19 July, 2009

It's my half-birthday. Can't I get at least half a piece of ass?

Believe me, for a minute I was going to cop out and simply re-post the original half-birthday post, but I really don't feel like doing that.
Today's plans essentially involve a little bit of practice, a little bit of grilling, and a six pack of Killian's Irish Red. This half-birthday, I'm flying solo because... well... look they can't all be winners okay?
2008: KRAKOA plays SHOW005. (+) Personnel = Charlie (guitar / moog) + Joe (bass) (+) + drum program. Robin Hood Hills open. (+) Teenage girls keep sneaking into my skanky airplane bathroom to drink box wine out of a KFC cup. (+)
Verdict: Winner.
2007: Sallie Mae proves that absolutely nobody under their employ has any fucking idea what the hell they're doing by trying to charge a college student US$1.5K/month without notifying him. (-)
Verdict: Loser.
2006: Firstmark proves that at least one person under their employ has no fucking idea how to open an envelope, thus destroying the money order I sent them. (-) This, to them, means I am late making a payment. (-)
Verdict: Loser.
2005: Angie is not in town. (+) I'm pretty sure at the time I am out getting drunk at Howard's because nobody's telling me I can't. (+)
Verdict: Winner.
2004: Go and see one of Hubbcap's first shows. (+) Put about eight shots of Jameson on Angie's tab (+) then leave without telling her because I feel ignored that night. (-)
Verdict: Winner.
I'm wondering if anything will happen this year.
There is a fetching, lanky Irish woman in the hostel at present who is due for departure within two hours. Her accent is thick as hell and gets the Mick in me going. Her last name, O'Byrne, she pronounces as O-BUY-urrnh. I don't know, though; she has a 651 area code, so it's not like this is the last chance I would have to ever see her again.

Don't tell me you wouldn't hit that from the back.
But listen to me. Jeeze-Louise. I don't get any for two and a half weeks and I start talking about a woman for whom I made a reservation and saw once in passing like that? Jeeze-Louise, I really am hard up. I didn't even tell you guys about the Swiss butterface. I mean really. Hard up. When all you're basing it on is the accent? That's hard up. Well, there's the accent and the fact that I could walk away saying, "Yeah, I nailed a Swiss butterface." Any of you motherfuckers ever nail a Swiss butterface? No. No you haven't nailed a Swiss butterface. So if I nail a Swiss butterface in the next few days, don't hate. Would I prefer the Irish beanpole out there in the kitchen? Yes, yes I would. But that's not to say that I would not give the Swiss butterface a good ol' fashioned Rogerin'. Just hit it from the back and make her sing "Schweizerpsalm".
Of course, you have to keep in mind that these eroto-humorous constructions are based on the popular misconception that this is a supreme tail getting job. Allow me to debunk the myth.
First of all, nobody's really all that interested in the staff, nobody intelligent or sane anyway. The piece of ass that Georgie picked up was a U.S. Marine who had no earthly idea what the fuck a crossword puzzle was (seriously). The one woman that was interested in me was a seventeen year old molestation victim. Guests are interested in other guests because it's a hell of a lot more convenient to keep your partner from that one nocturne of indiscretion on the other side of the globe. And hey, just like I focus more on the Swiss part than the butterface part, the guests are sitting there thinking "I've never banged a nine-fingered Israeli." I mean, come on. When you're confronted by the choice between a Minnesotan and a nine-fingered Israeli, which would you pick? Why fuck one of us when you can get some ass from a New Zealander? And you know what the Kiwi's thinking: "Let's see. I'm here for a week. I have plenty of time to fuck a Minnesotan. But there's a Texan right here for only two nights. I've never fucked a Texan." And believe me, that I'm actually an Ohioan is actually a bigger turn off to the lady-guests.
Second of all (here we go), we live in a patriarchy, which means women are not out to fuck by virtue of their gender. In fact, the reason why it's harder for guys to get a piece of ass than it is for women is precisely because women get bombarded with sexual advances quite regularly to the point of repulsion. That is why the "anonymous traveler" fantasy is near purely male. Unless, of course, we're talking about a female who hasn't gotten some in a while; after all, just because we live in a patriarchy doesn't take away from sexual needs.
Thirdly, people don't check in for the purpose of just fucking the first thing that indicates that it is indeed alive. People check in for the purpose of establishing a temporary central locale for while they are away from familiar surroundings. In this temporary locale, the staff are merely a hassle with which to deal when directions to some place or an extra towel is needed. For real, ninety percent of these whiny, prissy, pampered fuck-wits think we're lazy assholes with authoritarian superiority complexes.
ANYway, the Irish woman just left while some Massachusetts ass-hat came in to extend his stay, doing the night-by-night thing, which means I didn't even get a chance to do the lame-o "How was your stay? What's your next stop?" awkward bullshit thing to try to strike up a conversation that would lead to sex with someone who's on their way out the door anyhow. She just dropped off her key and left.
Only other option, and when I say "option" I mean "future failed attempt at sexual conquest" will be the four foot tall stoner broad from Cleveland. You would think that the Ohio thing would have us bonding our asses off, but no. You see, she's in Minnesota, she's going to want a Minnesotan if she wants it at all. Think about it. If you go to France, are you going to want to want a Pabst? No. You're going to want to drink some fancy French shit; sample some local culture. Once I played my hand as an Ohioan (without first checking her area code), I pretty much sealed the no-ass-gettin' envelope and sent it off to just-going-to-have-to-jerk-off-again town via priority mail. For real, I think I've flogged the bishop more in the past two and a half weeks than I did the entire time I was fifteen.

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