KMFP posted on March 01, 2013 00:00
I’ll apologize upfront if I ramble, not that this is new, but I’m currently riding the high of returning from my first blind date in over 20-years and may or may not have received a goodnight hand-job…or given one.
We had everything in common from strapping physiques, undeniable charm and a shared love for writing, to even both being equipped with a cock and balls hiding behind our button-fly jeans. This was a match made in Heaven – or more accurately – Jefferson County, as it played out.
The lucky recipient of my company for the night was none other than fellow ISTL scribe, J. Adams, with whom I would spend a magical Thursday evening shooting pool in a tournament. Aside from our obvious chemistry, this sexy motherfucker may just be my doppelganger (look it up), in terms of cynicism and overall asshole-edness, which is a compliment of the highest order.
The venue was the insideSTL.com “Bar Olympics” at Hotshots in Arnold, though the name confused me, as bathroom cunnilingus and drunken group singing to “Piano Man” on the jukebox neither one were events.
Adams and I literally had to first dispatch of an entire billiard family, whose rallying cry was “BALL IN HAND!”, and 3-teen boys may very well still be getting their asses kicked by mid-40’s, backward hat Dad for having lost to a pair of cocky assholes.
I’d tell you that we lost in the finals because of my failure to sink a long, yet quite makeable, shot on the 8-ball in the rubber game, but this is my fucking column so I’ll go ahead and put the blame on my partner.
Despite almost 3-years of writing for this site, in some capacity, this was the first event I was actually able to attend. Like a “post and share your Sharpie-scrawled story on Facebook” search for the child you gave away for adoption after monkey-fucking the football team in high school, this reunion felt like we’d always been somehow connected.
In addition to meeting my writing brethren, I was blessed with an introduction to none other than “THE Downtown Whitey’s Window Sneezer”, and a renewal of my acquaintance with one “JBoyd”, who may possibly be the coolest cat in Oakville, which is quite the tall order.
Jay Randolph Jr. was holding court at a chair in the corner, with legions of female toes dangled in his mouth like a batch of grapes to the slothful hole of a Roman Emperor. Mad props, Gong (that’s how the “cools” talk these days) and it was very cool to meet you.
My lofty expectations were not at all shattered as I finally met the mesmerizing Sara B., and we even bonded well enough to have her comfortably blurting out deep secrets to me by night’s end, as if I sat on the other side of a confessional and had a penchant for altar boys.
Add to the mix Ms. Melissa, and my “spank bank” has been satisfied for a good 3-days or so. You St. Louis bachelors need to get on the ball with these two.
As great of a picture as I’m sure is being painted, the night was not to be without disappointment. I was hoping to meet the incomparable “Iggy”, but imagine he was preoccupied by a dinner soiree with Kathy Ireland and Katy Perry, or – more likely – drinks and “remember when” with Pauly Shore or Rob Van Winkle.
I also half expected a 1993 minivan full of torch and pitchfork-wielding message boarders to show up, but hear that they were derailed by the social discomfort involved with leaving the sanctuary of D’s Place, and just spent the night there yucking it up about the genius of their cutting wit, which simply falls misunderstood at the clueless feet of us mere plebs (again, look it up).
To completely change directions, I’d like to close with some thoughts on news that is coming out of the NFL combine accusing team executives of roundabout questioning regarding a potential player’s sexuality.
Instead of GM’s and male fans of muscle-bound men in tight pants throwing their bodies violently at one another worrying about who these same men may be fucking behind closed doors, possibly caused by the inward guilt of their own elevated Kinsey scale readings (Marr-Marr shout-out!), they could ask these more pertinent questions:
1. Are you known around your hometown by a nickname beginning with “Lil’”, “Big”, a doubled-up syllable ending in a long-“A”, or simply “Pookie”?
2. How many children do YOU currently have and how many different mothers and/or last names do ALL of their existing half-siblings have?
3. Do you possess the math skills required to answer the previous question?
4. Have you ever heard of any of the following terms: rubber, “cock-sock”, “skeeve-sleeve”, “spunk-trunk”, prophylactic (no way), “terrier barrier”, “hag-bag”, “Jimmy” or condom?
5. Are you being “represented” by somebody you went to grade school, as well as juvenile detention with?
6. Will you be traveling in a posse?
7. How many weapons are legally registered in your name, and do you plan on mindlessly carrying these into titty-bars and airports?
8. Do you anticipate ever coming inches from beheading the mother of your children and her friend/lover, followed by a Bronco-starring, low speed chase on national television?
9. While I’m aware of your being in physical receipt of an actual college degree, can you REALLY even read a contract, if we choose to place one in front of you?
10. Do you plan on, despite being rewarded with immense wealth and the means to hire a car service, cab or limousine, still insisting to propel your “blinged out” SUV at 140-MPH down the streets of our fine city with a blood alcohol level equivalent to Brendan Ryan’s lifetime batting average?
11. Have you ever been spotted in a blood-soaked, white suit within, oh – I don’t know…say fifty yards of 2-murder victims, to never have said suit be seen again?
(NOTE: If answering “YES” to #11, please submit bronze bust for Canton, fill out attached ESPN application and invoke “our Lord and Savior” approximately 137-times whenever near a camera)
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