The Crimson Tide

So this story takes me way back to the beginning of freshman year. I had already ridden the hot streak of orientation and was falling into a little bit of a slump. During orientation things were easy and could play into my lazy tendencies. I would try to hook up with girls that lived above me simply because A) I wouldn’t have to sleep over and B) the walk home was 30 feet at worst. I could do the whole “I need space when I sleep, I sweat, blah blah blah” so that I could throw a touchdown and be comfortable kicking it in my room in no time. By the time classes started however girls upstairs began to recognize me moving through rooms so the gig was up.

Halloween rolls around and I figured that that was the best time to grease up ol’ ironside once more. Every bro out there knows that Halloween is a holiday that tops the list. Though girls obviously believe otherwise, all Halloween is just a cleverer way to be naked. And while this behavior does not fly on most other occasions, Halloween gives us the luxury of seeing a slutty referee, a slutty vampire, a slutty Teletubbie, and that slutty other costume you just dont understand. In reality the costumes you don’t understand are simply because you are drunk so all you see is the a belly button piercing and lots of cleavage. Jasmine from Aladdin? Shakira? Cool, I don’t care, still naked to me.

So how I scored on Halloween was obviously determined by how good my costume was. My friend had already picked up a good costume, the male referee, which nicely aligns itself with picking up the female referee. Everyone knows theres at least 3 slutty female referees at a party. I went as a pilot. Reason? Good enough excuse to ask girls if they want to see my cock-pit. So we get to this party and I spy this cute brunette who has huge tits. And like superman, I am weak to only 2 things, kryptonite and large boobies. So I throw down all my signature dance moves and shes ready to leave. Looks like whoopee is on the menu. I look over and my buddy has not found a single referee. Tough luck man. I get back to my room, take my normal 15 minutes to unhook her bra, do my thing and pass out.

When I wake up the next morning the girl is gone, which in my mind is a good thing, so the day is off to a good start. I get up, do the rounds to make sure all my friends nearby knew I just had sex, and when I get back to my room my jaw drops. There is a red mark the size of the eye of Sauron on my sheets. This means I either fucked a chick on her period or the kool-aid man decided to make another late night visit. So naturally my first reaction is to just start yelling at the top of my lungs. Fifteen seconds later my entire hall and my RA is in my room just laughing at me. Turns out that for the past six hours I had been literally rolling around in period blood. Awesome. I check my my shirt. Period blood on it. Even more awesome. The best part of the story? The girl I hooked up with? Not even a brunette but a ginger. Damn those dark dance floors. Though this girl never came back to my hall because she was obviously embarrassed she was forever known from then on to my friends as the crimson tide.

Until next time,

The 19th Hole

Ice Melts in Caves

Here we are, back on the blogging world, and I am ready to share with you another story deep from the annals of my ever expansive collection of "WTF" moments. This could get a bit chilly...

A good friend of mine, Bartleby, invited me to his lake house about a year ago today. I was in the process of making fun of him for using way too much ice in every single application possible. Bartleby puts ice in his milk, his spaghetti, and his green beans. (I made the last two up, but you get the point.) As I was poking fun at him for his absurd over-usage of frozen water, he comes up with an idea. Bartleby knows my sexual ways and decided that maybe itd be a good idea for me to experiment with ice in the bedroom. I feel like I'd seen this in Cosmo or some shit (total un-bro move, I'm not a typical bro), so I decide I'd give it a try.

There were a few ice moments that actually turned out to be great, but none of these pushed the limits as far as this one experience I had with "the athlete." What's funny is that she didn't even really play any type of reputable sport, but people thought she did so the name was born. Anyways, let me go so far as to say that this female specimen was not the type of specimen you would want to spend time examining. This was the specimen that even the guys on CSI turn their heads and gag to. Yea, I was drunk. Real drunk. So what.

It was very late and my browned-out, horny self decided to make a bad decision and booty call this girl at about 3 AM. Of course, she woke up from her slumber, came over completely sober, knowing I was hammered, and wanted to fuck me. Things start to get interesting, clothes are coming off fast, and then I remember Bartleby's suggestion. I figure, this girl is the perfect opportunity for experimentation. I wouldn't do her sober, I don't want to tell anyone about her, so I might as well fuck around with it. I then stop her, and say I'll be right back, I want to experiment. She loves the idea.

I return to my room with a small bucket of ice I obtained downstairs. She is super into the idea and immediately grabs ice and puts it in her mouth, and proceeds to give me icy cold dome. This was sweet, this is where ice is actually awesome. After my frozen fellatio, I do a similar type of thing, starting on her chest, then moving down to her nether regions. At first, I'm rubbing cubes on her most sensitive regions (rhymes with slit) while I finger her. She loves it, she's going wild, so obviously I start to get excited. I grab another ice cube, take out my fingers and jam that motherfucker right up inside the deepest part of her crevasse that I could touch. Instantly she screams, gasps, and coughs all at the same time. I wasn't expecting this.

She tells me, "get that out of me right now, I fucking mean it." I say, "it's just the solid phase of water, it will melt soon enough." She slaps me, gets out of bed, leaving a wet spot on my sheets, and runs to the bathroom, grabbing one of my towels. She comes back 10 minutes later, looking royally perturbed and unhappy. She put her clothes back on silently. (At this point, I'm in sleeping position, ready to go to bed.) She says, "don't expect to see me again." Like I care.

(She came back one week later, I didn't mean to, it was only one time, chill out)

Moral of the story: sexual experimentation can make for a funny story, but it'd be cooler if the girl was more attractive.

Your boy,

Thaddeus Bonefish

...and then Mark Walhberg Ruined Entourage

I'm a huge believer in going out on top. In fact, as a huge sports fan, it pained me to the demise of Brett Favre and Michael Jordan towards the end of their careers when they could have just hung it up when they were the best. I mean, think about it, watching someone you idolize limp out of the game is like when you see your best bro cheat on his smoking hot girlfriend with a whale because he chased half a bottle of whiskey with half a bottle of tequila. With that said, it just pains me to watch the final season of Entourage.

Now, being a bro, Entourage is one television show that has had profound effect on my development. When I first watched the show I couldn't believe how smart Mark Wahlberg was: this motherfucker just made a television show where the sole premise was a group of very close bros, much like my own, gets filmed for 30 minutes a week doing nothing but partying, driving sweet cars, spending money, and of course, banging hot girls. It was every guy's dream world. As a guy that's seen every episode, multiple times, at least once under the influence of various substances, I've generated a lot of theories regarding the show that I think every Entourage fan can agree with.

Through the first seven seasons, it's pretty apparent that Vince has never been a good actor and there's no way James Cameron or Martin Scorsese would ever let him in their movie: but it's okay because he constantly fucks the hottest girls and eventually develops a cocaine problem, E's a little bitch and no one knows how he banged Sloan but can completely relate to why she broke up with him, Turtle's the shit, and if this was real life, would easily be the most successful character in the 4-some, which becomes especially apparent after he dates Meadow Soprano and discovers Avion, Drama's hysterical and you're always pulling for him to get his big break, and of course, Ari is the easily the best character in the show, and is of course, the biggest bro.

Even though seasons 1-7 had ups and downs in both plot and substance, generally, the above points held constant. With that said, I was saddened to hear that season 8 would be the final season in the Entourage saga, but excited to see what Wahlberg had in store to end the story.

Three episodes in, I think I can speak for most Entourage fans by saying that I've been fucking pissed with the garbage that's been airing on HBO at 10:30 on Sunday nights. Wahlberg found a way to ruin one of the most simple, brotastic shows in television history. In just 3 thirty minute commercial free episodes Wahlberg managed to change Vince from a coke addict to Montel Williams, minimize Sloan's camera time, ruin Drama's career: again, make E an even bigger faggot, write of Turtle's hot Mexican girlfriend and sever his ties with Avion, and of course, make Ari, who's the biggest bro ever, not only lose his hot wife but pass up on a slamming 26 year old for a mediocre 40+. Not to mention that everything that was cool about the show: alcohol, girls, money, drugs, parties, and sex has been minimized in favor of relationships and character development. This is Entourage, not the fucking OC. Did Wahlberg forget what this show was about? Does he realize how with every new episode he's painfully killing the insides of every loyal Entourage fan who wants to the gang get back in the Maz and drive down to the Valley to kill it before they all head out and bang perfect-10 models one more time?

It's getting to the point where at the beginning of each episode, I sit down and take a deep breathe, and then hope that something good is going to happen. Then it never does. Watching season 8 is like watching Tiger Woods falter on the back-9 of the masters because he stopped being a sex-addict.

Whenever I heard that season 8 was going to be the last season of Entourage, I thought it was a bit fitting that the show that's held such a deep significance in my college outlook would be coming to an end as I entered my final year of college. After watching the first three episodes, I can only hope that me and my bros go out with some pride and dignity that has obviously been lost on the cast of Entourage.

-Dicky Fuld

Drunk Twitter

So we blacked out in the city last night and my buddy from CT got lost and was alone. He proceeded to tweet, a lot. I guess this is what the old 4-loko, rounds of Sake, and an open bar can do to a guy.

"Wanadoo g the nyc streets"

"Just seat a blank man scares for my le # court racist"

"Kil libit in. Ntcw # claesoce"

"Walking alone in. The strreudkfl of ny think I'm in the day villagee #horray"

"Thank god for smith phones"

"Why'd everyone Ho.Kong? Fich Andy finne"

"I third calling my gr but she didn't pick up ehtad up twitterverse"

"3rd and 5h ! If I don't make it tell h nlmom I love hrty"

"I gel like @alexanderb"

"Walked vast. A hiekess couple so sad u wish I could help"

"Hazardd by sparking wiggled"

"day sparking wigs"

"I apppolofize I'm.not htaf raciet I'm just Sacred"

"O think I know wher I an but Andy th ewe is stunning a fsgfit"

For those concerned readers out there, he made it home safe, but I did wake up to a text from his girlfriend at 5 am saying "Hey Dicky, will you text me back if Pucky made it back to your apartment safely?" I remember the first time my mom checked in on me during adult hood. And I'm not really sure why she thought I'd be the responsible one to respond at 5 am, but hey, I guess that's why they call it New York City.

-Dicky Fuld

More Important Hair: The Lettuce or The Beard?

After recently going through a traumatic/life changing experience (cutting off about 5 inches of hair), this thought came to mind. It also probably has a lot to do with the fact that I'm unemployed and watch a lot of SportsCenter. I'd say that most people would be pro-lettuce in this argument because it is seen as "bro." You don't even need to be an athlete anymore, but you can still rock the flow (I was a great example of that). Girls love the flow, Guys respect the flow, and all in all it just looks awesome. The beard deserves more credit though. While I've never grown a mean beard (probably because I can't yet), I feel that it takes a lot more commitment than the hair. I mean it is in the front of your face rather than the back. Kind of the opposite of a mullet because the party is on your chin. Just think about the problems that could arise with having a big, bushy beard on your face. First of all, food is going to get in it. This is never going to happen to your flow, unless your in some strange kinky sexcapade like our buddy Flaccid Jack. Also, girls may not want to put their lips in there (Assuming this because I never want my lips anywhere near a hairy vag). A positive though is you can give a great moustache/beard ride. Agood mullet ride and possible suitors for one are tough to come by, trust me I've tried that one. So + 1 to the beard in that category. It seems to be all about preference though, so let me know what you think.

One Night in New York

Last summer, before patron was the drink of champions and me and my boys lived like peasants with our shitty fake id's and empty bank accounts we used to have to come up with innovative ways to kill it in New York. Needless to say, we went back to our standard high school moves of buying cheap booze and killing it wherever we could find space.

Now on this lucky night, we were blessed with a beautiful rooftop overlooking Union Square and some great company of some dumb girls from Westchester. Now, the thing you've got to know about me and my buddy Tiny Dancer is that we like to drink, and a lot. Apparentley our new friend Mary did too: but she just didn't know how to do it. Me and TD are peacing through this bottle of vodka quicker then it took Vinny Chase to develop a coke problem. Mary, obviously trying to distance herself from her ugly fat friends ("UFFs") decided she was going to kick it with us and try to play the "I can drink as much as you guys game" even though we've been professional alcoholics since the mid 90's.

Now, after a few drinks, Mary does what any good bro has found themselves doing at some point in their drinking career: leaving everything that was in her stomach, on the table. After a few vomits, me and my buddy TD, who I was jostling for this broad with, both decide that hooking up with girls that vommited just isn't our cup of tea. We proceed to ignore the dying girl and continue to enjoy our vodka and make snide comments about weight to the UFFs.

After about twenty more minutes, and an empty handle later, now incredibly more intoxicated, one of the UFFs comes up to us and tells us that Mary's gone. Obviously, not being a city boy, I wasn't too worried: back where I'm from, people get lost all the time. Hell, my boy from MCA blacked out at a football game, got rid of his cell phone, and still showed up to our pledge meeting only 20 minutes late. The UFFs did not share my relaxed sentiment, and proceeded to check with the doorman to ask if Mary had left. Of course, he didn't know, because obviously this building was paying him an inflated salary to watch internet porn and facebook stalk 14 year olds. The doorman, in a panic, decides to call NYPD.

Now we have a perdicament on our hands, the cops are here. Obviously, TD and I, know how to deal with situations of stress, pick up a pack of Virginia Blends. This was back in 2010, when cigarettes were cool and Rebecca Black only dreamed of being a youtube sensation. As someone who just quit the cancer sticks, it's funny how quickly culture can change: one year, same city, and half the towns traded cigarettes for snow. I guess when they're charging 16 dollars a pack you might as well spring for the good stuff.

Anyway, as we start attempting to assist these coppers in their search for Mary, we realize, we really can't remember what she looks like. Luckily, we've got her fake-id. Note to those people who may eventually lose a girl: asking people in new york city at 3:30 AM if they've seen a drunken blonde girl will get you no where closer to finding what you're looking for, but you will get some crude remarks. My buddy TD, lucks out, gets to ride in the back of a cop car, lights on, wrong way down a one way. It was very NYPD Blue. After a few hours of searching, with cops stationed all over the city, including Grand Central, and her parents now here from Westchester, Mary is still no where to be found.

Now, keep in mind, this is a Thursday, and I've got work the next morning. I neither know, nor care, about this girl. It's about 4:45 and I ask one of the cops, he was a real Lenny Briscoe type, if I could just bounce home. He tells me that they might need to take a statement: another guy, who I like to refer to as Doomsday cop, tells one of TD's buddies to check the outside of the building incase she jumped. Around this time, they bring in the special ops cops: think Navy Seals, just to check the elevator shaft, becasue apparently it's possible for drunk 20 year old girls to fall down elevator shafts.

At this point in the night, reality's starting to kick in and I'm getting worried. I'm out of cigarettes, and I hadn't had a drink for about 3 hours now. I know how the Natalie Holloway story went, and I was praying they wouldn't pin it on me, not being a city boy. Luckily one of TD's buddies was Mexican, I knew they'd go after him first: gave me a bit of relief. At around 5:15 am, as we're all hopelessly sitting and waiting in the elevator lobby, Mary stumbles out. Apparently she had broken into a penthouse and taken a nap. Stupid bitch.

Of course, I had blown my adderall the night before for partying, so work the next day was miserable. The cops wouldn't even give me a lift home after my great services to them, when I asked, they just glared. It just goes to show you that no matter how much assistance you provide people, they're always just worried that you're going to one up them. Even though I know I'm smarter and better looking then most NYC policemen, I can also recognize that they're the best in the business: always tip your cap to them when you see them on the street.

Anyway, one year later, Mary's still grounded from New York City. Apparently she went abroad last school year, so we're not even really 100 percent sure that she made it back from Europe. She wouldn't accept my Facebook friend request, follow me on twitter, or connect with me on Linked-In. Maybe if she's on google+ i'll be able to put her in my dumb blonde girls who can't drink circle. I'm still a guy chasing a dream, now with a little more money and a little bit more diseased liver: but hey, at least I quit smoking.

Until next time, always remember: even if you never need a bailout, always take the free cash, patron's expensive.


Dicky Fuld

Seeing Double

This site in particular is pretty funny. Everyone knows Sarah Jessica Parker has been consistently beat with the ugly stick but maybe we have it all wrong. Is she a really ugly woman or a really attractive horse? You decide.

http://sarahjessicaparkerlookslikeahorse.com/

PTW - Almost as disgusting as that last post

Wash Yo' Mouth

This is a tale that occurred about a year and a half ago, and while I don't believe many have heard it, I didn't realize it was funny until recently when I recalled it sitting on the toilet.

It was a Wednesday night, so of course, I'm getting hammered. I'm upstairs on the second floor of "the house" when at about 11 PM some females finally show up. (These were the days of social probation, a time every bro must go through if they're truly a bro.) I'm pretty drunk, one of those 10 beer buzzes that are oh so common in my life, and instantly one of the girls recognizes me and begins to chat it up. She isn't the most attractive thing in the world, kind of like a big-titted Sarah Silverman. So, obviously, I try and avoid the situation. Then I realize that there aren't many other females here, I'm horny, and my D hasn't been touched in two or three weeks. I turn to my big ol' buddy FP and tell him my situation. Of course, he encourages me to hook up with her.

He then proceeds to encourage me by handing me a 40 of that smooth Hurricane malt liquor we're all so fond of and demanding that I chug it. Of course, I proceed. As I'm chugging it, I begin to realize that my stomach wants no part of this, and I get that sweaty mouth feeling building in my throat. Trying to out-bro everyone in the room, I put it down as fast as I can, and run out of the room with my arms up like I'm a champ, but its actually because I'm clenching my throat holding back 40 vomit. I race to the can, admirably get on my knees and hurl my guts out. There's chunks of Jim's Beef Stroganoff taking a leisurely swim with some Chicken Fingers and Mustard. Gross. (I like to capitalize my foods.)

Well, shit, now I'm not drunk. I just puked out all my booze. Gotta take shots. I sneak past the room I was in, go to another room, find whiskey, and pound 4 consecutive shots alone to get drunk enough to hook up with this girl. Once I'm done, my breath smelling like whiskey vomit, I go back in the room to find FP and the girl playing 21 cup pong against Blonde Jew and some other ugly ho. FP asks me loudly to the room how my puke was. I quickly deny that I vomited and insist that I had to pee like a racehorse. The girl giggles and eyes me, so I ask her if she wants to get out of there. (It's only 11:30 at this point, they just arrived. If she leaves, she either really wants it, or she's a ho.)

She readily agrees. We go back to her room. I pin her down, we're making out (joke's on her, my mouth is pure vomit at this point) and being to undress her. I get her naked, I'm completely clothed, I'm feeling good that I'm going to penetrate this female. Immediately I begin to perform cunnilingus on her nether regions (which need a good trim I must say). Whatever, a vagina is a vagina, I do this all the time. Cunnilingus is my forte. Mid-performance, I realize that those shots of whiskey may come back up and exit via my oral cavity. I get up, say "My bad, I gotta puke" and exit to the bathroom.

What I didn't realize at the time, but now realize, is that she probably thought I need to puke due to her stanky unshaven vagina. This was totally false, I can handle any vagina thrown at me, but she doesn't know that! After I vomited again, I return to her room to find that she isn't there. I waited, and I waited, thinking she was in the bathroom. I then realize that all of her clothes are no longer on the floor. She left her own goddamn room to get away from me.

I walk back in the cold without a jacket to my room, unsatisfied, lacking coitus, smelling of vomit, my dick shriveling to the size of a pea. Moral of the story: Don't ever tell a girl you have to puke while you're eating her vagina, even an ugly one.

Regrettably Honest,

Thaddeus Bonefish