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Friday, February 8, 2013

~When Is The Proper Time To Show Your Penis? (aka: An Ordinary BBG Night Out)

Time:   19:45 (7:45pm for non-military time understanding visitors)
Place:  BBGWorld HQ
Date:   Tuesday


(ring-a-ding-ding)

I answer the home phone (yes, I'm one of the last 4 people in America with an E.T. phone home phone).  The voice on the other end curses me out? greets me in french.  I somewhat expected my friend Somp to be on the other end returning my call from earlier in the evening.  Somp parlez  français.  At the same time I'm answering "bibliothèque" to the query of how I'm doin'.  --Mainly, because bibliothèque (translation: library) is the only word I remember from long afuckin'go high school french class, that I didn't even really excel at even then.  Somewhat, because I'm an ass. 

Simultaneously, my cell started ringing, adding to the, 'whaaaaat is happening?' experience unfolding.  I didn't pick up the cell.  It was an unfamiliar number, which is the A - #1 way to get me to not answer a call.  Plus, I was already speaking with Somp.  Until more words were exchanged and few seconds later I thought, 'This.  Is.  Not.  Somp.'  I learned, after a super classy and amazing that I have any friends at all, "who the hell is this?", that I was in fact talkin' to my pal Ghoulia (other BBGWorld Ghoulia tales).  Who was with another former co-worker, (MOK [MOK's BBGWorld history]) back in the last bastion of metric holdouts 'Mercia for a few days, at one of my all time favorite dive/hole in the wall adult bev-y serving establishments, asking if I'd like to come play.  Random last minute plan?  Sold.  I'm in.

I scurried around to make myself quasi presentable to those who's names aren't Uncle John (-- my d oh double g, who is quite accustomed to seeing me in some pretty sketchy home sanctioned outfits [Uncle John pics/posts]).  And when I say 'presentable', I mean;  Not nakid.  Which as I hate almost all of my cold weather clothes, is in fact, the best I can hope for.  The extent of my gettin' ready hub bub was 3 minute make up, brushing and re-ponytailing my locks and deciding between a hoodie sweatshirt or a fleece-y zip up, as I had already decided that it was a snow boot kinda night.  (Fashion Declaration:  Total legit snow boot wearin'.  It was actively snowing.)  Clearly, I did not give a fuck about lookin' good/decent.


In about pizza time (30 minutes or less) I'd made my way to the rally point to visit my friends, my friends, who'd become the whoo-hoo girls, self admittedly, by the time of my arrival.  There were several strangers at their table, but as Ghoulia and MKO shouted, "BeeeeeBEEEEEGEEEE!!" at the top of their lungs as I came in, they weren't strangers for long when I reached the table and said, "hello strangers.  In what may not come as a surprise, I am BBG, nice to meetcha."  (I find it's best just to let people know what kinda asshole you are right up front, so as not to waste anyones time if that kinda ass is not their kinda person.  It's a public service, really.) 
 
The new stranger people all seemed very nice.  Except for this cat who I'll call, 'Mike', in large part because his fuckin' name was Mike.  Mike seemed, um, hinky?  Tragic?  Full on alkey?  The survivor of a substantial traumatic brain injury with a low filter as a result?  (Disclaimer:  I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on tv.  Please do not substitute my medical diagnosis and/or judgements for that of your own good fuckin' sense, or the advice of your medical professional.)  I don't know what his deal really was?  But I know that one of the new strangers (and Ghoulia friend), a chick named Cleavage, wasn't havin' any part of it. Several times Cleavage told him, "you are not part of this conversation."  Which to many would signify a super time to do something else.  For instance, any of the other 31,47,898,524,778 things one could be doin' instead of tryin' to hone in on a gaggle o' girls, who other than punching you in the testicles, have exhausted all other means of shoo'ing you the fuck away. 
 
Nope.  Mike was insistent on being the proverbial 'bad penny', who just keeps poppin' up.
 
(BBG Story Inside a Story:  Someone was playing the jukebox.  Which after 1-3 beers will prompt a severely ungifted brown girl of size to sporadically break into a misguided, and disappointing for everyone within ear shot, sing-along.  [World:  I am sorry.]  Musical selections had been a perfectly fine. [read:  I like a crazy ass wide range of types of music/artists]  ...Until I heard that fateful and start scanning the room for a sharp object to either plunge into your ears or to slit your wrist inducing musical question, 'Would you know my name if I saw you in heaven?' [Eric Clapton] By this juncture we were chatting with another random stranger guy who we'd named Dimples, who had had the colossal misfortune of stumbling upon our table.  I asked Dimples, "know what this song makes me think of?" [who, even though he'd just made our acquaintance, I'm pretty sure already knew the correct answer to that question is:  I couldn't have any fucking idea.]  "...Finding the ass who played this so I can kick him in the balls."   Not 5 minutes later Mike returns for another whirl at How-To-Socialize-With-Others, when out of the blue he asks (if the three of us left at the table) if we liked the song that was playing.  I immediately prepared my rubber hose and turned my light to his eyes asked if he had also played Tears in Heaven?  Surprise, surprise, sur-nofucking-prise, Mike was indeed the person who's balls I wanted to introduce to my big ol' clunky snow boots.  [testicles is becoming a theme with Mike, ain't it?]) 
 
 
Whoo-Hoo Girl #1 (Ghoulia), moi, Whoo-Hoo Girl #2 (MKO)
 
Each time we collectively thought we'd shaken Mike, he returned.  It was the real life equivalent of one of those zombie shootin' games where one head shot won't kill them, you have to repeatedly shot them in the head to put them down once and for good.  ...And none of us had enough ammo.  At some point, Mike was regaling me with a story of a hotel he GM'd on the Cape (Cod) which seemed like decent progress in interpersonal interactions for him, so I engaged, as I too have a background in hotels (and a history with Cod).  My reward for not rochambeau-in' him striving to be a decent human being?  Was being told that his property hosted a swingers club routinely.  ...And the next thing I know a grainy cell phone pic was being presented to my eye orbs showing a photo of, what I'm confident exceeds the manufacturer recommendations for maximum capacity of nakid people in a hot tub stew of swirlin' chlorine and come.  As if that wasn't more than enough Mike-information than I needed for a lifetime, Mike then proceeded to show me a picture of his cock. 
 
(Special Note To Guys:  I've tried to be sooo helpful to you with the BBG Guide to Gettin' Chicks (officially known as Guy Assistance Program/GAP).  Perhaps it's my fault?  Maybe before now I haven't expressly given you this valuable tidbit, but the appropriate time to show a chick your cock shot, is if/after she asks, 'yoooooou, don't have a deceptively generous angled photograph of your twigs and berries I can see, do you?'.) 
 
Thankfully, this was the exact moment MOK and new stranger acquaintance, Dimples (Ghoulia had already had the good fuckin' sense to have taken leave of us) returned to the table.  Leaving my only option as a conversation re-starter as, "sooooooooooo.  Mike just showed me an unsolicited picture of his cock."  Know what'll get a whaaaaat the fuck look from your friends?  That as your welcome back to the table.
 
Interestingly enough, straight up Nelson Muntz 'ha-ha-ing!!' coupled with a few well placed, 'what the fuck dude?'s' and 'I like how from this angle your dick reaches your shoulders', (...the last statement is exactly why MOK and I are friends)  wasn't enough to persuade Mike that it might be time to take your sad, cracked out ass home.  Alas, finally, a friend of his arrived to Calgon take him away. 
 
What.  A.  Night.  With the exclusion, or possibly due to Mike.  Even now, I'm not entirely sure.  It's exactly why when random adventure comes knockin' at my door, I say, yes.  While an ordinary BBG night out does provide a giggle, it also provides a lesson...  
 
Today's GAP/Guy Assistance Program Lessons for XX-ers:
 
-  Do remember;  If the table thinks you're the weird creepy guy, you can't, I repeat, cannot recover from that.  (Even if you and your mom dispute it, validly, or delusionally.)  Ones perception is their reality.  (Even if it's not yours.)  Next time be more mindful of what your behavior would lead others to perceive about you.
 
Do assess.  From time to time ask yourself;  Am I being a douchebag?
 
Take a fuckin' hint.  (Even if you don't like the hint being given.)
 
Refrain from showing unsuspecting skirts a photo of your cock.   
I cannot believe I'm legit having to type that...
 
It's important to note that digital dick displayin' Mike went home with a carryout 6 pack and some guy who had come to collect him.  Meanwhile, Dimples didn't offer up a full technicolor penis shot, but instead employed a tactic called Operation I'm Probably Not Planning on Tying You Up To A Pipe In The Basement and ended up spending a lil' car warmin' up make out time with a real, live girl and scored some digits.  Only you can decide which guy you'll be.  Choose wisely.
 
  
Lastly, I don't want to alarm anyone, but I'm 99.44% sure that Charlie Manson has escaped.  And that I shook his hand that night.  @lil'murderin'doppleganger.com
 
(Good times, Ghoulia & MOK.  Good.  Times.)


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