Monday, November 7

Tales from the Proletariat: The Famous Phone Booth Debacle

During the summer following my freshman year of college, I stayed with the family of a girl I was dating in Madison. Madison is an exponentially better city than the one in which I grew up; there were hippies and rich people living in harmony in their mutual hatred of the poor black folks living in Section 8 housing.
It is important to note that Madison has its share of poor black people, because one of my summer jobs in Madison was to be a bouncer at a night club. To give you an idea of the caliber of the night club in which I worked, let's just say that a month and a half after I quit working there, another bouncer was shot and killed by one of its patrons (the crazy bitch in my bed right now informs me that I've already written about this...fuck her).
After one particularly interesting night of work (during which I broke up a fight between a crazy white bitch and a drunk black guy and also got a phone number from a woman who appeared to be twenty years my senior), I decided to go out for coffee after work. Although it might seem counterintuitive to go out for coffee at 2:30 in the morning, I was scheduled to work an eight-hour shift starting at 5:30. Since I'd been doing this all summer, I was accustomed to sleepless weekends, and coffee at 2:30 in the morning is good, so fuck you.
I stopped at a phone booth near the club in order to call my girlfriend's family and let them know that I was getting coffee and not shot to death by some wacked-out drug dealer. As I was trying to operate the incredibly ghetto phone (which apparently didn't accept quarters as a legal tender of all debts public and private), I noticed a guy walking by.
To see him in the daylight would have been nothing special. He was perhaps twenty feet from me, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and was walking in a sort of jocund ramble characteristic of the sanguine and the retarded. I paid him no heed, intent on cursing out the godforsaken piece of horseshit that was the pay phone. Suddenly, I heard the last words any guy wants to hear at 2:30 on a Saturday morning:
"Want a blow job?"
Baffled, I stopped my vain strugglings with the phone and looked at him.
"What?" I asked, hoping instead that the guy had said "Punt a ho slob" instead of what I thought I had heard.
"C'mon, man, I'll do whatever you want. I just want to taste you in my mouth."
"Um, whatever."
The guy passed me by, staring at me with piercing vapid eyes. Thankfully, he kept walking. All I could think of was the fact that I had a baseball bat in my car and I was dressed in full Security Douche regalia; no one would question me if I beat his ass and claimed that he was trying to mug me.
As I returned to my ineffective manipulations with the bastard piece of devilry that was this fucking phone, I noticed that the guy had walked about a block away from me....but now he was coming back.
And now he was wolf-whistling at me and making the universal sign of fellatio with his fist and mouth..somehow simultaneously. I briefly considered what kind of talent would enable a man to do such a thing, but quickly classified such thoughts as "Thoughts You Should Not Entertain Because They Border On Admitting To Yourself That You're Gay".
Finally discouraged with the lack of results from the pay phone, I got into my car and started to drive away. Amazingly enough, the guy started chasing after my car and actually jumped out and grabbed my hood before I got away from him. Fuck coffee, I was going home to bed.
Although nothing really serious happened, that experience changed my life in a couple of ways:
1) Receiving oral sex from girls was not the same for a very, very long time. Every time it started to happen, this voice would come whispering out of the darkness: "Want a blow job? I just want to taste you..."
2) I really started to reconsider how rough women have it. I mean, if this is the kind of treatment they receive when they walk past construction sites or through singles bars, how the hell are they all not complete agoraphobes? I'd sit in my room all day clutching a giant knife while rocking back and forth. It really made me think about the plight of women in today's patriarchal society...then I realized that I didn't care and instead decided to get drunk and fuck bitches to my heart's content.

So now you have heard the tale of the infamous Phone Booth Debacle. Bring me a drink. I just want to taste it....
Click this shit!

2 Bullshit Responses:

Anonymous bezza left the following bullshit...

Oh, ADI. I have been reading your stuff (lurking) for a long time man but that post is gold. An aussie guy that also likes a drink salutes you !

Oh and I'll take the opportunity to say happy birthday. I was going to send you a present but I thought fuck it and I drank it myself.

3:51 PM  
Blogger The Angry Drunken Irishman left the following bullshit...

You bastard.

3:58 PM  

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