Rules are Made to be Broken…

Posted on November 30, 2010


Or so they say.  To that end I have broken a few in my day, both of my parent’s and society’s.  Seriously though, how many people do you know that can personally explain the difference between tasers in at least two different states or what a nightstick feels like hitting your ribs and back?  And after the year I had in ’06, where the only standard I had for a chick was ‘willing,’ it was time for some self-imposed rules.  They weren’t as descriptive as say, Coach Finstock’s from the classic feature film Teen Wolf, “There are three rules that I live by: never get less than twelve hours sleep; never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city; and never get involved with a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body. Now you stick to that, and everything else is cream cheese.”  Wow, and I thought coach Wright had perils of wisdom.  Mine were more of the back to basics variety.  I figured that I would begin with aesthetics.  You can hook-up with a chubster, you can hook up with an ugly,  just don’t do fat AND ugly.  It has worked well since.  Needless to say, I recently committed a sin against myself, let alone God.  I can’t believe that I am actually admitting this to you fools:

As I worked towards the inevitable black-out that is each evening of my storied life, I noticed a consortium of gals and one seemed into me.  Lets call her “Ally.”  (Quick tangent/side observation: Now I am good at drinking.  Because I have been doing it for so long I can usually tell how banged up I am or what my approximate count is.  Whether I acknowledge that and adhere to social norms when I am in that state is entirely another issue altogether.  But weird phenomena seem to take place at Page every once in a while.  I will be out with the usual crew drinking and perusing the scene for potential.  On occasion there may be nothing worthwhile to boot, so we’ll just bullshit for a bit and wait for the next crop to come in.  Sometime later on we may take a lap and notice promising signs of life and talent.  Now this is where it gets tricky.  No one has either come or gone since the previous diagnosis.  It may not always be intentional, but I’d drink the entirety of the room cute.  This was one of those times).  Since I wasn’t 100% sure how into me Ally was, I needed to find out how game she was actually willing to get.  I decided I would float the buoy.  And happily, I received a positive E.A.M. from her.  I just hoped her Tide wasn’t Crimson this week because I was certainly interested in putting my Periscope Down something, shit, anything at that point of the night.  Obviously I was drunk for sure, but was in no mood to leave a packed bar that early.  The move was way too risky, especially if it ended up that she didn’t have any cold beer at her place.  Instead of make out in the middle of a bar, another thing I try not to do, we agreed that a dark corner would be more “intimate.”  We somehow end up outdoors in a back ally around the block.  I felt like I was a burgler as we were sneeking around and being shady.  Turns out I was wrong because she would eventually rob me, of my self respect and the hint of dignity I had left.  We fool around for a little and she ends up going down.  After I finished and was coincidentally, simultaneously no longer interested in her, I realized my sin.  This broad was not skinny nor very attractive.  I just hooked up with an “alley whale.”  It was as if we were sailing and the fog lifts just in time for Captain Ahab to spot the great white whale.  Or maybe it was like I was in one of those Pacific Life commercials.  There goes the last time I enjoy the Holiday Bowl or just about anything Pac-10 related.  That song is now the soundtrack to my misery.

I immediately walked very briskly back to the bar to drink away my shame and reflect on how I did not notice.  My bartender just shook his head as he poured.  All I could mutter was a simple, “please don’t judge me.”  I mean, even Rome fell.

The question I pose to you dear readers is simple (and please feel free to be candid): May I now put marine biologist on my resume, considering I have seen first hand the inner workings of a real life blow hole?

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