This week I am in Amsterdam, Netherlands for a work convention.  The convention is being held at the Radisson (SAS) at Rusland 17 NL-1012 CK Amsterdam, Netherlands.  Pretty nice hotel, but too bad their breakfast buffet is from 6 a.m. – 10:30 a.m.  Last night, I didn’t even get to bed until 5 a.m. – gimme a break, Dutchies!

Radisson (SAS) - Amsterdam, Netherlands

In any case, at the end of last night’s festivities, a big group of us came back to the hotel.  There is a hotel bar that was still serving everyone drinks past 4 a.m.  I was drinking with a few people, and then my buddy Svenn (who is from Amsterdam) started asking me some questions about this chick I was flirting with.

Svenn: Are you sleeping with this girl?

RMTC: No, man.  She’s really cute, but she’s married.

Svenn: In Netherlands, we have a saying…

All things can be destroyed.

…KABLOOM!…

A few days ago, I was out with my cousin, at one of her coworker’s birthday parties.  When we were done with that party at ONE Sunset in West Hollywood, we met up with some of my friends.  Among these friends was a new person – a French girl.  For the sake of easy naming, we will call her “French Whore.”  I have met French people people; I’ve even met a French girl or two before, so it’s not like this was my first rodeo.

What I mean, of course, is that this is not my first experience with a French person I hated.  The French have a pretty solid knack for being hated by me.

France Sucks

From what I hear, I am not the only person that hates the French.  You would think this stigma would find its way to France, and they would have a town meeting – do they like being hated?

So we meet up with my friends and the French Whore, and everything is groovy.  It is getting close to last call at the bar, and my cousin was getting tired.  I drop her off, and then the rest of us (French Whore included) decide to go get some late-night grub.  As I am driving, French Whore introduces me to surprise number one – she throws a glass beer bottle out of my window.  Maybe in some shitty, backwards ass countries (read: France), this kind of practice is acceptable, but in the beautiful U.S. of A., we don’t do that.

When I turn off the music, and ask what that was, I am greeted with a stroke of genius out of French Whore…

Don’t worry about it.

Well shit…thanks for putting me at ease.  Since French Whore tells me not to worry about it, who am I to dare worry?  OK.  We get to the restaurant, and take our seat.  I would say everything was going fine at this point.

Everyone is having a good time, we are being loud and obnoxious, and get our drink order in.  I try to talk to French Whore, which was obviously a bad move.  As I try to talk to her, she turns her head away from me, and puts her hand up to her head to “block me out” and avoid my questions.  I am not exactly the nicest guy in the world, but even I know rude when I see rude.  French Whore clearly thought her title was French Princess, and not French Whore.  As much as I wanted to give French Whore a piece of my mind, I bit my lip for the greater good.

We get to the food-ordering portion of our adventure, which goes pretty smoothly.  Until French Whore orders, of course.  You know, at this point, just about anything French Whore said or did bothered me, so I might not be looking at this with unclouded eyes.  That being said…SHE FUCKING ORDERS FRENCH FRIES.

We get it – we know you are French - good for you, chief.  But to say you want to eat, and then only to order fries?  French fries, of course, means she’s supporting her country, right?  Why didn’t she order freedom fries?!

Fuck you, France

Several minutes after we order our food, French Whore decides she wants cigarettes.  What this means, of course, is that her freedom fries will get to the table before she does, and thus I will have to endure her company well-after I am done with my meal.  On top of that, as to be expected, she eats as fast as John McCain could bust a nut in his wife’s ass.

Finally, French Whore (with the help of my friends) polishes off her freedom fries.  We are ready to leave, and I make sure we blow this Popsicle stand lickity split.  Luckily, all I have to do is drop everyone off at The Good Reverend’s car, and no longer have to experience French Whore.

Think that’s it?  Wrong.

After The Good Reverend drops people off at their respective cars, I meet up with him for a late-night movie.  I need to grab something out of my back seat, and notice an unfamiliar sight.  There lies an open glass bottle of Corona.  Where do you suppose it was?  That’s right, exactly where French Whore was sitting.

I suppose I forgot to take down my “Trash Here!” sign, above my car.  My mistake.  Fucking whore.

From time-to-time, I think about some of my former coworkers I have had in my day.  For the most part, it is because I have run out of material to masturbate to, but other times it is just a morbid curiosity of the “what ever happened to X” variety.  Where do these former coworkers go?  Do they end up with better jobs?  Maybe one died?  Occasionally, if you are lucky, you have the luxury of finding out first-hand.

When I went to see Appaloosa, the other day, I was able to find out what happened to one of my fallen brothers. This guy used to be a video editor for us, and now he is working as a cashier at the Arc Light theaters in Sherman Oaks, CA.  To say either job is glamorous would certainly be a stretch, but moving from an office setting to dealing with the public must have been one hell of a transition.

Not trying to put the guy down at all – just thinking about what could possibly happen to anyone else I know, let alone my faimly or myself.  I would imagine the pussy-acquiring portion of someone’s life goes down with that kind of change as well, which is both literally & figuratively a kick in the pants.

Then you could have a situation where “the Bobs” interview people, and see what it is they do.  Maybe they are an unnecessary liason between the engineers and the customers?  Maybe they just collect a check by accident, long enough to burn down the fucking building?

It just goes to show you that you should always be on your toes, sleep with both eyes open, or have your Louisville Slugger within arm’s reach if someone wants to go ape shit.

Beyond that though, we all have several hundred (if not thousand) former coworkers.  These could be people we liked, or hated; people we shared stories, good times and lunch with, or people we shared dirty looks, and awkward silences with.  In any case…they were there…where the fuck are they now?  They have one of those former classmate sites…where is the site for former coworkers?

Another thing that comes up…what do you do if you have them on your Myspace, Facebook, etc?  Are those insta-deletes, or do you just keep them there for the convenience of avoiding confrontation ?  This is obviously the super-pussy way to do things, but it is often much easier than explaining.

Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce you to my latest stroll down cock block lane. I was out with The Good Reverend, along with some other friends, at the Springbok Bar & Grill.  As is commonplace with a night out at Springbok, I was most definitely drunk and having a groovy time.  We had a nice spot outside on the patio, at a table with just our friends.

I am normally a social butterfly, so as the evening progresses, and I get more fueled with liquid courage, and a good story is bound to unfold.  This night did not disappoint.  Enter ’50s updo hair.

I am a sucker for everything ’50s-related.  I really enjoy the styles, clothing, and hairdos from the 1950s era.  It is so unique, classy and sexy.

We are all having a good time; I’m minding my own business, and staying out of trouble.  In comes trouble.  A cute girl with dirty blonde hair, in a ’50s style updo strolls in with some of her friends (who are also cute, but they have not caught my eye yet).  Her hair was similar to the girl to the right, except instead of having both sides go back into a ponytail, her hair just went down at the sides.  Needless to say, I am digging this girl’s style, and eventually the urge to let her know takes over.  My bladder starts tingling, and gives me the sign that I need to hit the John.  Perfect opportunity to talk to the  dame with the ’50s updo, who will later be named “Cock Block Cunt” (CBC).

So I handle my business, and walk by the group of cute girls, who are plunked down next to the juke box.  I compliment CBC, letting her know how much I dig that style of hair, and that it looks great on her.  This creates a good in with the other friends, as I find out that CBC just had her second baby, and this is her first time hanging out in nearly two years.  I plant my first seed here, and mention that they should come sit with us, if they plan on going outside.

Three of the girls go outside (CBC being one of them), and they start chatting away.  But they are not sitting with us…well…obviously my 8th cumulative shot of vodka is not going to let that go without a fight, so I walk over and chat them up for a second time.  This time around, my attention is focused on Kristin, who is somewhat tomboyish, but certainly cute and fun.  Kristin is a few years older than me, but she does not look it.  Within a few minutes, she’s laughing at my dumb jokes, and we have some solid rapport going.  The girls go back inside.

It’s time to visit the bar, for another screwdriver…

Yummy

As I approach the bar, i give Krstin a cute little bump, and ask her what she wants to drink.  She gets back to me with “two car bombs.”  So I order up 3 Irish Car Bombs, and my next screwdriver, of course.  It is now Mandy, Kristin and I having the car bombs.  I did not really take note of Mandy up until now.  This girl was the cutest of the three, and she had some bombs herself…in the form of deliciously-large breasts.  My oh my.

Now I am about 20 minutes invested, time-wise, and 2 drinks down, but at least I found the chick that fits me.  My field of study narrows, and I focus my studying on Mandy.  It takes about 4 seconds to coerce Mandy and Kristin to come sit outside with us.  It is also worthy to note that of both times going to Springbok, this was the first time I found a chick that was right up my alley – not terrible odds, given that I am fairly picky, and know exactly what I want, and hate to deviate.

Everyone is introduced to M & K, and I start chatting Mandy up pretty heavy.  I am laying on the charm thick; she’s laughing, having a good time, and opening up to me.  All is going as planned.  We even get to the point where she tells me she teaches kids how to swim, to which I mention I don’t know how to swim, and she immediately offers to teach me (“…you should get one of my cards…it has my number on it, and it is in the car…”).  Everything is going well…maybe too well…

Cock Blocking in 2008?

Say it ain't so...

Kristin gets up, and goes back inside…she is then replaced by CBC.  Little do I know what will happen next.  Within a matter of minutes, CBC realizes how well Mandy and I are hitting it off, and decides to show off the lost art of cock blocking.  She was masterful.  She was swift.  She was precise.  CBC, my friends, was truly a master of her domain.

For starters, CBC waits until there is a lull in conversation between Mandy and I, then talks to her about some asinine female subject I cannot comment on.  Good for you, CBC.  Little does CBC know, I am not going down without a fight.  Little do I know, I don’t stand a chance.

At this point, I understand my time is limited, so I go for the jugular.  I let Mandy know that I need to see her again, and that she would have a great time, blah blah blah.  For some reason, Mandy starts passively back-peddling, which is really odd considering how well the evening went prior.  It was either something I said in the five minutes prior to this point, or the change to CBC instead of Kristen at the table.  In any cases, I keep on keepin’ on, until CBC drops the hammer…

Mandy has a live-in boyfriend.

I am down, but I don’t feel out.  In my mind, had this really been a relevant issue, Mandy would have brought him up in any of the prior 40 minutes I was charming her pants off.  My thought, after finding this out, is that she’s just looking for a replacement.  Assuming my gauge wasn’t super off, I was expecting to still exchange numbers with Mandy, and eventually play with those massive breasts of hers.  My oh my.

CBC made sure I was wrong.  Now CBC says something to the affect of…”Mandy is such a sweetheart, and she would never be able to tell you herself…but this is not the right time for her.  She is in a serious relationship…” blah blah blah.  I guess there was some truth to it, or Mandy was simply not diggin’ the RMTC-look.

In any case…thank you once again, cock block cunt, for making sure Mandy and her delicious breasts were out of harm’s way.  Fucking cunt.

This story is brought to you by The Good Reverend.  What I experienced that day is not for the faint of heart…keep that in mind before you read on…

We had a number of odd or unsettling people who worked with us on the graveyard shift, and with them came many stories of incest, shame and plenty of shenanigans.  Little did I know that one of those stories would bring the worst visualization I have ever been exposed to; its lasting affects have completely ruined two of America’s favorite food and drink items – chicken and apple juice.

It started out just like any other lunch time…some people left to their local fast food joint for a burger, some brought their own food, some broke out their 20-sided die and fake plastic swords.  I, for one, went to my local Subway for a delicious foot-long treat (non-homo).  When I returned, I was greeted by the sight of one of our larger co-workers, who decided to visit the local super market for a bounty of flavor.  When she sat down and situated herself, before her sat two items…a large bottle of apple juice and an entire rotisserie chicken.

Bounty of Flavor

Many of us had our doubts that she would be able to complete this meal of epic proportions, but my god, we were wrong…dead fucking wrong.  She made a mockery of the chicken; it was a tornado of fingers, grease and teeth.  After 10 minutes of shame and hate, all that was left was the skeletal remains of a chicken with small bits of meat still connected to the harder-to-reach areas.

To wash down this spoil of poultry?  Nothing but 24 ounces of sweet sweet apple juice.

Before all of the apple juice could be put to use, however, disaster struck and our friend was called away to do ungodly things in the restroom (talking about poop).  What came next has stayed with me to this day.

From across the room, I heard a combination of laughing and gagging I had never heard before.  Normally, you would hear a sound like this if you were stuck in an elevator, you really liked fart jokes, and another person in the elevator just sat there for half an hour farting – over and over – until the smell was enough to make you light-headed.  Not one to be left in the dark, I went over to check out what the deal was.  I was greeted by an awful site.

Imagine if you will, a bottle of half-drunken apple juice, and on top of said apple juice…

…A thin layer of little bits of chicken, half-chewed chicken…mixed in with the half-chewed little bits of chicken, are larger chunks of half-chewed chicken…

Poor Chicken

To this day, I cannot think of those two delicious items in the same place at the same time.  Apart they are fine…together, I vomit.

- The Good Reverend

You may know what this blog will be about, after reading the title.  If you do, you are certainly blessed.  If you don’t, however, you are still blessed for having stumbled upon my blog.  Now you will know the secret…now you will experience the pleasure.

What pleasure, you might wonder.  Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.  I’ll give you what you need, and when you need it.  What you need now is to find out about the most interesting man in the world, and when you need to find out is…now.

Dos Equis, a Mexican beer company, has been running a commercial series for the last couple of years, featuring a Latin man, of no modest background.  His list of accomplishments and abilities is longer than a wait at the DMV with no appointment.  Needless to say, every commercial is pure shenanigans.  Beautiful, unadulterated shenanigans.  So that you smell exactly what I’m cookin’, have a gander for yourself:

The character, portrayed in this commercial series, is played by Jonathan Goldsmith.  Will Lyman, of Frontline fame, is the sexy narrator.  After doing about 16 seconds of research, I also found out that there is a site dedicated to more shenanigans, but it is not nearly as funny or entertaining as the commercial series.  Check it out, but be forewarned that it is lame, borderline stupid.

If you recall, last week, I went on and on about how much Righteous Kill sucked.  So I got to thinking – could adding this character, into the movie, make it at least watchable?  Probably not.  I mean…seriously…Righteous Kill sucked some mean donkey dick.  Adding the most interesting man in the world would not make it worth the price of admission, even if you threw in a hand job from the hottest tranny hooker in the world.

This is probably my favorite commercial series of all time, which is not saying a whole lot, since most commercials are pretty pathetic.  I would have loved to have seen these commercials playing while Sports Night was on the air though.  Had they not canceled Sports Night, with these commercials running concurrently…shit…that might have made a compelling argument for me to keep watching television.

When you go through the Express Checkout lane, there are some assumed facts.  Some of these assumed facts include: X amount of items or less, you want to get the fuck out of there ASAP, and you don’t pay BY MOTHERFUCKING CHECK.

Who, in their right mind, uses checks nowadays anyhow?  WHO?!  How fucking dare you use a check for anything but rent?!  I am really sorry that you can’t manage your money with simple online banking, or Quicken, but give me a fucking break.  Is this the stone age or something?

Cavemen use Checks

So I plan on taking a short lunch break, and head over to my local Albertson’s to pick up some grub.  In about 3 and a half minutes, I am done with my shopping experience, and ready to hand the corporation my hard-earned duckets.  I take my leisurely stroll over to the checkout area, and notice I have two options in front of me – 1.) Self-Checkout, which can be a bit finicky, or 2.) Express Checkout, with cute cashier.

Well, ladies and germs, this is a pretty easy toss-up.  Obviously I am swayed instantly by cute cashier, so I strut over to her lane.  The lady that she is helping has already had her items scanned (all 4 of them), and the dude behind her (and in front of me) has well over the allotted 15 items or less.  But no worries, I have faith.

Low and behold, the whore at the front of the line pulls out her fucking checkbook.  At this point, I am

thinking that maybe she just has what appears to be a checkbook, but it is really just one of those female wallets, and she will slide that shit, son.  Slide that beautiful plastic-y goodness through that 30-second approval process.  So I stand there patiently, thinking the potential nightmare will be avoided by common practice.

Fuck was I wrong.  Sure as my dick is small, she pulls out a check.  Do you even understand what I just said?  She is paying for 4 items, in the Express Checkout lane, with a check.  I am no English major, but when I hear “express” I immediately think fast, and I certainly don’t ever think paying by check.  For instance – you get an express handjob…don’t expect to get teased.  The lube flies the fuck out, and that dick is RAW because of how fast it is being pumped.  Fucking RAW – you hear me?  RAW.

What should be a quick turn-around has now turned into a 6-minute fiasco.  Is it really 2008 where someone thinks it is appropriate to pay by check?  Maybe I am over-reacting, but paying by check, in my mind, is un-American.

As I embark on round two of college, I have been feeling a lot more spry.  I am not sure if it is just that time of year, that my birthday is coming up in a couple weeks, or that I am now staring at a lot more cute, little Betties all-of-a-sudden.  I mean, who does not like a hot college girl, am I right?

I have definitely noticed it has been getting more and more intense over the last few weeks.  It’s not like my dick is bursting through my pants (well, shorts), but I can’t stop talking to anything with a vagina that walks by me.

Tall, short, thin, fat, big tits, small tits, nice ass, no ass, long legs, tree trunks, white, black, yellow, brown, speaks English, can’t spell “English,” likes boys, likes girls, likes dogs, smells good, needs to shower, old, young, rich, poor, hot, ugly…whatever.  My filter must be on the fritz, because my libido is going nuts.

It does not help that I am normally a pretty social creature, but you add in the fact that I am around all these new souls, and I am a wrecking machine.  In the past two weeks, I would guess that I have struck up conversations with 50+ random girls, only asked out about 5 of them (I guess when they start talking, my brain takes over), and got 1 phone number.

Law of averages: the more girls I talk to, the more likely one of them will be foolish enough to like my dumb jokes and poor taste in clothing.  This ridiculous adventure is most certainly shenanigans at it’s finest.

My buddy Tim is a sage:

As a whole, all females born after 1980 are whores, and those born before are OLD whores.

This is the sort of sage wisdom you look for your entire life, and maybe never find it.  Friends, enemies, lovers, haters…you can all use this wisdom, now and in the future.  Now don’t think this is a post to condone misogyny, but on the contrary, this is to show devotion to all female-kind.

We understand that all females are whores, and men show their complete and utter devotion to that end every day.  Men are whores just the same, but much less pretty.  And soft.  And curvy.  And breasts.  OK, that last one didn’t make too much sense, but who does not like a good pair of breasts?

To get the other side of the story, you should pick up The Wisdom of Whores.

I decided today that my least favorite part of college is having to pay for classes. Which makes Gonorrhea a very close second. I know I shouldn’t bitch, since I go to a community college now, and the tuition is less than 30 minutes with an ugly, tranny hooker. But still, it is money and time.

Money is pretty self-explanatory: it is X amount of dollars per units, so you just multiply X by the number of units you are taking. If that does not make sense, then just know you will be multiplying some dollar amount by 5, because 5 represents the 5 units of remedial math you will be taking, shit-for-brains.

The time part, however, is not quite as obvious. Most established colleges/porn sites, allow you to pay for everything on their website. Heaven forbid my community college allow that.  Assholes.

So like the lazy, dumbass I am, I wait until the day before they start enforcing the parking permits, to go pay for my classes. The reason this is significant is because in order to purchase a parking permit, you have to pay for your classes first. And in order not to walk a mile plus to get to your class, you have to park on campus, which requires a parking permit as of the second week of school. Sneaky bastards they are. But it makes perfect sense – why would they just sell you the permit?

What this means (OF COURSE!), is that there are a bunch of other lazy, dumbasses with the same plan.  Now I get to wait at the business office with 40 of my closest friends, at the line that would never end.

No need to fret though, since there were a couple good-looking Betties for me to perv at.  I looked them up-and-down for the majority of my time in the line, which made my spank bank material full for the evening’s festivities.

At least now I am done with all the administrative horseshit that goes along with taking classes.  Now comes the – not studying, missing class, forgetting to do assignements, and chasing tail – parts of college.  Sweet!