#1: I HAVE NEVER SLEPT WITH AN ORIENTAL CHICK. I'm not sure if "oriental" is a derogatory term nowadays, but the fact of the matter is I have never stabbed at the fabled sideways vagina of the celestial womens. It's not that I haven't wanted to, but that's not really saying too much, because I've never slept with all of the following, even though I've wanted to: Colombian chicks, small tittied women, Christy Canyon lookalikes, this girl named Crystal who was in my French II class in high school and works at the Wal-Mart back home, thirtysomething hefty black women with braided blonde weaves, Lucinda Williams, and Siamese twins. Really, the last one is the only one I'm still keeping actively a possibility, even though I'm happily married and shit, because I've always been heavily intrigued by the sensual possibilities of two vaginas sending pleasure up one spinal chord to two brains. Really, at this point in my life, it's the only menage-a-trois I'll accept. But as for the Orientals, I don’t know, body-wise, on average they just don’t do it for me. I mean, they’re kind of scrawny, and I know whenever you say that somebody pipes up with, “Man, I know all kinds of thick-butted big-breasted Asians,” but then you look at them and it’s like someone proving to you that somebody who played basketball at Georgetown in the ‘80s or ‘90s wasn’t half-retarded... you don’t make rules out of exceptions. It seems inside the internets, there’s tons of yellow fever running amok, which I can only assume is because most internetted second lifers are socially misfitted in real life, probably due to a lack of self confidence, which is probably due to a lack of physical endowment, which probably causes them to fetishize the tiny proportions of Oriental bitches because it makes their dick look bigger. Plus the internet losers can always do that hooker’s voice from Full Metal Jacket for Oriental chicks on a fantasy level, which makes the dream more real. But I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on much by not boning a nice Chincoteague pony, because tiny bitches are not my thing. To be honest, I’ve never really enjoyed ultra-tight pussies that much, as it’s far too much work to make it start to slide in and out, and I’m kind of lazy. Basically, although in execution it is done with far more flair and attention to detail, I’m a lick your cooch until either enough of my slobber or your vaginal secretions are present for me to stuff my penis in, whence I slide back and forth, playing with your breasts, until I’m about to orgasm, and then I start thinking about playing checkers with the old men outside the country store down the road, except they won’t let me play checkers so I just stand around drinking RC colas out the drink machine (only 35 cents!) and hoping I’ll get a chance. Eventually, this one old mulatto guy who looks kind of like Grady from Sanford & Son but in overalls will say in a loud bumbling voice full of a lack of education, “You wanna play a game boy?” And usually before I sit down to play, I’ll come back to focus on the physical, notice my penis sliding in and out of a vagina from behind, my thumb sticking in a round feminine anus, hear moaning sounds, and I’ll orgasm. Eventually, my goal is to get to the point in the mind thinking to actually play the game of checkers with mulatto Grady, and have my first checker get to his back row, so that I can say “King me” in the physical world as I orgasm, knowing that even in mental imaging land, playing checkers with old ignorant mulattos goes slow as fuck, so by the time I get a king, I’d probably have waxed the shit out of that ass. (Wow, that’s a poor choice of words at the end there.)
#2: I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO FLORIDA. Mostly, this is because it has been out of the way of all my random pointless travels, but also because it sticks out going to nowhere. If it was on the way to like Little Rock or Alexandria Bay or Louisville or something, I most likely would’ve passed through by now. One time, I came real close to driving down there with my boy Born King to visit his dad, who lived where I was promised we could throw rocks at alligators in his back yard while drinking beer and if they tried to attack back we could just run sideways back and forth until we got on top of our cars and this would confuse the alligators and send them back to the marshes to get more rocks drunkenly thrown at them. I can’t remember exactly why we didn’t end up going there, but for some reason we ended up in Asheville, North Carolina, where we got a shitty hotel, watched public access preachers, drank beer in lawn chairs, and I helped an old drunk guy count his change for two forties at the convenience store across the street, and he rewarded me by telling us about a cookout some folks of his were having a couple blocks over, and that we shouldn’t be afraid we should go, and if they ask why we showed up to just tell them, “That old crazy nigga sent y’all.” Not quite thinking that was the most acceptable ghetto pass, we stayed at the hotel, drinking beer, and ogling this one slut who kept coming out her room to act like she had to do things, when really she wanted to fuck. But about Florida, I think I’m even less likely to go now because I assume it’s full of about five different sectors of retard. Like, part of it is redneck riviera where the fork lift driver to woman ratio is around three to one. Then there’s the Disneyfied soulless miracle mile chain box store mecca that I assume the whole Tampa/Orlando chunk of the state is. I figure the whole southern tip is either stupid Cubans who hate Cuba (who always seem to suck for some reason, which is perhaps why they were forced out) or people who think Rick Ross is awesome. Then there’s the Yankee Jew section, which I think is gerrymandered around the edges along both sides of the dangling part. And you also have the sector full of all the stereotypical lazy Mexicans who were forced down to Florida since hard-working Mexican illegals took over all their jobs in other states. So I have no real desire to go to Florida, although I think my man Teabag Brian and his old lady Stacy and their kid live down there. But I also think they live right where Alabama borders it, and I’d much rather go to Alabama than stupid Florida. Seems too Honda Civic Hatchback with rims and dual exhausty for my tastes.
#3: I HAVE NEVER BEEN IN A STRIP CLUB. Again, there’s really been no reason for this outside of I’ve never been too geeked up on the idea of spending a lot of money to have a hard dick. In Virginia, they have no nipples, plus panties required laws, and you can’t touch the bitches, so the possibility of busting a nut involved much more money and V.I.P. room overpriced bottles of champagne to get even a handjob from a purty girl, when I could just shell out like $12 for a Penthouse Letters and a Club magazine, go home, bust out the baby lotion in the bathroom, and take care of business at a far cheaper price tag. Plus, if I keep my foreplay reading down to a minimum, I can keep a lot of the Penthouse letters unread, giving me “virgin” stories to read for later horny moments. Had I growed up and habitated somewhere where strip club laws were more lax (like West Virginia, with full nudity in trailer parks bring your own liquor bottle and shit like that), the situation might be different, but at this point in life, with three daughters plus two younger sisters, strip clubs conjure up too many creepy introspections. The last time I was tempted was when me and my boy Boogie Brown were staying near Weirton, West Virginia, which is like Bukowski played Sim City as one whole end was swallowed up by a shut-down steel mill (seriously, the town sort of dead ended into the mill), and the rest of it was block after block of lottery stores, “clubs” of various sorts, about five or six bars per block, and ragged hotels with lead paint from twenty years ago flaking off the siding. There was a strip club there we were gonna check out, because we were drunk as fuck when we left Pennsylvania and couldn’t find a hotel room, so figured the best change in plan was to get drunk in a strip club, but the place had hand painted lettering and old brown grocery bags covering up the glass, and judging by the rest of the town, we kind of feared what kind of scenes might be inside. And I am cursed with something called Retardar, where the most convoluted and ridiculous interpersonal situations - never tragic but always outrageous - present themselves to me, and I invariably become trapped because I know it will make for a funny story later in life if nothing else. We weren’t quite ready to swallow whatever the Retardar would deal us in a place like that, so we just swerved on into Ohio and found a hotel room finally, and drank a ton of Schaefers playing Spades with some fiber optic cable dudes out of Kentucky who were in the next room over.
#4: I NEVER WAS REALLY AWESOME AT MORTAL KOMBAT. I mean, I could slam buttons with the best of them, but when it came to memorizing button combos to do shit like steal people’s souls, I wasn’t down. I’m not trying to play video games to memorize codes and symbols and decode shit. I get enough of that bullshit in life. I play video games to fritter away the unobligated moments of my life to make me feel better about how much of my obligated time is wasted on unsatisfying things. The last gaming system I owned was a Super Nintendo, and I’ve hung with my young ass cousins and their next gen gaming robots... I’m not fucking with that shit. If the extra two buttons on top of a Super Nintendo controller was more than I felt like fucking with, there’s no way I’m holding one of those new school keyboards and tapping Russian symbols to make crazy things happen. So mostly I get my ass kicked, losing at Madden ‘08 the day after Christmas like 35 to 6 before I quit, and went into old man talk, about back in my day Super Tecmo Bowl if you beanballed Okonkwo he’d charge the mound and you could always beat Philadelphia 3D Worldrunner on acid was good times blah blah blah. Probably the pinnacle of my gamesmanship was when I was like 13 and first discovered the joys of marijuana... well, my folks always smoked, but I discovered the joys of smoking weed with fellow delinquents outside the home, and we all hung out an arcade (how ‘80s of me) where we’d go around the corner to an alley, get high, drink stolen vodka, and come back and play foosball, unless we didn’t play foosball. Then we’d play video games, although the quarter spent to amount of time wasted publicly while wasted quotient was way lower on video games. But I’d always play Spyhunter or Excitebike, because I lived in a small town and the only gaming machines we had were like shit no real town would have, so it was serious first wave bullshit. I could fuck up some Spyhunter and Excitebike. Also I could fuck up some dirtweed and cheap vodka. I was a young super destructor and we all wore jean jackets and were amazed that something as perfectly awesome as Slayer hadn’t existed all our lives. And every girl who hung out was either named Cindy, Crystal, or Cissy. And I stained my forefinger with all of their pussy juices. Not really, but I wish. Man, if I had been 13, stoned, drunk, and fucking bitches, I never would’ve graduated high school. Then I never would’ve went to college. Which means I never would’ve learned how to internet things. Which means I wouldn’t be here right now, remembering this. Stupid fucking stuck-up bitches in the arcade of my youth. You ruined my life.
#5: I HAVE NEVER DONE MORE THAN TWO LINES OF COCAINE IN MY LIFE. I used to live in a crib where a lot of yayo passed through and passed around, but I never fucked with that shit. Did two lines total in my high school days, and didn’t like it either time. Allegedly, it was some puro shit both times. But I also did a lot of dirtbag speed type snortable substances, so I guess psychologically, I associate nose drugs with intense burn and about 9 hours of constant psychobabble. Which is all good, because I still have fond memories of crank, but I haven’t done that for years. Last time was the day we buried my father, believe it or not, and I shared a few mirrorfuls of bumps with an older chick who has hep-C, but when I was a teenager and she was a 20somethinger, man, she was Marilyn Chambers in the flesh, biker chick hot and heavy and causing my young boy’s body to feel all tingly. By the time I did crank with her though, she was one of my mom’s best friends, and plus, we were all dedicated to having a giant fire and being fucked up for as long as we could since we just buried my dad. That’s how us rural redneck hippie lifetime loser celebrate death - big parties where we snort, smoke, drink, and shoot off things until the last person passes out. When a real local legend heavyweight dies, sometimes you’ll get a pack that’ll make it till the next afternoon and some of those who had already passed out will wake up for a second round of action, and when you throw in bathtub crank, there’s always the possibility of multi-day abuse, although at funeral parties, usually we keep it tasteful and nobody pulls a long-term bender where you sit in the dark all day long and have the sofa pushed against the front door.
#6: I HAVE NEVER FLOWN IN AN AIRPLANE. Really, there’s no John Madden crippling fear involved here or anything, it’s just the situation never arose through me being like 25 years old, because most trips I had to take were in North America, and I’ve got no problem with launching wacky hijinks by taking a Greyhound 3000 miles one way (if that’s possible, I don’t be knowing my North American land width stats by heart). So I decided, since I’ve always wanted to skydive, that I would make another one of my trademark completely ridiculous arbitrary rules for life, and mandate that the first time I fly up in a plane, I come down without the plane. Not a real big deal, since you can take those all-day training sessions and do a controlled free fall where someone else pulls your chute, or even just a two-hour safety course and do a tandem jump where you’re latched onto some other fucker. I figure this is no problem and a good way to make sure I do that, and confront every molecule in your body being like, “Man, are you stupid? Fuck this shit.” and telling you not to jump, but you just jump anyways, giving your entire physical existence’s cellular memory a middle finger and hoping for the best so that right before you hit the ground to die you don’t have to hear your mind go, “You stupid fucker... I TOLD YOU.” Well, the problem now is I guess people die and shit from jumping out of planes in those tandem deals or the one-day training session, because those places are run by sketchy fuckers who make you sign away all rights to recoup any money if you end up a dead fucker. This means, me being the primary breadwinner for a family of five and counting, my wife gets all somber and responsible thinking about me jumping out of an airplane. Except she also wants to go on trips in the future, and I think my dad must’ve had part mountain goat semen in him or some shit, because when I make these completely ridiculous arbitrary parameters for my life, I refuse to let them go. So I ain’t flying to no fucking Costa Rica or Belize until I get to jump out a goddamn airplane. And I mean it.
#7: I HAVE NEVER HOPPED FREIGHT TRAINS. Being a hobo is basically the one thing I've romanticized more than anything in my life. I think of riding the rails through wide open spaces and sharing good laughs with other vagabonds as opposed to the more probable scenarios of getting stabbed by feral old racists and putting up with full-of-shit crusty punks, who would probably cause me to forsake all multi-culturalism and start claiming F.T.R.A. with prominent sewing needle tattoos. It's hard to say what makes me be all hobo fetish about the shit, but I think it's a combo of all things that have molded me. Country music has crazy amounts of hobo songs, and I was raised on my drunken dad playing outlaw country really fucking loud as he drank off his hangover. Freight trains are pocked with graffiti, which gives it that urban hip hop vibe. And shit, it's just a train rolling through back lots. Interstates tend to be near the action, because all the malls and four-lanes and shit go up by the interstate on purpose. But train tracks roll through abandoned land, virtually unseen a lot of the way, and I tend to be a shadow dweller. Fuck the limelight, but also fuck paying some obscene ass amount of money to ride an Amtrak. I rode the Amtrak one time when I woke up about two hours away from Richmond (where I was couch-crashing at the time) without having any idea how I got there. So I went to the train station, found out a ticket was twelve bucks, went out and bummed ten bucks, then rode back to Richmond. I think Jim Beam was oozing from my pores, and the rest of the passengers looked at me like I was slow death creeping up on they ass, so I felt like shit and was stoked to stumble off the fucking piece of shit train when we got to Richmond. Looking back, I probably should've just hopped a train then, as my ass was deep into degeneracy, and I could've just took that fork left and ran with it. Although I have no regrets being the retarded half-functional family man I am. I spent most of the morning talking my oldest kid (almost 9) into drawing pictures of hobos on trains. Then we talked about graffiti, and I hadn't practiced my graffiti handwriting in a long ass time, so we talked about that and she started practicing doing it herself. She really likes the shooting arrows coming off of lower case Es, but what kid doesn't? That's like the most fun letter to graff up on notebook paper, except maybe a bubble S. Or capital Es if you can do that cholo style.
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