*Actual quote from the video below, so you know you're in for some high-caliber entertainment folks!
Hey guys-- I was hoping by now I'd have my usual blog-writing mojo back. I've hit a dry spell and I don't know why. I had this happen a few months ago and then suddenly one day I woke up feeling like my old self again. As it is right now, it's like my writing mojo has deserted me. I hope that she (my mojo) is in an awesome place, like a sunny beach locale, drinking lots of good wine and getting properly laid on the regular. She'd better come back loose (in all meanings of the word) and relaxed and ready to get back to work. Because I have several ideas percolating in my brain. I'm just having trouble getting the words from my head to my fingers and keyboard. It pretty much sucks.
In the meantime, I've been trying to think of some funny things to share here. I keep seeing the daily statistics of visitors and I can't help but feel, "I'm so sorry that I've got nothin' for you! Your visit was for naught!". Anyway, yesterday my husband, son and I spent part of the morning looking at old video clips of my son and laughing. This clip below (taken at the zoo) is one that people usually find entertaining. Please try to ignore the droning music in the background. If I knew how to do video editing, I'd try to make the dialogue louder and the "music" softer. But unfortunately, I'm lacking those particular skillz. Also, don't worry, there is NO actual poop in the video so it's safe for work. However, the background noise might be enough to cause your co-workers to complain to HR (and I'm totally on their side, just so you know).
Hey guys... the title of this post sums up my mood lately. 'Cause February. The grayist, dreariest, and blah-est month of the year. My thoughts feel thick and heavy. I don't have molasses brain. It's worse-- it's like pudding brain. Believe me when I tell you that it's hard to pull something funny out of your ass (OK, now that visual image actually IS kind of funny) when you don't feel particularly inspired. So keep your expectations low as you read this post. Seriously. This is not false modesty on my part. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!
I ran errands on my lunch hour today and I noticed the man in the photo below wearing a tiny white yarmulke:
Here's what I thought: "Awwwww... look at that adorable little Jewish man walking to the post office". Then once he got closer I realized that his yarmulke was actually a large, white wound dressing. That's right-- he wasn't proudly wearing a symbol of his faith-- he simply had a head injury. And then I realized that for EVERYONE'S sake, we'd all better hope to God I never have to ID a witness in a criminal line-up. Horrible mistakes will be made.
Me after a bank robbery: "It was a man with a horrible skin condition! Seriously, he should see a dermatologist".
Police officer: "Ma'am, video surveillance captured a man wearing a very obvious 'Freddy Krueger' mask".
This is because my brain is a bastard who constantly embarrasses me and betrays me. Below are some examples JUST FROM THIS PAST WEEK (examples previously posted on Facebook):
Oh, before I forget, I hope to soon pull together a post about "Shit I Saw Thrift Shopping/ Shit I Saw at Tuesday Morning". I haven't done one of those in a while. I had a sort of a funny moment recently at the store "Tuesday Morning" when I saw the item below and thought it said "Foo Fighters". You know, these guys:
This is what was actually for sale:
There were no tiny Dave Grohls in the package. Just plastic soldiers that you are supposed to use as food picks at parties. Which is kind of cool I admit, but not as cool as "Foo Fighters" food picks would have been...
OK, this is the point where I apologize once again. My brain is not cooperating with me lately. If I can get my shit together, I'll try to post some of the funny stuff I've seen while out shopping. See, that's my tease so you'll come back again in the future. Don't leave me! I'll be funny again! Maybe! No promises! But I'll do my best!
Heads up you guys-- this is a "Not Safe for Work" post. Lots of boobs, boobies, and ta-ta's to come below. Side note-- I'm partial to the word "ta-ta's" because it was one of the first English words that my husband learned. This is because on his first trip to the United States, my friend David made it a point to, well, point to my ample chest area and say, "Bodacious ta-ta's". For a non-native English speaker, "bodacious" is a hard word to learn but the Russian picked up on "ta-ta's" quite easily.
I sent this text to a friend this morning:
This conversation became the perfect segue to help me finish this post which had been languishing in my drafts folder. A few weeks ago I was on the Goodwill website for some reason and I happened to see these salt and pepper shakers in the "Americana" section. I couldn't help but notice the position of the hands on Salty and Peppy:
"Why are they clutching their boobs?", I wondered. And then I had a thought-- are there boob-shaped salt and pepper shakers in the world? Thanks to Ebay I soon had my answer. It was a resounding "yes":
Soooooo...I don't even know what to say about these things. They are simultaneously hilarious and horrifying and a sad commentary about the objectification of women. But mostly they make me think, "WTF?".
This next salt and pepper shaker was disconcerting because THE WOMAN DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A HEAD! Not sure what's up with the "fake bake" color on her boobs while the rest of her body is lily white.
If you don't get the "yip, yip" reference, then obviously you never watched Sesame Street as a child (and what kind of shitty childhood did you have anyway?) so I've included a helpful clip just below (start at 2:29 to hear the "brrring" part):
Here we have a more modest example (no naked nips):
Here's a rare find. It's the limited edition "Lady T1000" salt and pepper shaker from the movie "Terminator Two":
Ugh, I'm including this next image for the handful of people who haven't seen "Terminator Two" (and if you haven't, put it in your Netflix queue for god's sake).
Here's another headless set for you. I couldn't think of any jokes about the bottle caps lids (but send me yours and I'll add a caption):
Last thing for today is a smoking pipe, not a salt and pepper shaker. I'm including it here since it showcases big boobs (and it's not like I'm planning on having a pipes-with-big-boobs themed post anytime soon).
There are so many potential jokes here, I don't know where to start:
"Don't blow smoke up my ass".
"What do you mean, I act like I have a stick up my ass?".
At the ER: "Don't worry m'am. People come in here ALL THE TIME with problematic anal insertions. It's quite common actually".
And no, I don't remember where I saw the pipe for sale, so no need to email me asking me for deets. Just check eBay. You'll probably find it there. Along with a disconcertingly large assortment of big-boobed salt and pepper shakers.
Well, it's one day past Valentine's Day so I probably should have written this post BEFORE VD (*snicker*, will that ever stop being funny?) but I couldn't. 'Cause I had to sit on my ass this weekend and drink wine and watch TV. Oh, I also did this on Friday night (yes, it was after drinking wine, why do you ask?):
I have a palette of eyeshadow that includes a shocking electric-blue color. For over a year I've thought to myself that I should see what I look like in blue eyeshadow. I can honestly say that never before in my life have I worn blue eyeshadow. And now I can see that this was a good decision on my part. I got this comment from one of my asshole friends (Kidding; I love all my friends even if they are dicks because at least they're funny dicks):
I feel like I should apologize right here for any of you who follow me on Facebook as well as read this blog. I've found that I keep posting more and more of my nonsense stuff on Facebook that normally I would have saved up for a post. So apologies in advance if you've already seen most of this.
Anyway, earlier this week I posted this on Facebook and the comments made me laugh:
In case you're wondering how old we are, I started dating my husband in middle school. Kidding. I was in college. Nowadays it seems ridiculously young to get married while still in school, but I did. Of course, if my son even THINKS about getting married while still in college I'll kill him.
So as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I wanted to write about love and married life and how you what you imagine ends up being SOOOOOO different (just like parenthood) but still it's all good. Then I happened to read this article which perfectly and succinctly describes married life here, but in a much better and funnier way than I could have hoped to. One of my favorite lines is this: "And you imagine eating out at nice restaurants, and screwing, and eating out and screwing and eating out and screwing." Hey-- any unmarrieds out there reading this, I hate to burst your bubble but this is NOT an accurate representation of married life. I mean, sure, in the beginning, you'll have marathon stay-in-bed sex days where all you do is eat, screw, sleep, and repeat. I know I'm not the only woman who has ever done it so much that your sensitive bits get so raw that you finally reach a point where you're like, "Uh, this doesn't really feel good anymore". Anyway, my advice to you, my unmarried and newlywed readers, is to ENJOY AND REMEMBER EVERY SECOND OF THOSE DAYS! Later when you have kids you'll remember fondly that there was a time when you could just relax and enjoy the moment. Post-children, your sex life will consist of trying to have a quickie in your bedroom while a small child yells things under the door like, "Open the door guys! I'm lonely". Repeatedly.
While on the topic of sex, let me share this bit of helpful advice that I posted on Facebook:
Did he get me flowers? Here's your answer:
Yes, red roses are so clichéd, but damn it's still nice to get them.
Don't tell my husband, but my son's Valentine's gift to me was my favorite:
It's a chalk drawing of a golden retriever (my favorite breed of dogs) wearing glasses. And not just ANY glasses. The coolest, most kick-ass glasses ever:
Does anyone here know anyone in the eyeglass manufacturing world? Someone needs to get on this stat. These glasses need to exist in the real world.
Thus concludes today's post. Regarding Facebook, I wanted to mention that if you don't want to "friend" me, you can just "follow" me and still see the random shit I post on there. That way I won't be privy to your personal information. You know, in case you run an escort service or work as a Depends underwear model, that little secret will stay a secret known only to you and your friends and family. Oh, and while on the topic of family, no one in my family knows that I'm back on Facebook. I didn't use my last name. I can't tell you HOW liberating it is to be able to write and say what I want. Back when I was (briefly) on Facebook several years ago, I had to worry about my elderly aunts taking offense to things I said and then ratting me out to my Mom who then scolded me. Yes, I'm a middle-aged woman and I still don't want to get in trouble with my Mom. Sad (and funny), but true.
I love words. I love names. I love names that sound like inappropriate words. I like silly sounding names also. Years ago my boss would sometimes have work correspondence with a man named Bert Bean* (*not his real name but pretty darn close). Every time I would see the name I would have to repeat it a million times. "Did you see the letter from BERT BEAN? Don't forget to call BERT BEAN! Bert Bean. Bert Bean. Bert Bean!!!". Once iPhones and Ipads entered the scene, I would wait until we were in an important meeting and then quietly send him an email with a subject line like "URGENT!". Then the entire text of the email would just be the words "BERRRRT BEEAAANN!". I would watch my boss read the email and then he would turn and give me a death glare. And I would just smile back. Because I can be an obnoxious little shit that way.
I work with a (super nice) woman whose last name is Butts. My son thinks this is hilarious. A couple of nights ago he asked me: "Does anyone have the last name Boob?". Good question. I checked the people-search website Intelius.com and found this:
Poor Alison. Either her parents didn't love her or else they didn't think this whole name-thing through completely.
Once I'd found Boob, I couldn't stop looking up other funny and/or inappropriate names. What about Boobie? Yep!
I swear this isn't Photoshopped. Mostly because I don't have Photoshop. Anyway, let's just stop and remember that no matter how hard life can be sometimes, at least your name isn't "Peniee Boobie" or "Boob Boobie" (unless you're one of those two people of course).
I remembered hearing the name "Richard Dick" so did I did a search and found these gems:
Flush with success, I started looking up every inappropriate name I could think of, you know, like "Mike Hunt". Why? Because I'm secretly a 12-year old boy on the inside.
I couldn't find anyone with the last name "Vagina" but I did find this which is probably worse:
Several years ago while I waited at a professional photo studio (to get pictures taken of my son), I noticed that someone had started filling out an employment application. What caught my attention was the name on it. Seymour Butts. I showed the clerk and she didn't think it was very funny. (But I did). No one really has that name, you might think. Ha!
If your last name is Butts, maybe your family is like, "Oh hell, let's just roll with it". You'll notice that I highlighted the work information of one of the Mr. Butts. Because if it's true, then that is the most awesome thing ever. I hope he was the store manager. "Oh, you're not happy with the quality of the panties you purchased? Why don't you talk to Seymour Butts about it. Wait! Come back! That's really his name!".
So what's the best name you've ever heard? Write it in the comments section. Just so you know--naughty words and obscenities are fine by me (and actually encouraged).
OK kiddos, here it is! Part two of the "The Creepy Guys" post. And yes, I did mean "coming" as a double entendre. If you read the last post (and you didn't, what the hell is wrong with you anyway?), you'll know that this is a NSFW (not-safe-for-work) post. Unless your boss is OK with you reading words such as "penis" and "orgasm" and "genital tasting" while at work. So go empty your bladder, grab a snack and sit down and enjoy the creepiness:
"Story One" by Shawna of the website NoTradeJack:
"Creepy Guy Extraordinaire"
So, before I was married I was an aspiring comedy writer. What this means is, I would go to comedy shows and drink a lot and try to pick out funny/date-worthy people in either the stand up line up or in the crowd. It never worked out in my favor. One comedian in particular was an uber creep. I won't mention his name, although women should be wary of this guy so maybe I should put him on blast... No, I'll be the bigger person.
Anyhow, the guy, we'll call him Frances because I've always liked that name for men, made a joke about babies with AIDS, and somewhere in my stupid mind I thought, "Man, this guy is both hilarious and brave. I must talk with him further." Stupid move, me. I caught him outside of the comedy club, told him he was super funny (when you tell a comedian he/she is funny it is a known fact that they orgasm on the spot), asked him what other projects he works on besides stand up, and told him that I was working on an idea for a sitcom and I'd love his input and maybe to collaborate at some point in the near future. Now, the guy wasn't hideous looking, but he wasn't really my type either, but he took this as me hitting on him and immediately wanted to bang somewhere. I declined his offer, thinking it was just another risque joke (I'm pretty naive), and we went our separate ways after exchanging his business card for my number on the back of a Walgreen's receipt.
A couple weeks go by and I had to go to LA for what I thought was a very important meeting about a possible sitcom because that's what I had been told. Instead, this "very important meeting" was nothing more than hanging out with other funny people who knew a guy, who knew a famous comedian, who was married to someone who had Disney connections. We literally did zero writing together, but we did get to see a super funny set from the aforementioned famous comedian and she was great. Anyway, I asked Frances to go with me to LA to meet everyone, mostly because I hate driving on freeways, but also I didn't realize he was a wacko. On the drive down there he was asking how the sleeping arrangement was going to work out and I basically shut him down. No. NO. NOOOOOOO. He wasn't happy with that, so he tried to persuade me. He told me he was masochist who loved to be hurt during sex. He then proceeded to tell me why.
"I was working at a grocery store as a janitor and we worked with really strong chemicals to strip the floors. One of the bottles of this stuff got on my pants and ate through the material and got on my dick. It basically blistered my entire penis and my wife was mad at me for not wanting to have sex with her while I was healing so she basically raped me one night and the pain was so intense because of the blisters and the skin started coming off and she wouldn't stop until I finished and when I did, I realized I was a masochist."
Frances finished up his story about skinless finishing and I stared at him in disbelief and silently blinked about a hundred and twenty-seven times.
OK, so I'm stuck in a car, on the LA freeway, listening to Frances basically tell me he's a fucking serial killer who loves to have sex with necrotic wounds. I check the speed of the car. Nope, too fast to tuck and roll out. I look out the window. That's a pretty steep cliff. Nix the jumping into a pile of abandoned pillows idea... So, I just have to wait. We get to LA and I ditch that motherfucker. I did bring him to the comedy show, as promised, but other than that I was hanging out with internet friends while making fun of Frances on the outside and secretly being a little terrified of the 5 hour ride back home with this monster.
He didn't end up murdering me and I dropped him off in front of a Denny's when we got back to our hometown. Then, I passive aggressively accepted his friend request on Facebook and immediately unfriended him. Which, can be a very serious ordeal according to the murdery-type shows I watch on tv sometimes. Unfriending can equal your death. But, this guy isn't even acquaintance material (for me) let alone friend material. I realize I shouldn't judge and everyone has their own little quirks and fetishes, and maybe this one (rough, terrifying sex with a sloughing, chemical wound penis) just wasn't for me.
"Story Two" by Ashley
While on our honeymoon in Punta Cana we met a couple that we immediately clicked with. They were several years older than us. In fact, we were closer to their son’s age who just happened to be traveling with them. We met for dinner a few times, went on an excursion and even planned to get together at some point later that year after we returned home. One night while I was getting ready for dinner, my husband met the other husband for a drink. He then proceeded to ask my husband if we would be interested in “switching” for a night. My husband let him know that he didn’t think his wife would go for that (sure honey, blame me!). The man then asked if I would be interested in a night with his wife while the men watched! My husband ended the conversation at that point. We ran into them a time or two before we left home and boy was it hard to look them in the face. I mean really, of all the people at the resort, you ask the HONEYMOONERS! I have worried about couples' intentions every time we have met a “nice” couple since. I mean the woman seemed so sweet and was a school teacher for God’s sake.
Below is the only "Creepy Girl" story that I received.
"Story Three" by Christopher of the website Freethinkers Anonymous:
"Don't Come Around Here No More"
Amy was never really invited. She just kind of showed up, and that was okay. Scott’s room was a hub of activity and I guess she glommed on to our little group because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Although I feel kind of mean for saying it wasn’t long before we all started wishing she’d find someplace else to go. First she spent a lot of time sitting very close to Scott, then draping herself over him, and when he started moving away whenever she came into the room she moved on to Drew and when Drew found ways to avoid her she started walking next to me, although she didn’t get as touchy-feely with me as she had with them.
At least not until the night an older guy down the hall gave us most of a bottle of Everclear and we mixed it with grape Kool-Aid and…well, we were young and inexperienced drinkers (read: lightweights). Scott passed out in the bathroom after a marathon vomiting session and I don’t remember where everybody else ended up, but somehow I passed out on Scott’s bed with Amy lying next to me. All the lights were on when I closed my eyes and it was completely dark when I woke up and felt something. Someone was holding my hand. And I could feel the fabric of sweatpants. And my hand was being moved up and down on those sweatpants. And then there was hot breath in my ear and a voice said, “Many men have picked at the lock but I’m giving you the key.”
It’s a lucky thing there was a strategically placed garbage can next to Scott’s bed and that when I rolled over and threw up, most of it went in there.
And I hoped that would be the end of it but while Amy stopped coming around as much I started getting phone calls at all hours reminding me that the offer was “still open” and that she loved me. It was the “I love you” that creeped me out more than anything else. I didn't ask but I wondered if she'd done the same thing to Scott and Drew. We can all agree that nothing's more flattering than being at least third choice, right? And the rumors that got back to me that I was an alcoholic and needed help were annoying too.
She met me in a hall one day and I just yelled, “Don’t you get it? This is why no one likes you. This is why no one wants you around.”
I still feel bad about doing that and I intended to apologize, but I never got an opportunity. She glommed onto another group and after that our paths never crossed again.
"Story Four" by Bekah of the website TheOMGSpot:
I just wanted to do my fucking job.
And my job required that I sit on this damn passenger bus for several hours to get to some big work thing.
So there I was. Me and two guys. And those two guys' assistants.
They were pleasant enough, in that they didn't openly pick their noses or grab my ass. Still, something about the larger of the two dudes made me feel... well, pure revulsion. But we had to be on this bus together for HOURS, so I figured I needed to at least be polite.
The big dude came right up to me and introduced himself in a booming Southern drawl. He called me "little lady," and I had to resist rubbing my hands on my slacks after shaking his clammy, greasy hand.
No, literally, his hand was greasy. Because he was eating fried chicken. Which quickly became a point of contention.
This guy wanted me to share his fried chicken with him and his friend. They were both in suits and red ties, and they were going at that poor, dead bird. I declined, but they wouldn't take no for an answer. I declined and declined and declined, but eventually, I realized that this hours-long bus ride would just be easier if I ate the goddamned fowl.
So, there I was, eating a drumstick, when the big dude was all like, "Now, have you accepted Jesus in your heart?" I deferred. But he asked again, "You know that nothing in life is more important than our Lord and Savior?" I nodded. I figured vague agreement would mean he'd shut up sooner rather than later.
I'm not going to bore you with the details of the rest of the conversation, but for your sake, I'm going to paraphrase: "Gay people are gross, and I don't like liberals. Jesus is what government should be about. Oh, and guns. Lots and lots of guns. Guns everywhere. And I sure don't like them immigrants. But you know what I don't like more than immigrants? Women who get abortions. Those babies sure are precious."
The chicken settled in my stomach like a rock, and I mutely listened to his ramblings.
Well, actually, I did more than listen. I took notes and recorded them. Because I was a journalist. And the creep on the bus was a presidential candidate. And my job was to observe him as he toured Iowa to gain votes for the 2008 caucus.
Eventually our bus reached the campaign event, and Mike Huckabee stepped off that bus with chicken grease on his fingers, a grin on his face, and his creepy opinions in check. And the crowds roared.
"Story Five" by Tits McGee (OK, it's really me; inexplicably I find that stupid name amusing):
So my plan was to tell you my long, creepy story of being unexpectedly and inappropriately kissed on a bus in Russia but I need to find my old travel journal to help me fill in the details of that night. Part of the reason for my fuzzy memory (besides the fact that it was a bazillion years ago) was that night was the first time I ever drank vodka (at a party with my PROFESSORS I might add). I want to be sure I remember correctly, so this particular story will just have to wait until a future post.
But don't worry. I have plenty of others "creepy guy" stories to tell. Here's one that happened when I was 20:
When I was a college student, I also worked part-time at a local optical store as a receptionist. The optical store was located adjacent to one of the busiest intersections in town. To get on the interstate to go home, I needed to turn left. I'm not kidding when I say that it was at least five minutes or more between green lights. I've uploaded an image from Google Maps of the EXACT intersection to help you imagine the scenario. You'll need to change the blue cartoon car to a crappy old orangish-brown Toyota Corolla (lovingly nicknamed "The Turd" by my sister) to correctly imagine me.
After work one day, during the peak of rush hour, I found myself behind a pickup truck full of construction workers. They were mostly Hispanic (not that it makes a difference, I'm just setting the scene) and they were riding in the actual pickup bed. (As an aside, I wanted to mention that you don't really see people riding in the back of pickup trucks anymore. I remember riding that way several times as a kid. Back then no one was really thinking "Safety First!". It was more like, "Just don't fall out and you'll be fine!"). I became aware of the some of the construction guys leering at me; one of the guys yelled something to me. I tried to ignore them. Remember kiddos, this was before the time of cell phones so I couldn't pretend to be looking at my iPhone screen. Then one of the guys made the gesture below. Ugh, it's crude and horrible so I'll make the photo small:
That's right. The gesture that means "I want to perform oral sex on you, random strange lady". GAAAAAAHHH! No one had ever done that to me before. I was MORTIFIED! Seriously, I didn't know where to look. I think the stress of the situation aged me in a year in the time it took for the light to turn green. Could someone please, please explain to me--what is the point of waggling your tongue between your fingers to a woman you don't know? Did he think I was going to give him the thumbs-up and motion him to pull into a nearby gas station? Why would he want to taste the genitals of a complete stranger!?! I could have been riddled with venereal diseases! OK, actually I was still a virgin at that time so I probably would have been the perfect candidate for anonymous genital tasting, but HE DIDN'T KNOW THAT, NOW DID HE? Bleh, even now thinking about it makes me feel weird and awkward. Thanks random construction guy for creating that bad memory!
Thus concludes our trip down "Creepy Men Memory Lane". Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who submitted a story. They were so funny and horrible and entertaining all at the same time. You guys are awesome!
IT'S FINALLY HERE! It's the "Creepy Guy" post you've all been waiting for! Get comfortable and get ready to enjoy all the cringe-worthy moments experienced (suffered) by this group of funny and awesome women. I got so many great stories I'm going to break this post into two parts. That way we can prolong the pleasure. Uh wait-- I just realized that sounds kind of creepy. Oh well. Let's roll with it. "Creepy" is the theme we're working with after all. And seriously, the more women I talk to (even women who aren't participating in this post) the more I realize that we ALL have our own creepy guy stories to tell. Which is a little disturbing...
Each story below describes sexually deviant and/or crude behavior of some kind so I guess I should note here that it's not safe for work (NSFW). All of the author names below are the real names, though I offered every. single. woman. the option to use the pseudonym "Tits McGee" ('cause why not?). I don't want you to think that one story is better or funnier than any of the others (it's not a competition after all) so the stories are listed in the order that they were received. Enjoy!
"Story One" by Ellen
I got a job a lonnnnnnnnnng time ago where you had to pass a physical as part of the hiring process. They had THEIR OWN ONSITE DOCTOR (red flag much?), but of course I went for my physical because duhh... He was a creepy, creepy guy. I talked to someone else who worked there about it (I passed!! I passed!!) and she said, quote..
"Oh, you mean Dr. Hands McFeely?"
You can fill in the blanks. And this was a very well known insurance company, by the way.
Ew ew ew ew ew.........Use my name on this one or not--and definitely use his, the creepy effer... doesn't matter.
"Story Two" by Margot
Up until I was about thirty years old I dated one loser after another. My “Creepy Guy” story is about one of them named Rick, who I was with off and on for four years during my early to mid twenties. Rick had moved to where I was living in California from New York with his best friends, who were two married couples. They were a pretty tight knit group and they never really let anyone else in. They all drank way too much, but Rick was a full on alcoholic. What drew me to him was that he was super smart and crazy funny, and what caused me to end it several times was getting fed up with his drunk ass.
There was only one person in Rick's group of friends who showed any interest in me at all and took the time to get to know me. His name was Mark and he was actually a really nice guy. His wife Krista, however, who happened to be stunningly beautiful, was pretty chilly towards me. During the last year of my relationship with Rick, Mark got into a very serious motorcycle accident and was in a coma for months. He recovered, but had significant brain damage and was paralyzed from the waist down, could use only one arm, and his speech was slurred. Krista basically became his care giver—she had to dress and feed him, help him use the toilet, transfer him from his wheelchair to bed, etc.---and Rick moved in with them to help out. Krista and Mark ended up getting remarried because Mark could not remember marrying her the first time.
Rick and I had been broken up for a while and I was getting ready to move to Chicago to go to graduate school. We went out to dinner to say goodbye before I left and Mark and Krista came along. They invited me to their apartment afterwards to watch the video of their second wedding. Mark and I talked for a long time. He read me some poetry he'd written and said that his accident was one of the best things that had ever happened to him, because it had changed his perspective on life, made him stop drinking, and had shown him what and who were most important to him. While we were talking Krista interrupted us several times, asking if he was ready to go to bed. It was still early and she seemed to want to get rid of him, but he wanted to keep talking to me. Eventually she insisted.
I got ready to leave, but Krista and Rick wanted me to stay a while longer. Krista asked me to come into the kitchen to help her make some (very strong) cocktails. She said that she'd never really thanked me for all of my help right after the accident. She complimented me on my hair, which she began to run her fingers through, and said she'd always thought I was very pretty. Starting to feel a bit uncomfortable I went back into the living room with Rick, who suggested we watch a movie. Krista said (with a completely straight face) that our choices were either “Raging Bull” or a couple of porno movies. Again, I said it was time for me to head home and pack for my move, and again they asked me to stay longer. Against my better judgment, I agreed to watch part of “Raging Bull” and lo and behold the TV in the living room, which we had watched the wedding video on earlier, suddenly was no longer working and we had to use the one in Rick's bedroom where the only furniture was his bed. It's not like I didn't understand what was going on here, but more that I was curious to see just how far they were going to try to take this, though I didn't let it go much further. Once Rick was touching Krista and trying to unbutton my shirt I got up and left, despite their protests of "but the movie's not over yet!"
Ultimately, I suppose this is about a creepy guy and a creepy girl. They apparently had planned all of this after I'd called Rick to say goodbye. They wanted to have a threesome with me while their disabled husband/best friend was in the next room. I'm pretty sure that this was meant to be a step toward Krista and Rick getting together---having a third person there would enable them to think of it as something other than what it actually was. Rick did admit to me about six months later that he and Krista were sleeping together, but that it was “only because they both loved Mark so much.” Ew! Those freaky creeps deserved each other, but Mark didn't deserve either one of them.
"Story Three" by Nutty of the website "Spoken Like a True Nut":
In my first year of university, I was cast in a play for a friend's MFA directing project. My fellow cast members were mainly first- and second-year theater students, but the three lead roles had been filled by older, more seasoned actors.
The eldest of the bunch, a PhD candidate in the department of classical studies, proved himself to be a shameless flirt already well on his way to becoming a dirty old man; any time he wasn't on stage rehearsing he could inevitably be found chatting up the younger girls and making bawdy jokes. We endured it with good humor for the most part, but there was plenty of eye-rolling whenever his back was turned.
The show was being staged in the round, with seating arranged in multi-tiered towers completely surrounding the main performance area. As traditional stage wings weren't an option, the venue boasted all manner of alternative accesses through which actors could make their entrances, connected by a maze of stairwells and passageways.
Of course it just so happened that at one point I had to share one of these stairwells alone with our vulgar friend between scenes. Ordinarily this wouldn't have been an issue since he went on stage almost immediately after I exited, leaving little time for interaction. But then tech happened.
As any actor can tell you, tech rehearsals are one of the longest and most tedious necessary evils that come with pursuing the stage. During a cue-to-cue you spend 99% of the time doing nothing but standing around as lights are moved, scene transitions mulled over and sound levels adjusted. If you're lucky you might get to say a line or two here and there, but otherwise you're essentially scenery for the duration.
Or maybe you're cornered in a cramped, dark stairwell by a lewd bald guy two decades your senior.
I can't remember why it took so long to get that particular transition's lighting right. What I do remember is that after an admirable stretch of disarmingly normal and innuendo-free conversation, Mr. Lascivious paused to look me over appraisingly, then leaned in close and murmured, "I know your initials are K.J., but I wish they were K.Y. I find the idea of you and K-Y very pleasurable."
Aaaaand that's when I noped the hell out of there. Everyone knows you save the personal lubricant talk for the cast party.
"Story Four" by Kristine of the website "Mum Revised":
The Evolution of the Creep
The creepy guy. He is intrusive, elusive, revulsive and offensive. He makes our skin crawl and us want to sequester our daughters until they are 26. We have all met our own, but you are about to meet mine.
My personal experience with creepy guys started with a neighbour who lived across the street from my grade school. He began my creepy education, no word of a lie, by asking me to come in his house for cookies when I was 10. Creep factor = 9.
Then came Uncle Sleep Drink. As his name suggests, whenever my fake-dad-best-friend uncle would visit he did little more than sleep and drink. With one exception. He tried to kiss me on the lips. He thought it was a game and my dad always had the camera ready. It was not a game to me. Creep factor = 8.
Then it was university and I thought my creep days were done. I went to the bar one night (it was just that one night, I swear) and the bouncer wouldn’t let my friends and I in. He had to determined if we had shaved our legs by running his hands down our shins and calves. I laughed in an “OMG is this really happening?” kind of way. Creep factor = 6.
That takes me to present day. Just weeks ago I had occasion to visit an establishment that served alcohol. I was with a group of women bloggers and I was wearing jeans and a cowboy hat. Here is the conversation with the clearly drunk, much older gentleman (cough) when I entered with my friends.
“Hey, are you all hashtag, hashtag?” said my new friend drunk #1.
“I like your jeans,” he continued.
“Will you help me with my Tinder profile?”
Creep factor = 4.
I guess I am getting better at handling the creeps. Or maybe, I just have a higher tolerance threshold now that I am at an advanced age. At this pace, I can be gang raped in a meth lab while fundraising for homeless children and it will rate as a 3. Sounds like progress.
"Story Five" by Heather:
When I was 19 I worked as a file clerk for an insurance company (that company is now out out of business). The sad part is that being a file clerk was actually more money than working in retail so I felt lucky to have the job. My main jobs were filing huge policies back into the vast numbers of filing cabinets, looking for policies when the underwriters needed them, typing up work orders on our computers, and mail sorting. This was in the early 90's when sexual harassment and women not being objects for men’s perusal was a punchline in Kentucky.
At some point while I worked there, they had Underwriting Trainees come in from Colorado. There were three or four of them. All dudes. One of the guys was a cross between Porky Pig and Yosemite Sam, I swear. Short, fat, with a pig nose and a perpetually red/pink face. I will call him Dumbass in this story. Dumbass was the king of crude humor and found himself hilarious.
One day, I was looking for a specific policy on the desk of the Female Underwriter that was training Dumbass. She had short hair, and kind of dressed in a cool way, so for some reason I thought she was kinda cool and for women’s rights. Dumbass was sitting there with her as I proceeded to discreetly pick up and look for policies behind them. Dumbass turned around, and looked straight at my chest and said out loud, “Damn I want those tits!!” I just glared at him and said “YOU WISH!”. The Female Underwriter actually laughed at Dumbass’s joke.
A couple of weeks later after I refused to talk to Dumbass for a few weeks, he actually tried to corner me in the file room and discuss WHY I wouldn’t speak to him anymore. I just glared at him and walked away.
Hs is SO lucky that he doesn’t live in the same state as I do now…
OK, these are just the first set of stories. I have another set to share in the very-near-future. Believe me, you will want to come back. I'm waiting for the last stories to land in my email inbox. And it's not too late to participate! Send your own creepy guy story (short or long) to my email address listed on the sidebar. You can be completely anonymous. Do eeeet!
I'm the worst kind of asshole-- I think I'm funny.
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