| Blog for August 2008 |
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Monday, August 04 2008 12:28 AM |
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Subject: Base Weblog |
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Box Blocking. The new Vagina stopper. |
So this weekend, I learned a new term: Box Blocking. Essentially, this is a term used for chicks that “cock block.” I learned the term from this girl, who will be known as Dickionary Mary from now on, that was in town this weekend while we were hanging out at a BBQ. It seems to be the new trend among chicks, second only to drinking Patron Silver at clubs and milking dudes they don’t like for bar tabs.
So during the BBQ, this girl Dickionary Mary starts a diatribe about Box Blocking while we were sitting around.
“You know, Box Blocking, when a chick blocks you from other chicks.”
I was blown away. This is fucking perfect terminology. Maybe it’s been around forever being thrown around circles of frustrated dudes. But I had never heard it. Not until that very moment. Not until Dickionary Mary threw it down over BBQ ribs and chicken. And it made sense in the most complete of ways.
Later that night, we go out to a bar / restaurant in Orange County. Immediately, I get depressed because that nasty realization comes into play that I live in Orange County, the epicenter of chick patheticness. If you’ve never been to Orange County, the dating scene for guys is something similar to the experience one has if you are to stick your hand in boiling water while watching Rosy O’Donnell eat a lasagna.
It’s wrenchingly painful.
These chicks fucking suck. I have been a lot of places, but these high-maintenance bitches take the cake. They all look as if they are made of the same material used to make NASA satellites and they appear to have been involved in an Avon shrapnel explosion in the Nordstroms makeup department.
Anyways, our whole gang, girls and guys, are out on the patio drinking beers and smoking some cigs. Suddenly, these asian chicks roll up to the table next to us; we establish communication. I immediately fall in love with one of them. By in love, I pretty much mean I was totally and completely aroused.
“Let me ask you a question baby, would you care if I cheated on you but made sure you never found out? I mean, would you consider that polite?”
I ask of her.
“That is the sweetest thing any guy has said to me in forever. I would look upon it as considerate of my feelings.”
She replies with a smile.
Immediately I knew this broad was for me. And I knew that I was in love, or however I defined it before. Maybe I wasn’t really in love, to be honest, in Orange County, I tend to get really excited when chicks respond to me and her forehead and high cheekbones show signs of mobility.
To continue reading, click through to the blog.
http://surfelport.com/?p=30
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Sunday, August 03 2008 05:58 PM |
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Subject: Base Weblog |
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Californians are annoying during Earthquakes. |
As many of you probably saw on all the news outlets, California just had an earthquake. I have lived in California for almost 10 years on the nose, and during that time, we have been in what’s known as a seismic lull. I think the last big one I felt was in ‘99. That one woke me up around 3:00am. However, last Tuesday’s earthquake, while only moderate causing minor damage, served as a reminder for me about my disdain for the California culture.
Here’s the way I see it: In California, there are two types of people in terms of quakes.
1) People that want to live.
2) People that motherfucking want to die.
I fall into group 1. I am proud to be in group 1. If there was a t-shirt for me to wear symbolizing my group oneness, I would wear it a few times a week.
People in group 2 are pretty easy to figure out. They say things like,
“It’s no biggy.”
“Just another California day.”
“I’ve lived here all my life.”
Note to all these people: Your not fucking Pasadena, because if you were, you would be in Pasadena. What the fuck? So you know the quake will not be big? You should call the Japs immediately, there is a job waiting for you on a Kyoto street corner wearing a tin-foil hat. Bring a tip cup and your Dodgers jersey, you’ll do well.
Let me explain the group 1 mentality. You suddenly feel the room start shaking. You mentally note that the room is shaking. Next, you get the motherfuck out of the building. It’s fucking go-time. I don’t ride shit out. I don’t crawl under desks. I just go….out the motherfucking door. I don’t say things like, “I’ve lived here all my life, no biggy.” Look dickweed, you can just write your Cali biography down on your Starbucks napkin, I’ll be outside anxiously waiting to read it when the earth stops moving. Only in California would someone actually think enough of themselves to start babbling about their life story when a natural disaster is occurring.
To finish reading, click here:
http://surfelport.com/?p=26 |
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