I understand that the past few posts have been kinda emo and may give you reason to suspect that daddy was a big, hairy girlscout back in the day. So I figured I'd change the tone a bit with a few quick stories about my ass. Because nothing redeems one's reputation for masculine levelheadedness like a good ass story.
Story 1: The Real Reason Daddy Can Never Be President
My college roommate, the guy you call uncle Mickey? Total prick. Oh sure, he seems like an OK guy when he's giving you dollar bills for fetching him beer, but don't let him fool you. Prick prick prick. The fact that he keeps calling you Evan should give you a pretty clear idea of what I'm talking about.
When we were in school together uncle Mickey used to have a job working for one of the hotter nightclubs in the area. His job was to take a sweet-ass, state-of-the-art video camera and cruise the beaches looking for beautiful people. He'd tape interviews with them, maybe throw in a few random hot bod shots and tell everyone that if they wanted to see themselves on TV, they should come to the club that night and bring all their beautiful friends. (And for this he was paid? Of all the jobs I held during college, I'm hard pressed to remember one where I didn't smell like a NY cabbie's ass in August by the end of my shift.) The lure worked pretty well, as apparently beautiful people are really into seeing themselves on TV.
At the time I was working the graveyard shift as a room service waiter at a hotel-casino (smellier than it sounds). My days began at about 10 p.m. when I'd wake up to get ready for work. I'd work from 11 p.m. until 7 a.m., do a little studying, head to classes, then come home and go to sleep at about 2 in the afternoon. Honestly, it more than kinda blew since I didn't get to hang out with my friends during the day, but it was really good money and I got to meet a lot of celebrities who wouldn't dare show their faces in restaurants for fear of being mobbed. For all I know, I'm the only guy from our school who ever scored a bathrobe autographed and worn by Frank Sinatra -- well, the only guy who didn't have to compromise his beliefs to get one, anyway. Big tipper, Ol' Blue Eyes. Salta da oyth.
So I had this one particular night off from work. Mickey was begging me to come to the club that night because he had shot this amazing video and I gotta see it and it will change my life and may end all disease and hunger and wars and there may be a vice-pope position in it for me if I play my cards right. Cha, whatever. Mickey knew the bartenders. He had me at cheap drinks.
Now, one of the hooks to this club was that there were televisions on every wall, spaced no more than a few inches apart, from about waist-high up to the ceiling. There literally must have been more than 500 TVs in the place. That's why Mickey's beach video worked so well there.
I walk into the club that night with our other roommate, TJ. Not a lot of people there, not a lot going on. I scan the room looking for Mickey and finally see him up in the DJ booth. He's pointing wildly all around him at the TV screens, which at the time were playing the head sucking scene from Videodrome. He looks down and appears to be playing with some kind of switch. The screens turn black for a second and the music stops. Then the screens brighten with a new scene. Hand-held, kinda shaky, obviously not Videodrome. It looks like this was taken in somebody's house. Familiar. I've been here before. Wait, that's our house. The "Hotel California," in beautiful Marvin Gardens. Cool. I watch as the camera heads upstairs. The audio track, now being pumped full-volume over the club's impressive sound system, is what sounds like at least 2 guys whispering and giggling. Sounds like Mickey and another roommate, Matt. They're at the top of the stairs. There's my bedroom. Why are they heading toward my bedroom? They're opening my door. Why are they opening my door? Hey, there I am sleeping on my bed. On my side, relaxed fetal position. Hey, there's my ass. Hey, I sleep uncovered and in the nude and there's my ass. On TV. No, on 500 TVs. In a bar where there may be people who know me. Everybody in the club -- patrons, managers, bartenders, cooks peeking out from the kitchen -- are laughing hysterically. The volume from their collective laughter seems disproportionately high considering the number of people responsible for it. Me? I'm paralyzed -- too numb to feel TJ's arm around me as he leans in to whisper, "I had nothing to do with this, man." No matter. You're still a dead man, jerkoff. As soon as I can move my legs again I'm gonna bury one or both of my feet in your ass.
The camera swings around to my face. The camera operators are having a hard time suppressing their laughter, but are apparently quiet enough to not wake me. I'm really a sound sleeper, eh? Quite cherubic and innocent, too, in the frames that feature my face. The camera moves back to my ass. Zoom in. Zoom out. Zoom WAY in. Mercifully, my nads are hidden between my legs. Slow pan back to the face. Zoom in. Zoom out. Zoom WAY in. I can hear Matt on the videotape asking the sleeping me if the camera smells funny. Then one more shot of my ass annnnnnnnd SCENE! The screen goes dark. The houselights come up. Mickey grabs the DJ's mic and says something like, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a movie star in the audience tonight. Ed, take a bow."
Now, some folks say that videotape was overwritten. Some say it sits in a vault somewhere in a warehouse in New Jersey. Some say it's in the remote corner of the basement in an ancient Italian church being guarded by the Knights Templar. All I know -- all I CARE about -- is that it's not on youtube. Not yet.
Stay tuned for Story 2: La Isla Moon Hairies
"Doin' the butt. Hey. Sexy, sexy. Ain't nothing wrong if you wanna do the butt all night long." -- E.U.
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