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]