Okay, so as some of you already know, a couple of weeks ago I just up and walked out on my job, thus turning in my resignation after five years of slavery.  Don’t get me wrong, I used to LOVE my job.  I used to be good at it.  But over the last sixteen months it had become a soul crippling prison from which I felt I might never escape, (unless I sucked on the end of a shotgun.  Sometimes, death is better.).  

 

You see, we used to be a relatively small operation that provided various services to larger corporations.  Unfortunately, as the almighty bottom line became more and more important, my x-company’s attention shifted from being employee centric, to being money centric.

 

My fellow employees and I had our 401K matching plans dissolved, our vacation times cut in half, our salaries downsized, our- ya know what?  Forget all that.  We got fucked in the ass, plain and simple, each “restructuring” increasing the size of the metaphorical penis with which we were being reamed.

 

I’m can’t really be bitter about it though, because I’ve been so happy since I quit, I wake up every morning whistling zipidy-do-da outta my butt crack.  In addition, I’m about to start a new job with none other than [Super Asskicker].  Yes, my martial arts instructor is soon to be my boss.

 

Regardless, the two weeks between the end of my former job and the start of my new job gave me the opportunity to go home to Mississippi for Thanksgiving, and so much funny shit happened that I actually had to take notes to remember it all.

 

Any necessary background info will become apparent as I write, so let’s jump right in, shall we?

 

I arrived in Greenville Mississippi on Saturday, November 20^th after an uneventful TWELVE HOUR drive from Asheville.  I usually fly home, but, given the fact that I was gonna stay for a while, I wanted to have my car with me.

 

Sunday afternoon found me and my parents doing the necessary family-type stuff, after which they went to bed… leaving me Sunday night to start the debauchery.  Said debauchery began with my good friend Chad Wicker picking me up at the house.

 

Now, I’ve mentioned Chad before in one of my other stories, but this guy REALLY deserves some elaboration, so I’m gonna do that now.  He and I have been friends since high school, and, over the fourteen years since, he’s become a master pimp lord.  I consider myself descent when it comes to the ladies, but Chad has charmed, dated or slept with every hot girl in Mississippi, including my mom. 

 

That’s CHARMED my mom, you perverts.

 

My mother actually likes Chad a lot more than she likes me, and she never misses an opportunity to gush over her “surrogate son”.  I find that not only ironic, but also hilarious since I’m a virgin choirboy compared to Chad.

 

Anyway, to give you a visual, Chad’s about six feet tall, (maybe more), with a lean build, black hair, and startlingly blue eyes.  Personality wise, he reminds me a lot of John Stewart from Comedy Central’s The Daily Show, (their facial expressions and senses of humor are IDENTICAL!).

 

Chad also claims to have a large penis… as in, he wakes up in the morning yelling, “God DAMN!!!  I can’t believe my penis is so large!!!”

 

No shit.  I crashed at his place three times, and each sunrise was heralded by said mantra.  Of course, he may have just been trying to make me feel bad about my own, not-so-large penis, but I’m not about to do the required reconnaissance to confirm.

 

(P.S. I bet my balls are bigger)

 

So Chad arrives around 8:00 on Sunday night, comes in the house, and is immediately attacked by my parents’ dog, TinTin.  Being a Pomeranian, TinTin is about the size of a football with legs, yet he BELIEVES he’s the biggest, baddest canine that ever peed on a fire hydrant.  I would LOVE to show that little shit just how small he is, (perhaps by punting his furry ass through a field goal), but my parents consider that dog their only grandchild, and I would undoubtedly be cut out of the will if I did anything mean to him, (like, say, putting him in the microwave… which has occurred to me on numerous occasions).

 

Chad survived the attack by shrieking like a bitch and jumping into my arms, at which point I carried him outside to the safety of his car. 

 

Once away from my benevolent parents and their contrastingly evil dog, we drove to this small Mexican restaurant called El Charo to meet up with another friend of mine, Alan Gillum, and two chicks we’re gonna call Tits Finnegan and Weepy McBitch, (for reasons that will become BLARINGLY apparent as this story goes on).  Both were attractive, but I was soon to learn that Alan and Tits were on a sorta/kinda date, and that Weepy McBitch had sorta/kinda been allotted to Chad. 

 

Normally I don’t mind being the fifth wheel, but, since I was sober- and had not yet adjusted my rapier wit to the appropriate “Mississippi Level”- I felt a little out of place.

 

There was only one thing to do.

 

“Hey!  Waiter guy!  Gimme’ a bourbon and diet coke!  … And some Tequila shots!”

 

Everybody else was drinking Margaritas, but my willingness to do shots brought them onboard, and soon we were downing thimblefuls of Mexico’s finest after toasts that didn’t make any sense.

 

“To, uh, Royce Gracie!!!” I yelled.

 

“To Royce Gracie…” the other’s chimed hesitantly.

 

* gulp *

 

“Who’s Royce Gracie?” asked Weepy McBitch. 

 

I slapped her.

 

There were many others, one of which was Chad toasting his “large penis”, but I wasn’t taking notes, so I can’t faithfully quote with recollection.  Nevertheless, “Drunk Mike” eventually arrived, and that’s when I started fucking with the all-Latino staff.   

 

Most of the servers spoke only broken English, which is why our waiter, Jose Greencardo, could only smile helplessly when I asked him to make me another drink, but with some “Stank” on it.  Repeating myself in Spanglish faired no better:

 

“Fetche un bourbon and no gordo coke with mucho el intoxicado in la glasse!”

 

Nope.  The next drink I got was as weak as the fifteen before it, and it was only after I kicked Jose in the thorax that he magically brought me a cocktail worthy of my ethnic superiority.  

 

“That’s right, you bean eatin’ wetback!” I said, “Now go back in the kitchen and send out your la sistero!” 

 

I’m only kidding.  I didn’t call our waiter a “wetback”.  I hadn’t been in Mississippi long enough to become a racist again.  Still, Jose’s sister was quite a filly…

 

As the alcohol flowed, our collective behavior began to degenerate until one of the girls, (I can’t remember which), warned me, Alan and Chad that we needed to keep our voices down.  You see, we were telling old high school/college stories by this time, and since each was invariably laced with profanity, we were no doubt offending the three or four Christian families that had come to El Charo for a nice “after late church” supper of grape juice and communion tortillas.

 

As you might expect, this prompted me to cuss even louder, which caused a local pastor and his wife to abruptly flee the restaurant, (I assume this because said parental pair were holding their hands over the ears of their two, prepubescent daughters as they left.).

 

GREAT ODIN’S RAVIN!!!  What does it say about the present state of America when you can’t scream, “Testicle shitting anal wart!” in pubic without some abortion-clinic-bomber getting offended?!?

 

I know, I know…  It’s Mississippi…  But, STILL!!!

 

Okay, so the night progressed, and I started to get the strangest feeling that Tits Finnegan was hitting on me.  She was laughing a little too hard at my jokes, and I swear to Thor she kept leaning forward to put her all-natural yet spectacular breasts on the table. 

 

It was like, “Hey Mike!” *giggle* “You’re so funny.  Check out my boob buffet.”

 

Tits’s attraction to me could’ve TOTALLY been a product of my imagination-augmented ego, but it put me in a very awkward position nonetheless.  It was my first night out in Greenville, after all, and I hadn’t yet adjusted to the nuances of the Mississippi sex dynamic.  Not to mention that Alan was supposedly with Tits, and since he was/is a friend, I couldn’t even CONSIDER making a play for the buxom Ms. Finnegan.

 

Friends don’t hit on other friend’s dates...  Well, at least not when said “other friend” is better looking. 

 

Wait a minute.

 

Ya know, this is a good time to stop and talk about me and Alan, because I’m not sure if our relationship THAT NIGHT could’ve been characterized as “friendship”.

 

Again with a visual, Alan is built from the same tall, lean mold as Chad, except that Alan’s eyes are darker, and his hair is light brown.  Still, like Chad, Alan is a reputed pimp lord, and a totally cool guy to hang out with. 

 

Regardless, Alan was always more Eric’s friend than mine growing up, (“Eric” being my younger brother), and though Alan claims he and I hung out “all the time” when I lived in Memphis Tennessee one summer in 1998, I don’t remember much about it.

 

(Keep in mind, I was a TOTAL alcoholic back then, and my fetish for kickboxing insured much cranial damage.)

 

So, basically, I’ve only JUST become Alan’s friend again, and that means that anything that did or did not happen with Tits Finnegan while I was in Mississippi, falls outside the bonds of dude-to-dude loyalty…

 

Ah, FUCK!!!  Who am I kidding?  Tits is HOT!  And I would’ve gotten all up in that shit given the chance!  I’m sorry Alan.  I’m a total pig.  But then, you’re friends with Chad, so you’re probably used to it.

 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Alan had sex with Tits later that night…  But only because he’s a pussy… and good in bed… so I’m told.

 

(Fucker!)

 

Allow me to explain.

 

Sometime after our shared Tequila-fest at El Charo had reached its pinnacle, Tits said something to Alan that pissed him off.  I’m not sure what exactly it was because Chad, Weepy McBitch and I were engaged in a separate conversation about “three ways”.  Whatever it was, Alan threw down a sweaty handful of twenty dollar bills, (which MORE than covered his part of the tab), and stomped out of the restaurant.

 

Two seconds later, Tits Finnegan started getting emotional, which INSTANTLY confirmed that she was all about Alan rather than me… at the time.

 

(Insert foreshadowing laughter.  Make that, EVIL foreshadowing laughter.  But I think that particular reference won’t pop up until the next story.  Moo Hoo Ha Hahahahahahah!!!)

 

Anyway, here comes the “pussy” part.  After Alan showed he HAS A PAIR by walking out on Tits Finnegan, (‘cause she disrespected the cock… or not… doesn’t matter), he sank to a new low in my opinion by calling on her cell phone and apologizing.

 

I didn’t hear the conversation, but I bet it went something like this:

 

Alan: “Oh Tits, I’m sorry I got all pissy a minute ago.  You know I love you… uh… even though I’ve only known you a week… and I can’t remember your last name… and I’m only wasting the batteries on my cell phone in hopes that you’ll let me push your breasts together to make an Alan Sandwich.”

 

As Mississippi chicks tend to do, Tits went all mushy, and immediately ran outside to await Alan driving up in his pimpmobile. 

 

I can’t blame her, really.  Or him, because they’re both really attractive people, and there’s no shame in two attractive people doing it.  The only thing that pisses me off is that Tits could’ve gone home with ME, and, as Lori Banderas can tell you, it would’ve been the best 37 seconds of my life.

 

This left me, Chad, and Weepy McBitch to pay the rest of the tab, which- given the sweaty fistful of twenty dollar bills Alan had thrown down when he left- wasn’t much.  Drinking for free in Greenville would soon become the paramount perk of my stay, (since I’m poor), but we’ll get to that.

 

I was half in the bag by this time, and since neither Chad nor I were “in” to Weepy McBitch, we’d pretty much decided to call it a night.  Alas, Weepy had the ultimate trump card: an invitation to her place where she boasted an entire fifth of Crown Royal. 

 

Clever hobbit… 

 

Chad and I agreed, thus following Weepy back to a house which I would later learn she shared with not only Tits Finnegan, but also a newcomer to the menagerie who we’re gonna call, Nurse Von-I-Don’t-Remember-What-She-Looked-Like.  Sounds German, yeah?

 

Nurse Von WhatTheFuck arrived later, apparently after getting off from her shift at the Delta Regional Medical Center.  She was, indeed, a nurse.  It turns out that THIS was the girl Chad was trying to get with all along, and while he’d told me as much earlier in the night, it was only then that I employed enough brain cells to catalog it.

 

Hold up.  I just realized something.

 

Does that mean that I was supposed to hook up with Weepy McBitch?!?  Hmmmm…  Well, if that was the case, I totally blew it.  Or rather, Weepy McBitch totally blew it.  You see, the name I’ve chosen for her is quite appropriate, the “McBitch” part referring to her conceited, condescending attitude.  I doubt she’s really as full of herself as she pretends to be, but that’s the way she acts, as if she’s “above” it all. 

 

Not the best strategy to employ with me or Chad around, which became apparent when the three of us retired to the back porch to talk about sex.  Weepy was blabbing on and on about how good she was in the sack, going so far as to tell Chad and I that she could quote, “Have us both on our knees begging for it, if she wanted to.”

 

Big mistake, hooker.

 

Chad and I laughed uncontrollably at her presumption, then gasping, “No you couldn’t!” at the same time.

 

Weepy immediately started, well, weeping.

 

It was the strangest, most unexpected result to rejection I’ve even seen, and if I’d suddenly grown a second penis out of my forehead, I don’t think I would’ve been more surprised than I was at that moment.

 

In an unprecedented display of sympathy, Chad and I laid off the sarcasm and immediately tried to comfort her, which Weepy took to mean that she had permission to tell her entire life story to us.  Between sobs, she expounded on her failed love life, describing IN DETAIL all the things she did for her ex-boyfriend, most of which had to do with kinky sex.

 

We listened in shocked silence as the verbal porno unfolded, regaining the power to speak only when Weepy stopped to ask us why guys cheat, (her boyfriend cheated on her despite her allowing him access to several unmentionable orifices).

 

Chad and I exchanged glances.

 

“You want me to take this one?” I asked, and Chad nodded.

 

“You see, Weepy,” I began, “It has to do with evolution, and the differing reproductive strategies males and females adhere to.  On the one hand, males are driven to procreate as often as possible so that their genes are passed on to a wide variety of females.  Contrastingly, women seek a single life partner to ensure that they’ll have help raising their offspring.  As such, males and females are constantly at odds with one another, for while women are looking for Mr. Right, men are looking for Ms. Right Now.  Of course, societal restrictions and moral conformities even the playing field somewhat, but this is the Biological explanation for male infidelity, and it’s readily observable in the animal kingdom, especially in higher mammals.  Consider the black billed whooping crane, for example.  The black billed whooping crane often-”

 

“STOP IT!!!” Weepy cried, again bursting into tears, “I don’t wanna hear about science!  I just wanna know why I wasn’t good enough for my ex-boyfriend, you asshole!”

 

“I just told you why!” I fired right back, “Evolutionarily, he couldn’t help it because-”

 

“STOP IT!!!  STOP IT!!!  STOP IT!!!  YOU’RE A FUCKING BASTARD!!!”

 

“Mike,” Chad warned, gripping me gently by the arm, “Maybe you should just-”

 

Angry now, I jerked my arm away.

 

“NO!” I scoffed, “She brought it up, and I’m gonna answer the question!  Of course,” I continued, switching my attention back to Weepy, “Maybe it had nothing to do with Evolution.  Maybe he just got tired of you crying all the time!”

 

Oh crap...

 

Yeah, as you can imagine, she went apeshit, and it was only through Chad’s almost hypnotic powers of charisma that she calmed back down.  It really was amazing to watch, because Chad had her sane and rational in no time at all.  Maybe I should’ve let him answer her question in the first place, yeah?

 

Needless to say, we left soon after, but not before Weepy and I were friends again. 

 

Thanks, Chad.

 

All this goes to show that most people don’t wanna know the real reasons behind the bad things that happen in life.  They want illusion, they want comfort, they want a higher power to be in control, rather than no one being in control at all.

 

In this case, I think Weepy wanted Chad or I to say something like, “Don’t worry, you weren’t meant to be with that guy anyway.”  Or, “You’re attractive/funny/smart bla, bla, bla, and someday you’re gonna find a man who appreciates all that.”  Or, more likely, “I think you’re ex-boyfriend was nuts.  Let’s have sex.”

 

Ah, what’re ya gonna do… 

 

Regardless, women and men ARE different, and they always will be, so- for the few females who read this site- stop looking for chick answers to guy fuck ups.  No matter what they say to your face, all guys know why other guys cheat.  They might not be cheaters themselves, but they understand the infidelity of their peers.

 

Oh, and if a guy cheats on you, it doesn’t necessarily mean that he doesn’t love you, or that he’s unhappy, or that he’s battling some kind of deep-seated fear of commitment or childhood insecurity.  Those are CHICK rationalizations.  The usual reason is very base, very animalistic, and very simple.

 

Sleep tight, boys and girls.  More to come…