Jenny, Jenny, who can I turn to?

One of my close friends in undergrad, Jen, later went to medical school. During her second year of residency, she was out gallivanting one evening and met a handsome rascal. As he chatted her up, she asked him what he did for work. He told her he just started medical school. She asked him a few questions about classes, to which he gave vague answers in a smarmy voice. And then with a wink and a smile he concluded it was probably over her head. 

I am not an expert, but I might suggest that one definitive way not to get an invite home is to basically tell a very attractive girl she is too stupid to understand you are elbow deep in cadavers and learning about biochemistry, neuroscience, and clinical ethics. 

She, being ever poised, merely laughed inside. Young buck, oh so full of confidence and swell. Later that night she ran into him again and he actually asked for her number, she smiled. She then got a bar napkin upon which she wrote:

Dr. Jennifer  _________
867-5309

Not only did she handle it with class, but because she was still smart ass enough to write the phone number Tommy Tutone made famous. And clearly, who is the idiot? I don't think you need to be the rock star of Trivia Thursdays to recognize that number if you merely say it out loud. And now I can say that the definitive way not to get invited into PantyTown is to tell a super cute girl she is too stupid to understand medical school when she is already a DOCTOR. 
Brilliant.

Not your average Jack-o-lantern

One of my roommates during grad school, The Coat, was friends with a completely wayward rogue. We called said rogue O’Shame. Every time I watched LOST and see Sawyer, I was reminded of O’Shame in that same gritty, dirty, muscled, kind of sexy, but really mostly gritty and dirty kind of way. 

During law school, we used to frequent this fabulous dump called The Grenada. Thursday nights heralded in the beginning of the weekend (for us) but also 80's night AND Dollar Pitchers at The Grenada. Few other things on earth scream "I am serious about my education" than flocking with all your law school friends to a giant bar to dance to Come On Eileen and swill down pitcher after pitcher of Keystone Light. But flock we did, and OH, I loved every minute of those 50 weeks a year.

Now, dirty O'Shame would often join. The following is one of his more hilarious antics. 

While at The Grenada, a fertile ground for impermanent relationships, O'Shame met himself a little lass.  While engaged in a full on teen-age make out party, O'Shame, like Tarzan, or King Kong, lifts her up and puts her on the rail so they can take their PDA to a whole new classy level while she wraps herself around him. He is earnestly kissing her. How do I know? 

Because he was leaning so far into her they both FLIPPED over the rail. She landed on her back about five feet below. He landed on her. His face landed on the floor. Only when they finished making out did he rise, dust himself off. He rises and we see blood coming from his mouth and a big snaggle tooth jutting out of his mug. The remainder of his tooth apparently left on the dirty floor. He uses his hand as a towel to wipe the blood from his face. He gets napkins to ward off the flow. He sees no reason to get medical attention. Never mind your face was on the filthy floor. Might that merit at least a rinse or maybe a hand wash? NO. As he continues to bleed, his wife-for-the- night thinks he looks "rugged." As she fetches more napkins for him, he looks at us and asks if it looks ok. Does your broken tooth look ok? Is YES ever an answer to this question? 

The Coat, not wanting to inhibit his prowess, said "I think it is fine."
MarciaGarcia said, "WOW, O'Shame is dirrrrrty."
ShaNaNa (our nice friend) asked, "Are you ok?!?!"
I say, "You look like a jack-o-lantern."
The Social Chairman, in an areyou___ingkiddingme tone said, "More like a JackASS-O- Lantern."

Did it stop O'Shame? No. Even being told you look like a human snaggle-toothed jack-o-lantern couldn't stop that train. And it is awesome when being drunk and hooking up is FAR more important than your health. God forbid you miss a tongue dance while you take a time out to get your smacked gob looked at by medical personnel. 

Now all the rest of you little pumpkins, be good this Halloween. MiniMac is dressing up as a blue m&m. Have a safe and fabulous weekend. And like the black cats, don't let any jackass-o-lanterns cross your path. 

Always tip your server

Since JohnnyMac is an avid golfer, making as many attempts to keep his 7 handicap as feasible, the visits to the course are fairly regular during what he considers warm months. In Atlanta, that is 9 out of 12. Typically, his golf outings lack any sort of scintillating detail. However, our friend Big Leaguer, also an avid golfer, recently shared this precious little tale. Perhaps golf can be sordid after all.

Big Leaguer and some of his wolf pack went to Florida for a little man time and back to back days of golf. These are not 20 year olds either. The first night, they went to Hooters for dinner. Oh, I assure you it is because of those incredibly delicious wings. Mmm hmmmm.

After enjoying, oh, I am guessing about the 3rd round of beers, one of the quartet got a bit surly when he got his  second order of wings. It seems he ordered twelve wings, and the server only brought him ten. He summoned her back to the table, all the while, giving her a little attitude.

Been to Hooters? These dames deal with all kinds of men. From the normal guy to the Eminem-stylin' jackass. I don't even go there and I know better then to give them attitude.

So Surly proceeds to upbraid her for an unnecessary amount of time. And counts each wing outloud as if she needed the extra help.

You want your extra wings, she asks.

YES I DO, Surly replies, extra hot.

My pleasure.

So shortly, she brings him not just two additional but an entire basket of wings. Extra hot, the way he asked. Which he consumes with giddy delight. They finish out their evening and go home for some rest before the early morning tee time at a prominent golf course.

The next morning, Surly feels a little off and assumes it is because of the beer. Perhaps. But the level of intake was fairly modest.

Out on the course, he feels a rumble. They get through two holes and he feels another rumble. He proceeds to lay down. On the golf course. And then he hurls. On the golf course.

All kinds of boyish pandemonium breaks out because men would never fret over or soothe a sickly friend like women do. Never.

Surly must leave to avoid further mockery and to freshen up. He doesn't quite make it off the course before he is sick again. He then disappears.

Hours later, the men hunt him down. Laying down on the floor in the men's locker room. Not a bench but the floor. Clad only in a golf towel.

Have you seen a golf towel? Oh, they are tiny. And even more so when draped across the southpark of a large man.

WTF is wrong with you, they ask (Male dialogue often free of any unnecessary niceties.)

He replies that he doesn't feel well.

And where the F are your clothes?

In the garbage.

Why?

Long pause.

Because while I was barfing, I sh*t my pants.

He spent three days in bed. Well, either in bed or in the bathroom alternating between heads and tails. Oh, he just had to speak up about the two missing wings, didnt he? Just had to count out his shortchanged plate for her on his chicken wing abacus.

Hmmmm. Let's review:

1. Don't be rude to a server.
2. Especially one very skilled at handling jerk offs.
3. Even more so when she is one handling your food.
4. Especially when your food contains spicy condiments and a blanket of
heinous orange sauce which can hide or mask a multitude of other things
5. Unless, of course, you too would enjoy the legend that
could precede you about the guy who shat his pants on the golf course.

And who knows what that gal may have added to those wings. Maybe a little extra tabasco. Maybe some jalapeno sauce. Maybe some urinal cake. Maybe some cockroach.

Who's to say, but this is you why you give tip, not lip, to your waitstaff.

W.I.F.E

In his column, The Take, Dan Balz, a journalist for the Washington Post shared a precious quote from Montana Gov. Brian Schweitzer. Schweitzer was quoted as praising Virginia gubernatorial candidate Terence R. McAuliffe as someone who, "when there's a bump in the road, he's not going to cry like a girl and quit."

This was June 7, 2009. Not June 7, 1949 like you might think.

A play on words? Perhaps. Words he got slammed for uttering? Possibly. A statement his wife and daughters liked very little. Certainly. Was it the worst thing ever said? Of course not. But good job Schweitzer, because you look like a tiny d-bag.

And albeit indirectly, it reminded me of a joke a salty old codger told me years ago. I was in a bar celebrating with a gaggle of girlfriends shortly before my wedding. It was getting last, one of our last stops, well past the witching hour because CLASSY has already gone home to bed.

This man says to me: Oh, you're getting married, huh?

Me: (all smiley) Yes, I am.

Him: That poor fool.
And then he chortles.

My thought: WOW, you're neat-o.

Him: You know what Wife stands for right?

Me: Ummm, no.

Him: Washing, Ironing, F___cking, Etc.
He follows this with more chortling and a couple of snorty snorts.

It took me all of one second to recover before I said: Oh, don't be stupid. JohnnyMac knows I don't IRON.