More search term hillarity

Just an Fyi, two people looked at my blog while searching the phrase, “Is Charles Barkley Gay?” I would have to say yes, yes he is gay, and he takes out his anger about not being able to be honest about who he truly is by stealing from kids and spitting at them (there is also a famous incident where Charles Barkley spit at a little girl, it was well publicized). Also, fuck Charles Barkley. If I had his rookie card today it would be at worth at least $300 that I could use. If it was signed, at least $500. Dick.

Update: http://cgi.ebay.com/1984-85-star-202-CHARLES-BARKLEY-xrc-rookie-card-BGS-9-/380332541750?pt=US_Basketball&hash=item588d960736

His card would be worth $450 on ebay, if it were signed, probably more.

Charles Barkley Is A Fucking Dick Who Steals From Children

It’s true. Charles Barkley, NBA hall of famer is a thief. How do I know this you ask? Well, I know this because Charles Barkley stole from me. This isn’t some sort of strange metaphor, or some sort of weird sports fanatic thing where I feel like I was robbed personally because he never brought home that championship. Sir Charles Barkley Esquire stole from me; what’s worse was that it was the little kid me. What did he steal, what could I possibly be talking about? Well, the truth in this case is seriously bizarre.

Charles Barkley stole my Charles Barkley rookie card.

Let that sink in….and I will repeat it one more time for dramatic effect.

Charles Barkley stole MY Charles Barkley rookie card—what a fucker.

Let me transport you back to my formative years, back when I still cared about sports, and actually followed and played a lot basketball. Not only did I follow basketball, but I was a pretty big fan. Like many of my 13-14 year old friends, I collected basketball cards and baseball cards.  I didn’t really so much like baseball, but I liked cards and I liked trading them and such.

Much of my time during my Junior High years was spent in the Cottonwood Mall,  in one of four places: The food court, the comic book shop, the arcade kicking ass at Street Fighter II or at the card shop. Yes, the mall certainly did have it all back then, plus if you lucked out you might meet some hot piece of tail that went to another school, the ultimate great white whale scenario. You always head of these mysterious hook-ups that your friends said they had when they met some babe  from another locale, but it never seemed to happen to you…or rather, to me perhaps? Anyhow.

After a long Saturday afternoon of mowing my enormous backyard, and being a child slave laborer for my father, I received my allowance. A princely, nay, kingly sum for a 13 year old — $10 American dollars. $10 bucks could get you a lot back then, especially at the mall. To put this in perspective and this really makes me sound like some old man recounting how you could buy 10 moon pies and 4 pennywhistles for a dollar back in the day, but, back then you could fill up an entire tank of gas for $10. Just this week it cost me $35. Sigh. I digress.

This would turn out to be an epic, epic mall outing for me. After being dropped off with a few friends at the Cottonwood mall, I stepped into the food court. The world was at my fingertips: Orange Julius, Hot Dog On A Stick, Sabarro, Arby’s, The Weird Chinese place owned by Koreans that didn’t speak English. Oh where to start? This day, I decided to do something out of the ordinary. Rather than head over to get my usual, an Arby’s roast beef sandwich, with Arby’s delectable Arby’s sauce (I also wasn’t vegetarian back then either), I felt a strange pull. Something urged me in a different diection that day, call it the still small voice of consumerism if you will. There I was being led by a mystical force to the second level, passed the comic book store, and over to the card shop. On this day, right there in the window, they had unopened packs of 1985 Star basketball cards for $4 apiece.

Now, card collectors know there could be some gem lurking in those unopened old packs, or it could end up being just a bunch of no name hacks that you just pissed away $4 that could have been spent on a few hours of virtual fighter, or stink bombs from the Tease and Keys (a dumbed down head shop of sorts).  This fortuitous day, I decided to take my chances. I plopped down my $10 bill, still sticky with the sweat of a recently mowed lawn.

“I’ll take one pack of the 1985 Stars basketball cars please.”

The man behind the counter said, almost as if he were some sort of wise sage, “Choose wisely my young friend. You could find treasure unimaginable, or you could find Greg Kite* lurking in there?”

I muttered aloud, “Who the hell is Greg Kite?”

The wise teller replied, “Who the hell indeed, who the hell indeed son?”

I looked in the box, and decided to just plunge my hand in and grab. I had made my pick. Now, I would like to say I remembered every card in the pack, but I don’t. But, the most important thing is this: There among the forgotten NBA players of old was a mint condition, Charles Barkley card!

SUCCESS!!! My gambit had paid off! There he was. Bald. Beautiful. Young. Ok this is sounding a bit gay.

The rest of the day is a blur of video games, and bragging.

“Can you believe it!?” I’d exclaim several hundred times while trouncing my friends over and over at street fighter. They should just have known that you just can’t beat me when I choose Chun Li. It’s just a scientific fact.

After exhausting my funds, we decide to call Chris’ mom on the pay phone.

After being picked up on and our way home, my friend Chris exclaims, “Holy shit Taylor! The 76’ers are playing the Jazz here tomorrow night dude!”

“So what ?”

“What do you mean so what?! You can get that card signed by Charles Barkley.”

“Chris, how the hell am I gonna do that spazz?”

The wheels in his head were spinning, he was formulating a plan and it came spewing out of his mouth, “We will just go wait outside the Marriott downtown by the Salt Palace and ask him for his autograph as he leaves to head over the game. I’ve done it a few times. I bet my mom will give us a ride.”

And just like that, the wheels of fate were in motion. I had my rookie card, Mr. Barkley was going to be in town, Chris was going to come with me and his mom was going to drop us off downtown.

My young brain could hardly contain the possibilities. I thought to myself, that card will be worth like thousands of dollars if it is signed by Charles Barkley. I could eat Arby’s, drink Orange Juliuses and buy so many fucking stink bombs with that kind of scratch. Yes, oh yes! I will be lord of the mall! I will be making out with so many chicks, from so many different schools. I will be king, king I tell you!

Skip forward the next evening  and there I am, nervously standing outside the Marriott hotel across the street from the Salt Palace on a warm summer night. I am armed with a black sharpie, and my coveted Charles Barkley rookie card. We’ve been standing around for about 20-30 minutes. While I have seen a few people who are obviously basketball players, I have yet to see anyone I recognize.

I turn to Chris and say, “Hey man, let’s just go over to Crossroads Mall, I don’t think anyone is coming out.” The Crossroads mall was the downtown mall just around the corner.

Just as the words left my lips, I caught the glint of sun coming off a large, bald, black man. The light hits my eye, temporarily blinding me. Could it be? Is it? As my eyes came into focus, there before me is Charles FUCKING Barkley himself. Gym bag in hand. A few people are milling around him, and he seems distracted.

Chris squeals out, voice cracking with pre-pubescent excitement, “DUDE, there he is, go up to him. You are gonna get your rookie card fuckin’ signed man!”

This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for, for like almost a whole day. I run up to him and blurt out something that in my head sounded like, “Charles, you are an awesome player, and just yesterday I had the amazingly good fortune to come upon one of your rookie cards. It would mean a great deal if you could autograph it for me. I promise to cherish it for the rest of time.”

But it really came out as, “YourCharlesBarkelyivegotacardforyoutosign.” I was completely intimidated. He was enormous. One of his hands could easily wrap around my small head, crushing it like a grape should he choose.

He looked down at me with a puzzle look on his face and said, “What?”

Dumbfounded, this probably being the closest I have been to someone this famous ever, and most likely the first time I talked to a black man (I grew up in salt lake. There were hardly any African Americans there at the time. It was as white as white could get.) I held out my hand, presenting the card and sharpie marker to him.

He said, “Oh, you want me to sign this?”

I replied, “Yes please.”

He looked at it a moment and then exclaimed, “Damn, is this my rookie card? Shit I haven’t seen one of these in…” he trailed off as some guy in a suit came over and started talking to him in hushed tones.

He wandered off to speak to this man. I was still in shock. He was going to sign my card. HE WAS GOING TO SIGN MY CARD! I stood there a moment and Chris ran up and was giddy like a school girl.

“Keep your cool man, don’t make me look like an ass,” I exclaimed.

Distracted, I turned back around, and Charles was nowhere to be found. Where did he go? Wait, he has my card! What the fuck? How did he vanish, he is enormous, he can’t really have too many places to hide. What is he the flash?

I ran out of the lobby, and looked up and down the street. I spotted Charles crossing the street to head into the Salt Palace.

I sprinted to catch up with him.

“Charles, Charles, “I yelled exasperatedly

“Hey, Charles, you’ve got my card still man, hey you’ve got my card.”

He just kept walking forward, pretending he couldn’t hear me. I finally caught up to him.

I tugged at his sleeve, “Charles, you’ve got my rookie card, can I have it back?”

He replied, “You mean my rookie card?”

I stared blankly at him, thinking maybe that this was some weird meta moment, since it really was technically a rookie card of him, and therefor when he said “my rookie card” he meant it was a card of him and I thought maybe it just sounded strange to me and that he wasn’t giving me the typical school yard bully reply.

“Right, it is a rookie card of you, well your rookie card, but it is my card that I got at the mall this weekend in a pack of 1985 Star Cards and I got totally lucky because you, well not you, but your card was in there, so did you sign it for me?”

Charles stopped dead in his tracks. Reached into his bag, to pull out what must surely be the signed rookie card……nope, he handed me back my sharpie and said, “Buzz off kid; I’ve got to go kick Malone’s ass.”

I replied shocked and angry, “Dude, give me my fuckin card back.”

He turned back around and gave me a look that said without uttering a word, “I am not beneath kicking some little white kid’s ass.”

Standing there outside the Salt Palace I was utterly defeated. Questions started racing through my brain. What was I going to do? Who was going to believe me? Why would he need to steal his own rookie card for me? Doesn’t that douche have like millions of dollars? Doesn’t he have like a thousand of his own rookie card? Wouldn’t the car company just send them to himinh bulk? Who steals from a teenager when they are that rich and famous?

Chris caught up to me and said, “Did you get it man, did you get it?”

I replied, “That fucking asswipe just stole my card. Charles Barkley stole my Charles Barkley card.”

Chris laughed and said, “Sure he did, where is it? I want to see.”

I reiterated, “He fucking just took it and told me to buzz off, and then he looked like he was going to murder me so I just let him take it…but he gave me back my sharpie.”

Standing there, in front of the Marriott hotel in downtown Salt Lake, completely in shock about what just transpired, I did what any angry teen would do. I decided to deface city property. There on a no parking sign in front of the hotel I scrawled with my sharpie,

“CHARLES BARKLEY IS A FUCKING DICK WHO STEALS FROM CHILDREN!”

I hoped that he saw it after the game. I hoped that Karl Malone would break his femur in two. I hoped that his career would be cursed for the rest of time.

Well, he never did win an NBA title, and I’d like to think it was because he stole from the 13 year old me.

Fuck You Charles Barkley.

*Grekg Kite Was a player from BYU who was the lowest scoring member of the Championship Boston Celtics in ’85 & ’86 and was considered their worst player.  I looked up wost players in the NBA during the 80’s, he came up.

Top Searches

I promise to have another story up this week, but first I wanted to share the following tidbit that made me laugh. One of the top key searches for my blog is: “roving whore limousine.” There you have it folks. I have finally achieved greatness.

A Hummer Limo: The Rolling Party (weird shit happens)

I’ve said it before, and I will say it again, and swear several times for dramatic effect: some weird fucking shit happens to me. Seriously. Even when I am at home, sitting in my basement, playing modern warfare 2 and drinking whiskey at 1 in the morning, while my family slumber; strange happenings find me.  So you say, “Taylor, just because you say it doesn’t make it true?” Well first, fuck you, it is true, as I will illustrate if you decide to continue reading further. Second……i forget what was coming second, but read on if you wish to hear a tale of strangeness, terror, freestyle rap battles, and a stretch limo hum-v.

So there I was, being a nerd, playing video games in my basement, sipping on some whiskey and minding my own business, when from outside I hear a ruckus — dear reader, it could even be described as a “mother-fucking-ruckus”. Much like the old christmas poem, The Night Before Christmas, I sprang from my bed (it was really a bean bag), to see what was the matter. Also unlike the christmas poem, I grabbed my aluminum baseball bat.

Of all the things that could be outside making noise, the last thing that I expected was what was awaiting me right out in front of my driveway. No, it wasn’t Santa and his 12 reindeer, but it was about as long as santa and his trusty horned friends. Sitting right out front is a white, stretch limo, hummer. In the middle of my street are a bunch of African-Americans kids, who I guess are either in their late teens or early twenties. They are dressed like they just came from some party, prom perhaps. Jay-Z’s New York is blaring from the sound system, and the light from a disco ball that is mounted in the automotive atrocity before me is spilling out onto my block. I briefly think to myself, “Taylor, I think you’ve had way too much to drink.” But as a rap battle breaks out before me, in the middle of my street, I realize that this is really fucking happening, right in front of me, in the middle of the night, in front of my house of all places.

Party Goer\Rap Battle Enthusiast # 1: “I came to rip it like this son, I bring the pain, and I don’t need no fucking gun son.”

3 or 4 bystanders: ” Damn fool, that shits off the chain.”

Party Goer\Rap Battle Enthusiast # 2: “Your moms was a whore, your grandmammas was too, them old bitches should have straight aborted you.”

3 or 4 bystanders: “shit, that was cold son, DAAAAAMMMN!”

I am standing there watching this all go down, with my bat in hand and my jaw on the floor. They haven’t even noticed that I am standing there. And as amusing as this all is in a surreal way, it is like 2 in the morning, and the old man in me is about to come out in full force. But before I can open my mouth, about 4 or 5 women pour out of the limo, and being to grind the young gentleman having the rap-off.

My life has just turned into a music video. The only thing going through my mind is: What the FUCK!??

Now I have had it. Seriously. Were these people just cruising down the street, and instantly had the urge to have a freestyle rap battle\dance-off and just couldn’t wait, so they pulled over, looked at my house and said, “well gents, this looks like the place for us to have our battle of vebal wits and get jiggy with our lady friends as well?” People still say the word jiggy right? Well, I just did.

I was about to speak up, and tell them to get the fuck out of my neighborhood, when about 6 or 7 more people spill out of the vehicle. I wonder to myself, how many people are in that beast? Rather than get my small, skinny ass beat by a group of drunken teens, I decide that I will just go inside and call the police. As I am retreating back to my humble abode, I hear someone say, “you see that white boy, he was about to talk some shit, then I guess he wised up?” This is of course is followed by a bunch of hysterical laughing.

And he was right. I wised up. As quickly as the roving party arrived, it was gone off to another neighborhood, perhaps to continue stunning the inhabitants of a random neighborhood in Denver with their verbal prowess . I barely had enough time to go and wake my wife up to make her look out the window, just so she would believe me the next day. Of course she just said, “you woke me up for that?” Of course I woke her up for that, it was bizarre.

To this day, months later, it seems totally surreal. It was as if the movies 8 mile and Step Up To The Streets were both having a wrap\rap party on wheels.  Really, does shit like this happen to anyone else, or am I just blessed with weirdness?

Lack of posts

So, I haven’t updated this bitch in ages. There are a few reasons:  i’ve been busy being a dad, i’ve been busy writing a recording a new record with my band Black Sleep of Kali, and I am just a lazy, lazy sum’bitch. I have a few new tales that have been gestating and I plan to sit down and write about them soon-ish. I am very non-committal, but it has been on my mind lately.

A few strange events have happened recently that I have been wanting to write about for sure, one of them being a tale about a Hummer Limo that pulled up in front of my house in the middle of the night, where the occupants then decided to party. This will for sure become my next tale. Also, just thought I would mention it, but on my way to work last week, I saw a crackhead pull down his pants, in the middle of the day mind you, and he started to take a shit on the sidewalk, while he was fondling his balls. Sometimes life can be much more fucked up than fiction.

-taylor

If it wasn’t for bad luck, i wouldn’t have any luck at all.

So I haven’t written here in quite a long while. Call me lazy or uninspired, or it could be the fact I had a baby…..or lazy. Anyhow, this isn’t really a tale or crazy story, but is about the run of bad luck I have had in the past 6 months. It is almost unbelievable, and mostly out of my control. I was thinking about it this morning, and I realized that not only have I had some shitty things happen, but I am really lucky to be alive, and in one piece. With that realization, I decided that I would write this all down as a way to hopefully purge the ancient curse that was laid upon me when I violated that Mayan tomb a few years back. I mean, people are always cursing you for stealing monkey paws or ancient treasure, but you shrug it off as shit talk, but maybe I should have listened to the old, drunken man at the mouth of that mystical cave in Belize.

So where to start?

Well, I got a new job writing for a company that seemed really promising. I was doing well, really enjoyed the job and all was well with the world. Then, seemingly, with no warning I get called into the boss’s office.  This is not the first time I have been let go from a job, and as soon as I walked in I knew. They sat me down and said,

“We don’t think this is going to work out. We believe you duped us in the interview process. We thought we were getting a more of a senior writer and you are clearly a junior writer.”

Of course I was stunned. No one said a fucking thing to me about any sort of negative job performance issues up to this point. I asked them for specifics.

Me: I don’t know what you are talking about? I haven’t had any complaints, if I was doing something wrong, why didn’t you come to me and give me a chance to improve?

Asshole HR Lady: Oh come on, this isn’t a surprise, you knew.

Me: Knew what? I don’t understand where any of this is coming from. I really think I deserve a chance to improve upon whatever it is that you see as lacking, and you still haven’t told me what I did wrong besides some vague insults about my writing ability.

Asshole HR Lady That I Would Now Like To Strangle: Just the fact that you say you can improve shows us that you haven’t been putting your best foot forward, so we feel we should part ways.

There was some more back and forth where I tried to plead my case, but in the end I was let go. I am still not exactly sure what happened and never did get a straight answer, but alas, I had lost another job. This of course was super upsetting to my wife and I. My wife took it especially hard, because she has been working full time, and in school full time, with a newborn baby and was finally getting some relief now that I was back working a full time job. I am minimizing it here, but as you can imagine, it caused all sorts of problems, from financial worries, to a major strain on our relationship. I don’t need to get into the nitty gritty of it, but it was bad. Real bad, and real stressful.

So, bad luck. Maybe not bad luck. Maybe I am a bad writer, or a poor employee or I have deep-seated problems that keep me form holding down a job? I don’t mean to turn myself into a punching bag here, but I’ve lost more than a few jobs. So this was shitty. Especially because I really liked the job and I thought I was doing well.

Luckily for me I had briefly had a job at a restaurant with some friends just before accepting this new job and they happily took me back. It isn’t ideal, but I am making money and working, and the people I work with are awesome, so that is a plus.

Fast forward a month or so. I am driving home from my restaurant job, which I am grateful to have at this point. I am about two miles from my house and out of the corner of my eye I spy I HUGE FUCKING SUV. Normally, in the good ol’ USA this wouldn’t be a surprise, but this SUV happens to be barreling through a stop sign and headed straight for me.

I brace for the impact, slam on my brakes, realize that I am going about 45 and that I also don’t have health insurance and the fucker is going to hit the drivers side door, where I am currently seated. I won’t lie. I was fucking scared. Really, really scared. I honestly thought in those few seconds, I am not walking away from this, this is going to be bad.

I’ve been in a few accidents and it is strange the clarity that you have in those second before impact. All was quiet except for the word “oh shit” forming on my lips. But it was almost like a movie, where I could see myself saying the words, but there was no sound. I thought of my wife, and my baby and hoped that I would be ok because I really don’t want my child to grow up without a father. Then the collision.

Airbags go off. Chemicals fill the air. The deafening sound of steel on steel. I hear a voice choking, and after a few seconds I realize it is my own voice that I hear. I am dazed. My hand hurts. I am in shock and not sure if I am ok. I roll down my window and then I see the car that just nailed me start to take off.

I say out loud, “oh fuck no you don’t!” I quickly call 911. The operator answers and all I can think to do is yell out the license plate number of the asshole who just hit me and is now fleeing the scene.

911: sir, calm down. what is your emergency?

me: dude just hit me and is taking off. did you hear the license number I just read?

911: yes sir, we did, do you need an ambulance?

me: so you got the number?

911: yes sir, do you need an ambulance?

me: uhhhhh, I don’t know. hold on.

I get out of the car and kind of give myself a once over to see how I am doing. I pat myself down. Outside of a small chemical burn on my hand from the airbags, I think I am ok.

me: no, I don’t need an ambulance. I don’t have health insurance, so don’t send one.

911: it wont cost you anything sir.

me: oh yes it will, I don’t need one.

So, the rest of the story goes like this. The cops tell me the license plate number I told them belongs to a sedan, so the plate is obviously fake and the car is stolen. They also make it clear that they don’t really give a fuck and aren’t going to try and find the people who smashed into me. So, that is awesome.

The next thing is kind of unbelievable and retarded all at the same time. For the past 10 years I have had the same car insurance. Since I lost my job, we needed to try and save some money, so I switched insurance companies. Literally the day of the accident, at noon, our insurance switched over. To try and save a little more money, I only got liability on the car that was hit. It was an older car and I wasn’t sure how much longer it had left, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. So, I get home, call the insurance, only to find they wont pay for anything. If the dude that hit me had stuck around and not had insurance, my insurance would have covered it, but since he is a criminal piece of shit, who took off, I get nothing. So, we are down a car.

The VERY next day. I am at work. Someone backs up into my other car in the parking lot putting a huge dent in the side of the car. This time however, the people who hit my car actually came inside and gave me their info.

So, I am shaken up to say the least. So I take the rest of the night off.

Fast forward to this last week. I get my water bill, open it up and it is $220. It is $20 more than my electric and gas bill combined, and it is the middle of winter. So the water company comes out to take a look into what is going on, because obviously something is wrong. Well, it turns out that there is a leak in my water line, and it happens to be the line that is on my property, so I am responsible for fixing it.

Fuck.

Calls are made. Trenches are dug. Pipes are pulled. All in all, out $2500. I couldn’t even afford it, so once again I had to call my dad and ask him for help, and even my wife’s parents chipped in to help foot the bill. Honestly, I don’t know what we would do the past few months if it wasn’t for our families help.

So this was kind of a bitch-fest of a post, but I just needed to get it all down and purge my system of it.

Yes, I am lucky to be alive. Yes, I am lucky that I have another job. Yes I am lucky to have a wife and family that continuously support me. Yes I am lucky to have running water and not a giant sinkhole in my front yard.

Is the glass half empty or is the glass half full? Sometimes it is hard to even realize there is glass with something in it lately.

All I know is we are fucking due for something good.

Look Away Bitch!

Here is another tale that was not nearly as pleasant as the “you look like a badass!” story. If you know me, then I have probably regaled you with this tale in the past, so if you don’t want to hear it again, then you are a horrible person who doesn’t appreciate my lyrical prose.

I love slurpees. There it is; the cats out of the bag. There is no other slush-like beverage that even comes close. Don’t get me wrong, snow cones are a delicious treat, and so is an ICE-E, but nothing is as affordable, as delicious, or as readily available as 7-11’s heavenly slurpee. As a fan of the slurpee, I must trek to the 7-11 with frequency. 7-11 is a late night hot spot for people loitering, trying to score smokes, stoners seeking a tasty snack to cure the munchies, that last minute beer run once the crummy party some scumbags were raging at ran out of beer; one could say  there is not a more wretched hive of scum and villainy in the universe, but I digress — they have slurpees. Since I love the slurpee, it stands to reason I have to venture to the Sev for the tasty treat.

This tale took place a few years back when I was still living in the Beehive State, good ol’ Salt Lake City. My wife and I lived downtown, a few blocks from one of the city’s most popular parks, so of course there was a 7-11 nearby. This here story took place on a hot summer night; it was muggy, sweaty…something was missing, and that something was a pina colada slurpee. I exclaimed to my friends:

“I NEED A FUCKING SLURPEE, STAT”!

No sane person would refute such a bold exclamation, so me, my buddy Matt, his then girlfriend Crystal and my lovely wife Kendyl headed out the door into the hot summer night on my quest for the ultimate, sugary beverage. Matt, Crystal and I set out on foot, while Kendyl decided she was going to ride her bitchin dirt bike so that she could circle around us yelling profanities, which she enjoyed doing, and who could blame her really?

The trip over to the Sev was uneventful, except for the dirt bike circling. After 10 minutes we finally reached our destination. There, like a beacon of green, red and white signage, glowing in the night, beckoning stoner, dirt bag, smoker and slurpee seeker alike was the holy grail of 24-hour convenience — 7 fucking 11. As we crossed the street, I noticed a variety of colorful people in the parking lot, but since there are always  bunch of shitbags there (my motley crew included) I didn’t take any notice. Delicious, frozen, sugary goodness was mere moments away. I could feel the brain freeze before the cold treat even hit my mouth.

I opened the doors, and the first thing I noticed was huge fucking line and a poor, lone 7-11 worker manning the register. I knew this was going to take a while, but slurpee madness knows no bounds, so I headed to the back corner of the store to get my beverage. I walked to the machine, and the first thing I notice is a bunch of blinking lights. If you are unfamiliar with slurpees, then let me explain: when it is really fucking hot, or they just refilled the slurpee machine, the concoction that is to be the slurpee must be cooled. Blinking lights means the slurpee is not ready, and will be liquid instead of slush. I look at the pina colada flavor only to be faced with a big, fucking, blinking light. I exclaimed loudly, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooo!”, followed by “GODDAMNIT!” A few of the shell shocked people in line looked over at me to see what my deal was, while the majority of the line barely took notice.

But do not fret my loyal readers, all hope was not yet lost. They had my safety slurpee, the old standby – coke. I regained my composure and grabbed a cup to finally bring my late night quest to an end.

Any slurpee hound worth their weight in frozen sugar knows that filling the slurpee is a delicate process. You can’t just fill up and leave, there is a specific protocol for getting the most slurpee for your buck. You first take the cylindrical plastic lid and place it firmly on your cup, the lid allows you to fill the slurpee a few inches above where the actual cup stops. Next, you begin the filling process; you fill the cup all the way to the top, but must be careful to stop before the squishy beverage hits the top of the lid or you may have a blowout, and no one wants to be covered in sticky liquid (insert semen joke here). After you have filled the cup, being mindful to not have a blowout, you must take the cup and tap it hard on the counter, how many times you do this is really up to you. The tapping of the cup allows the slurpee, which is filled with air, to settle, giving you extra room at the top; you then refill and repeat until there is no possible way that any more slurpee can fit in your cup.  Like I said, it is a process.

With my slurpee in hand and my spoon straw firmly implanted in it, I finally ventured to the back of the line, which had only grown larger while I was busy filling up. My friends and wife were pretty much along for the ride,  so they were sitting outside waiting for me to emerge. As I am standing there, sipping away, a young gentleman sidles up behind me in line. I give him a glance and what I get back is a full on stare that projected hate and malice. Puzzled, I ignore him. Five minutes or so go by and the line has barely moved. The kid in line behind me is still burning a hole in the back of my skull with his stare.

I shall digress yet again to explain something for those who do no know. When you are a magnet for trouble, like myself, you recognize certain signs from people who are looking to start a fight. The most unreasonable of people will want to fight you simply for meeting their gaze; these people are usually your super jock meatheads, drunks, or just simply unstable badasses. The dude who is behind me is saying with his body language and stare, ” I dare you to look at me. I DARE YOU TO LOOK AT ME!” Now, I do dare to look at these people, but all I wanted to do at that moment was enjoy my slurpee and cool off.

15 minutes later I finally reach the register. The douche-hole in back of me was staring me down the whole time I was in the painfully slow line. I make my purchase and step outside. When I get outside I turn to my buddy Matt:

Me: “So this idiot in back of me was staring me down the whole time and I think he is going to try and start a fight. I am going to ignore him, but see if he is staring at me when he comes out the door.”

Matt: “Ok man. He is just one dude, we can kick his ass.”

(Matt is kind of a badass by the way)

Me: “I would rather not.”

Matt: “Ok.”

So the kid walks out the door and clearly stares me down. He then walks back to a truckload of jock-ish looking kids. They start snickering and pointing in our direction.

Matt: “Oh man, that dudes friend, the dude that was staring at you, his friend is fucking huge.”

Me: “Shit.”

So I am standing there trying to ignore them. They keep staring and snickering for a few minutes. Finally something inside me says, go ahead and acknowledge you are not afraid of them, and you have a right to sit here drinking your slurpee, while letting your gaze drift where it may. So, I finally decide I will meet their gaze, because I have had enough. So I look up at the truckload of dudes. Instantly, the big, huge meathead cocks his head to the side and yells out:

“Look away bitch!”

He just yelled look away bitch. How is one supposed to respond to this most ludicrous of requests? Well, if you have any spine, or you are a total smartass, then your response may have been the same as mine:

Me: “Ummm, fuck you cocksucker.”

I have now crossed beyond the point of no return. From that moment on, I was now assessing the fight we are going to get in for sure. I am looking around for a weapon, Matt is also looking for something to fight with because there are 5 dudes in the truck, and most of them are average, but the “look away bitch” guy is big enough to beat both of us into the ground with ease.

I decide then that I am going to firmly plant myself against the front window of the store, and if he throws a punch, I will dodge it in hopes that he the hits the window instead of me, you know, like Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid? So, the huge, angry, possibly drunk meathead is steadily heading our way. At the very moment when he is about to step over the curb to where I was standing and obliterate my face, Kendyl comes flying up on her dirt bike, skids out to the side right in front of him, blocking his path.

A bit amazed, I can’t help but laugh a bit, but it is a nervous laugh, because now my wife is in danger of getting smashed to bits by this behemoth. What transpired next is forever emblazoned upon my brain, and was both super gutsy and super awesome.

Poking the meathead in the chest rather hard Kendyl exclaims:

“Get back in your truck asshole!”

My jaw is on the floor. The meathead is clearly bewildered, as he has obviously never been in a situation like this before and is only used to stomping puny mortals like myself. Kendyl once again pokes him in the chest rather violently and again yells,

“I said, get back in your truck!”

The meathead eeks out,

“Hey, I’m not gonna fight a girl man, come get your girl out of the way.”

It is obvious to everyone, even the brain-dead mountain of muscles, that Kendyl is indeed not getting out of anyone’s way. Kendyl is still sitting on her bike, blocking his path. The meatheads’ friends are now getting back into the truck and muttering to each other that they should just bail. Exasperated the once angry giant yells out,

“Fuck this shit, you dudes are fucking faggot-ass pussies!”

He is still trying to kind of pick a fight with us, but now his friends are yelling at him to get in the car, and apologizing to us saying, “He is super drunk, sorry.” The truckload of once angry, testosterone-enraged jocks pulls out of the parking lot, but not without a few more “fuck you fags,” and “bunch of bitches” hurled our way.

As soon as they are out of sight, the 4 of us start laughing in disbelief. Matt looks at me and says, “Oh man, that guy was huge, I thought for sure we were getting our asses kicked.” I agreed with him. We then decided that we should get out of the general vicinity, should the drunken fools regain their courage and come looking for us after being humiliated by Kendyl on her dirt bike. We left the lot, and headed back to our house a few blocks away; the whole way home I triumphantly sipped my coke slurpee, and thanked the stars that my wife is such a fucking badass.

Seriously?! Kendyl to the rescue.