9622.net

*thinks laboriously*

I was visiting home (Tulsa) one break from school and went out with some friends to a bar. In the bathroom, a gentleman began standing at the urinal next to mine and began chatting with me, something that I loathe. Anyways, he asked me if I was from Tulsa and I told him my story. He said he was just in town for the weekend. Then he said:

"Sure is a pretty city though. I've had a really great time. I had to come in for my nephew's funeral. He got shot last week."

This and a few other quips ("I'd shake your hand but my dick's in it right now") led me to want to start writing down quotes from the loo and aggregate them into a book. Maybe I will do that someday. Hang out in enough bars and you'll hear damn near anything and everything in the bathroom near closing time.

A girl once said to me: "You smell interesting." That had me thinking (and, admittedly, sniffing myself at odd intervals) for days afterward.

Fes - I swear I was going to say the same. And it's happened dozens of times. I sometimes have to recoil from being so energetically sniffed and then pounced upon. No wonder women are sometimes referred to as dogs.

But here is SCIENCE coming to the rescue - unbelievable, no?

"Honey, just take a deep breath", he said, proferring his sweaty armpit, "let me shift that bothersome menstrual cycle for ya."

For six hours, female volunteers were exposed to pheromones concentrated from manly armpit odour - mercifully masked by fragrance. Levels of luteinizing hormone, a key player in the menstrual cycle, were monitored.

How do they know that it was the sweat, not the fragrance?

There's more to this thread than meets the eye, isn't there?

'Cause if this is it, I have to confess that I don't get it.

I'm sorry. What?!

Posted by: readymade on May 29, 2003 02:20 PM

I was bored and I wanted to hear weird stories about what weird things weird people have said to the weird people who come here.

Really, what's not to get?

PS: It's my birthday. So this is my birthday thread. Go me!

I think it lovely that it would be about odd things people say. Although I can't actually think of anything odd anyone has said to me off the top of my head.

Oh wait...

No. Sorry.

Posted by: readymade on May 29, 2003 02:23 PM

Wierdest, and meanest thing anyone has ever said to me:

"Yes, I'll marry you" took me over a year to get out of that one.

Don't anyone let Crash in on "The Big Secret". If he didn't get the memo, it's because someone thought he'd be better off not knowing. At least until Kaf gets back. Seriously.

Crash - I'm sorry but I don't think you're supposed to get this thread. All things considered, it reflects well on you, believe me.

Them thundersluts be evil women and you, well you haven't been the same, quite frankly, since you foolishly went and cut your hair.

"I was bored and I wanted to hear weird stories about what weird things weird people have said to the weird people who come here."

I'm afraid I can't help you. No one has ever said anything even slightly out of the ordinary to me.

Do carry on.

OK, I've got one! This just arrived by company e-mail:

On Friday, the new company logo is being installed on the building. This installation will take the majority of the day. Some of you will be more disturbed than others.

Hey, some of us are already pretty freakin' disturbed! And that's just in MY department!

That's ok, crash, I don't get it either. Let's form a club and build a treehouse.

I was once walking down St. Marks and this dude that was like 7ft tall had one of those fuzzy russian military hats and a dead squirel on his head told me and my friends, "I'll kill ya for a quarter" There has been nothing that compares to that ever in my life.

A quarter? Hell, what a bargain. It costs way more than that here just to get rid of a body.

"That's ok, crash, I don't get it either. Let's form a club and build a treehouse."

I already have a nifty treehouse that I built for my kids. What I ought to do now is put a lock on it, build a bar in it, and wire it for internet access and satellite TV.

Then I'd have something!

*eeps, scratches underarm*

Should we let girls in the treehouse, or are they icky?

I think they should be allowed, but only if they know how to mix drinks.

Should we let girls in the treehouse, or are they icky?

Pass some Gas, Bring some Grass, or Show some Ass....nobody gets in for free.

RTEMT, in his old apartment in Port Chester, built this amazing bar. Twas a thing of beauty to behold, he had every odd booze on the planet, like Chartreuse, which because I'm a sucker for ancient things with secret recipies made by monks, I drank shots of. Tasted like Pine-Sol infused vodka.

I thought of mixing Chartreuse with Jagermeister to make some kind of herbal liquer weapon of mass destruction, but 1)it'd taste like kaopectate and 2)I dunno what the hell I'd call it: WWI perhaps?

It's Readymade's Birthday!!

May all happiness be yours today and every day, dear Readymade!

Sucking in the night
She went down slowly
Sucking in the night
"Oh honey, blow me"
We're exchanging vows, we're exchanging love
She says, "Next time, baby, use a latex glove"
--to the tune of Frank's strangers in the night

I don't know if it was the weirdest thing ever, but yeah, it was pretty weird.

Someone once asked me, "What's the frequency, Kenneth?"

I think.

Happy Birthday, Readymade!

Happy birthday, dear Readymade!

what weird things weird people have said to the weird people who come here.

Too many lived in the LA area & worked at Knott's Berry Farm.

NewKidonTB were at my work(last tour or about last, they sucked when I walk through there back stage, lip syncing too). Some of my co-workers whom thought my face resembled Marky Mark and knew he was in the park told folks I was him in disguise. My uniform was polyester black pants and a Tijuana special style shirt, you know the kind that are popular now and have four pockets in the front.
Some girls had seen my walk though a wall with a secret door, just a bathroom for employees but they really believed my co-workers telling them I was MM after seeing this. So these girls high on wanting to be a teen about 5 of them come up and ask me if I'm Marky Mark. I say no, they say we want an autograph anyway, we know who you are. I say look at my body I'm not him. So after 15minutes of this stuff they finally leave me alone...but keep waving at me as they walk by. Now I'm 21 and the last thing I want to be doing is working a shift with NKOTB at my work. Really it and Christian night are the worst. But the kicker was when this lady walks up, introduces herself as one of the moms of theses girls bugging me. She says: I knew you you’re not MM, but you are really Michael Anthony Hall. Dope!
This whole time my co-workers are having the laugh of their life.

Readymade, Happy Birthday to you, Buy you a shot(e-mails a tuaca lemon drop)
Cheers and many more,
not years
but Cheers...

Now that's funny! And can I also say how much I enjoy reading your stories, tcs? Seriously.

p.s.: Hi, all!

p.p.s.: Happy b-day, readymade!

Yay! happy birthday readymade! Why didn't you tell us sooner? We could've celebrated with compulsory vomit-inducing shots while you were in the city!

::grabs Galliano, blows dust off::

Uh, I meant this Galliano, not this one. (Though they're both nauseating in their own ways...)

I'm not Monkey Monk - look at my body! Leave me alone, dog!

Good story, Thom! Thanks!

Migs, not every post requires an image.

*cries, stops posting*

"Migs, not every post requires an image."

Not every post. This one does, however.

Happy Birthday, ready!

It's also this guys birthday.

Crash: this is a giraffe just after. Both the "before" and the "during" gif were just too hot:

I drink quite a bit of tea. Recently I ordered some great white tea from the Upton Tea Company. I've been bringing it to work in a thermos I picked up recently.

Just two seconds ago, much of this fine, white tea sprayed out of my nose and onto this monitor.

It was partly because of the image that Mssr Crash Davis just posted and partly because it gave itself a soundtrack in my head.

From the recently delurked salmonberry's favorite Canadian band, Bran Van 3000, this little snippit from the song "Montreal" is currently making me giggle more than it should.

See Kermit the Frog was one day daydreaming
Thinking about himself at a red light
With that it-ain’t-easy-being-greenin'
And the cars behind him kept honking and honking
And Kermit’s last words as he flipped the bird
Was, “Damn you Muppets just keep on taking!”
See I’ve got my own things now so stop tooting
I do my lily pad jumping
Miss Piggy bumping
Lotta Miss Piggys and that’s all good
And I’m gonna turn this red light
Into a block party

Maybe I should eat something? I'm getting delirious, I think. Where's readymade's birthday cake?

Where's readymade's birthday cake?

I think I sat on it.

And EBK, watch out for these crazy New York ne'er-do-wells. They'll booze you up and take advantage of your fragile psyche when you're there. They're terribly smooth and crafty, and will manage to work their way into your life.

Just like a peptic ulcer.

Damn that I'm missing the second event!

Posted by: readymade on May 29, 2003 08:26 PM

EBK: It always helps with the Noo Yawkers if you give them a song. I've found this one always helps.

Also, be sure to wear a nice sweater. It'll give you that top model look.

Here's the story I wanted to tell Witchstone:

A friend of mine used to drive this fellow Henry to the cemetery to visit his wife's grave, but my friend moved away. So now Henry stays busy walking the streets, feeding slices of pickle & pimento loaf to dogs of his acquaintance.

I encountered Henry as I walked my dog, Max, to the park about 5 a.m. one morning. Henry was sporting a standard-issue Elmer Fudd hat with woolly ear-flaps, which he removed in deference to Max. Henry knows Max, and he knows that Max doesn't trust hats or the people who wear them.

Henry talked to Max for a while, then looked at me with concern.

Henry: "Don’t you have to go to work today?"

Me: "Yes, Henry, I'll be going in a while, but now it's too early. It's still night."

Henry, reassured, leans closer. His tone grows conspiratorial. "You know why it's night, do you?"

Me, suddenly not sure, "Why?"

Henry is positively gleeful as he reveals the answer. "Because it's dark."

Me, nodding solemnly, "Oh, I see," whistle for Max, as Henry strolls confidently towards dawn.

Y'know, the brilliant simplicity of this thread is furthered by its category: "Dead People." This is fabulous! I wish I could remember all of the strange things dead people have said to me, but alas, my mind is like a sieve, and I recall nothing.

Except that one time that Cecil B. DeMille told me that there was a kumquat dangling from my participle. But that seemed pretty mundane.

Posted by: readymade on May 29, 2003 09:23 PM

First off, readymade, happy birthday! Cause it's still your birthday on the West Coast.

And ebk, did you think I wouldn't see that? Did you? The BV3K reference? Cause I did. And by god, you'll pay.

Someday.

Readymade, check your anonymous email.

Readymade: The celebration of your birth is outshone only by the vibrance and beauty you add to the world each and every day. Happy Birthday!

Miguel: you know what's even wierder, upon reading that article? I was on a plane yesterday and we got parked on the tarmac for a few minutes. Well, of course they turned off the air conditioning, I wear a jacket and tie to work, and I tend to burn my fuel hot, so I got a little schweaty (not enough to start a funk, but a little perspiry all the same). I was sitting next to a young woman from Dallas, who seemed a little uptight at first, and a bit peevish about being parked. I ditched the jacket and loosened the tie, and the next thing I know, Ms. Peevish is telling me about her job troubles (boss is a meanie, no room for advancement), her husband in the military (works late a lot), where she's headed on her trip (Denver), what sort of guys she likes (looks aren't important, niceness is), etc. Constantly through the whole flight. I'm not complaining - I'd rather have a nice conversation with a pretty young brunette than sit in stony awkward silence with my nose in a big paperback. It's just that I fully expected the latter, then sweated a little, then got the former. Coincidence? Maybe not!

Jesus, the last thing I want on a flight is someone telling me their problems. I'm not your fucking therapist! I guess she was helpless in the face of your roguish charm, Fes.

I get conversation on mass transit all the time, but sadly not with pretty women of any hair color. With me it's small children and old people who like to gab. And middle-aged men if they've had a drink or three and feel like rehashing wild times.

I do not know why this is.

Helpless in the face of my sweaty roguish charm, perhaps!

It wasn't exactly a therapy session, although it was a little bit. She seemed like she needed to talk about a few things to an amiable stranger who was unlikely to throw her a lot of sass in return. I get that a lot. My snoopy colleague just read that last bit and asked me to add: "He's like our company shrink."

Maybe you could show us your schnoopy, eh?

I get that all the time too. Quite often from the pretty ladies, but it always turns out to be a tributary of the Just Friends river.

It wasn't exactly a therapy session, although it was a little bit.

When I find myself in such situations, and I often do--be it on airplanes, in bars, in the drunk tank--I try and make it abundantly clear to whomever is bending my ear that I am not their shrink. I like to do so by asking them what color their nipples are.

I admit that I like to listen to complete strangers' problems, mostly because it gives me stuff to write about. Though as Fran Lebowitz said, The opposite of talking is not listening, it's waiting.

Alas, friend Cyrano, we two are destined to hear the lovelies list the faults of their ne'er-do-well men, decrying their prowess in both Art and Science, while we can do nothing but watch as they return to, like felus to vomitus, the same shallow menfolk they so recently lambaste. And we must do so in the knowledge that we - better men, skilled and knowledgeable in the topos, ethos and logos of the fairest sex, who seek only to make them smile and sigh - must e'er play the role of trusted accomplice, understanding ear, tear-stained shoulder, and genial, chaste advisor.

*grins Iago-ly*

I like to do so by asking them what color their nipples are.

Pinkish, with the occasional brown and even more occasional grey hair.

And yours?

What, you're not even gonna buy me a drink first?

My nipples are two visibly different sizes. One stands up in the cold, one dosen't. This baffles many upon first encounter.

Fes, that's probably the most literary way of saying, "yeah, sucks don't it?" that I've ever read.

*bows low to Cyrano*

*looks over to cowboy_sally, eventually meeting her eyes*

Whaddya have, doll? :D

weirdest thing i can think of at the moment (i really should start writing this down, a la cowboy sally).

i was in alaska playing pool at the red onion saloon (gold rush brothel). this guy, around 50ish, owner of one of the local restaurants (but i'd never seen him before) came in very messily drunk. he obviously wanted to start shit with someone, and he chose me. first, he decided i wasn't taking the pool game seriously enough. i wasn't even playing against him! anyway, he made a few remarks, and then suddenly pointed at me and started saying "beulah! beulah! you're the wicked witch!" and other randomly strange things which i don't remember. i found it a little disconcerting. not the witch part, obviously, but the beulah part. my friend phillip told him to leave & calm down (yeah, that always works, doesn't it?), then this guy started a figh that ended up with a couple of burly men holding him down and calling his wife to come pick him up.

people get drunk in alaska in a quite spectacular way.

the best part is that when phillip took a cross country trip later that year, he drove 45 minutes out of his way to get to beulah, north dakota in order to get me the local paper. isn't that sweet?

Stay away from my man or it's toad-city for you, Red.

Whaddya have, doll? :D

Not telling! I suppose now's as good a time as any to start feigning modesty/propriety.

Actually, fes, you could probably just ask around. I did come in second in a wet t-shirt contest my freshman year in college. Perhaps there's photos floating around somewhere.

And I'm still trying to think of the weirdest thing anyone's ever said to me.

Once I was at this SUPER redneck bar, this windowless hole of a place listening to my boyfriend's craptacular band, when all of the sudden this slimy, country-ass motherfucker sort of half-whispers in my ear: "You're the snakefish, man. Snakefish."

That was fucked up.

One weird thing that not many people know about me (except for readymade, i drunkenly spilled the beans):

I placed 3rd in State for discus when I was 12.*

*It is true that not many 12 year-old girls are throwing the discus in the first place

At last! The return of the snakefish. All of us rednecks have been wondering when she'd be reincarnated.

You know what this means? You're Patsy Cline.

Some guy back in the early nineties, in a dump called the Villa, which was a professional drinkers bar by day and a metal bar by night, kept insisting he was the Unabomber (this was pre-capture). He did look a lot like the police composite.

This is the same bar where Lisa got bit by a spider, and where I once saw this little dude drink a succession of drinks, let his head fall against his table, then unceremoniously barf all over the floor. After being led out by the bouncers, 5 minutes later come back and attempt to order another.

It's also where I took pips on our first official date. I'm so fuckin' smooth.

I once had a stranger come up to me and a bar and say, "you know, when you smile your ears kinda move like Yoda's."

Which is probably the strangest non-heat-of-passion thing anyone has ever said to me.

Aw, crap, I can't believe I forgot my favorite Scotland story....apologies if this gets a bit long.

Summer of 98 a friend of mine and I while studying abroad in London decide to go for a weekend jaunt to Glasgow. Once getting there we find a hostel that was full. They let us crash in the rec room on some couches for a vastly reduced rate, something we were more than happy to do. We unload our shit and head out to find a pub to hang out at. We wound up close to the University of Glasgow at some place with a beer and lasagna special and, deciding that we were hungry and thirsty, we decided to pop in for a nip or two.

Several hours later, magnificently tanked, we decide it's probably time to head back to the hostel to crash. Upon wondering outside and looking around we happen to notice that we have no idea where the fuck our hostel is. The only thing I remember is that there was a very pretty steeple nearby. There are roughly 6,723 lovely steeples in Glasgow. I point to one and say "I think that one's it". Dave points to a different one and says "I think we're that way".

Approximately two and a half hours later after what should've been about a 20-30 minute walk, we finally find the hostel and crash on the couches.

In the morning, I wake up with a pounding headache. Shit, shower, and shave later I head downstairs to the main desk to find out where I can buy some smokes, since we were dead dry on them. The 40-ish portly native at the desk offered me one of his. We sat on the couch watching MTV (which is fucking horrid over there, btw) smoking his shitty cigarettes while I'm waiting for Dave to get his happy ass out of bed. The conversation went something like this:

Hostel Guy (HG): "You're one of the guys that stayed in the rec room, right?"

Me: "Huh? Yeah, that's right."

HG: "It's much better there. In the normal rooms (which held 8-10 people, IIRC) you never know when you're going to get home and here some guy shagging a lass. Then you're stuck all alone with a hard-on trying to get to sleep."

Me: (awkwardly) "heh."

about three silent minutes go by as HG offers me another smoke.

HG: "You know, I shagged so hard last night, my balls really hurt. I don't know whether to massage them or just leave them be."

Me: thinking "Oh dear lord. Where am I?"

He went on to offer me discount passes to some club where he promised with my "good looks and American accent" that I would have no problem getting laid. Scottish people are fucking cool.

Not telling! I suppose now's as good a time as any to start feigning modesty/propriety.

I meant, what would you like to drink?

:)

I'm trying desperately to remember what the weirdest thing someone said to me was.

Only problem is, I'm the one saying the weird things.

Well, just wait until after June 6. You'll have a head full of weird things after that.

OK, I think I've finally come up with the weirdest thing anyone's ever said to me. It was my freshman year, first semester (this was prior to the wet t-shirt contest, for those of you keeping score at home), and it was Sat. night. I was leaving one party and heading to another when I ran into some grad students I knew. One of them was a guy with whom I had French class but had never once spoken to. I sat on a bench with them and we chatted and shared some sort of alcohol.

The guy from my French class (Marc was his name, I think) kept looking at me nervously. Finally he asked if he could have a word with me, privately. Sure.

We stepped away from the others and he grabbed my hands and said, "Listen, I've been dying to say something to you for some time now." (Bear in mind that I'd never said anything more than "bomjour" to him.) "And, well, I know how you feel about me. No, wait, let me tell you: I am crazy about you. I can't stop thinking about you. And I know that you feel the same way."

I blinked. "Are you sure you're talking to the right person?" I asked, as politely as I could.

"Yes, yes. And I know that you feel the same way I do. But listen--it could never work."

I stared blankly. "Seriously. Are you sure you're talking to the right person? Because I don't have any clue--"

"Yes! Please, just let me get this out. I know that what we feel for each other is so powerful, but it won't work. I have a girlfriend. You have a boyfriend." (This weirded me out even more, as I was keeping that on the DL.) "So I'm sorry, baby. But it just is never going to happen between us."

Deep breath. "Well gosh, Marc--it is Marc, right?--I'm sorry you feel that way. And I'm flattered. But I really have no idea why you think..." But then I looked at him, and the look on his face was so sad and precious. I couldn't bring myself to finish delivering the dis. So I grasped his hands and said, "I guess we'll just have to keep this deep dark secret to ourselves, okay?"

He nodded solemnly, and went back to his friends on the bench. I walked away.

We never spoke again after that.

Oh, and fes, make it a Sidecar, thanks.

It's kinda sad -- after all these hours of trying to think of weird things people have said to me, all I can manage to come up with is the total stranger who walked up to me in a bar about 10 years ago, waited until he had my attention, said, "You look like a Chloe" and then walked away.

Weird, yes, but there have been so many since then. I just can't think of them.

My father is a funeral director. I grew up in a funeral home. This probably explains a lot to some of you.

Weirdest thing someone has said to me at a funeral:

We did a "charity" funeral for a murder who had led the police on a multi-state chase before he killed his hostages, his girlfriend and himself. His family was about as po as you can get, and since every funeral parlor within 200 miles refused to provide the murder with a service, my father took pity on them and provided one at his lowest possible price.

I got to work the service.

At one point during the wake, this guy's father pulled me over to the side and asked me: "What did y'all do with his private parts?" Picture me, 18 years old, trying to fathom what this drunken red faced man is asking me.

"Excuse me?" I stammered.

"His privates. I fucking know that you people take people's parts when you bury them."

"Sir," I said. "We do no such thing. In fact, I can't imagine why anyone would want to do that."

"Science." he replied and then seemed to lose track of what he was talking about. "Hey. You think I can keep some of them empty coke bottles next to the sody machine?"

"No sir." I said. "Those are for return."

He started to cry and then walked away, leaving me to feel like a shitheel.

Some other things that happpened during this wake:

1. The mother asked me to open the casket so she could "prove" he was dead to the seven year old brother. I talked her out of it.

2. The seven year old brother (7!) sat in the waiting room and CHAINSMOKED. I'm not joking.

3. The murderer's drunken brothers volunteered to dig the grave, to save a bit of money. They dug a four foot wide circular pit. We had to redig it by hand.

4. When we got to the graveside, the mother said, "I only wish grandma could be here."
"Okay," said her son, and he walked off and got into the car. He left. We waited about an hour before I walked over to the mother and asked where grandma lived. "Alabama." she said. We finished without grandma.

Sorry for the lenghth.

Hey, that's the second time today I've had to apologize for the length.

*is struck speechless*

*starts writing six feet under script for next season*

Go on, what else happened CC?

After a great deal of pondering, I have come up empty-handed. But I do have a tale that ends in, "And this is what a 67-year-old man looks like naked!" that I recalled in my journal a few months ago, so this will have to suffice.

I just reread it, and the language is stilted and cumbersome, but I'm disinclined to edit it for the likes of you monkeys. I'm lazy like that.

(The "P." in the story is the same friend I visited in New York before I met up with you big-city monkeys last Friday. A strange sort of synchronicity, since I haven't seen him in 12 years or more.)

Posted by: readymade on May 30, 2003 05:34 PM

After that story, I'm ordering us both doubles, sally. And a pair of triples for ColdChef.

You people are freaking me out.

After that story, I'm ordering us both doubles, sally. And a pair of triples for ColdChef.

You people are freaking me out.

ColdChef, that story definitely wins first place. My favorite part was the four-foot round hole. What'd they think, you was gonna bury him like a tulip?

Cold Chef good tale. Trade you a coke bottle for a heart.

Cold Chef good tale. Trade you a coke bottle for a heart.

Ok add a brain to that too...

It happened! It happened today! I have a story!

I was in the bank depositing some checks next to some largish dude on a ladder who was fixing some fluorescent lights. One of the tellers said to him, "How's it going."

He says: "Since the train accident that removed the left half of my body, I'm alright."

The teller looks blankly at him and then says, "Um. When did that happen? Are you okay?"

Once I was riding the subway with pips, RTEMT, and the Mrs. RTEMT of the moment, and I was wearing as per usual, a plaid flannel shirt. This scruffy looking dude with eyes that said "I left the planet 5 days ago," had been going over me with his eyes for a bout 10 minutes when he finally said,

"I'm staring at you cause your a geek."

I was a bit too surprised to speak. RTEMT looked at me as if to say, "Should we kick this guys ass?" Then he said, "I see you wearin a flannel motherfucker, but me, I'm goin' out to long island cause I'm a money makin motherfucker..."

He got off at Penn Station and waltzed out of my life forever.

About a week ago, I was walking up Sullivan St and this woman dressed like a college professor came bounding around the corner half mumbling/half-singing: "That's the first door, good door."

Always nice to see the first lunatic of spring.

12 years ago I was enjoying a post-meal cigarrette/coffee combo in a diner on Amsterdam Avenue when this old dude in a trenchcoat and a fedora, came up patted me on the back and said, "Your a good-lookin' boy, you should cut out those things."

The guy was a dead ringer for William Burroughs which would be intensly ironic. More likely he was just an old gay dude, which adds credence to my theory that I send out signals which jam gaydar.

I need beer.

ok, when I was newlywed and very, very broke, I tried to sell plasma at one of them-there plasma-buyin' places in downtown Albuquerque. I was turned away, because of my recent tattoo and the possiblity of hepatitis.

So I stomped out to my car in the dirt parking lot, fishing my car keys out of my purse and cursing under my breath. When I reached my Jeep, I realized I was being watched. I looked up and saw a homeless guy, filthy, snaggletoothed, with a long beard and matted brown hair.

He said, rather matter-of-factly, "I'd like to suck your butt."

I paused a second, thinking, "huh?" But when I realized he was still staring at me, I got in the car, locked up, and sped out of there. I kept checking my rearview mirror--he stood and watched me drive away until I was out of sight.

Of course, this is really only weird as a pick-up line. I wonder if it ever worked on anyone. I dare any of you to use it on your next, um, prospect.

p.s. happy birthday readymade!

About fifteen years ago, I was forced to move back home after I got kicked out of the University of Michigan. I got a job as a shop clerk at a tool and die shop, where I worked the night shift. I would get home at about 1 a.m., so TJ, with whom I shared a room, would already be asleep. Teej is not a light sleeper, so I could usually put on a small lamp and read. One night at about 3 a.m., he bolted straight up from bed, his eyes unnervingly wide open, and bellowed at me in a voice dripping with sarcasm and malice, "Thanks a lot for stealing my fish!" Before I had the chance to say "Wha?," he had collapsed back into a pile of snoring teenager.

9622 net: Thanks a lot for stealing my fish!

As someone who grew up sharing a room with a zombie little sister, I feel validated. Thanks, Mars Crash.

What's the weirdest thing anyone has ever said to you?

I think it'd have been when someone compared me to a peptic ulcer.

Heh. It was said with love. But of course you know that.

Posted by: readymade on June 1, 2003 12:54 PM

But of course. (Hey, I don't get called "smooth and crafty" that often...I'm enjoying it while it lasts.)

*surfaces*

Happy (belated) birthday, Readymade!

*sinks*

have i already told this story? maybe. but lucky you. you get to hear it again:

i was walking to work one day, probably a little hungover, but at the very least rather oblivious to my surroundings when i hear a plaintive "Sir, Sir?!?" from behind me.

I get this all the time around where I live, and it's always some guy asking for cigarettes or change, or even worse, the guy who wants to tell me his life story before he asks for cigarettes or change. usually anyone calling you "Sir" isn't asking for directions -- they're kissing your ass because they're hoping you'll give them a quarter (and when you don't, of course, your salutation changes to "motherfucker") .

so i kept walking, but this guy keeps saying "Sir?", so finally I turn around, and I'm fairly shocked to find that the guy with the whiny voice is some tall balding suit with glasses.

I'm momentarily speechless, because I was preparing to have to brush off another beggar, and in this moment where i'm coming to terms with the fact that this guy probably isn't going to ask me for a buck and that well, maybe he needs directions, and man, i'm an asshole for ignoring people who need help, the guy says :

"Sir, do you know where I can buy some pornography?"

now I'm totally speechless, because the porno shops literally line the street around where i live -- there's at least 3 on my block, and another 3 strip clubs.

i manage to sputter "Uh, go down to sixth street. There's all sorts of shops down there" and point north.

The guy nods, says "thanks" and heads off in the direction i pointed.

anyhow. i guess i look like a pervert. which is probably why i do so well with the ladies.

Ah, the illustrious ichthyophile surfaces with a gem from SF. Come up for air more often, fair fucker of fishes! We miss you!

Posted by: readymade on June 2, 2003 01:09 PM

Apprently he's been busy connecting men with their pornography.

I sense a reality show, with fishfucker as host! A lonely man with 24 different porn magazines. Each week, he eliminates one.

Hot Betta Action! These salty freshwaters will make your gills green with envy. Bring your tartar sauce and dill and join in!

The day the my friend Jeff and I were to get our first tattoos, we stopped for pizza and found ourselves late for our appointment. So we start trucking our asses across Budapest, trying to get to the shop before its too late. Now, the subways in Budapest are pretty choked with beggars, so you go into this mode where you turn away anyone who says anything to you.

Witness Jeff and I half-running through the Metro station, hearing a beautiful girl with three others say in a heavy Czech accent, "Do you know where we could find a szexy shop?", us rushing striahgt by, getting on the escalator, and then Jeff exclaiming, "WHAT IN GOD'S NAME DID WE JUST DO???"

I'm pretty sure Jeff still kicks himself over that one.

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