The conversation went something like this:
President: “Listen…listen man. Did I ever tell you…did I tell you that you’re my favorite kind of guy? Well you are. If you were a fruit, you’d be an apple.”
Me: “Thanks. I’m not really sure what you mean, but thank you.”
President: “I need you to do something for me. I need to hold Pony P’s ponytail back while he pukes in the bathroom.”
Me: “Pony went home hours ago. It’s 10am.”
President: “Right….that’s why I like you. You smell good. Also, I’m gonna need you to write this next post for me, I’m too…I’m too drunk.”
With those words he slowly laid down on the carpet and fell asleep. He must have been pretty hammered because that carpet is gross. Anyway he wasn't kidding because the deadline was in 48 hours and we smashed all the computers in a drunken haze days ago. If I didn't step up and write this post, no one would and the book deal could go sour.
We have been working really, really hard on the book (Penis Tips: A road map for your man parts, in case you missed the title in the opening sentence of this post). As a symbol of commitment and corporate solidarity, Pony P had his ponytail all gelled up like a huge boner. And we have surrounded ourselves with inspirational posters of phallic monuments from around the world: The Washington Monument, The Space Needle, The Empire State Building, Big Ben, the Eiffel Tower - but instead of saying "Eiffel Tower" or "Paris" at the bottom of the poster - it says Wang Chung - I don't get the reference but it inspires me, and a picture of Mt. Rushmore but zoomed in so only George Washington's eyes and nose are in the frame - it appears that someone brought this in from their personal collection, but no one has fessed up to it - and rightly so - it's really really weird in a personal "this is a photo from the drawer of my bedside table" way, but still so inspiring on business level, especially when that business is getting drunk and telling stories about your man junk while seated around a lovely mahogany conference table:
"Dude, last week I used Girlfriend's good tweezers to go at what I thought was an ingrown pubic hair - it was right by my hernia scar though, which is my body's equivalent of the island from Lost, so really I didn't know what to expect - well, that's not totally true because if I'm dealing with anything scar related I'm obviously expecting something akin to the scene from Lethal Weapon 3 where Renee Russo and Mel Gibson compare battle scars - except I'm playing the part of Mel Gibson and the version of me reflected in the full length mirror, also known as my reflected self, plays the part of Renee Russo and oddly enough, as it plays out, we start to realize that we seem to have identical scars but on alternate sides of our bodies. Coincidence? Maybe. Sexy? Definitely. Anyway, it took forever for the tweezers to latch onto this ingrown pubic hair but once it did I started pulling and it just kept coming and coming and it was thick and black, like the coaxial cable for my TV, and I kept pulling more and more out and it felt a little like pooping but on a smaller scale and from my front side. It just wouldn't stop. It was like the exact opposite of when you move into an apartment and you want set your TV in a different place than whoever lived there before you and you think you have this great floor plan mapped out, you know - you even diagrammed it on graph paper - and you go over to the cable coming out of the wall or the floor or where ever and you tug on it, and you're just so fucking hopeful that there is more cable readily available from whever the cable is coming from so that you can set your TV on the other side of the room and then your chair will go right over there and the book shelves and plants and you get the idea right? But it doesn't fucking matter. Your dreams that you mapped out so carefully on graph paper, your dreams where three squares equal one foot according to the key you put in the top right corner, where didn't write the word "key" but you drew a key, one that looked like the key to your new apartment, the new apartment that you could finally be happy in and deal with your issues if you could just put your TV on that side of the room, if there could just be 12 extra magical feet of coax cable behind the wall. But there's not. There's barely enough for you to hook up the TV up at all. My ingrown pubic hair was the exact opposite of that. I could have put my TV on the moon if this ingrown pubic hair was actual coax cable. It went on for days - which is why I wasn't in the office last week. Then I started to get freaked out - like maybe this was something I didn't know about - like some sort of parasite - like a dick worm - and got a little frantic thinking about the medical side of things and then the follicle popped out and it bled a little. It wasn't a dick worm. It was just an ingrown pubic hair. Should there be a chapter about that in the book - something like 'It's not a dick worm, it's an ingrown pube'?"
"Uhm, I don't think so."
After that tale of ingrown insanity, I needed more inspiration than even a Wang Chung Eiffel Tower Poster could provide and I needed it quick - and nothing inspires a man like a road trip. I called T-Bone, packed the company car, and hit the road.
|The Beer On My Shirt company car|
We decided to head to Bethlehem, PA. It worked out perfectly because I had something else to do there that day. So did T-Bone.
I will never tell you what we had to do there.
You will always wonder what we did there.
It wasn’t anything, you know, man-on-man…I just realized that sounded like something that could be misconstrued with a man-on-man rendezvous. A Mandezvous.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
We went to a birthday brunch.
Damn! That is such a stereotypical Mandezvous location. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
SIDENOTE: A Mandezvous is also sometimes referred to as a Mazda. Never get into a Mazda. Unless that's, you know, your thing. And there is nothing wrong with that.
Go ahead Jerry, sue me. (He would never. We're friends.)
Anyway, to get to Bethlehem we would need some mind blowing tunes. I loaded up my special road trip playlist that I had been saving since 2001. (I don’t get to go on many road trips.)
Road Trip Playlist:
1. Hit Em Up Style (Oops) – Blu Cantrell
2. Walk Tall – John Cougar Mellencamp
3. Paper in the Fire – John Cougar Mellencamp
4. Under the Boardwalk – John Couagr Mellencamp
5. R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A – John Cougar Mellencamp
6. Jack and Diane – John Cougar Mellencamp
The playlist was nearly flawless. I hit shuffle for a little variety and the trip seemed to take only seconds. That, my friends, is the power of Mellencamp. The original cougar.
Brunch was at some hipster joint called Jumbars. The kind of place you’d probably see in Brooklyn. It was the kind of place that they made you wear toms. If you weren’t wearing toms they would give you a rental pair and vintage banjo lessons. The food was good though.
After brunch we decided to watch the Philadelphia Eagles American Football Game over at Roosevelts 21st so we could catch their $3 craft beer special.
Somehow when we got there the Beer on My shirt president and Pony P were there. Sitting there looking really smug. I thought I left these smug bitches back at the office.
I wanted to punch Pony P so hard. Looking so smug the way he did.
I’m not sure how or why they came but we sat with them. The first thing I tried was Avery's White Rascal.
It’s a Belgian Style White Ale. I needed something on the lighter side because I was terribly hungover at the time. It was a really good choice because it was a very drinkable beer. Also, White Rascal was on the lower side of the ABV scale (5.6%) compared to the other craft choices on the board. It's a light bodied beer that bordered on watery in the beginning, with a hint of spice. However, after a few pints I started to really enjoy it.
The President had the Evil Genius Hunchback - a hefeweizen. Maybe he’ll tell you about it sometime. The lazy fuck.
Pony P didn't drink anything because he was too busy brushing his hair.
I’m just kidding Pony. I like Pony and he’s actually a good security measure. His long hair and pony tail made him a wildcard in the event our group was the target of street toughs.
You’re really gambling when you try to fight a guy with a ponytail or long hair because he is either one of four options:
1.) An old hippy.
2.) Stephen Seagall.
3.) Odin, Thor, or a similar Norse god.
4.) An 80’s Jon Bon Jovi fan. (Very different from the 90's Bon Jovi fan. Very different.)
Three out of 4 chances says you’re going down. And God help you if he starts to hum "Livin’ on a Prayer".
After the White Rascal we tried a pilsner called Mama’s Little Yella Pils, by Oskar Blues Brewery out of Colorado.
Hey. A win is a win baby.
Mama’s Little Yella Pils was something I’ll have to go back to in the future. Perhaps it was a good luck charm.
That is all. You should hear from me again.