12/12/2003 02:19:00 PM
I’m the type of guy that never tires of being told that I’m the man. I don’t walk around saying I’m the man or acting like the man which I guess is a big part of what may make me the man in some people’s eyes. I don’t spend much time thinking about the great responsibility and greater rewards that comes with being the man, and if you were to tell me you think I’m the man too, then I’d come off as a tad uncomfortable and self-conscious. Even though I recognize that I’m always and intentionally one of the better dressed cats in the room and that I do possess a certain eye-catching look.
If the lighting was any better and your eyes were up here you might detect a slight blush, and then I’d smile, look you in the eye and tell you that you were mistaken and that I was not in fact the man. I’d change the subject by asking you what I could get you to drink. And as I glided towards the bar, I wouldn’t turn around, but I’d secretly be hoping that you were telling your friends not to listen to me and to trust your instincts that I was indeed the man.
But what I’d really prefer is that you waited until tomorrow, because my chariot doesn’t turn in to a pumpkin at midnight, and if you think I’m the man now---shiiiiii----yit! Wait til you see me on the dancefloor, or in the bedroom, or in the shower, or in the kitchen whipping up a couple of omelets.
Alright, that last part’s a lie. I’d be gone by breakfast, not because I’m not an excellent cook but because I’m not really a big fan of politely dealing with stranger morning breath, mine or yours. And if I did stay through breakfast, then I’d want to shower before getting to know each other a little better, and after getting to know each better I’d want a second shower, and the next think you know I’ve wasted all damn day and now it’s light out and I’ve got my people looking for me, wanting to know why I missed my weekend morning workout and how I spent the last X amount of hours. And since my people don’t need to be all up in my, or your, business, I wouldn’t tell them jack---setting their imaginations off, trying to remember when I left and who I left with. Not to mention I’m still wearing last night’s clothes which are now unbearably smoky.
I’ve only recently been able to even fathom or embrace the idea that some people think, right or wrong, that I’m the man, and sometimes I long for the simpler times. Like when I had absolutely no idea that I might be the man, and only cared (in order) about amusing myself and my friends with my quick and clever wit, getting drunk, watching the game and wondering why I was going home alone---again.
Now, I’ll still steal the occasional nonchalant glance at the score, but I really don’t want to get too drunk possibly preventing me from performing my man-ly duties, and I care much more about your needs, wants, desires, fantasies, and what you’re thinking than the mess my crew of jokers, clowns, and dogs are getting themselves in. Unless of course they’re about to get themselves in a scrap, or they're in need of a wingman---then I’ll have to quickly excuse myself, and I’d hope that you understand. If I really wasn’t the man, I’d explain some sophomoric ‘Bros before Hos’ rule that would just come out completely wrong and offensive. So instead, I’ll do what I gotta do and ask if you’re going to hang around for a bit.
If I tell you I’m going to call---that actually means I’m going to call. I’m not going to play games and wait 48, 72, or 96 hours before doing so either. I’ll even tell you before I come. You heard me right, no need for you to be surprised, and now you’ve got enough time to prepare yourself accordingly. To be honest, while I don’t really like a mess, I won’t think any more or less of you despite your preferred disposal technique. And I’m not going to share the details of said technique, unless you want me telling my boys that you’re the woman. But y’all really aren’t in to that kind of labelling like we are any damn way---so forget I even mentioned it.
By the way, the man on your upper right is not me. His name’s Vinnie and he's the new chief of security at 3rd Leg Productions and will be watching the door around here, making sure you’re on the list and shit. He keeps telling people that he’s the man behind the man. I’d correct him, but he’s not exactly the kind of dude that you correct.
So what he said, I guess…
How Do You Spell Booger?
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
12/10/2003 08:39:00 AM
I don't know about you. But, I bet it'd be awfully hard for a gori-, errr...ape to ride a horse. So hard that he'd probably fall off and have to beat it instead. Ya know his chest.
On the other hand, I could totally see a po, I mean horse, riding, um----this is making no sense is it... Nevermind...
In other news, please welcome the googler that found this page today when looking for 'cleveland steamer fetish'.... We're not here to judge, you damn dirty ape!...
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
12/09/2003 09:21:00 PM
The Collector’s Edition 50th Anniversary issue of Playboy is on newsstands now. I’d highly recommend going out and buying it if you’re not already a subscriber like me. I recognize that at $6.99, Playboy may not be your first choice to get the job done as there’s an awful lot of filler compared to the less tastefully artistic competition. But if you’re patient enough, there’s actually a lot to be learned from the monthly offerings such as; 20 Questions, Playboy Advisor, Playmate Data Sheet, etc.
But more about that in a moment.
I have absolutely no problem going on record as saying that Hugh Hefner and Playboy, through my father helped usher me quickly in to adolescence, and teach me what I most liked about the opposite sex. Which is of course when they’re on all fours in bed, with their azz slightly arched, and looking back with a mischievous smile on their face, and maybe even a finger lightly touching their bottom lip. My dad actually allowed me to look at his back issues when I was like 5, which even I’ll admit is a little crazy by today’s standards. The deal was I could look at the pictures, but he didn’t want me reading anything.
I’m not joking. He figured at that age I would simply be learning about the female physical form, and that I would actually learn things I wasn’t quite ready for in the accompanying text. When I was 6 or 7, I proudly told my dad I actually ‘got’ one of the comics, or retold one of the jokes or something, and immediately the deal was off and the mags were out of sight. I eventually found them and had to resort to stealth-like endeavors to enjoy future missions. Which weren’t missions at all, at least with shots being fired, until I was 16. Kathy Shower. Um, Miss Shower, do you ‘member when you were rolling around in the sand and you were only wearing that big fishing net? That, was, Awesome!
Anyway, bloggers just love using some dumbass survey when they’re in need of new material or a quick and easy way to reveal things about themselves. But, why reinvent the wheel, when you can serve those needs and tip your hat to the benevolent Mr. Hefner by answering the simple questionnaire each and every Playboy Playmate hand writes her answers to…
The Playmate Data Sheet:
Name: 3rd Leg
Birth Date: 8/29/197-
Birth Place: Kansas City, Mo.
Ambitions: Write a screenplay, then become a director gratuitously casting myself in seemingly insignificant, quirky roles and make most excellent use of my casting couch. Then retire and spend all day in silk pajamas, playing cards with my boys, and juggling a different blonde every damn day of the week.
Turn-Ons: Baby oil, slip and slides, pom pom’s, and dirty whispering in my ear
Turnoffs: Smoker breath, being cold, and wanting the lights off
Five CDs I Don’t Go To Work Without: Speakerboxx, The Chronic, Pulp Fiction Soundtrack to get my groove on, The Essential Bob Dylan, Frank Sammy and Dean at the Sands (1959) to offset my road rage
If I Had More Time, I Would: Work out twice a day
Favorite Foods: Pizza, Pasta, and Hot Wings
The Most Unusual Place I’ve Had Sex: To this point I’ve been strictly a furniture guy (couches, recliners, beds), lame and hard to believe I know, but true.
A Person I’d Love To Meet: Mike Krzyzewski
Oh yea, Hef---you da fn man! Now get back to working on negotiating the Paris, Britney, and Olsen Twins pictorials you senile old Viagara-poppin’ bastard…
Those were the days indeed. But by now, you’re likely well aware that they each save their best stuff for their campus newspapers, and if we’re lucky they post to their once must-read-daily-blogs maybe once a week. Sometimes once a month. If you’re lucky.
You have my promise that I will never desert you, the faithful readers of 3rd Leg, for an off-line paper sugar daddy/momma that leaves ink stains on your fingers. And if more than one week goes by in which I have absolutely nothing of significance to say, then I also promise to find some reason to throw up a picture of a hot looking girl…
I solemnly swear, in this the longest post ever, that the following recollection of this weekend’s (specifically Friday) activities is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth…so help me God. I do so only because I believe there are many lessons to be learned from my experience, and not because I’m some self-serving blogger that think you should know, or even remotely care, how I swing it amongst the people.
I rock the Ray-Ban Aviators, and am only a bomber jacket and flight suit away from the best damn wingman you’ve ever had the privilege to fly with. This is common knowledge amongst most of my friends, making me a valuable commodity when they are in need. One such friend finds himself single for the first time in many, many, many years, and if he ever had game to begin with, the rules have significantly changed since the last time he clubbed a pretty girl over the head and dragged her back to his cave.
Keep in mind, that I had planned an alcohol-free evening for myself---yet my boy, hoping that I would be the best that I could be lobbied long and hard to be the D.D. for the evening so I could drink (and talk) it up. I refused time and time again knowing that I’d be much more likely to maintain my vow of sobriety if I had my own car in the parking lot, and told him I’d meet him on the flight deck. I failed to mention that I had no plans of seeing the sunrise, and absolutely no intentions of sleeping anywhere other than in my own bed.
It took all of one minute inside our first stop of the evening before I revised my mission statement for the evening to allow just one drink at each establishment. With a tall Absolut/Red Bull in hand we stood, meandered and stopped just short of any meaningful mingling at a bar that seemed to get younger and thugger as the evening wore on---if it was to happen for my friend, this was not the place.
So we cruised to stop #2, which proved to be a complete waste of time. I took three pulls from a Heineken and left it on the bar before heading to what I stated would be my final stop of the evening.
Things weren’t looking much better as we struggled to count five viable targets on the premises. He openly debated lowering his standards, while I declared I was headed home after I finished my drink---a straight Red Bull. And with only a few sips remaining, in they walked.
Two of the better looking girls we’d seen all evening, and definitely the top 2 in this particular venue. They walk past us, and straight to the bar---gaining everyone’s attention as they do so. Then each with a bottle of beer in hand walk directly towards us and ask if the booth we’re standing next to is open---and they sit. Girl #1 is a brunette and the hotter of the two, and not just because she’s showing more skin. Girl #2 scores points by leaning way over the table to talk to her friend to reveal a very skimpy exposed g-string in the process. A calculated move I’m sure.
Eventually Girl #2 leaves, and much to my surprise, my boy engages Girl #1 without warning. He quickly takes a seat next to her while I remain standing. Girl #2 returns and sits at the table as they introduce themselves to each other. I’m then summoned to the table and take a seat next to Girl #2, because that’s what wingmen do. Girl #1 claims to be a pharmacist, and Girl #2 is supposedly "in optics." Girl #1, the hot one, wants everyone to do a shot, and I politely decline. She pulls out every name and peer pressure tactic from the middle school playground to break me, but to no avail. She is visibly frustrated as she’s clearly not used to hearing the word "no." The two girls order ‘Finger Me Good’s and my boy wisely opts for Tequila, knowing that I would have kicked his ass had he followed suit. Girl #1 wants to know why I’m so quiet, why I’m not having fun, why I keep looking at my watch, blah, blah, blah. She tells me she likes my sweater, and that I remind her of her ex. Unmistakable cues that she wishes it was me sitting next to her and not my boy---but there’s really nothing I can do about that now. She goes on to say how she likes it at least 5 times a day, and she enjoys the occasional asphyxiation and we don’t know what we’re missing---clearly the baddest of bad girls.
It’s after 1a.m. by now, and the girls want to check out the bar next door, which I know to be a complete dive that’s been around since before my dad started drinking legally. I explain that I won’t be joining them, but I hope that the three of them have a good, safe evening---and I hope that my friend has some good stories for me in the morning. Girl #1 can’t believe that I won’t join them and promptly orders me an Absolut/Red Bull that I want no part of. She says they’re going to call for a limo, and that I should just leave my car behind. She says I have nothing to worry about, and they're not going to rape us. She asks if I need help waking up, and tells me she can solve that. I say I’m sure she could. She pulls out a little bag of powder to show me exactly what I would have assumed she meant, and then she grows paranoid wondering aloud if I’m 5-0. It’d be a little late for that if I was now, wouldn’t it?
I declare that at the conclusion of the next song, I’ll be calling it a night. Girl #1 pulls out the final stop, by saying that she really digs me.
I should mention that Girl #2 is losing any initial appeal by belching frequently, and I stopped listening to her altogether after she revealed, "When my kids lived with me, they were in bed by 8’o clock every night!" That ranks right up there as being one of the most classic turn-off lines I’ve ever heard.
I learn the next day that Girl #1 really liked me (duh!) and the three of them went to the dive, the girls disappeared to the bathroom to enjoy their powdery dessert---and Girl #2 passed out. For some reason this killed any chance my boy had with either girl and the evening concluded in much the same manner as had he left two hours earlier when I did. Then again, I recognize things would have ended completely differently had I stuck around.
I think there are any number of lessons to be learned…
Girls- Belching = Not cute… If you do have kids, we don’t really want to hear about it, especially if it appears as though you’ve lost custody… If you insinuate that you’re a powderhead, we’ll believe you---no sense in displaying any illegal substance in plain view… If you like me more than my friend, you should really make that clear early on, as we’re not likely to step over each other for fear of being labelled a ‘blocker…’ and yes, there is such a thing as being "too bad." and I figured out that you're not actually a "pharmacist," and least not where you claimed to be one anyway, which makes you not only a bad girl, but also a liar...Something I'd kinda suspected all along.
Fellas- Sometimes all it takes is "Hello"… and sometimes you don’t even have to say that…Always provide your own transportation unless you plan on getting completely plowed, this will allow you to leave when you want to leave, and with whom you want to leave with. Trust your instincts and never ever leave your Wingman, unless you’re really not down with partying it up with a belching, unfit mother, and you're hell-bent on having a strong Saturday morning workout (which I never would have managed otherwise).
Finally, if you don’t ‘get’ any of the accompanying 'bad' images, then you probably haven’t been reading the comments (or leaving them), and you should feel justifiably left out. Which pretty much also means you suck...
Speaking of things that suck, the Chiefs lost and while I don't live in Iowa, I didn't get the Al Sharpton-hosted Saturday Night Live, which means more importantly that I missed Paris' cameo...