucked because, without the constant chatter, we may have had some things to talk about.