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.:[Thursday, June 16, 2005]:.
Ben and Budweiser: A Love Story
You wouldn’t know it from listening to Bethany, but until a couple of weeks ago I was dating a very, nice, normal girl. Now, some might argue that the girl couldn’t have been that normal if she was going out with me, but you’ll have to take my word for it. Besides, she was mostly dating me because of the Nepalese mind-control trick I learned from Jangbu, the Sherpa who lives in my backyard.
That leaves me with the one girl who will never leave me: Budweiser. Like dating a fat chick, the beer snobs will turn up their nose at my one true love… “Why’s American beer like making love in a canoe? Because it’s fucking near water.” Ha ha, indeed, beer snobs.
They just say that because they don’t know you the way I do, baby. Budweiser, sweetie, I love you. Remember that time at Barbara’s apartment when we stole $200 from those people at the pool and went and bought a bunch of vibrators with it? You don’t? Well, I do… sort of. That was fun, except having to hide from those people the next day. And how about that time we were spending time together and I passed out in the snow and woke up in that crack house? Remember? And I was stuck there for 18 hours and spent my whole paycheck on crack? Wasn’t that a blast? Yeah… you’re right. That kinda sucked, actually.
But as much as I’d like to, I don’t know, go crap in my ex-girlfriend’s bushes or tell her I have herpes or something, the mature and cool head tells me that’s not an appropriate way to behave. So what is the best revenge? Well, let’s turn to Google. Robert Friedman of the St. Petersburgh Times says that a living will is the best revenge. According to PBS, IMac’s are the best revenge. And according to The Baseball Page, blown saves are the best revenge. And at Salon, they say that perverse pleasure and kinky sex is the best revenge. That’s the kind of advice you get, though, if you turn to Google for the answers to your problems. But here , it says that living well is the best revenge. Hmm… and I thought asking Google for advice would result in less cryptic answers than asking my Dad. Maybe not.
So I must move on. Of course, I’m dealing with the typical, post-breakup “no one will ever want me again” doldrums, and in that spirit… a list.
10 Reasons Why Some Woman will Eventually Date Me Again
1) I’ve been 86ed from several bars. Women, as much as they claim to want a forthright and straightforward man, want mystery. They want a man around whom the dark aura of the unknown swirls. “He keeps disappearing for hours at a time… is a he a superhero? Is he a heroin addict?” Could be, ladies, could be. And nothing is as darkly mysterious as being 86ed from a bar. “Texas Chili Parlor? I’m not allowed to go back there. And, frankly, I don’t blame them a bit.” What could I have possibly done? Who knows, ladies? I sure don’t. Being with me isn’t a bicycle ride, baby, you got to strap yourself in and feel the G’s.
2) I am a superlative manager of a fantasy soccer team. Okay, okay… maybe superlative is stretching it a bit. Let’s say, I’m an attentive manager of a fantasy soccer team. But listen, sweetie, this says a lot of positive things about me. It says I can deal with long term planning. It says I can handle the intricate financial details of a completely fictitious computer soccer team. It says I can handle responsibility… what do you mean, no it doesn’t? The fortunes and futures of an entire make-believe roster of players and staff rely on my confident decisions every week. Let’s have a baby!
3) I correctly predicted who would be this season’s American Idol. That’s right. When everybody was gushing about Constantine, I knew it wouldn’t last because even 13 year old girls and their 35 year old mothers think wearing eyeliner and pouting at the camera is silly. I knew Anwar and Niko wouldn’t make it, because 13 year olds and their 35 year old mothers feel threatened by negros, even if they‘re gay and about as frightening as Bryant Gumble. What does that have to do with anything? It means I know what 13 year old girls and their 35 year old mothers like. And those 35 year old mothers are what we in the Ben Business like to call “Ben’s Target Audience.”
4) I hate public displays of affection. Despite all the talk that women like a man that will hold their hand or kiss them or eat some fish tacos or whatever it is that women want men to do in public, I think women secretly want a man that will treat them like crap in front of their friends. That’s because they know that when their friends ask each other “why does she put up with that shit?” the answer, inevitably, will be “he must be good in bed.” And the only thing better than dating someone who’s good in bed is your friends thinking you’re dating someone who’s good in bed.
5) I have a criminal past. You might think that’s a strike against me… but it isn’t. Women love “bad boys.” Then why aren’t rapists the most sought-after commodity on the dating market, you ask? Well, they like non-threatening bad boys, of course. So a rape or a murder in your past, unless it’s some sort of heroic, justifiable homicide, is probably a strike against you. But a vague, nebulous sort of criminal past that you won’t ever clarify will just pique her interest. If she’s an environmentalist, she’ll think you got busted freeing lab animals. If she’s a good, righteous liberal, she’ll think you got arrested protesting the bombing of Vieques. And if she’s a cokehead, she’ll think you know where to get good blow.
6) I make a mean bowl of Ramen. It’s true. My ex-girlfriend used to say, “man, this is some really good Ramen.” The secret is in the spices. Many people are under the mistaken impression that those little flavor packets are all that’s really needed to make a decent bowl of Ramen. To them, I say, you truly have an uneducated palate. A true Ramen connoisseur finds the salt and MSG content of those little flavor packets completely insufficient for true Ramen enjoyment. That’s why I have a range of salt and MSG ridden spices with which to add that certain flair to my Ramen dishes, from the basic chili powder to the more sophisticated Jamaican Jerk seasoning. The true art, though, lies in picking the proper beer to go with the dish… Red Stripe, of course, for Ramen Jamaican Jerk Chicken, or Dos Equis for the “south of the border” Beef Ramen with Taco Seasoning.
7) I’m a wreck and need somebody to take care of me. Somebody needs to do my laundry. I need to be reminded to take my medication. I’ll absent-mindedly do things which show mind-numbingly bad judgment or shockingly poor taste. However, every woman knows that a man that seems to have his act together is hiding something. Like a dead hooker under his bed, probably. They also know the satisfaction involved in seeing improvements in their man as their repeated nagging finally sinks through his stupid, thick skull. Remember, ladies, you have reason to be proud when your hard work pays off!
8) I have a long track record of fractured, bizarre relationships with women. They say that every woman wants a man just like dear old Dad. Well, as many women as there are out there, I’m sure there’s got to be a substantial portion that have fathers that nurse along a string of unstable, volatile relationships with completely unsuitable women fraught with furniture-breaking fights which only pause long enough for chaotic, angry sex. To those women I say: “I’m just like your Dad.”
Oh, also, to those women, I say: “I might be your Dad.”
9) I’m ridiculously bad at managing money. F. Scott Fitzgerald was one of the finest writers of the 20th century. He wrote books that are rich with symbolism and served to immortalize an American age. His books made him moderate wealth, but with his drinking and his wife’s going insane, he ended his life impecuniously, cowriting scripts for Hollywood movie houses for which he wasn’t credited. Nothing personifies the romance and promise of the American dream like being well off and then suddenly lurching headlong into the gutter. And any woman who shares her life with me can be a part of that dream.
10) I have an enormous cock. Okay, you knew that was coming eventually, don’t act so surprised. The question is, how to make this fact known before you’ve “closed the deal,” so to speak? Studied nonchalance and crafty use of props, of course. Leave penile reduction brochures scattered across the coffee table or on the desk at work. “Accidentally” let Trojan Magnums fall out of your pocket at convenient times. It’s all about presentation, baby.
There you have it. See, you can’t let a breakup get you down… you have to look at the positive side of things.
| a BEN production by me at 1:32 PM
.:[Saturday, June 04, 2005]:.
So I Went to Jail...
Okay, okay, so I said I was going to post this a month or so ago, and I didn't. You know why? Because I was totally banging Janet Reno in the ass. For a month straight. Dick Morris taped it.
Anyway, I was going up to Fort Worth a couple of months ago, minding my business. Me and the dog were doing fat rails of coke off the armrest while an underage Haitian hooker fellated me from the floorboard and I tried to figure out how to file the serial numbers off this stolen sawed-off shotgun I'd bought from Jenna Bush.
Okay, that's not what happened. But really, when you're telling a story about going to jail, you want to sound notorious. A good jail story includes the commission of a major felony or at least an amusing case of mistaken identity involving a series of unsolved rapes, a bottle of Rohypnol in the glovebox, and that pair of handcuffs you keep under the driver's seat.
Well, my story doesn't include any of that stuff. The police don't know about any of my felonies and I'm such a sissy that even passed out from Rohypnol and restrained with handcuffs most women could still whip my ass.
Anyway, about six years ago I got arrested for unpaid traffic tickets in Weatherford, Texas at 3 am on Thanksgiving. They put me in this cell in the Parker County jail with a passed out black guy (probably the only black guy in Weatherford, and he was in the jail sleeping on the floor), and the only other thing in the cell was a crossword puzzle book but no pencil. I asked the deputy for a pencil, but he told me to "get fucked," probably because he needed the jail's only pencil to figure out how many cowboy hats and belt buckles he could buy with $6.50 an hour. Let me tell you, spending three hours trying to solve crossword puzzles without a pencil is about as rewarding as dry-humping your grandmother.
That isn't the jail story, it's just background.
So I got pulled over in Johnson County on the way to Fort Worth a couple of months ago, and I was like, "Aw, crap." But this was a milestone for me. I wasn't thinking "Aw, crap" because I had warrants, or because I had weed in my pocket, or because I had a dead hooker in the bed of my pickup. I was just thinking "Aw, crap" because I was fixing to get a ticket.
But after running my license the cop asked me to get out of the car, and started asking me all sorts of questions about Weatherford, Texas. "It's a shithole" or "you can buy lots of really cheap meth there" are really the only two things you can say about Weatherford, so I was starting to get really nervous. Not nervous enough to shove the cop into oncoming traffic, but I was definitely starting to try to ascertain whether this was a "pistol whipping" sort of cop or a "pepper spraying" sort of cop.
After about 5 minutes of questions, he says, "Well, they want you in Weatherford." Now, obviously he knew that all along, and I can't help but wonder what all of the questions were for. Was he just lonely? Was he coming on to me? Was he considering moving from the Alvaredo police force to the major league of small town police forces, Weatherford, and just wanted my opinion? I just don't know. Maybe, like myself, he likes to have a little small talk before he slaps the cuffs on.
They arrested my dog, too.
The cop was a nice guy, though. He took me to the Alvaredo Police Station, let me call my mom and tell her what was going on... hell, he even let me log on to Hattrick while he asked me questions about myself. It was sort of like the series of questions you might be asked for a profile on a fetishist version of Match.com. Tattoos? Yes, the Last Supper across my ass. Scars? Well, I guess my penis is really callused from frequent masturbation, does that count? He also asked me if I have any nicknames or aliases, and I told him that my brother calls me "Scoonie" and "Poochie." I guess someday when the authorities find my bullet-riddled body outside a transsexual brothel, the news agencies can say "Ben Morris, also known as 'Scoonie' or 'Poochie' according to police records...", and all because my brother's an idiot.
Then he took me to the Johnson County jail. The cop who arrested me was pretty cool. The deputies at the jail were not. Some people may have the mistaken impression from watching the Andy Griffith Show that small-town sherriffs and deputies are kindly figures and the town jail is populated by a lovable drunk. Not so. The jail is populated with psychopaths, and the sherriffs and deputies are slightly more dangerous psychopaths.
There was this chick being processed into the jail ahead of me. She was already in the stripey uniform (yes, the Johnson County jail makes its inmates where stripey uniforms like criminals in old Looney Toon cartoons), and was being asked the standard jail check-in questions, which are like hotel check-in questions, only instead of "Smoking or non-smoking?" it's "Do you hear voices no one else can hear?" and instead of "Single or double?" it's "Consensual ass-raping or bloody ass-raping?" So they ask this chick, who was really ragged looking, if she took any medications, and she says Risperdal. They ask her what she takes it for, and she says "psychosis." Now this puts me in an awkward position. I take Risperdal. So when they're processing me in and ask me what medications I take, I say "Risperdal... but, you know, not for psychosis." In that way I made it clear to the deputies that I may take an anti-psychotic, but not for, you know, psychosis.
They gave me a stripey uniform, but after some smooth talking on my part a lady deputy told me I didn't have to put it on since someone was supposed to be bailing me out shortly. Yay, me. However, shortly thereafter a male deputy who was immune to my wily charms instructed me to put the stripey uniform on. "Oh, no, I'm not dressing out..." I said. Notice the ellipses. I include them because I was going to finish the sentence with "...because that deputy told me I didn't have to." Unfortunately, the male deputy wasn't interested in that.
"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?! YOU'LL DRESS OUT NOW OR I'LL FUCK YOUR SHIT UP!!" Notice the capital letters and the multiple exclamation points? English can be a limited means of expression sometimes. Those capital letters and exclamation points are meant to convey that the kindly male deputy delivered the above line while spitting in my face from 3 inches away, his face turning a deep red and veins and eyes bulging. My response, of course, was measured, it was calm, it was rational, and, I dare say, it was brave. "There's no reason to speak to me that way, sir. I'm supposed to be bailed out in a matter of minutes, I was told I didn't have to dress out, and unless you'd like a civil suit against the Johnson County Sheriff's Department, I'd advise you to respect my rights as a taxpayer and citizen," I said.
Ha ha... no, that's what I would have said if I wanted to get a few whacks about the ol' melon from the deputy's trusty "justice stick." No, what I actually said was "Okay, sir, I'll dress out," very quietly, while trying not to urinate on myself.
So I carried my stripey uniform over to a bathroom and tried to close the door... only to find that a deputy was entering the bathroom with me. It was a very small bathroom, but I made the best of things and took off my shorts and started to pull on the stripey pants. "No," said the deputy, "underwear." Well, that's odd that they would want me to wear the stripey pants "commando," but hey, what do I know? Awkwardly, I took off my underwear and pulled the pants on. "No," said the deputy, "take those off." Well, what the fuck? I mean, they wanted me to put the uniform on, didn't they? Well, sort of.
"Turn towards me and lift your sack," said the deputy. And I was floored. Flabbergasted. Absolutely horrified.
"You want me to what?"
"Turn towards me and lift your sack."
Now I'd like to say that I refused. I'd like to say that I told him, "Let me see under your sack." I'd like to tell you, dear reader, that I, your humble narrator, put up such a struggle that it took 5 of the biggest deputies at the jail to hold me down and look under my sack. Sadly, that's not the case. After standing in shock for a few moments, imagining myself flopping around on the bathroom floor with no underwear while various deputies beat me with nightsticks and tried to look under my sack, I decided that sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.
And I tried to put the stripey pants back on again.
"No," said the deputy, "turn around and spread your cheeks."
It was horrifying. I had gone to sleep and woke up in a Dave Chapelle bit.
When I came out of the bathroom, finally, in the stripey uniform, I was infomred that my bail had been paid and I was free to go.
But I learned something that day. I learned that I hate police officers. And I learned that next time I should push the cop into traffic.
| a BEN production by me at 4:13 AM