No Cuddling in the Champagne Room

Life is a lot like grade school dodge ball. The guys

are in possession of all the balls, and the girls just

have to watch out when they come flying at their

faces

Diaries of a Drunk Bridesmaid Part 1:
Suck a Cock Martha Stewart I Own You Bitch!

Typically, a room full of women and dildos would resemble something out of a horror movie starring Rosie O’Donnell a.k.a my worst nightmare. This time, however, it was my friend Gabby’s bachelorette party. But before the dildos came out I think that it is important to mention the events that proceeded the vibrating wonderland that came toward the end of the night. (Pun always intended).
It all started the night before this surprise bach party, i being the questionably helpful and permanently perverted, bridesmaid that I am decided to make a special treat for everyone on the following night. And after coming across a rather appealing looking penis cookie cutter at Spencers, the decision was clear. Seeing as cooking rather than baking is the extent of my domestic qualifications, I had to recruit Jane to be my partner in the Betty Crocker Penile Mission. Jane is quite an excellent baker, also she was in charge of making sure the cookies remained weed-less, seeing as I always have an overwhelming desire to add a little weed to all my baked goods. Luckily for her however, I forbade myself from carbs months ago and didn’t put up much of a fight.

One thing was for damn sure though, I was certainly not venturing into the world of baking sober! And if weed was not an option I’d have to turn to and old and always reliable friend: booze. After much deliberation about which alcoholic beverage I would chose to accompany the phallic bake off, I decided on a bottle of Champagne paired with Chambord. I made this selection because A) It’s delicious and after you polish off a bottle hits pretty hard. And B) To counter balance the class factor of the night, seeing as I was currently sculpting testicles out of cookie dough.

As Jane and I got increasingly tipsier the cookie making process reached the difficulty level of an intricate calculus problem. Heads were coming off, balls were misplace, several were lost completely! It looked like an unfortunate explosion erupted at a gay porn shoot and these were the remains. My voice resonated through the kitchen in utter distress…

“Shit shit shit Jane! I think I castrated this one!…again.”

“Fuck! I think I just made a chode!!! Omg you know how much I despise chodes Jane!”

This went on for what seemed like an eternity. However, after a long, grueling process, and cookie dough in places I would rather not discuss, it was time to stick the batch in the oven. As I threw the tray in there, I took a second to catch my breath and quickly replenished our drinks. It was my rather pathetic attempt of staying hydrated, Champagne is my Gatorade.

About ten minutes later, Jane skips into the kitchen to check on the status of the cookies. After opening and closing the oven…she lays down on the floor in fits of laughter. After briefly pushing regrets of giving her that 4th glass of champagne, out of my mind I go to investigate the situation myself. As I open the oven door my gaze focuses on the tray full of penises that expanded to three times their original size!

“Holly shit! Our cocks cockies developed elephantiasis!” I announced in sheer shock. “All that work was for nothing?! What are we going to do??!!” I asked Jane as I started cradling the champagne bottle and rocking back and forth in the corner.

“It’s ok I got this!” Jane confidently announced as she peeled herself off the floor.
“The cookies are still soft, we can re-cut them with the cookie cutter right after we take them out of the oven!” She proudly announced. Truly impressed with her cockie saving skills, I decided to assist her in the procedure.

Three burnt fingers later, we were on to decorating the cockies. While I was failing miserably with the pink icing, creating something that wouldn’t be up to par for a pre school craft project; Jane was now retardedly drunk and busy putting chocolate pubes on every ball sack in her sight. Great. In the end the only respectable looking shlong was the one covered in chocolate icing (the black one)… how ironically true to life.

After we finished the job, I quickly drifted off that night from sheer exhaustion. As I fell into a deep sleep I had dreams of my own baking show, where I would educate the world on the benefits and dangers of drinking and baking. I would introduce the new fad of Cockies, and school Martha Stewart at her own craft! Around 9 AM the following morning I jolted myself awake by my own outburst..

“Suck it Martha!” Startled I rubbed my eyes and began regaining some memories of the previous night as I examined burns on my fingers. I then quicklyjoggged into the kitchen only to be met by a tray that was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It looked like our already strangely shaped sugar cockies have been assaulted and raped by a barrage of icing and sprinkles. Quite the retarded batch of rejects.

While continuing to examine them and the empty bottles of booze surrounding the scene my phone rang, it was Cheeha.

“Hey what’s up? What did you end up doing last night?”

“Uhhh well, Jane and I made some peeenis cookies for Gabby’s bachelorette party today.” I answered in a slight haze. (Some call that haze a hangover, I call it evidence of a job well done)

“Haha, well how do they look?” Cheeha inquired further.

Not really sure that I could find a word in the English language to describe the scene in front of my eyes, I took a minute to answer… “Ummm well, I’m uhh going to go with whimsical. They look whimsical.” I finally answered.

“Haha I can’t wait.”

Little did I know this batch wouldn’t even be the most disturbing penis-resembling thing I saw that day. The events to follow surpassed the cockies by far….

To be continued

Diaries of a Drunk Bridesmaid Part 2:
Strippers and Sex Toy Parties Make Me Feel
Like a Kid on XMAS morning

At around mid-day of the bachelorette party surprise I was ready to replenish my alchy tank. I packed my car with the penis cookies (cockies) and drove to Gabby’s house to set everything up. As I arrived I quickly saw that I was in charge of mixing drinks. Big surprise there. Of course due to my adoration of all things alcoholic, my drinks turn out surprisingly good.
“Wow this is really good! Are you a bartender?” One of the girls inquired. “No, I just drink a lot,” I replied. To which she immediately giggled as if it were a joke, I continued to gaze at her with a completely straight face until she uncomfortably shuffled away and let me be with my bottled friends.

Actually, I briefly considered becoming a bar tender just a few moths ago. However, after much consideration I came to the conclusion that I fare better on the other side of things. And by ‘things’ I of course mean bar.

Several drinks later, the group and I wait in anticipation for Gabby to show up for the party. As she walks in the doorway the girls collectively yell “SURPRISE!!!!” I, as usual, have a delayed reaction and throw a cup of vodka at her that I had prepared earlier. That’s how I show love.

Several minutes later a ‘cop’ mysteriously arrives at the door searching for Gabby. Hoping to God that this was actually a stripper, I waited in anticipation. Yes, once I made the unfortunate mistake of assuming an actual real live cop was in fact a stripper. Needless to say he did not want to take it off nor was he a dirty dirty boy. Never again.

Officer G String strolled into the living room area where I stood tonguing a cup of Sangria. Upon laying eyes on him I almost spat up. “Was this one on sale or something? Did they find him in the Clearance section?!” I mumbled into the napkin I was using to wipe myself down, after the Sangria shower his appearance triggered.

Upon further investigation however, and after he took off his clothes I noticed he wasn’t nearly as bad as I had originally thought. And to be perfectly honest I was just rather spoiled after my first ever male stripper experience. After watching the show that 3 gorgeous strippers put on, I was placed into the hot seat. Against my will. Call me crazy but men decked out in panties don’t quite do it for me. Also I don’t appreciate just how unrealistically stuffed these panties are. His head was bobbing off each knee cap as he made his way on top of me. However, all negative things put aside, I decided to make the best of things and go along with it. In the end I ended up enjoying myself immensely. That is until, the best-looking one of the bunch did something so incredibly obscene and offensive to me that I was left in complete shock. He spoke.

“So baby, you having a good night?” he asked while swinging his g-string that was stuffed harder than a turkey on Thanksgiving diner in my face.

With a look of sheer horror and disgust on my face, I answer,” Uhh I’m sorry do they pay you to talk??”

I wish that Gabby had the stripper that I had… with an added muzzle feature of course. However, she didn’t seem bothered at all that Officer Pasty-Poker had quite an albino resembling complexion. He was doing a great job, and Gabby was enjoying sitting on his lap in true Santa style. Fuck, if Santa looked like that, I might venture into the mall around Christmas time more often myself.

A can of whipped cream, 2 motorboats, and 3 body shots later, Officer Pasty Poker was off to assault other unsuspecting brides with his ball sack.

After his departure the night continued with a sex toy party. Score. I was in the market for a new vibrator and certainly all ears for this one! Jen, the saleswoman, had just about every accessory under the sun associated with porking others or poking at yourself packed into 5 jumbo suitcases. As soon as I heard the wheels of her luggage clicking on the hardwood as she was rolling it into the room, I knew this was the beginning of a long and dildo-full relationship. Jen and I would end up being best friends whether she like it or not.

Before Jen led us into the world of high tech gadgets, she had a plethora of other products to share. The different kinds of creams stood out the most because she actually let us try all of them. Well I say all of them with the exception of the coochie tightener. Yes apparently there is a cream that can be injected in your glory hole that takes you back Madonna style: JUST LIKE A VIRGIN! Hmmm well I’m in no need of this anytime soon due to my grueling keigel workouts, but I made a brief mental note to send an email to the Octomom. Then there was also the exception of trying the “Anal Ease” thankfully. I love my friends but the sight of them sticking just about anything in their assholes would have made me contemplate poking my eyes out with the tray of Cockies. I breathed a sigh of relief when she moved on to the next product.

“Ok ladies this cream is used to arouse your nipples and on top of that, it’s flavored!!! I’m going to dab some on these q-tips and pass them around right now for all of you to try!”

“Your so thoughtful Jen, i am truly touched by your concern for my nipples,” I thought adoringly as I snatched the q-tip from her hand. Although I was always excited to rub just about anything on my nipples. I couldn’t help but wonder how much this cream will actually work on my headlights which are already in high beam mode 90% of the time…I hope they don’t go all incredible Hulk on me and turn green. With my focus off the task at hand with this rather concerning thought process, I was surprised to notice that I made a slight faux pas during the application process. Instead of portioning it correctly and spreading the cream on both nipples, I managed to get just the left one. Fuck me!

“Shit I only got the left one,” I loudly whispered to Cheeha as she struggled to wrestle her tities inside her bra.

Always supportive, she replied with a chuckle,”hahaha that sucks!’ as she finished buttering her own nipples. Little did she know, karma was going to sucker punch her soon enough.

Two minutes later, Jen went on to explaining her next product while I sat listening with one incredibly tingly nipple. The entire left side of my body was feeling freaky while the right could not have been less amused. Quite an awkward sensation. While giving the right side of my body a quick pep talk, I suddenly feel a jab from Cheeha.

“Elina! Elina! Elina!” she whispered loudly.

“What?” I asked as I got caught off guard by her fire engine red face.

“Elina, it buuuurns!!!! Oh my God it burns!!! It burns soo bad! Like fiiire!!! What should I do?!”

I listened carefully and reacted to her plea the only way I know how. Hysterical laughter. I wasn’t quite sure what she expected me to do in this situation. And something tells me she wouldn’t find a call to the fire department as humorous or helpful as I do. With my options dwindling, I tossed Jalapeno Nips a cocktail napkin and wished her the best.

By the time my left nipple settled down a bit Jen moved onto one of my personal favorites: the sex swing. She only had one with her, and a few of the girls almost got into a fist fight over it. Where’s the mud wrestling ring when you need it?! I wasn’t sold on this flimsy looking one however. When I invest in one I’d want top of the line and settle for nothing less. If I was fucking in a sex swing it was going to be some Cirque De Solei shit and I needed the proper support. Luckily, all knowing Jen informed us all of a more intricate and sturdy sex swing which screws directly into the ceiling. The only downside being that although the swing can be detached, the attachment itself is permanent. This will most definitely elicit some questions from any house guests that stop by. I took note of this swing for the future deciding that plastering a ficus to the ceiling of my living room will do just fine seeing as my vibrator ceiling fan would keep me from being featured in Home&Garden anyways.

Finally it was time for the next cream, this one was to be applied down in our south Florida regions rather than our nips. I followed the rest of the girls and formed a line at the bathroom. Cheeha quickly passed everyone to the front of the line, impressed by her bravery after the Jalapeno Nips incident I let it slide. Jen had instructed us to place the lotion on the “clitoris.” Never one to to pass up a “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” quote opportunity I announced “I’m off to find the mythical clitoris!” as I slammed the door to the bathroom.

Upon coming out each one of the girls has the same exact reaction…

“Yeah, I don’t know that I really feel anythinggg…OH SWEET JESUS!”

Every single woman at the party that tried the clit cream was now good and ready to saddle the next dick in sight just, as Jen took out her collection of vibrators. Smart move Jen. Smart move.

Each vibrator was fancier than the next. resembling a spaceship of sorts, the remote had more buttons than a airplane cockpit. I think one might have even had a microwave attached to it. The decision was a hard one, and in the end I picked a hard one.

I was tempted to purchase one of everything, fuck I would have gladly walked out of there with one of those suitcases. But that would just be absolutely ridiculous though… I’ll just harass Jen’s website and buy in bulk online. With any luck my vibrating underwear will come in before the wedding day.

I am a Russian Jew and I live right outside of Philadelphia. An area that is 10 minutes away from Northeast Philly. For Russians the Northeast is like taking a journey back to the motherland. Russian stores, restaurants, gas stations, and hookers. Here we have two types of Russians, the Russian/Americanish crowd and then we of course have the F.O.Bs (fresh of the boat) crowd. My relationship with F.O.Bs is rocky due to the fact that i feel speaking to an F.O.B compares only to taking a huge dick in the ass. Both experiences are painful, never-ending, irritating, and only enjoyable for one person (usually not you).

Just as they refuse to believe that the boat they came over on has since passed, they refuse to believe that there maybe a few people roaming the streets of Philadelphia that neither speak nor understand Russian ( not that this stops them). Understandably this paired with clothing that can only be beat by the shit they try and pull off in Cirque De Solei, puts this breed of Russians right on my shit list somewhere below Hitler but above Bin Laden. (at least Bin Laden has the decency to cover his boners behind robes and not showcase them underneath unnecessarily tight Armani Exchange jeans). I’d prefer to avoid such people and am happy that there is a place where they all gather making it easy for me to do that. It is called Nostalgia cafe, ironically enough if nostalgia of mother Russia includes anorexic women with bad dye jobs and a plethora of male camel toe.

But I am glad that they have chosen this ONE place to be their watering hole/ breeding ground, and I try to stay within at least 50 feet radius away from it. This excludes those days, of course , when I like to examine this breed of F.O.Bs in their natural environment. Its much like going on safari except they get rather annoyed when I start shooting at them from my rifle. (I mean I don’t see what that bitch’s problem was, if she just ran a little faster and in a zig zag like pattern I would have never clipped her. Go figure).

Anyways, the best part of this whole adventure is that no matter how much you taunt them they will never call the cops on you. This is simply because there are enough illegals there to fill the anus of a 78 year old gay male prostitute. And then there’s underage drinking to boot! I swear I saw a 3 month old sucking vodka from the waitresses tit on several occasions.

So aside from the occasional safari hunt, and INS prank I like to play on the F.O.B population, I try and stay away from them. That of course leaves few places to go to locally. However there is this one very well known restaurant/ bar/cafe/ torture chamber that is called Michelangelo’s Cafe. Or in short: M.A. I personally refer to this place as Death Trap Cafe. In short: D.T. Now D.T. has been around for many years and is owned by Italians but is only saturated by the Russians of the northeast. Everyday and at all hours of the night and I can count anywhere from 3 to 1,000,000 Russian fuckers. When discussing D.T. in the community we all say that we hate it more than just about anything in this world. We constantly complain about how shitty it is and how annoying it is to see just about everyone we know and their grandmothers all in one spot. So naturally we frequent it all the time.

To be honest the food and drinks there are pretty good, but I never understood the fascination with the actual place. Things are falling apart and in the winter it is freezing. Its unattractive and slightly run down, much like an old woman that was perhaps attractive in the 1970’s but wears the same shit and now looks just like a hot mess. All these years I have been talking shit on D.T., how awful it is, while still going there more than I’d like to personally admit. And in the past year D.T. decided that my ass raping insults were too much and it decided to fight back.

Now you would think its vengeance would be something more humane, maybe a waitress would screw up my order, a fellow patron might go home with me and end up only lasting a few minutes in bed, perhaps the owner would decide to give me a good spanking with this leather studded belt. But no, my punishment far exceeded all of these things. It started out innocently enough, a barrage of mosquito bites all over my legs.

Now I have a real problem with these cunt like insects. They just bite the shit out of my legs, I don’t know why and honestly I don’t appreciate it, not one bit. I for example test out a person’s preferences before I go ahead and bite them. Perhaps they won’t enjoy the bite, maybe a suckling would be more appreciated. Unlike them I don’t leave marks on my partner, that way when people see me in public the next day they don’t think “look at that mosquito whore, she has those bite marks all over her! I bet they passed that cock sucker around like a joint on 4/20″

So after this traumatic and painful experience my desire to lounge around Death Trap dwindled quite considerably. Yes even I was able to avoid D.T. for a few full months until I was faced with the horror of going back. This dread was only faced because I had a “date” scheduled with one of my friends there for that night. Well after whoring myself out to the mosquitoes last time, I was rather nervous upon my return to the dungeon. Its one of those feeling I get before getting a shot at a doctors office when u don’t know whether your going to cry or poop yourself. And no matter what u hope that its at least not both at the same time. Too much clean up.

But anyway I headed in there bravely and the bitch (D.T.) had me tricked, I was having a good time enjoying myself, starting to relax and think that my curse was over. Then as I least expected it, mid laugh I threw my head back and slammed it against a wooden railing. Yes, one that was not there before. “Damn Death Trap has gotten me once again!” to this day my date that night can not forget how I almost beat myself unconscious against a wooden wall. Not only did I feel like an idiot, and in severe pain. I also had to vow to wear a helmet to D.T. from then on. I would outsmart the fucking cafe and show it who’s boss…me.

So next time it was my friends birthday dinner there and I came back with a vengeance, I marched in there with the power of Xena Warrior Princess. Truth be told he wasn’t exactly a good friend of mine at that time, and I went to battle D.T. with my newly bought helmet rather than celebrate anyone’s birthday. But no one had to know that really. So as I was mentally preparing myself for whats to come I followed Cheeha to the wooden bench in the back to take a seat around the table. No wooding railing in sight.

As soon as she sat down and slid over I lowered myself onto the bench and POP i hear a sound and instant pain in my ass. My first reaction is that I have been shot, then I realize that I am not 50cent and this occurrence is highly unlikely. So as I smooth over my jeans and feel what object just got logged into my right ass cheek I finally figure it out and out of sheer shock and awe announced to the whole birthday dinner table,

” OH MY GOD! I HAVE WOOD IN MY ASS!”

Yes a giant chunk of wood from the bench just penetrated my ass cheek like it was prom night and my ass cheek was the varsity cheerleader.

“Fuck, now i have to go surgically remove this fucker in the bathroom”

As I made my way over I realized that the D.T. bathroom hardly has a sterile enough environment for me to proceed with such an in depth surgical procedure. Do i have alcohol swabs? A scalpel? Can I later justify prescription pain killers for the pain? Can I score some coke in there while I’m at it? All very relevant concerns that may have stopped me from removing Charlie ( the wood chips new name) from my ass. After all he was in my ass, might as well give him a name. So as I take a deep breath I start sliding Charlie out, no sudden movements.

I expect him to be no longer than an inch, like most men I have been with recently. However as the pulling continues I realize Charlie is a good 3 inches long. This realization made me almost pass out in the bathroom. How this can happen to me when all of Philadelphia has sat on that very bench baffled and disgusted me more than the sight of fat people on a tred mill at a gym. But there was no stopping now, I had to take this thing out and go out there to continue my friends fucking birthday.

“FUUUUUUCK”

The flagpole sized wood chip finally made its way out of my ass cheek! At this point I had already worked up a sweat, and had to tend to my bleeding cheek. Looking at Charlie I saw he was fucking enormous, it was disgusting looking, and the whole story behind it was just really disturbing. So naturally I proceeded to put him in my purse and planned on showing him off at the dinner table. Kind of like show and tell.

As I got back to the table Cheeha was looking rather concerned after she felt the sweat on my back, in fact the whole table was rather horrified. As I sat there wounded and in extremely intense pain I kept cursing out my friend ALbert and his fucking birthday. I realized my anger was misplaced but his stupid birthday dinner put me into this pickle and the score was now D.T.- 3 vs Me-0. My toast went a little something like this…

” Happy Birthday, pick a fucking nicer place to have your birthday dinner next time douche bag!”

The worst of it was that I could not even complain to anyone, the only thing more embarrassing than wood in your ass is showing a complete stranger (the owner of D.T.) the puncture wound. Although I’m sure he would have enjoyed the show, I was not nearly intoxicated enough to show a 75 year old man, which constantly sits there and goes between playing with his balls and dozing off, my bare naked ass.

As I sat there hard at work remembering if I ever got that tetanus shot and giving Albert the evil eye for being born on this cursed day, Cheeha, always the optimist decided it was time to cheer me up.

“Well look on the bright side Elin, at least it didn’t go straight in your asshole.” As she giggled at her remark.

I barked back, ” I wish it went in my asshole, at least it would have been easier to maneuver it out that way!”

As I was getting ready to go to sleep on my stomach that night I cursed D.T. for screwing me over again and realized that aside from my trusty helmet I was also going to have to bring a butt donut with me next time. But why stop there, might as well cushion everything else just in case. So as I acquire all the gear for future dinners there on eBay, I realize that by Albert’s next birthday I will probably resemble a Transformer with all the shit I have on. Then I will promptly change my name to Optimus Prime and walk around making a living by taking pictures with Asian tourists. All in good time all in good time.

Bring it on DT, I am no stranger to wood in my ass anymore, I am waiting…

Some experiences in life are entirely too horrific to go through in a sober state. And in my life “experiences,” refers to all weekends and most weeknights. On occasion however, even Grey Goose cannot save the day. As I was facing one of the most dreadful days of my life, I had to call in the big guns and get myself some “special” brownies!

Yes, this past winter, my ‘friend’ Shamu was hosting a birthday party for herself, and I was one of the unfortunate souls to be chosen for the guest list. At this point, I feel it is important to add, that there were three rather significant factors which forced me to attend this horrible occasion rather than stay home and get some work done around the house. By ‘house work’ I am of course referring to taking inventory of my vibrator and sex toy collection.

The factors go as follows:

1) One of my best friends, Lana, who was also chosen for this unfortunate fate, would have had my tits on a skewer had I told her I was unable to accompany her that evening.

2) I have a hard time rejecting any occasions where alcohol is available, particularly vodka.

3) Shamu attended my birthday several months earlier. There, she proceeded to single handedly devour the buffet I had set up for my 20 or so guests. I decided I had to at least attempt to return the favor.

To make matters worse, Shamu strategically picked a Saturday for her festivities. This alone put a serious damper on my weekend. For the month approaching the party, I referred to the event as “Free Willy’s Big Birthday Bash-My-Head-In-With-A-Baseball-Bat.” Although the logical choice would be to have her birthday party at Sea World, she settled for a Moroccan restaurant in center city, Philadelphia instead. I had never visited this place before, but heard a lot about it and had a feeling that there wasn’t enough alcohol in the tri-state area to help me cope with the upcoming experience. It was time to bring out the weed.

Seeing as Lana was the only other person I knew masochistic enough to grace Shamu’s birthday party, we decided to suffer through it together. Luckily, Lana happened to get a hook-up for the best special brownies under the sun. So good, they that they would even make Martha Stewart crap out the stick she has had shoved up her ass for years. And I was planning to chow down on them as if they were pussy, and I was a guy that just spent the last ten years getting it in the ass in prison. So, as the day approached, I knew that this little chunk of chocolaty heaven would be the only thing that would save me from completely losing it, and sucker-punching Shamu in the face.

Since Lana lives a whole two minutes away from my house, I made the executive decision to carpool. This way she could also feed me the brownies in the car, which would be helpful seeing as it would give me something to look forward to on the way. Preventing me from purposely driving into a tree in order to avoid going to this joyous occasion. As I pulled into Lana’s driveway I quickly glanced at the time on the dashboard and continued to wait the average 20 minutes that it takes for her to get from the inside of her house to the outside. I realize that some people are always late like a period after prom night, but for years Lana has been especially talented in this department. After much contemplation about the reasons for her consistent tardiness, I concluded that she must army crawl rather than walk out of her house.

My disposition didn’t improve much as I was waiting for her. During this “alone time” in my car, my thoughts about the evening to come turned my mood even more sour. I couldn’t help but to obsess over certain burning questions I had about the evening ahead of me: Will Shamu notice that I’m stoned out of my mind…more than usual? Will she attempt to nibble on my ankle in between courses of food to settle her hunger?  Will there be enough food left over for me to settle my muchies? Wait…shit….doesn’t Moroccan food give you the shits?!

My line of self questioning had me in a complete panic by the time Lana came skipping down her driveway resembling a gazelle on acid. Although she wasn’t happy about our destination for the evening either, Lana always has a way of cheering herself up. Some find that to be a charming charecteristic, on this evening. I found it pretty fucking annoying. Disregarding the off putting scowl I was sporting on my face, Lana climbed into the passenger seat of my white Altima and leaned over, plopping a big kiss on my check. I was going to ask her exactly what the fuck she was so happy about, but decided against it seeing as she was still in possession of the brownies. I’d better play nice if I still wanted my half.

In fact, by this point in time I was so cranky and tired of waiting that my mood could only compare to one of a gay homeless guy’s, who just found out his cardboard box was turned down for that feature in Home and Garden Magazine for the seventh time in a row. I was pissed at the world for having to watch Shamu do tricks for her food all night, and Lana’s unnecessarily optimistic disposition was just not going to help me think happy thoughts at the moment.

“Hey!!!!!!! I got the brownies!!!” she squealed as she reached into her purse, unveiling a square covered in tin foil. That foil might just be my silver lining, I thought to myself.

“Well I can’t think of a better reason to make your voice climb to such high decibels. Lets eat!” I responded with a glimmer of hope for the upcoming night.

So, as she divided the huge brownie in two, she warned me that it’s very strong shit, and that if I consume the whole brownie, it might be too much and ruin the night. I couldn’t imagine the night getting worse, but didn’t want to black out at any point just because I don’t trust the belly dancers that I heard would be performing for Shamu in their Moroccan garb. For all I know, I could be so high that I’d actually get up and dance with those fuckers like all the losers are expected to do. And after a few seemingly-innocent swings of the male belly dancer’s hips, I could end up pregnant with a little Moroccan baby stomping around in my uterus. I just can’t have my child be that obnoxious, or hairy, for that matter.

But enough about super belly dancer semen, it had been ten minutes in the car since I devoured my brownie, and I still didn’t feel a thing. We were half way to the restaurant and I was as sober as the Jonas Brothers.

“What is this shit Lana? I won’t be able to make it through even half of this party without something seriously clouding my perception of things. It just can’t be done!” I said, getting very frustrated with this Betty Crocker Marley bullshit!

“Oh, don’t worry Elina, chill the fuck out,” Lana exclaimed, “The guy I bought it from said that we should wait a half hour to an hour, and right after we render it completely useless, it will kick in!” She shot back at me with yet another smile.

“I sure hope so,” I responded grumpily, “Because If I have to so much as sit there and look at Shamu for more that eight minutes, I’m liable to stick everything in my sight into that blowhole of hers, and quite frankly Lana, you will be the closest thing standing next to me!”

Scared that she might end up going where no man has gone before, Lana said a little prayer to the special brownie gods just as I parked my car in front of the restaurant. Upon opening the front door, I had to squint into the extremely dark interior. The whole place was covered in fabrics draping the walls and cushions splayed out on the floor. I felt like I just walked onto a shitty set of an Aladdin porno. After squinting my eyes hard enough I was finally able to navigate my way around the other parties; and finally locate Shamus room all the way in the back.

Upon entering the room, I realized that Shamu was nowhere to be seen and quickly scanned the scene for an optimal seat. The seating arrangements were quite comical. They consisted of several cushions surrounding two round tables. The table Lana and I decided to occupy, which I coined “The Under 500 Pound Table,” and secondly there was the “500+ Table.”

Just as I spotted Shamu entering the restaurant and proceeding to swim over to our little room, I was hit by a positive thought! Although the weed was not kicking in for shit, I realized that I would see something that only a Moroccan restaurant can offer me… Shamu chowing down with her hands!

I’ve never really seen a fat chick eat with her hands, and this should be quite the show. And to think, I had seven courses of food to look forward to! So with a slight smile on my face and a skip in my step, I settled down next to Lana and waited for the food to come out. Where’s my camera? Maybe I can YouTube this shit! But I instantly decided to push the YouTube idea aside for now because I couldn’t quite figure out how I’d fit Shamu’s whole body into the frame of my camera.

As if on cue, Shamu came marching in with a friend of hers that was only slightly smaller in size. They greeted all of us briefly before they settled in to eat at the opposing table.

“Here we go!” I thought to myself as I literally turned my body in order to be positioned in the perfect viewpoint of this eating extravaganza. As the first course of chicken came out I knew this would be a sight to behold. The poor chicken was pulled apart by Shamu and her friend like a game of tug of war at a fantasy fat camp. After it was torn into two, the devouring began.

“Nam nam nam!” I overheard through the Moroccan music playing overhead!

“Oh sweet Jesus, there are sound affects!” I whispered trying to contain my sheer excitement at this incredible sight.

Although nothing could compare to the chicken dish, the next 20 minutes were spent inspecting the food being thrown into her mouth… It really was just like Sea World! Until this very moment I didn’t even know it was possible to fit a whole shish kabob skewer in one’s mouth in one smooth motion. Well done Shamu, well done!

Just when my anticipation began to climb, as I saw the waiter carry out the cous cous, (which shoveling technique will she use on this one?) Shamu decided to take a breather and head to the restroom. All my fun left with her, and I quickly became inpatient again.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?” I turn to Lana: “IF THIS SHIT DOESN’T KICK IN SOON, I’M GOING TO TAKE SHAMU BY HER KANKLES AND PROPEL HER INTO THE BELLY DANCER!”

“Calm down,” she said, “It should be kicking in any minute now… Actually, I’m kinda starting to feel it.”

After a couple more minutes of planning my attack of the belly dancer with Shamu’s round physique, and trying to picture exactly how I am going to bend at the knees to lift that bitch even two inches off the floor, I started feeling a little happier. The thought made me giggle out loud and before I knew it, Lana and I were laughing so hard that I had a more difficult time breathing than Shamu going up a flight of three steps.

“Hahahahaha, wow it’s all hitting me harder than a pair of chin nuts Lana!” I exclaimed.

“Right?!” She managed to get out between snorts.

Within seconds by body started to tingle and the whole place became truly incredible! The colors were brighter than I remembered and the music suddenly seemed ‘trippy’ to me as opposed to obnoxious. Just as I was starting to appreciate this Moroccan wonderland in a whole different light, here came the resident male belly dancer. Due to his swinging hips which had strategically placed bells on them, I immediately named him Jingle Balls.

Although made-up like crazy, on closer inspection, it was easy to see that he was obviously pushing 70. Try as they may, the pounds of eye liner and bright purple eye shadow couldn’t cover the fact that his age most definitely qualified him for the senior discount at the movies. This made me wonder, of course, whether this is his actual job, or whether someone slipped some acid in his prune pudding earlier in the day. Either way, he was going crazy in front of us, and I was fascinated. His arms went up in the air twirling him back and forth, while his hips danced circles around the room, leaving his legs with no choice but to follow.

Although all those factors were enough to keep me on the edge of my cushion; every so often Jingle Balls did something with his hands that was simply incredible. He vibrated his fingers. Yes, Jingle Balls knew exactly how to use those finger cymbals in his hands. And quite frankly, this act put my Rabbit to shame and made me consider slipping him my number in his turban.

While watching Jingle Balls swing and twirl, I was focused in on the gold belt he was wearing on top of the layers of colorfully designed scarves and robes he had on. Had I been sober, I would have distanced myself at least 50 feet (the distance I usually like to keep between myself and perverted old men wearing makeup and robes), but in this case, I was as close as can be, blatantly following those incredible dance moves with my bloodshot gaze.

At one point I got so close that during one of Jingle Ball’s  particularly intense maneuvers, I could have sworn I got hit in the forehead by his dick. But before the Moroccan baseball bat to the face could sober me up, Shamu jumped in for the kill. She began dancing with him and used her hips, which could have easily created a tidal wave had she still been in her tank, to propel herself forward to the belly dancer. Not sure whether she just wanted to dance with him, or if she mistakenly confused him with the fifth course of the night, Jingle Balls ran before he got mauled.

Jingle Ball’s quick departure did not slow her down a lick. The spinning and gyrating of Shamu quickly made me feel quite sea sick. And since it did nothing but make me incredibly nauseous, I quickly averted my attention to Lana sitting to the left of me.

“Do I have anything on my forehead?” I asked as I looked over at her. However, I instantly forgot about receiving a response to this question. In fact, I had to do a double take because she was sitting there zoned out for what looked like at least the last ten minutes or so. As I stared at her trying to figure out  if she was holding back on me earlier and supplemented the brownies with crack; she suddenly grabs my arm and jerks me like a limp dick.

” Elina! Oh my God, Elina, listen to the music!” she loudly whispered to me as I slowly focused on the melody. “Elina, listen listen, it’s the cello!!!”

The second the word ‘cello’ left her mouth I knew that this statement was by far the most profound thing I have ever heard.

“Oh my God, Lana, you’re right!!! IT IS SO THE CELLO!”

It must have been the same song playing on a loop the whole night. But it was only this time around that I was truly stoned enough to fully appreciate the sounds of every single instrument. In that moment, it seemed like everything but the music went completely silent.

Both in awe of our revelation, we continued to sit there in our super-concentrated state for at least the next half hour or so. Our discussions about the sounds of the cello reached levels that I didn’t even know I was capable of reaching. It was the deepest and most intellectual conversation I have had to date, and I was enjoying it thoroughly.

All of the sudden just as Lana and I began discussing the significance of our 6^th grade music class in the knowledge that we hold today about this wonderful instrument; Shamu’s whiny voice ruined Music Appreciation Hour at our table.

“LADIESSSS, would any one of you like to be introduced to the cute 25-year-old sitting at the next table over? His family over there is trying to set him up!”

Although the guy couldn’t see us from where he was sitting, Lana and I caught a glimpse of a young, good looking guy shaking like a wet lap dog in the corner. Upon further inquiry into exactly why he was put on sale at our table, I got a few answers. Apparently, before he was offered up to the two of us, he was first introduced to Shamu and her posse of sumo wrestler girlfriends. The boy probably saw his life flashing before his eyes at the thought of having any one of those monsters ride him Cowgirl style. Hence his current fetal position state.

Unfortunately, before Lana and I could answer Shamu, the guy spotted us. Upon laying eyes on women that were under 500 pounds, his face lit up like the neon signs outside a strip club, and I could have sworn he came a little when we walked over. My original intention was not to go over and speak to him but I felt that the poor fella had been through enough that night. I’m sure it wasn’t every day that he came this close to cheating death by flesh.

As we exchanged hellos, I couldn’t help but notice him staring at our love pockets and sugar nips throughout the whole conversation. It wasn’t in a creepy ‘Rico Suave’ way, rather, an Amish boy’s first time seeing titties kind of way. It’s like he’d never seen pussy and was enthralled. I tuned him out completely within the first two minutes of speaking to him, and within three, I ruled him as mentally handicapped. This was also the time when I proceeded to hand him over to Lana, who based on her recent string of boyfriends had way more experience with “special boys.”

As I left the special boy in Lana’s more than capable hands, I began frantically looking for the belly dancer and his swinging shlong. While scanning the room my eyes caught those of the cougar sitting at the next table. Although I love MILFs, and fully intend on becoming one someday, I didn’t pay much attention to her. That is, until I saw she was staring at me.

For a while we just sat there. Her, staring at me with the look of determination and slight schizophrenia in her eyes. Me, gazing back in a complete stupor. I spent this awkward silence trying to A) Figure out what the fuck she was looking at me for. And B) Trying to figure out if her tits were about as authentic as that bleach blonde hair heaped on the top of her head.

“Use it,” she said with a wink finally breaking the silence.

“Umm, excuse me?” I answered, not sure whether it was the drugs or whether she was actually telling me to ‘use it.’

Completely disregarding my question she continued “MMM I see you got some tits on you too, huh. Well, us girls that have it gotta use it!You can have whatever you want,” she continued knocking the creepiness factor up a few notches with another wink.

“Fuck I’m losing it.” I mumbled under my breath. At this point I began to wonder if there was another mystery ingredient placed in those brownies.

Seconds later, as I was still trying hard to focus  on what was happening, and determine whether I was just high out of my mind or if she really said what I thought she had said. My thoughts were confirmed when the 25-year-old’s balls finally took a drop toward the floor, and he decided to step in.

“Haha, what are you talking about??” he asked her.

Then, without a moments hesitation, the half-smile on her face transformed into something resembling a sci- fi movie villain.

“SHUT UP! YOU ARE THE WEAKER SEX!” she barked at him.

Shocked at her outburst, he quickly grabbed a hold of his genitals and sunk in his seat. Just minutes later he crawled right back into the fetal position we found him in upon our arrival.  Deeming him as a lost cause and motioning for his mother to come change his soiled diaper, I sat there trying to gain some composure.

Unfazed by her man-hating turrets, cougar lady continued to bombard me with more unwanted winks and pseudo intellectual comments. Needless to say this did nothing to improve my high, and I decided it was time for Lana and myself to leave this fine establishment.

Leaving the belly dancer, Shamu, the 25-year-old, and the cougar inside, we ran to my car as I began to sober up. “What the fuck just happened there? “ I was overwhelmed by a plethora of deep questions as I jumped into the car.

How does the belly dancer get his fingers to vibrate like that? Could I arrange a fingering along with my fourth course next time I go there? Will Shamu finger the belly dancer after we leave? Did the cougar really like my tits? I feel kind of bad for blowing her off… Should I run back in and let her motorboat me real quick? I debated as I started the car.

Right before I began backing out of my spot, Lana looked over at me,
“Oh shit, the guy asked me to give him my number before we left. Should I go back in, or forget it?”

I looked over into her beautiful brown and bloodshot eyes as I responded,

“Oh Lana, don’t be silly, I’m fairly certain Shamu ate him by now.”

My attention span can, on many occasions, rival that of six-year-old boy with ADD, mild Tourette’s, and diarrhea. This, paired with the fact that my sense of humor can often compare to that of a pre-pubescent boy can prove to be quite problematic. My mind is constantly wandering, and mostly in what seems to be the wrong direction. When I’m not contemplating whether it’s Pinot Grigio or Patron that I’d like to cap my night off with, I tend to get creative and slightly shitfaced (but that’s neither here nor there). During these alcohol-induced brainstorming sessions, I have thought of several bizarre theories and ideas on life and my, ahem, bright(?) future. Over the years, I have accumulated business ideas I would venture into if I were granted an Oprah amount of money, and if the U.S. government suddenly took an extremely liberal turn. I have paired some of these business ideas with poems that can rival those of the famous e.e. cummings (minus the e.e. and the s at the end)…

1) Most recently, I was alarmed by the vast number of people who are on dating sites. The idea of finding any decent cock in this way perplexes me; I insist on checking out the goods before I chat with them, but that’s just me and my incredibly high penis standards. But enough about sword play for now. I must admit, JDate was perhaps the most alarming of all the dating sites. The first and foremost problem is the fact that there is a website out there for Jews that is NOT free. How Shlomo or Moisha pay out of pocket to look at women and aren’t even guaranteed a happy ending is beyond me. (And of course I mean “happy ending” in every sense of the phrase.) As my concern rose for the dwindling Jew population, I quickly appointed myself the new Moses and decided to lead my single people to MY dating website… FindaJew.com! I would be the ruler of these single Jews and pair them up as I see fit. The good-looking ones would be with the other three good looking ones. The uglies would mingle among the fuglies. And the fatties will be in a category of their own altogether! They would listen to my advice on good etiquette: what to say, what to do, and how to give great head. All of this tough love would be free and out of the goodness of my vodka-filled heart. All I would ask in return is that, when they find the Jew of their wet dreams, they do two things:
1) Display a life-sized cardboard cut-out of me at their wedding. Preferably somewhere near the cake – front and center. (I should also mention that I will be completely nude in the cut-out holding two thumbs up.)
2) Name their first three children after me: boys and girls, no exceptions.

The following words of wisdom will be posted on the website as well. Why? Because I’m a giver!

For the Ladies:
If you’re lonely and kinda shy,
Come to FindaJew for the perfect guy.
Cheer up because after you give that upper lip a wax,
I’ll have you marry a chiropractor named Max!

For the Men:
If your willy is lonesome, and it makes you sad,
Log on to FindaJew and get your ass glad.
Find a nice girl; you won’t get played.
You can stop beating off every day and get laid!

For Everyone:
Are you fat and kinda fugly?
Can’t find someone to get you all snuggly?
Don’t fret, as long as you’re a Jew,
I have someone just as unattractive for you!
Get married and bump uglies; don’t be tamed.
No worries, your first three kids are already named!

In search of some cock or a handful of titty?
I’ll help you find someone in your own city.
I will set you up on lovely Jew dates,
Find you all fertile Jew mates.
Guys will be very well-fed
And girls will be trained to give very good head!
Women, you’ll get everything you visualized,
Most importantly, your man will be circumcised!

2) I constantly want to one-up Angelina Jolie. Seeing as my acting career only extends to faking orgasms on occasion, there is only one way to beat the bitch: I have devised a plan to adopt a foreign child from every country! They will be all colors of the rainbow, but all the same age. I will house them, love them, feed them, educate them, and perhaps start a small sweat shop in my basement. All of this, however, is only mildly significant. More importantly, I will include them in my business plan. When they all hit the age of six, we will have one big photo shoot. In the photo, they will be lying around in a circle holding hands. Yes, I will use my many children to manufacture and sell “We Are the World” posters After I am done with that, I will gladly FEDEX all of their asses over to Angie and Brad just in time for Christmas.

3) I had a brief desire to run for President. I would have the slogan “There’s no problem a good blow job can’t solve!” I stand by my political beliefs.

4) A couple of years ago on Halloween (better known as the dress-like-a-stripper holiday), I attended a party as a “sexy” cop. My outfit came customized with “Hottie Police” written all over it. Needless to say, I went on a power trip. I cuffed every single person in the bar and insisted on strip searching the attractive ones. I might have a vague memory of a cavity search, but I’m not sure, although I was walking kind of funny the next day… Anyway, everyone did as I said; I was on top of the world. While slightly intoxicated and driving home, I was hit with the realization that I am, in fact, the owner of a white car and that, if I got customized “Hottie Police” stickers and a siren, would allow me to be Philly’s one and only freelance cop! I’d drive around and stop anyone I felt like fucking or fucking with… Particularly attractive men; I’d cuff them and proceed to conduct my personalized breathalizer tests.

5) Last but not least is an idea that came to me during a summer when I told everyone I met that I hooked for a living. I got to thinking about where I would hook, and felt quite limited to street corners and alleyways; knee pads can only suffice for so long. This led me to the most innovative idea the United States of America will ever see…. The Cum N Go, a chain of blow job drive throughs spread across the country! My establishments will service horny men around the clock, and provide our customers with all different types of Cum N Go memorabilia (inscribed “I Came and Left”). This makes me the Mother Theresa of all things oral in many ways. For one, I will be taking hundreds of toothless crack whores off the street and giving them a safe place to practice their craft. Together they will make up the Dollar Menu at the Cum N Go.

Is your girl just not putting out?
We know what that shit’s all about.
Need a bitch who doesn’t yap?
Doesn’t care if you’re a loser or a sap?
Won’t make you cuddle all night long?
Or care whether you are weak or strong?
Drive down here and pick a HO.
We’re at your service at the Cum N Go!

Madam Moses President Officer Mother Elina… Why? Because I care, and because I am most likely drunk right now.

Just last night I went to get a drink with my friend Jane. Most people either pin us as sisters or lesbian lovers. However there have been a few drunk homeless men that have pinned us for both (God bless them).

This might have something do to with the fact that as a joke she’s always grabbing at my tits and crotch, but whats a quick fingering between friends? Jane like all of my friends is very attractive. Seeing as I absolutely refuse to be friends with ugly people it only makes sense that my closest friends ( or people i am seen with the most) are quite pretty. After all I don’t like to subjugate myself to staring at fugly people all day long. So seeing as she is easy on the eyes she constantly has a boyfriend.

So as she brings along the flavor of the week (which I approve of highly) he insisted on inviting a friend. This friend would of course be implied for me seeing as I am in current search of a good fucking. This is when my evening took an unfortunate turn.

After downing my first martini I was feeling good enjoying my night, getting sexually assaulted by Jane. All was well, and as it should be. Then all of this sudden this mystery man walks into my world, upon seeing him I know that God is testing me.

I wonder how long i can remain polite and open and friendly with someone that looks like an unintentionally devout virgin. I promptly ordered another drink and gave myself 2 1/2 minutes. This was wishful thinking considering my current record tops off at 37 seconds.

As he began to talk to me I realized that i have found my victim for the night. His new nickname was Homofab. As he began to talk , or rather than talk I’d like to call it a linguistic orgasm,I heard a slight Russian accent which was expected…what amused me was the hint of a Swedish accent mixed in there as well. It was reminiscent of Martin Short’s accent in Father of the Bride but even gayer. Considering he is 100% Russian, it was quite surprising and vastly entertaining.

After he was done asking me the typical polite questions and downed his third drink, Homofab decided to ask what it was that I was sipping on. I answered “apple martini” with a sound of great adoration I only reserve for when I speak of alcoholic beverages.

Suddenly his arms flail up in a homosexual like panic and he exclaims in his retarded accent,

” OOO APPLE MARTINI! HOW SEXY!!”

I have never even heard a gay guy refer to my drink as being sexy much less a self proclaimed straight one, and after holding down my laughter by thinking of the Holocaust I bravely inquired into how a martini can be considered sexy. With his arms still resembling those of a horny chimp, he proceeded to explain..

” Vell Ya Know Zat Ven giirl drrinks ze apple martini men zink oh its like ze cosmopolitan vich iz like sex and ze city and ve rrright avay zink SEX SEX SEX!”

This train of logic partially horrified me because no man should be this sex and the city savvy, and partially because any man that looks at a woman’s drink and thinks ’sex’ should be automatically strip searched for roofies. And although I was having some serious doubts about Homofab’s sexual preferences his constant clawing at my tits and persistence of taking pictures with me left me in a cloud of confusion. Is he gay? Is he straight? Is he Swedish? I just don’t know!!!!!.

The only thing I was sure of was that he was a virgin, something that was confirmed when he later told me..

” I decided tooday zat I vill eizer get drrunk or get laid, I zink it is eizier to get drrunk.” Although I was almost positive I could arrange something with the handicapped prostitute that was missing a limb or two on the corner, I decided it would be less trouble for us all if he just continued to down his fruity drinks.

As this little bundle of joy proceeded to join us in our car on the way to the next club my amusement with him soon turned to annoyance. He was one of those people that started to talk increasingly more when he drank, his blabbering might as well have been all in Japanese because it was impossible to understand either way. These drunk talkers are the WORST as far as I am concerned they should all just go to one club where u can only get in if u are either a drunk talker or deaf. That way both the deaf people and the talkers get some action, and both are out of my hair. I quickly made a mental note to myself to consider this kind of club as a future business venture.

Instead of pinning it on the steady stream of alcohol he was in-taking, Homofab decided to blame this delusional blabber on his ‘jet lag.’ I did not appreciate him blaming his personality flaw on a condition that I have powered through many times myself. All of the sudden I decide this is no excuse and after a good 10 minutes of contained silence that i managed, i announce

“Well i have jet lag too!”

This happened to peak his curiosity,

“OOO yes? Vere did u goh??”

Surprised that he could still follow a conversation I shot back “Africa” with a steady voice.

As Jane goes into fits of laughter in the seat next to mine I equip myself for the line of questioning that was to follow while carefully sliding away from her if in case she does urinate her pants at one point. As I got out of harms way he continues,

“OOO verryy niieecee, vere zid u go in Afreeeca?”

Now in my somewhat buzzed state for some reason this question threw me for a loop. After all now thinking back I can think of at least a dozen African countries off the top of my head, however at the time I was at an utter and complete loss. And of course the first thing that comes to my mind is my 5hth grade library report that my whole class had to do on countries in Africa. This is very clear in my mind because when other people had big and interesting countries to report on, my cunt of a librarian assigned me to Swaziland, which I later learned was the anus of Africa. The whole country was the size of my nipple and well there wasn’t much to report about. To this day I remember the fucking librarian and the dick-hole like country I had to report on. So before I could properly think it through,

“Swaziland” flew out of my mouth.

As Jane stops breathing at this point on my left hand side, from the front of the car I could hear the confusion and wonder in Homofab’s voice. To my surprise and delight he still bought the fact that I was inAfrica but was bewildered by the fact that I chose to go to that particular country,

“Vaht vhy go to Swaziland vhy?”

Annoyed that he would pry into my personal life… “Just visiting family” I quipped as Jane went into another fit.

During the rest of the ride over to the club I continued to explain that I in fact had African blood in me, while secretly planning the best way I can loose him after we get in the club. Lucky for me he realized that his chances of getting laid are decreasing by the moment so he made his way over to the bar to continue getting drunk as he planned.

As I got him off my dick for the rest of the night I was able to spend time with Jane and the circus freak show of men surrounding us. As she announced that she had to pee I was thankful that she didn’t do it while laughing in the car and promptly went off to search for the bathroom. While traveling the 6 feet through the dance floor (as any women can relate to in clubs) I’m pretty sure I got groped, tickled, spanked, and possibly fingered at one point. Unfortunately, after I got everything short of anal in the middle of ZBar I still couldn’t find the fucking bathroom.

After harassing the 8′ tall bouncer into pointing it out I impatiently waited for Jane outside. While getting hit on by a few more jackasses, I became increasingly pissed off. Why are all the single men out there such retards? Is that really what there is in this world? Is that whats left? is that why I fall for the taken or married men? Will I ever be able to find a decent guy? Will I ever be able to pick up a random stranger from the club and fuck his brains out without him saying something completely stupid? What is this world coming to?

As I wondered whether I would just have to suck it up and fuck either the virgin guy or the complete dumb asses at the club one of these days for lack of other options… I happened to look over just in time to see the car of the last jackass that dicked me over pass by our car in a hustle to get to his second home: IHOP where he lives in order to maintain his round physique. And at this point I realized that I rather take it in the ass from the virgin while blowing one of the jackasses from the club, over seeing this schmuck again. And then it all fell into perspective. Luckily I didn’t have to do either and as I cuddled with my vibrator I fell asleep and dreamed of cock and vodka: my two favorite things…

There comes a time in a woman’s life when she takes a step that truly opens her eyes. A coming of age event if I may… going to a gay club.

Now my first experience had somewhat unusual circumstances. In fact it was my best friend Cheeha’s “straight” guy friend (Albert) that dragged me, her, and his unsuspecting homophobic guy friend (Vlad) to the club. Me and Albert have had a rather rocky relationship to this point. He would constantly set himself up to be insulted and well I just never have the self control to let an opportunity like that to slip by me. Like I say when life gives you lemons, throw them at Albert and see if it’ll make him cry.

Many a times he admitted to wanting to cut himself with a razor after spending the evening with me, I felt bad that he was considering doing this and gladly FED EXed him an exacto knife as it would be a more convenient object to complete the task at hand. At least he can never say that I don’t have his best interests in mind.

As I climbed into his obnoxiously red car I realized that there was no turning back. I had a bad feeling about this whole evening and was pretty sure that I just had to commit because there was just a very slim chance that I would survive lunging myself out of his car on the highway. Although when he turned his music on the thought ran through my head at least a few dozen times. Trying to block this horrid sound out of my head and ignoring the bleeding of my ears was about as impossible as witnessing a murder of a family member and not doing anything about it.

Every song was mixed so that one of the lines would just repeat over and over again throughout the whole fucking thing. Perhaps one of the saddest excuses for Djing or whatever they call it. Fergie’s Fergalicious was now blasting through the car. And as if this was not bad enough the line this cocksucking dj chose to repeat was “Fergalicious def, fergalicious def def def def def def def…” and so on for the next ten minutes. As no one else but Cheeha really seemed to notice this raping of my ear drums, on about the 890th time Fergie belted “def” I had an attack of terets and exclaimed,

“ITS FUCKING DEFINITION! FUCKING SAY DEFINITION AND FINISH THE FUCKING SONG!”

Surprised by my violent outburst and unaware that I held this resentment toward his favorite CD, Albert slightly urinated himself and promptly switched off the music.

As the conversation in the car continued to bore me and insulting Albert lost its appeal about a good 7 minutes ago, I had to find other things to do to get my mind of suicide. While being a passenger in a car I have a favorite pastime which annoys everyone in the car but entertains me to no end. No its not passing gas. What I do is at a street light, pick the car next to us and fuck with the guy/guys in the next car until it is time to move. I’ll wink, lick my lips, blow kisses, and basically do everything short of climbing out of my car and into theirs then continuing to give them road head. As amazingly fun as I find it, this happens to mortify Cheeha, and she on many occasions has threatened to tint the one window in her car that I sit next to. I hope that she understands the image of her driving around in a car with only one really tinted window only spurs me on.

So as desperate times call for desperate measures and I find myself going to town on the cute Latino guy in the car next to ours.. Much to my surprise, as we took off on the green light he quickly switched lanes and followed us. This was still rather exciting for me but sent Vlad into a serious hissy fit. He started freaking out about this guy following us all the way downtown and later cutting us and eating our first born, something along those lines I wasn’t really understanding him nag, I don’t speak the pussy bitch language.

As the guy pulls into the gas station behind us I take satisfaction in the fact that I was at least able to provide some entertainment in this car that didn’t include a Fergie like retarded stuttering which Albert lovingly refers to as ‘music’.

By the time we are approaching the city he switches on the CD again and continues to inform me that this is the very same DJ we will be listening to at this gay club. This was perhaps the worst piece of information I received since earlier that night when I found that i was out of batteries for my vibrator. Upon hearing this news and knowing I won’t even have my trusty toy to come home to I reached for the car handle and seriously considered throwing myself out, I would just have to take my chances. However as I looked over at Cheeha I knew that she would never forgive me for what I was about to do …leave her alone with these two jackasses (gay and gayer) for the rest of the night.

Ugh I realized I would need a drink or 5 just to power through, perhaps a bloody Mary since I have been slacking on my vegetable intake lately.

As we pulled up to the club which was called either Air Command, or maybe it was Dick Command, or Air Dick…not really positive on the name because the tranny hooker distracted me considerably on the way in.

I thought about ditching the three and just paying her to talk for a while. I wanted to know everything about this woman man. How does she feel being a hooker? Is he gay? How often does she cry herself to sleep? Does he feel morally corrupt? Does she have to tape her ball sack to the side of her leg to pull off that mini? You know real 20/20 type shit. Just as I was on the brink of journalistic history, I was pulled into the club and upon entering this establishment my career as the next Barbra Walters shattered as quickly as Albert’s love of pussy. Yes all of the sudden he turned gay.

At this point Vlad realized that he was in fact coaxed into attending a more toned down version of the gay pride parade, and self-consciously covered his asshole as he made his way to the bar. After realizing the shirt that I was wearing, which nicely showcased my tites, was a complete and utter waste I quickly settled at the bar myself and ordered a long island that was big enough to intoxicate a family of elephants.

As I sipped on it i quickly began to see that Vlad and Cheeha were hitting it off, or rather he was content with having his head 4 inches away from her boobs at all times. And I guess since he was the only guy there not repulsed by her tities she was enjoying the attention as well. So here I was mostly by myself at a gay bar, with the only saving grace being that I had a perfect birds eye view of Albert roaming to an empty table with his drink to sit all by himself. This was for really no other reason than to get hit on by a gay guy. Mental note to self: buy Albert a rainbow bumper sticker and matching speedo if I make it through this night without flinging myself off the roof top. Twenty minutes later of zero entertainment because even while sitting alone no self-respecting gay guy wanted anything to do with Albert’s cock, I decided to see the roof top and check out if the drop would in fact kill me or just leave me alive and fucked up.

I always felt bad for people that survived suicide attempts only to continue living life in worse condition that they were in before. I mean smart and decisive suicidals make a flawless plan and get the job done. Nothing worse than a lazy and unorganized suicidal person if u ask me. They should take a few pointers from squirrels. Once a squirrel decides to end it’s life, it makes sure to jump under a car no matter how much it tries to swerve out of the way. Now that’s commitment.

Anyway as I went to asses the rooftop situation, Albert, obviously sick of rejection, decided to come outside with me and have a cigarette. As I stood there unamused at this whole night and just overwhelmed with enough material to make fun of him for the next 34 years, my night suddenly took a positive spin. A clearly wasted gay guy approached Albert,

“Heyyyy there! How are ya?” he asked while gently stroking his left shoulder.

Before I even had the chance to fully enjoy this glorious moment, Albert jumped on top of me like a horny Doberman and exclaimed,

” This is my girlfriend!”

While letting this insult pass considering the situation, I quickly weighed my options. I could deny having anything to do with him and watch the gay guy that I already lovingly named Sunshine devour Albert like a fat girl devouring the entire left side of the Mc Donald’s drive through menu or help him out. Finally I realized that his red gay-mobile was the only way I could possibly head home that night, so I let out an unenthusiastic grunt,

“Uhh yeahh thats me.”

The look in Sunshine’s eyes could only rival that of a six year olds that just found out that Santa is no more powerful than the fat ass at the mall that poses as him. The disappointment quickly turned to irritation as he swiftly pushed my new boyfriend out of the way

“FUCKING HETERO! FUCKING HETERO!!” he screamed at least another 3 times as Albert tried to approach us.

After getting him at a safe 3 foot distance away from us Sunshine was standing a tad but too close for comfort and began his questioning.

” Sweetie, Sweetheart, Baby, tell me the truth…have you ever played with his ass?”

As I burst into hysterical laughter I didn’t know what was more disturbing the thought of ever coming within 2 feet of Albert’s ass to begin with, or- then actually continuing to fondle it. While trying my very hardest to hold down the stir fry I had for dinner, I squeezed out,

“No actually I never have.”

While batting away my “boyfriend” and continuing to yell at him with the vigor I reserve only for particularly obnoxious homeless people, Sunshine let out another 10 “FUCKING HETERO!” outbursts.

After exhausting himself, he used the moment to inquire as to why I wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to experiment with Albert’s asshole. Since telling Sunshine that I would sooner mount an 80 year old than experiment with Albert’s anus, would blow our cover, I quickly answered

“I just never felt the need to.”

I was hoping my short answers would get us off this subject and on to something more interesting like spandex, and Cher, both things I’d much rather discuss with my new gay friend. Much to my dismay, turns out I ran into the gay Socrates of our time, and he continued on with his mind blowing theory. Much like every word that came out of his mouth…he started out with repeating”Physiologically” at least 37 times.

This gave me an unpleasant flashback to just an hour ago or so in the gay-mobile when “fergalicious def” rang through my ears non stop and i soon became nauseous and snapped at Sunshine

“Yeah I get it physiologically, spit it out already!”

As if the broken record has been instantly fixed, he continues,

“Well physiologically what feels good for me as a man should feel good for another man too.”

Pure genius Sunshine, pure genius! How can I even argue with that? I mean this is groundbreaking, does this mean all men secretly like anal play? God I hope not. But as Albert was allowed to enter back into our conversation, I left Sunshine with the promise that I would go home that night and give my boyfriend’s asshole more action than the night he overdid it at Taco Bell.

While leaving the club, I was still feeling a bit unattractive, since I obviously never got hit on that night, and almost fell in love with the first homeless crackhead that whistled at me. I briefly had fantasies of moving in with him, decorating our cardboard house with Ikea furniture, and having tiny little crack babies. But as Cheeha pulled me away from my future I was pushed back into the red gay mobile with my new boyfriend who continued to torture me with the sounds of DJ Shittypants on our way home.

When I got home, seeing as my vibrator was temporarily out of order, I had much to ponder. Where was that trannie now? Will i ever see it again? Do i really have to play with Albert’s ass? Could I do that without vomiting in my mouth? Can I take the credit for making terrorists crack by suggesting to get Dj Shittypants to play the Fergie song at Guantanamo Bay?

And as i dosed off to sleep i knew that my gay club experience would not end there and I was right. Months later I went to this great club where I saw penis upon penis… together… holding hands. And i was the token lipstick lesbian. Yes the place was called Woody’s and it was fabulous.!!!! Better yet, on the way out of the club I saw a trannie! I like to believe it was the same one I had seen almost a year ago. And as she bent over in her tootoo, I saw her/his ball sack and knew that this was God’s way of answering my burning question..no she does not tape her balls down to her leg. Barbabra Walters watch out, your job is mine bitch!

“Are you there Cheeha? Its me Elina”
As I get older, the clubbing scene has become as familiar a sight to me as my own ass. I know exactly what to expect more or less, and am no longer in awe of my surroundings, needless to say I am a little jaded.

However, I will always remember my first club experience. It was at a 16 and older party in downtown New York City, which now sounds about as appealing as going down on Flavor Flav, but at the time was extremely exciting. In fact none of this would have occurred if Cheeha an I never went to NY to stay at her uncle’s apartment.

As she announced to me, that her uncle gave us an open invitation we both jumped up and down, doing everything short of peeing ourselves at the thought of spending a few nights in NYC. At a time in our lives when the climax of the weekend included hanging around the mall and watching every single movie there was short of the ones with subtitles ( who wants to practice their hooked on phonics when watching a movie), the trip to the city was simply a Godsend.

With the same vigor and excitement of a fat girl that just got to suck on the first and last cock she will see in months me and Cheeha packed our shit and headed for the train station to New York. Now before this whole story erupts, its probably a good idea to mention that when Cheeha and I do anything together our retardation level far exceeds the collective one at the special Olympics. Somehow we bring out the handicapped side of each other and its really a wonder that anyone lets us leave the house together. Cheeha has about as much grace as an elephant, and of the two of us, she’s the one that requires to be walking around in a helmet and/or earmuffs based on the fact that she stumbles and falls with at least every 10 steps that she takes. Seeing as she is exceptionally short and therefore very close to the ground, sometimes these falls end with her on all fours . Unfortunately this occurrence does not happen as often as I’d like so when it does, instead of helping her up I have been known to stand there and savor the moment, as every best friend should.

After we gave National Security a heads up that we were leaving for NYC we quickly packed all our life long belongings into suitcases and piled into her mothers minivan to get dropped off at the Trenton train station. On the way there her mother was legitimately worried, and was working out a strict calling regime that Cheeha had to adhere to. Little did I know that this calling schedule paired with her obnoxious ring tone would tempt me to lodge the nokia straight into her anus a mere 24 hours later. However, in attempt to calm her mothers fears I suddenly decided to interject in her conversation, I casually turn to Cheeha seated in the back seat of the car and inquire

” Hey Cheeh, you didn’t you forget to pack the condoms, did you?”

As her mother’s reaction fluctuated between laughter and nausea at my comment, she continued to explain between giggles that when I give birth to my own children I will understand her concern.

“Well, I can always forgo the condoms altogether and get a head start on that experience this weekend so we can better relate to each other if you like,” I responded.

As the car swerved she began hysterically laughing and then when she finished she punched me. Its ok I knew that was coming, but based on Cheeha’s laughter in the back seat, it was well worth it.

Much like the color coded system the country has to determine the level of the nations security, I have a system to determine the levels of Cheeha’s laughter. Anything from simple laughter, to silence (no air) laughter, then comes the snorting, followed by a laughter that is just unstoppable and has been noted to last anywhere from 4 to 54 minutes. This last stage of uncontrollable laughter is the best time for all of our friends to bring up such things as recently deceased pets and family members or even the Holocaust. In this sick little game, the premise is to pick the most horrible thing you can possibly imagine, and witness her laughing fits continue in spite of it.

As we bought our tickets and climbed into the train, several stops later the call overhead was made for new york,we swiftly climbed out of the train and onto the platform. The second we reach the platform a woman behind us with a thick Russian accent inquired,

“Is this New York City?”

Completely confident in our decision we answered “Yes” in unison and watched her drag her collection of black suitcases off the train, onto the platform, and head on her merry way.

Suddenly we look up at a sign that showed us that we are in fact in Newark rather than New York, both of us horrified by our ridiculous mistake jumped back on the train right before the sliding doors had a chance to close. Relieved, we settled into the front seat of the cart. We felt really bad for the lady that got off at the wrong stop for at least the next 3 minutes or so before we got distracted by reading over the graffiti that graced the walls of the passenger cart, I found the story line simply fascinating. To this day I imagine that she lives in Newark, and is sill under the impression that it is NYC. I picture her writing back to her family in Russia, ” Dear Boris, New York City is not at all as they show in the movies. It is just one big shit hole. American bastards!”

As we finally arrived in the city, Cheeha’s amazingly gracious and generous uncle picked up our luggage and took it back to his place. This allowed us to head out with a few of Cheeha’s friends she knew from her childhood, seeing as they knew the city rather well and decreased our chances of getting raped/mugged considerably. Here is where the real adventure began.

After deciding on this 16 and older hip hop club, I now realize we may have overlooked the fact that two suburban, white, Jewish girls might stick out there like a nun at a male strip club. As we all stood in line to get our IDs checked and our vaginal and anal cavities searched for weapons, I saw that it was my turn and slowly approached the 300 pound black woman waiting for me. After her search I realized that I had just lost all sense of my dignity for the night, as well as my virginity to Big Bertha.

” Dear diary, today a large black woman popped my cherry. I was a little nervous and scared, but she really made me feel special and turned it into an experience I will never forget. I really hope she calls me in the morning like she promised.”

While figuring out the logistics of me and Big Bertha’s future relationship. Will she call? Will a long distance relationship be challenging? Will she shave off her mustache if I ask nicely? All pressing issues running through my mind as I began heading up a series of staircases with about 500 other people.

When we entered the room with the dance floor, the feeling I got can only be compared to getting tackled to the ground and then wrestled by a naked, sweaty 67 year old man. The room literally felt like a sauna. The heat mixed in with the sweat of adolescent boys smelled like old ball sack, and I continued circling the room by holding onto the walls seeing as I was well aware that I would pass out at any moment.

While Cheeha’s friends left us and dispersed around the dance floor within the first 30 seconds of entering Satan’s playground, we found the nearest fan and hogged it completely. If anyone had a problem with me acquiring all the ventilation and well air in the room, I was ready to insist to them that the fan was in fact a really skinny white guy and I insist on grinding with him until i felt a boner no matter how long it would take!

What seemed like at least seven hours later and 8 trips to the rooftop which was so crowded that, if you were lucky to survive the trip up there, the only view you could see was the sky right above you. While soaking through my brand new red tank top I looked over at Cheeha who finally left her pathetic efforts of attempting to dance behind, and was hanging on to the wall in a state of half consciousness. The only thing that was able to keep me alive was the sight of that fucking dance floor. Perched next to the fan I had a perfect view of everything that was going on. Just about every person there was humping like they had just bought a 24 pack of condoms and it was their first day out of prison. It was like a giant orgy which I soon unwillingly became a part of. While closely examining how the 3 girls standing 6 feet away from me were able to get their thongs to stick out at least a whole foot above the top of their jeans, I felt a sharp kick to my back.

“Quit it” I snapped at Cheeha. I was hot, sweaty, and miserable, and in no mood to play her little games.

“That wasn’t me,” she responded while rubbing her back as well.

Both of us slowly turned around to see a 14 year old version of Jenna Jamison mounting some guy who’s face was not visible at the moment due to the fact that it was squeezed in between her obviously overstuffed tities. I could see that the stuffing was drooping and slowly sliding its way to her back at one point, as they continued to roll around on the platform we were sitting on. Feeling slightly voyeresque I decided that the love me and Bertha made on my way into the club was way more beautiful than this disgusting spectacle and respectfully turned my head to face forward again. Moving to another plantform was simply not an option because this was the only available fan in the room now. We quickly decided that we would just have to put up with the kiddy porno being made behind us in order to make it out of here without suffocating. Judging by her moans I could predict that the guy’s 4 inch penis had penetrated, and just really hoped that that wasn’t the pointy little object that i felt poking at my side just moments ago. As I made a mental note to get my new red shirt tested for herpes first thing in the morning, I turned to Cheeha dripping sweat, and slipping in and out of consciousness.

“I’m sorry but we need to go before I go off the edge and start stabbing all these motherfuckers with my new hoop earrings ( because that’s all i had seeing as Bertha confiscated my switch blade at the door)” I managed to scream over the music.

“Yeah,” she moaned as Jenna Jamison’s head was now banging against Cheeha’s spine in a rhythmic motion.

Slowly we made our way down the steps, brushing by people fucking as if it was some sort of special NYC mating season the rest of us were unaware of. Hoping I had not accidentally acquired any STDs from the thick air, I quickly waved to Bertha and ran outside for a breath of fresh air. Seeing as we were sweating like a Catholic priest at a high school soccer game, upon leaving the club our hair was a mess, make up had become smeared, and shirts were soaked through. We quickly came to the realization that we were even unattractive to the homeless man on the corner which was missing his two front teeth, his right eye, and his left leg, and decided to head home. As we hailed a cab and went back to her uncle J’s apartment, I wanted to shower and sleep more than a cheap whore wants the crack pipe.

Upon reaching J’s apartment which was located in the extremely nice upper east side of the city, but lets just say was somewhat aesthetically challenged, we climbed into the elevator and made our way up to the 14 floor. Upon entering the apartment we saw that our sleeping arrangement was somewhat grim. We had to settle on sleeping on the black leather couch and love seat that were squeezed into the ‘2×2′ living room, which contained no windows. Seeing as Cheeha hardly reached five feet, i was nominated to sleep on the couch. About as comfortable as a sidewalk, but simply priceless for one glorious reason: I had the perfect view of Cheeha attempting to stretch out on the love seat. Even for her 4′ 11″ frame this thing was entirely too short, and while lying down with her legs stretched out, her body resembled that of a perfect V shape. Not really sure whether this was her pathetic attempt to do pilates at the end of this night, or go to sleep, I mumbled “good night” and passed out.

Years later and we still visit New York at least once a year when J decides to go on vacation. Lucky for us this week of his choice is usually during some sort of blizzard or natural disaster. However, we always manage to brave through the weather and have a good time. Now his apartment is bigger and nicer, and instead of being squeezed into couches, like Mexicans in the back of a pickup truck, we are able to comfortably sleep on a lucious king sized bed. This addition of extra space, does not stop me from accidentally punching her in the middle of the night, but its ok because she hardly ever notices anymore.

As we now get drinks at considerably nicer places. I stand on the nice balcony and think back years ago to the sweaty club. Is it still there? How old is Jenna Jamison’s love child from that night already? Has Bertha moved on to someone else? As these thoughts run through my mind I hear Cheeha take a fall somewhere between the bathroom and bedroom, and realize all of this is insignificant as long as I have this little mentally challenged girl by my side, and on all fours, for the rest of my life.