It's a Limbo Party!

Yesterday was a great day. John (roommate) and I hosted a successful grill session with a bunch of chicks. After running out of beer, the drink of choice switched to vodka. As such, the pace of the shindig picked up immensely. Naturally, a limbo session erupted. Those unfamiliar with my love of the limbo should know that although I suck at the maneuver, I have 6 variations of "Limbo Rock" on iTunes and own an original version Chubby Checker's 1962 tour-de-force LP, "Limbo Party." So last night, when the time was right John and I summoned the crowd indoors after having recently transformed our living room into a limbo parlor; the table moved out, the record cued, and broom handle brought in.

After the ladies had a few practice limbos we decided to have a ladies-only limbo contest. The winner would get a date with John, the loser a date with me. As the official judge, I positioned myself in a chair at the end of the limbo runway. One girl had a strange objection my location, and she asked me to move. Since her request was bizarre and unreasonable, I remained put. It soon became striking clear why she asked.

Our subject was dominating the competition. Her flexibility was outstanding, and she cleared the limbo stick with ease as it was progressively lowered. In the last round, when it was very low, the remaining contestants had to bend back very far to clear the stick. Our subject was wearing a jean skirt. Our subject was not wearing underwear.

Watching her clear the stick and win the competition, it was impossible for me to ignore the shaved beave in front of my face. The thing was practically screaming at me. My emotions were mixed: happy / giddy to experience a shaved-beave sighting, but mostly confused. After having some time to fully absorb the experience, I can now sum up my thoughts on the incident-

I know girls don't wear panties sometimes (nice!), but to pull this move off with a jean skirt is very rare (slutty). It's possible that she was out of clean panties or that she forgot to put some on, but most likely the move was a conscious decision. Which brings up the question - what was the motivation behind her wardrobe? Is she allergic to cotton? Was she anticipating getting nailed in a bar bathroom stall later that night? But I will not pass moral judgement, because there is a more important point to be made. This girl petitioned quite passionately to move my judge's post, and I refused. She then went on, knowing that I would get a clear view of her snatch, and limboed her ass off. She won the competition by a landslide. She is obviously quite committed to the limbo movement, and I think that that's fucking awesome.

Self-Deprecation, Vol. I

In the years of my youth, outstanding skinny genes helped me stay delicately fit, tight and ripe despite drinking heavily, eating fast food and leading an overall sedentary lifestyle. I maintained a weight of 150 pounds from high school through junior year of college. People often commented, "Get some meat on your bones," "Eat up son" and "Stop staring at my tits!" Further, I earned nicknames such as "Slim" (high school lacrosse team), "Beeker" (Pumptown) and "Stinkynuts" (Wesleyan female student body). It's debatable whether my six-pack was muscle or ribcage, but I flaunted it nonetheless. Most importantly, however, was that I felt confident with my body image. Ladies, if reading at work, please take a minute, grab a towel and put it on your chair, because you are about to get wet...

I recall one day working out at the gym, staring at my golden brown body glistening with sweat as my biceps flexed (are you wet yet?). I was courting a particular hipster girl at the time, and thought to myself, "Tonight I plant seed," "Plow field" and numerous other farming metaphors that describe sex. I was super-confident; nothing short of an army of cockblocking (cockblaking?!) lesbians would stop me. Chicks can sense natural confidence, and they eat that shit up. Needless to say, later that night I gently whispered in her ear, "Should I get a condom?" That move carefully executed is nearly flawless. It worked.

That night was one among many nights which I hope to soon chronicle in a collection of short stories, The Sexual Liberation of Blake. To get to the point - I was kinda hunky. Last week I showed some girl friends pictures of me in college and I immediately needed to mop my floor and let them borrow mesh shorts (because they were...WET...get it?!). Looking back at Blake circa 2004, I think to myself, "How on earth could any woman refuse me?"

But then it all came to a tragic and rapid halt. Senior year I began writing an extensive thesis. I studied for about five hours a day in a small carrel consuming brain food - gummy bears, bagel chips, red bulls, popcorn, etc. I quickly gained weight. The interesting thing is that I had no idea it was happening. I only came to the realization thanks to LL Bean. Let me explain. In October 2004 I was in full thesis mode and ordered a pair of LL Bean flannel-lined khakis for the winter. They shortly arrived just as I ordered, size 32 waist, but did not fit. "LL Bean pants must run a size small," I reasoned. I sent them back for a size 33, which I received about a month later. Unbeknownst to me, at this time my unprecedented weight gain was in full force. The new pants arrived and much to my surprise, they also ran small. I sent them back for a size 34, which I received in early December. Finally, they fit.

Being the nice friend I am, I cautioned my roommate Dan to order LL Bean pants two sizes larger than normally. He was amazed at my ignorance. He simply stated, "Blake, you've gained a ton of weight. Look at you, your gut is sticking out." I looked down and was shocked at what I saw, but more shocked at what I didn't see - my penis. I stepped on a scale in his room and weighed in at 180 pounds; 30 heavier than my standard weight of 150. To summarize, 30 pounds in three months. 30 fucking pounds! How I managed to overlook this remains a mystery.

The evolution of this weight gain is exhibited via Facebook pictures. My friend Tim sums up this phenomenom best - "Facebook: An exhaustive chronicle of the varying fatness of my face."

This all being said, at least I'm not a fat chick.

The Inevitable Sex and the City Post

This show bothers me. Many women I know are obsessed with it. I can understand the appeal- women with indispensable incomes buy cool clothes, are seemingly “in control,” and fuck a lot of dudes. This is supposed to be liberating, because our Puritanical society historically stressed that women repress their urges to, as a shitty songwriter once put it, “get drunk and screw.”

I had seen only bits of the show here or there and was never impressed. Upon hearing about the anticipated movie, I decided to watch an episode On Demand to get a better understanding of the phenomenon. For the sake of simplicity, I will assume the writing style and overall theme of the episode to be representative of the entire series.

The episode chosen was "To Market, To Market."

Carrie opens the episode with a voice-over narration, "When you live in the city that never sleeps, it comes as a bit of a shock when somehow, you manage to, oversleep." I have a problem with this for three (3) reasons:

1. The delivery of the line, is punctuated like this, as to indicate some insightful and clever, statement.
2. As the opening line, it should be insightful, clever and funny. While insightful and funny, it is not clever.
3. It logically makes no sense. New York is not “the city that never oversleeps.” If we play the game “Fun with Logic” and take her sentence to a logical conclusion, wouldn’t she be surprised if she ever slept in the city that never sleeps. Dear SATC writer, let’s try this one again..."It would be a bit of a shock if you set three alarm clocks and overslept." While not clever or insightful, this sentence makes sense.

Then the girls go to lunch, where Samantha discusses a $20 hamburger and inflation: “Pathetic. When I moved to this neighborhood the only thing that cost $20 was a hand job from a tranny.” Hilarious.

Next Charlotte and her dude discuss converting to Judaism. The following scene opens with Miranda changing a diaper. Carrie narrates this transition: "And from Jewish to pooish." Again, hilarious.

Eventually we are treated to a sex scene. Nice, let’s see how they realistically portray this. After all, "It’s not TV...it’s HBO." Charlotte, my favorite character, is fucking her dude. Now we’re getting somewhere. This is provocative and progressive...wait...she's wearing a bra.

We soon get another sex scene, this time with the philandering Samantha and her new stockbroker neighbor. Samantha is supposed to be the really slutty one, right? So she’s giving him a blowjob, her head pops up and she says, "Now that’s what I call eating in!" Hil-ar-i-ous. Wait, what’s that, she’s also wearing a bra. Since it’s only a blowjob I’ll let this slide. But the scene serves no purpose to the narrative of the episode; it’s just gratuitous. So why not at least make it sexy? And did I mention that Kim Katrall is like 55 and gross.

The third and final sex scene of the episode is with Samantha and the stockbroker. He is handcuffed to the bed, and she’s riding him...with a bra on. Groundbreaking.

Carrie then makes her profound thesis statement:
“Later that day, I got to thinking about the stock market and dating. Are they really that different? If you have a bad stock, you can lose your shirt. If you have a bad date, you can lose your will to live. And if the date is good, the stakes get even higher. After weathering all the ups and downs...you could one day find yourself with nothing. When it comes to finance and dating...I couldn’t help but wonder- 'Why do we keep investing?'"

Let’s run this one through the Logictron 3000. Lots of churning. Ok done. Here’s what the machine tells me:

1. “And if the date is good, the stakes get even higher.” So then if the stock is good the stakes must get higher? False. If a stock you own rises, you do not assume any more liability or risk.
2. “After weathering all the ups and downs...you could one day find yourself with nothing.” Assuming the gains (ups) and losses (downs) are equal, they would cancel each other out and you are left with the original investment. Logictron 3000 has a built-in mathematical calculator function which tells me that a $10,000 investment with equal gains and losses would leave me with $10,000. $10,000 is not nothing.
3. "Why do we keep investing?" Because you will probably make money. In the last ten years, the Dow Jones Industrial Average has gone up an aggregate of about 40%. A $10,000 investment would be worth $14,000.

At this point I lost interest and stopped watching. Final thoughts, Carrie-style:

If a show presents women as shallow and materialistic, why do women look up to these characters? And if the writing is neither funny nor logical, why do they keep watching?

David Archuleta Sex Tape!

(The title of this post is intended to mislead perverted google searchers)

Statement #1: I usually make sound financial decisions.
Supporting Evidence: I contribute regularly to my Roth 401K, and I invest in value stocks. Last year my portfolio increased 35%!

Statement #2: I am good at math.
Supporting Evidence: I was in Math Olympiad as a kid, a program so exclusive that students "must earn a scaled score of 719 or higher on the New York State Math Assessment test (taken in the spring of Grade 5)". The lessons I learned about math, love, and most importantly, life, stay with me to this day.

Statement #3: I am a fucking idiot.
Supporting Evidence: .....

My sister Erin learned yesterday that she has been accepted to coach lacrosse in England next year at a private school. Big it up girl! Upon hearing the news, I called home to congratulate her and immediately began planning my trip to Europe. I've never been there before, and now I have a perfect excuse to take a long vacation to explore some cool countries.

I was talking to my Dad regarding convenient scheduling and candidly mentioned that I'm going back to Las Vegas in September. He flipped out; that statement alone may have taken 4 years off his life. Not to get into details, but some highlights of last year's trip are:

-Buying a sweet Tag Heuer watch
-Calling waitresses "Honey" with confidence for the first time in my life
-Meeting big girls (see picture, which has been carefully doctored to conceal my true identity)


The only downside of the trip was that I spent a fair portion of my annual income at the tables and on "entertainment" (I'll leave that open to your imagination).

The money lost was a big hit on my wallet. I sold some stock and managed to get back on my feet. My Dad was incredibly disappointed in me when I told him. His paternal instinct to worry kicked in and he even suggested I seek help for a gambling problem.

This all being said, he considered my decision to go back to Vegas incredibly foolish. Fearing the worst, following our conversation, he wrote me this email:

Hey Stu Unger,

I got a deal for you. If you promise me that you will not go to Las Vegas I will give you $1,000 for your trip to Europe.

Going to Vegas would be a terrible mistake for you to make.

Let me know.

Upon reading this I considered the opportunity cost of going to Las Vegas. Keep in mind that the gambling expenses used below are based on the assumption of a 5% house advantage, $25 average bet, 80 bets per hour, and 25 total hours of gambling:

$1000 - Money could have received from Dad
$750 - Flight & Room
$2500 - Gambling [(25*80*25)*.05]
$750 - "Entertainment"
Total - $5000

If statement #1 carried any weight in my deliberations, I would take the offer in a heartbeat...What's that Howie? You need an answer? (Pause 20 seconds, anxiously holding head in hands) Confidently proclaim "NO DEAL!"

And thus I give you supporting evidence that I am a fucking idiot.

Hot or Not?

Last summer I sought to create a rating index which would help me objectively objectify women and assess their potential as a mate. Points were awarded as follows (100 point scale) - Hair (5), Body (15), Face (30), Eyes (20), Culture (9), Sense of Humor (4), Intelligence (9), Innocence (8). Needless to say, upon peer review many were critical of this model. Some excerpts follow below. I've omitted inside jokes. Warning: some of this is mental masturbation combined with too much time on our hands, but I hope you find it somewhat entertaining...
[Note: The original Excel spreadsheet is available via email request]

Jerry
Its interesting that "Face" and "eyes" are separate and yet combined they come to 50% of the total score. This would suggest that you'd consider dicking a knocked up dumb ass bald fat chick who had the hottest face/eye combo. If this is in fact the case, I could probably find you one on the internet. Also, you might want to add a "thin as a wafer" column.

Doc
I remember there was some discussion last June about how having separate categories for Face and Eyes was somewhat redundant; I briefly considered merging them into one quotient and then reducing their combined worth from 50% of the aggregate score to a more reasonable figure, but then decided I'd rather not manipulate the raw scores (those out of 100 for each category) provided by Blake. So instead I only lowered Face from 30% to 28% and Eyes from 20% to 14%.

Of course, I do agree that Blake's fondness for eye quality does suggest some nostalgic opinion of romance as well as some awareness for the enigmatic nature of female beauty, but I think this 20% figure is outdated and maybe unreasonable if we are really thinking about these girls (here, girl A to girl I) as potential soulmates or "blakemates," to conform to the lexicon.

In general, I should make clear that my statistical tweaking is not to indicate my tastes, but only to indicate my perception of what Blake's tastes actually are.

For example, the other noticeable changes to Blake's rubric are my modest increase awarded to the "culture" factor and a threefold, almost exponential, rise in "sense of humor's" importance. We are all aware of Blake's highbrow and nuanced taste in music and his preference for being around people with solid academic pedigree. Even more obvious is Blake's requirement that his intimates appreciate and understand his own jokes.

The rest is just minor fudging in order to get a rounded sum of 100 total points.

Some trends I found: First, it was not easy to moderate Eyes' significance as there is obvious self-selection on the part of Blake to consent to girls that he thinks have high-quality eyes -- a total of 4 girls had perfect 100s for Eyes, a sum only rivaled by Body. Personally, I found this relationship to be interesting, as typically only the effete, aesthetic or naive would be so attracted to eyes and only the horny or the particular might be so clingy to body beauty.

In contrast, only 1 young lady scored a perfect 100 for sense of humor. This could either reflect Blake's high standards for jokes or his surprising sexual compass.

As expected, there was some correlation between face and eyes, as well as between the three variables of culture, sense of humor and intelligence. Except for Girl A, Girl B and Girl D, who all managed to be unsophisticated and boring despite their smarts.

I expected that Blake would have scrambled or randomly ordered Girls A - I so as to prevent our ability to "guess" who each anonymous variable might represent, though one characteristic of his table makes me doubtful: that the Innocence factor decreases consistently with each consecutive girl, perhaps signaling the general trend for girls to become more experienced or worn with time.

As a true scientist, I will let my data stand for itself, and caution from making any unwise conclusions. Enjoy!

Blake
Doc - You are a clever wordsmith no doubt, and make some worthwhile observations. However upon first look I notice one critical flaw...

The "looks" versus "personality" [ratio] is essential. While women's [looks] are obviously objectified to an extent, I believe I was generous in my 30% allocation to personality. Your model allocated 39% to personality (an increase of 30%!). So if someone were to score below average, say 70, on the "looks" and get a perfect "personality" score she would total 72.7, or an unsuitable mate.

I admit the beta version needs tweaking, however the 70/30 split must remain.

Tim
The Chairman objects to the fanciful and indulgent nature of the current categories, and demands that more attention be paid to the following:

'Shame Index'
Manual Strength/Dexterity
Scythework (an extension of the above)
Vertebral Integrity
Downtroddenicity

Each category is to be weighed equally. National dedication to the insertion of one's shameful genetic deliverance module into the grateful receptacle of mates exhibiting equal proficiency in the above categories will assure eternal prosperity for future generations.

Blake
I've considered your argument and feel that only Scythework should be included...[worthless blabber]...On a somewhat related note, subjects will be deducted 9 points if they have sickle cell anemia.

Jeb
in bullet form:

• having nearly completed "war and peace" and once having taken a turn of the 20th century russian history seminar, i agree wholeheartedly on the importance of scythework.

• as for the debate on whether eyes and face should be separate or not, i believe in separation, much like church and state (eyes~church and face~state) and cite billy idol in my defense.
["Eyes Without a Face" link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpmWIyjilQo]

Katie
LAYDEEEZZZ,

can we get a rating system of our own??? I'm not making no FUCKING Excel document, cause that shit's for nerds, but I will propose the following catergories to determine a man's worthiness.

Ability to Fix Things
Natural Musk
Body Hair Quality
Sporting Talents
Literacy
Jokesmanship
CUDDLING
Beefiness

Additions, suggestions, percentiles? Please add!

Bridget
Great start katie.
I'd like to add a few for the ladies.

wideness of stance
sweet party moves
number of joke tattoos
emotional depth (most points for an emotional depth of .5)
Lose points based on hours a day spent playing video games.

And factor in the well known Taney Girth Equation (C/L)
when the fraction is greater than 1, you enter an entirely different bracket.

[Editor's Note: actual girth equation is length/2X width. Less than or equal to one indicates girth. For example: 7/(2*3.5)= 1]

Tim
Might I suggest:

Emotional width
Semen consistency (both in terms of material gradient and degree of reliability)
Haunch strength
'Badgerstyle' proficiency

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Blake back. I enjoy this debate, so any input is appreciated.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*UPDATE*

Reader Nat from Massachusetts adds the following:

Hey guys. I'm happy to see that you're taking it upon yourselves to smoosh the complexities of human personality and morphometrics into a few pithy variables. It's like a Principal Components Analysis. When Blake finally chooses to breed, oh man...

Also...meet my new favorite baseball player. He's blind, but he can actually HEAR the spin on incoming pitches. Amazing!

http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/players/profile?statsId=7812

Can Hillary pull it off?

I hopped on the wrong express train by accident the other day, effectively wasting about 90 minutes of my time. I was just tempted to write that I was "derailed" which would be a great use of a train metaphor, but instead I'm going to go with a sports metaphor - getting on the wrong train is like striking out in the bottom of the ninth; it sucks. You're probably thinking right now, "Blake that wasn't a metaphor it was an analogy." Well fuck you, because that was just a test. And it's opposite day anyway, so none of this shit matters. Now you've got me flustered.

I've lost my train of thought. This post is a train wreck. FUCK, let me just get it out of my system...TRAIN TRAIN TRAIN HARRIET TUBMAN TRAIN TRAIN BANGBUS TRAIN!!!

Sorry about that; I took a bunch of English courses in college, and managed to get consistent B's by writing all my papers about metaphors and things being phallic. And my senior thesis was on the engineering pioneers that helped make the underground railroad more eco-friendly. Was that in bad taste (food metaphor)?

Alright I promise no more metaphors. Pinky swear.

Today I picked up take out food - a BLT (food acronym!) and fries. The girl in line in front of me was ordering. She was not fat, but certainly not skinny. While ordering, she made a clear point to pause and remember what her "boyfriend" wanted. Eventually she recalled that "he" wanted two slices of pepperoni and a salad. I call bullshit. That is the classic "big girl who is embarrassed of ordering big-girl meal so pretends she is picking up food for someone else" move. Who do you think your [sic] kidding lady? At least she gives probably really really really good blowjobs. I also assume that her name is [insert name of any girl that ever dumped me]. Damn that was cold. You're probably thinking, "but Blake, you gained like 30 pounds in college and never lost it. Who are you to talk about weight issues. Isn't there a double-sided standard?" Yes, you are correct again. But I'm a dude, so I can be jolly and fun and stuff. Also, I can drive a golf ball 15 yards farther now and beat my dad in an arm wrestling match, which is cool. My blowjobs could use some work though.

I'm going to end with something provocative - today is NOT opposite day.

I think I want to live the sporting life

Often I think about "What ifs." It's cliche (don't know how to insert accent et gu), but a common thought process in my life nonetheless. Somehow it always circles back to "What if I was born in 1953?"

By the time I would have reached my current age (25), I'd have experienced so many awesome things (not awesome as in "cool," but more like "far beyond what is usual, normal, or customary"): Vietnam, fake moon landing, Kennedy assassination, Watergate, etc. But these would all pale in comparison to what likely would be the most powerful experience of life - the Disco era. My uncle was a DJ at Studio 54 in the 70's, which was notorious for "the hedonism that went on within; the balconies were known for sexual encounters, and drug use was rampant." My parents frequented that club. My computer almost exploded typing that.

It's not that the current nightlife scene is bad; everyone enjoys a good grind dance once in awhile. With the exception of street poets Nas, Rakim, Jay-Z and Big L, I would prefer the powerful throbbing of bass lines with harmony parts played by the harp, viola, trumpet, saxophone, clarinet, flugelhorn, French horn, tuba, English horn, and in rare cases, skinflute.

To get more specific, age 25 would place me in 1978, the year arguably the greatest track was ever released - "Good Times" by Chic. It would be an outstanding year for me. I don't think aviation insurance was invented yet, so I'd probably work as a blacksmith by day and party like a disco freak ("Le Freak!") at night. Unfortunately I am stuck in 2008, where we live with the very real threats of global warming, Y2K and a woman president.

I accept the fact that Disco is dead, but this will not stop me from paying my respects every weekend night before I head out, where I throw down two shots of Jack and shotgun a beer to "Good Times." When my buddies and I ordered a Craigslist stripper last summer, I demanded that "Good Times" be played on repeat until the temptress showed up (she never did).

I'm not trying to be ironic. I legitimately love this music and wish I was around to experience it when it was popular. I DARE you to watch this clip and not share my sentiment:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTQMMiHpeN8&feature=related

What rhymes with catheter?

I went through ACL Reconstruction Surgery on April 9th. Here’s a brief recap:

Surgery Day
Get to the hospital at 8am and fill out a bunch of paperwork. I move over to the pre-op room around 8:30. The nurses are shocked at my alcohol intake (“30-35 drinks a week”) but settled by my “soft eyes”. The nurse who put in my IV sucked and I almost fainted. Even worse than her terrible nursing skills was her joke: “Sorry it’s my first day on the job, hehe”. I was not amused in the least bit.

About twenty minutes later a group of 4-5 people in scrubs wheeled me through various double doors, just like in the movies. There was no “Ok honey, we’re going to take you into the operating room now” or anything like that. They just silently wheeled me in a non-nonsense matter into the OR. The anesthetic wasn’t a gradual sedation; I was knocked out in 3 seconds. My only memory from the OR was that the anesthesiologist was hot and her bust was prominent despite wearing scrubs. I’m not a boob guy, so whenever noticing subtle boob things I know I’m in the presence of greatness.

I woke up about 90 minutes later in the recovery room. They were pumping morphine straight into my veins. The nurse wanted me to tell her when to stop the morphine. I never replied so when she asked again I just whispered, “keep it coming”. It felt fucking amazing. Can I find that on the black market? Anyone have some?

The final step at the hospital was to urinate before taking out the IV. Note that twelve hours before surgery you aren’t allowed to eat or drink. Even though they were pumping fluid through the IV it was not enough. So despite my bladder feeling full, I could not take a piss. My mom and I watched three episodes of Judge Judy while I unsuccessfully tried to pee seven (7) times. At this point, the surgeon notified me that they would have to use a catheter. Instantaneously the positive effects of the morphine vanished. I don’t really know the details of a catheter, but I do know that it involves a tube in my dick hole and I think it was referenced in a Wu Tang song about torture (what rhymes with catheter?). Needless to say, there was no way in hell I was doing this. I chugged about a half gallon in a minute, went into the bathroom and legitimately had a panic attack. I managed to squeeze out a bit of pee. Rather than flush, I opened the bathroom door and summoned the nurse to view the toilet as proof of my urination. I don’t take chances with my dick hole.

(To be continued soon, where I discuss a week living with my mom in my apartment, a gay physical therapist, and my sympathy pussy experiment…)

Feel free to rename this post

On Monday I had a pre-operation physical. I hadn’t been to a primary care physician in Chicago in my two years here, so I researched my options carefully. The three conditions were: (1) Must be female between ages 36-52, (2) must have attended an Ivy League University (or any school with an average SAT of >1400) and (3) must be in my healthcare network. With the help of the various internets I was able to locate one.

I was very pleased with her physical appearance. When she asked if I wanted a testicular cancer check, which she stressed was “optional” and that “not many patients your age need this” I replied, “I’d better be safe than sorry”. She cupped them gently with a patience, precision and tenderness parallel to Michelangelo putting the finishing touches on the Sistine Chapel. This really helped loosen me up before facing the inevitable needle – my greatest fear.

After I got my rocks off I entered the lab where they would draw blood. I was in the bed with my eyes closed and hand over my face so I could not see anything for the five minute wait, throughout the incident and a good five minutes after it was all said and done (to make sure I wouldn't faint after getting up). Drawing blood terrifies me to this extent. I remember thinking as I lay there, “this is worst experience of my life”. Amazingly, I managed to not shit myself or faint. In fact, the whole incident was a smashing success. And the icing on the cake – I don’t have HIV.

This made me re-evaluate my ridiculous fear. I mean, getting your balls cupped by a pro and a little needle pinch for twenty seconds was definitely not the worst experience of my life. At the same time, it made me think about things that I look forward to as the best experience(s) of my life.

(Note to family members who may be reading. STOP here.)

When I think about things I would like to be doing more than anything, sex always tops the list. But the more I think about it, it shouldn't (for me). The problem is that where most people have a rush of endorphins to their brain giving them great pleasure during the act, I am mostly concerned with style, technique, and endurance. It’s very mechanical. Honestly, the best pleasure I get from sex is the ego boost afterwards. Same may call this mindset crazy, but I'd prefer to think of myself as a visionary. The only exception to this rule is sex with lesbians. In this case I’m usually wearing a wig and dress, so the whole situation is very awkward.

(Note to future sex partners - I promise I will change my ways for you and turn into a passionate sex animal.)

So I thought about it more, and I realized the things that I get the most natural pleasure from and came up with these:

1. 100 yard chip shot landing within 10 feet of the pin
2. Eating pizza! I could eat pizza all day until my stomach exploded! I love pizza so much!
3. Having balls cupped


Question of the day: What's better protection - God or Guns?

There Will Be Faint

(Please refer to my first post about my shitty neighbors for this snippet)

I got back early from a business trip today and ended up passing out on the couch. I was woken up by loud thumping from upstairs. But this time it was different. The song that woke me up was “Kids” from MGMT. I am happy to hear their influence spreading beyond the hipster dungeon known as Westco café to the commonfolk of the Midwest. Anyways, the event just confirmed another area of my superiority over them – Music. I knew about the Managers way before them.

In medical news, I have my surgery scheduled for April 9. The absolute worst part about this is that prior to the surgery I have to see a primary doctor for clearance. They will have to draw blood from me. You have no idea how fucked up I am about needles and blood. I get severe panic attacks and pass out whenever getting blood drawn; I literally shat my pants in a bar (McFadden’s) once just THINKING about needles. I fainted in health class three times throughout the course of high school while discussing the subject, and even once in the shower thinking about it. I would rather take a steel boot to my nuts than draw blood. The fact that my donor ACL is coming from a dead body doesn’t faze me one bit, yet I’m getting flush and pale even thinking about giving blood for 60 seconds at the current moment. I understand I’m crazy for this fear, but everyone needs to be fucked up on at least one thing. Wait, but I already have the stuttering thing going for me. Fuck. Fuck. F-F-Fuck.

The good news is that the guy performing my surgery is Sasha Cohen’s (the hot figure skater) Orthopedist. I was referred to him from the Doctor at the Snowbird clinic, who used to work with him for years. So while I grossly exaggerated my skiing skills (“I think I just landed wrong off a 20 foot cliff and my knee gave out”) we really hit it off. He understands that I’m not the typical riff-raff patient he sees for some stupid arthritis (Boring!). I am extreme. When my surgery is over, I plan on printing this picture (see above) and asking him to have Sasha personally it sign for me.

Finally, I sadly report that I am donating my Volvo to charity. The battery died, and it isn't cost effective for me to have it anymore (insurance, city sticker fees, etc.). I sure will miss the good times in that car - running out of gas on Throg's Neck bridge, driving around campus junior year yelling "Juniors Rule!", driving around campus senior year yelling "Seniors Rules!". The list goes on. Feel free to post your favorite memory of the White Stallion in the comments section.

Final Status:
1991 Volvo 740 Wagon
149,456 miles
one (1) broken horn, one (1) dead battery, one (1) door broken handle

Lack of Material?

Well so much for my recent lack of material. Last night was one for the ages...

The fun part begins at Beaumont's, one of Lincoln Park's finest 5am bars. Beaumont's has held a special place in my heart ever since a crazy girl kneed me in the balls there two years ago on Halloween.
(It was because I allegedly screwed over one of her friends. Well, I kind of did, but no one deserves a knee to the nuts.)

I rolled over with some friends of friends, and took a particular liking to this extremely skinny girl. We started grind dancing together, and I had to explain to her my physical limitations due to a torn ACL - "I'm sorry, but I can only due the mashed potato, the traditional grind (straight dry hump), and the fist pump. Any lateral movement and my knee will explode." It didn't matter to her; I figure she just wanted to feel a tucked boner rub against her leg. On this note, whenever my semi starts to morph into a full chub, I execute a 180 spin, backwards jackhammer for 3 seconds and tuck while the girl can't see. Works every time. So anyway, I made out with this girl a bit on the dance floor, took a piss, and came back to find her dancing with a massive black dude. I thought to myself, now how the fuck am I going to compete with that? He's got lateral movement. So I left the bar and went home at 4am.

Prior to capping off any good Fri/Sat night I hit up the Taco Bell by my place. 6 hard shell tacos, no cheese. It helps me stay "regular". I ate them on my limp back to the apartment.

I get back and realized I had the backup set of keys, which will get me into the apartment complex but not my actual apartment. My roommate was at his girlfriend's place. Fuck. Shit. Fucking Shit.

The last time I locked myself out I threw a brick through my back door, which ended up costing me over $2,000 when all was said and done. I could have nailed a stripper on a coke binge at the Ritz for that money. Luckily, my new apartment has no glass, so there was absolutely no way to get in. After calling all my friends and having no luck, I hailed a cab and had him take me to the nearest motel.

The Best Western was the only one we could find, and it was $200 a night. Fuck that. So I went home, understanding this meant I would be sleeping in my apartment complex hallway. I smashed the hall light bulb and used a cardboard box as a pillow. It was cold.

But at approximately 4:45am I heard the front door open. It was the crazy art major chick from the 3rd floor! It's worth noting that I only know that she is crazy and an art major (the two are actually synonymous) now, and prior to our exchange last night we had never met. I convinced her that I lived in the apartment complex. She was cool about it, only after I named the landlord and showed her his phone number in my cell. And I had to promise I wouldn't murder her.

When I got upstairs there was a chick who had already claimed the couch, so I slept on their floor. This was basically the same situation I would have been in in the hallway, only much warmer. After the chick on couch woke up and I explained her my situation, I casually quipped, "So what do you want to do?" She understood what I was hinting at and shot me down. Worth a try, right? After all, the best home run hitters strike out the most.


Moral of the story: Stay away from small Italian cars. They are very dangerous.

Menage

There's been some some new Chicago readership. I don't really have any good material at the moment to write about, so I'll break out a classic....


Senior year of college I became involved with a cute, seemingly innocent Midwestern girl from my English Literature class. The courtship was long and strenuous; at one point I even took her (a vegetarian) to an organic “green” restaurant, where I washed away the taste of horrible tofu with shitty wine. She was cute and nice, so I endured such travails in the hopes of touching warm snatch. At one point during that aforementioned dinner, I remember specifically eating some finger food (dumplings?) with my left hand, so that my right hand would be sterile and uncontaminated should I reach third base that night (I did). But something even more significant happened the night. Something that would set off a course of events that led to my greatest failure to date. That night, in bed, she asked if I had ever engaged in a threesome.

This question could not be passed off as small talk. This was a gift, wrapped with a pretty bow on it. It signaled that she was clearly thinking of a threesome - one that most likely would involve her, her romantic interest (me!), and another girl. So, I reasoned that the logical response was, “Yea, back in high school once. It’s not a big deal really.” This response accomplished two things: (1) I came off as sexually mature and (2) reinforced that it’s “not a big deal”. Nothing more was said about it that night, but the metaphorical seed had been planted. Barring any unforeseen tragedy, a threesome was inevitable.

The very next night she called me and told me come over for “a surprise”. I was very drunk and my sense of logic had all but vanished. When I got to her dorm room, she was sharing a bottle of vodka with another girl. They were both drunk and giggling in bed. Naturally, my first thought was “so where the hell is the surprise?”

I immediately recognized the girl as a student from my ANTH 101 class – Being and Becoming Human. I was a TA in that class, and thus she obviously recognized me as a man of great knowledge and power (a gentleman and a scholar). I always demanded excellence from my pupils, and even made them call me by my last name in exam review sessions. So obviously the conversation immediately turned away from “the surprise” and toward opposable thumbs, monkey sex and the Neolithic period. Being a huge nerd, I got really into it (“What do you think of Professor Scott? She’s kind of weird, right?!”). Yet I still yearned to know what this surprise was.

To sum it up, I was too drunk to understand that the logical “surprise” was a threesome with them. I bored the girl so much talking about anthro, she realized I wasn’t catching on, and left. I woke up the next morning, retraced the events of the night, and felt like putting a gun to my head.

The Midwestern girl was crazy. The girl from my anthro class wasn’t even that hot. But still, a threesome?!

Blake gets too extreme; tragedy ensues.

I just returned from what was supposed to be the best vacation ever. I had been anticipating skiing the best powder in North America (as voted by Ski Magazine) with some solid apres-ski hot tub action. In fact, in preparation for the trip, to be sure the altitude and challenging terrain would be easier to adapt to, I had been going to the gym 6 days a week focusing on cardio and leg-strengthening exercises.

On the first day I was so confident I would dominate the mountain, I demoed a pair of the best skis out there (K2 Coombas). Not surprisingly, the karmic gods decided to fuck me in the ass, and on the second run I blew out my knee. The only full run I made to the base of the mountain was in the toboggan.

At first I figured it was a sprain or just a bruise; nothing serious. Thus I felt like a pussy being taken down by the ski patrol dudes. So when the doctor diagnosed a full ACL tear, it was a confusing mix of emotions. On the plus side, at least I'm not a pussy, because I did sustain a serious injury. Also, to some extent, it's somewhat of a "knotch on my belt" to get hurt doing something "extreme". Further, I figured I'd probably get some good painkillers. On the negative side, I have to get surgery and rehab my knee for at least 6 months. I will probably gain some weight due to limitations on my mobility. Also, my knee fucking hurts!

Some notable highlights from the Doctor's office:

-Me asking the Doctor if he could give me a cane instead of crutches. His response: "Are you serious?"
-The nurse who did the X-rays was really hot and Australian. She said I had nice quad muscles.
-3 other people came in with significantly less serious injuries. I subtly displayed my superiority over them for their pussiness through body language (mostly posturing).

Another weird thing about it was when I sent a mass text to some friends telling them about it, about half of the them didn't take me serious. Some responses:

-"Are you fucking with me?" -Wheeler
-"Wait, are you really serious" - Tommy
-"Did you really tear your acl?? I'm so sorry if you did" -Lindsay

You get the drift. About half of my friends thought that I would make this up to fuck with them. Is this a "boy who cried wolf" situation? I can't recall any evidence of me making up any serious injury, so I don't think so. Nonetheless, it made me re-evaluate my integrity.

Props goes to those of you with positive and/or funny responses:
-"Don't think of it as the end of the ski season, but the beginning of the sympathy blowjob season" -Charlie
-"I'd rather have a broken heart than a torn acl. Actually, I wouldn't." -Jmay

To sum it all up, I don't want any sympathy, unless you are a hot chick.

Shitty Apartment

My new neighbors to the north are really starting to piss me off. This is a letter I slipped under their door today...




Dear Sirs:

My name is Blake, and I live in the apartment below yours. I don't recall your names, but we've shared "hello's" in the laundry room on several occasions. I wish that I would be writing this letter in good spirits, but unfortunately this is not the case. As I'm sure you are aware by now, I am referring to the events that transpired last night. As a recap:

9:30am: A loud rumbling sound woke me up from pleasant slumbers. I recall a very nice dream in which I was set free in a zoo to play with all the animals. The animals could speak too! When I woke up, I first figured there was a thunderstorm outside. When I looked outside and saw clear skies, I then assumed you were hosting a bowling tournament in your apartment. Quickly I realized that you certainly would not have the resources or connections to arrange a bowling tournament. Finally, I used logic and figured out that you were listening to a very loud action movie (Terminator?).

While I usually get very grumpy on being woken up early on Sundays, yesterday was different. You see, a friend of mine and myself have made attending brunch a new bi-monthly tradition. So we headed over to Salt & Pepper on Clark Street for an outstanding meal (the pancakes are out of this world!).

10:30pm: I return home after watching There Will Be Blood at the Landmark Century Cinema. It was fantastic; a true tour-de-force by PT Anderson (perhaps the greatest director of our generation...well Wes Anderson may take that title, but I digress). After showering, I put on my robe, played some guitar hero (I'm on expert now!) and was ready to call it a night. But again I heard that sound! It was very similar to the sound from earlier in the morning, only much louder and more obnoxious (Terminator II?). Frustrated, I grabbed a lacrosse stick and poked the ceiling, hoping this would be a sufficient warning.

11:00pm: The noise was still there. This time I poked harder and even yelled, "Hey turn it down!" I assumed any reasonable person would understand that I was getting ready for the start of a grueling work week, and as such needed some quality rest.

11:15pm: Sound still there. I walk up to your floor and hear you and presumably your roommate talking. I knock on the door several times. Immediately, your voices halted. No one answered the door. You are cowards.

11:17pm: The volume is now louder. I am getting very, very angry.

1:00am: Now the sounds of an action movie has been replaced with terrible reggae music. I storm up to your room, pound on your door as hard as I can and scream "TURN THE FUCKING MUSIC OFF YOU ASSHOLES!"

1:02am: Once again, no change. I take 2 anxiety pills and downloaded "sounds of the ocean" which helped me sleep despite shitty reggae music blaring into my room.

Gentlemen, I am not a man of violence, and please do not consider this a threat, but I have been greatly disrespected. And not to get into details, but NO ONE FUCKS WITH BLAKE [REDACTED]! I have been lifting weights constantly, taking protein supplements, and as such I believe my testosterone levels have increased. I've grown back acne and hairs in undesirable places. But I've also grown bigger muscles and a temper.

This all being said, please do not make this difficult on me. We can be friends, even though I am your superior. Big L said it best: "I got more riches than you, I got more bitches than you, only thing I don't have is more stitches than you".

So please, cut the shit.

Or else.

Sincerely,

Blake [Redacted]