True Goochonline Stories...
About ten years ago I was making out with a girl at her house, where she lived with her father. I started to become self conscious about my breath, so I excused myself to the bathroom where I intended on eating some toothpaste to hinder my halitosis.
As I approached the bathroom, my friend told me that the light was burned out and they'd forgotten to change it. I said that was okay, since I'd surely be able to navigate my way around a five-by-five bathroom. I felt around the sink and didn't feel any toothpaste tubes. I opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed a familiar foil tube with plastic cap. I removed the cap, squeezed some of the gel onto my finger, and rubbed it on my tongue, teeth, and gums.
It was the worst tasting toothpaste ever. I looked down at the tube but couldn't make out the brand name in the dark.
The "toothpaste" started to harden as I swished it around my mouth and small hard pebbles of the substance began to stick to my tongue and the hard palate to the point where I began scratching the inside of my mouth trying to remove this mystery shit that began to cement itself to...
Cement itself? "Oh, shit" I thought to myself. "This isn't toothpaste... it's denture cement." At this point, I decided it would be best to come out and explain what happened because the girl was pretty cool and I'd rather her think that the extended perios of time in the bathroom was because I was an idiot rather than that I was taking a major shit.
Did I ever tell you about the time I wiped my ass with Clorox wipes?
Lots of negative fallout from the revelation that I had the spreadsheet mentioned in an earlier blog. "You need to keep stuff like that in your head so no one finds out" to "that's just not right" to "You should get rid of that." Thanks for the feedback.
Socccer ended last night with another victory... for the other team. I had fun, props to Britta for signing me up without my knowledge. I'll be playing again.
goochout.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
From May 31, 2007 [unpublished blog]
Suspend your desire to know the back story for this post. Free yourself from the need to ask me "how did you end up there" or "why Vancouver" long enough to get through this blog:
I was drunk and driving through Vancouver, Washington at 3am recently. I'd decided against driving for the evening and instead parked alongside a curb in a residential area. I reclined the seat, and within minutes was in a wine-induced slumber.
At 3:15am, I awoke to the sounds of a small child screaming for his mother. I opened my eyes and hesitated to look up, knowing that I'm in no condition to handle any situation. I did a little situp to see out my window and quickly went back down. Not because I was hiding, but because I can't do a situp. I pulled the reclined seat back forward and saw the surreal scene of a three year old in diapers standing on a curb, crying. I look back and forth to see if any adults were around. The street was deserted, except for this crying kid and a drunk guy sleeping in his car.
Fuck.
I get out and try not to slur my words as I ask the kid where his mother was. He didn't know. I asked if this is where he lives, pointing to an open door to a ground level apartment. He nodded his head and he brought me to the apartment. I said "hello" loudly as I approached the door. I walked inside to a messy apartment. They had digital cable and a messy kitchen. Oh yeah... there was an eight month old laying on the couch.
I said "hello... is anyone home" again. At this point some neighbors came out and asked if everything was okay.
My response: "No... I don't know where these kids' Mom is. There's no adults in the apartment."
What I wanted to say: "I'm a drunk white guy alone in an apartment with two black kids at 3am. Unless I'm Brad Pitt, this is a truly fucked up situation and therefore no, everything is not at all okay." I also wouldn't have slurred my words.
The couple came over and comforted the kids. They asked who I was and I told them "honestly... I'm just a really random guy."
They'd already called the cops and I spoke to two different cops. They didn't give a shit that I was sleeping across the street or that I was drunk. I asked them for a ride and they told me to leave as the Mother walked in to the apartment.
Sweet. She said something about that there was a babysitter in the apartment when she left.
Classic.
Drinking and driving... sleeping in my car... rescuing kids. I'm like Batman. Hell... I'm Fatman! Not something I wanted to publish, but oh well.
In other news... Larry David and his wife Laurie are getting a divorce. She's actually kind of hot. Is it star-fucking someone if they're simply divorced from a celebrity that you like? Hey, he's always got Cheryl to fall back on. He should just live in his TV reality.
I'm still dating someone. I'm not saying it's turned me into a complete pussy, but I did buy one of those LCD picture frames for sentimental purposes. Word of advice: If you want to try to have a normal relationship in the future, don't date strippers. If you date a civilian (someone not in the "industry") afterwards and she knows about your stripper dating past, it will cause a problem. It is inevitable.
Goochfact: I keep an Excel spreadsheet recording all women with whom I've had an "intimate" encounter. No one has ever, ever seen it.
Suspend your desire to know the back story for this post. Free yourself from the need to ask me "how did you end up there" or "why Vancouver" long enough to get through this blog:
I was drunk and driving through Vancouver, Washington at 3am recently. I'd decided against driving for the evening and instead parked alongside a curb in a residential area. I reclined the seat, and within minutes was in a wine-induced slumber.
At 3:15am, I awoke to the sounds of a small child screaming for his mother. I opened my eyes and hesitated to look up, knowing that I'm in no condition to handle any situation. I did a little situp to see out my window and quickly went back down. Not because I was hiding, but because I can't do a situp. I pulled the reclined seat back forward and saw the surreal scene of a three year old in diapers standing on a curb, crying. I look back and forth to see if any adults were around. The street was deserted, except for this crying kid and a drunk guy sleeping in his car.
Fuck.
I get out and try not to slur my words as I ask the kid where his mother was. He didn't know. I asked if this is where he lives, pointing to an open door to a ground level apartment. He nodded his head and he brought me to the apartment. I said "hello" loudly as I approached the door. I walked inside to a messy apartment. They had digital cable and a messy kitchen. Oh yeah... there was an eight month old laying on the couch.
I said "hello... is anyone home" again. At this point some neighbors came out and asked if everything was okay.
My response: "No... I don't know where these kids' Mom is. There's no adults in the apartment."
What I wanted to say: "I'm a drunk white guy alone in an apartment with two black kids at 3am. Unless I'm Brad Pitt, this is a truly fucked up situation and therefore no, everything is not at all okay." I also wouldn't have slurred my words.
The couple came over and comforted the kids. They asked who I was and I told them "honestly... I'm just a really random guy."
They'd already called the cops and I spoke to two different cops. They didn't give a shit that I was sleeping across the street or that I was drunk. I asked them for a ride and they told me to leave as the Mother walked in to the apartment.
Sweet. She said something about that there was a babysitter in the apartment when she left.
Classic.
Drinking and driving... sleeping in my car... rescuing kids. I'm like Batman. Hell... I'm Fatman! Not something I wanted to publish, but oh well.
In other news... Larry David and his wife Laurie are getting a divorce. She's actually kind of hot. Is it star-fucking someone if they're simply divorced from a celebrity that you like? Hey, he's always got Cheryl to fall back on. He should just live in his TV reality.
I'm still dating someone. I'm not saying it's turned me into a complete pussy, but I did buy one of those LCD picture frames for sentimental purposes. Word of advice: If you want to try to have a normal relationship in the future, don't date strippers. If you date a civilian (someone not in the "industry") afterwards and she knows about your stripper dating past, it will cause a problem. It is inevitable.
Goochfact: I keep an Excel spreadsheet recording all women with whom I've had an "intimate" encounter. No one has ever, ever seen it.
Monday, June 04, 2007
It's not that I haven't written anything lately... I havde written a lot. Then I realize that it's too profane, too personal, something... and send it to the "draft" folder. I'm on a detox 'juice only' diet with a friend of mine. I think we're kind of seeing who will crack first. However, I'm fucking starving and my first meeting is in a room adjacent to a high volume kitchen.
That's going to be fun.
gooch
That's going to be fun.
gooch