The only thing I enjoy about having a full-time job now is that I now have a place to Xerox my balls actual money to spend on stuff. It’s great to have money. I can buy better food, more beer and use non-motel lotion for…my face. However there is a negative to having more money: more problems? Sorry, P Daddy Dilly Diddy.
I buy more stupid sh*t.
Money has never really been my forte. I know how much I have at all times and I’ll never spend more than what I have, but there are times where I feel it’s better to spend money than save it. Allow me to share with you some of the less fiscally responsible decisions I’ve made in my life.
Women’s Lingerie. “This must be for one of his girlfriends at one time. It’s a very lovely gesture to purchase fancy lingerie for his girlfriend to tell her that she finds her very attractive and she will be the sexiest woman in the world if she wears it.”
That’s a logical thought, but there’s no way I’m buying any future girlfriend lingerie unless she comes with me and tries it on. I’m not even good at buying underwear for myself so what makes you think I can buy it for someone I’m dating. Nothing’s worth that nightmare if nothing goes right. If you buy something too small she’ll think she’s fat. If you buy something too big she’ll think you think she’s fat. If it’s too revealing she’ll be offended you want her to look like a “whore”. If it’s too modest she’ll wonder if you don’t find her sexy anymore. It’s the deadliest of relationship traps short of your penis “accidentally” finding its way to another girl’s place. Nope…I bought this for me.
It was senior of high school for Halloween. I was going as a schoolgirl and I wanted it to be authentic. I bought the white button-up, plaid skirt and thigh-high socks, but I wanted more. Wandering around a Big Lots I spotted the women’s clothing section, saw the lingerie, then I blacked out. When I came to I was back home washing a bra and some panties in the washer. Once they became dry I stared at them with utter disgust like a fat guy with veggies. Am I really going to do this? Finally after taking one or 475 deep breaths I slipped them on.
Immediately I went on a time traveling adventure to my future. I had visions of me wearing a gown to prom, getting a sex change in college, bringing two guys named Seth and Mongo to family Thanksgivings to the horror of my family, joining a sex show where I juggle flaming cotton balls with my penis and dying at the age of 28 of an unfortunate naked tandem skydiving incident.
I burned them and ran to bed.
Tie Me To The Bedpost. “Ok well maybe Bryan doesn’t buy women lingerie, but this sounds like some sort of intimate game to spice things up in the bedroom. It certainly is meant for him to become closer to his girlfriend and their relationship will blossom like a beautiful rose.”
Yet again…not for ladies.
A couple of years ago I visited a friend in Indiana at his place of residence. We went out that Friday night and let’s just say I pregamed a wee bit hard. By the time we got to the first bar I was on cloud nine and ready to try things I never got the chance to do. At the first bar we went to there were some cougars at the bar I wanted to hit on, but considering I was holding onto the table so I wouldn’t fall on the ground I never did it. Around 1:30 the bar closed and we left, but we weren’t done drinking yet. Luckily there was another bar open…a gay bar.
Before I finish this story let me set this up. One drunk night I was thinking about how girls get free drinks from guys at bars. “Thas nahfair! I wann free dinks, too! (Hiccup) I know! I’ll jus go ta agay bar n hit onna beertender there! Then I durrrink fer free!” Translation: hit on a gay bartender, I get free drinks!
We entered the gay bar and everyone sat at a table while I went up to the bar to commence Operation Queer-For-Beer. I sat at a stool and went into flirt mode. I was seductively leaning on the bar and giving come hither eyes to every bartender until one came over to serve the guy next to me. I couldn’t hear anything said except for “Tie Me To The Bedpost”. The bartender made a pink martini, served it to the guy and come to me.
Bartender: What do you want?
Me: Give me what that guy had, big guy. (Seductive gaze engaged)
He makes the drink, brings it over and coldly says “$8.” I pay him and walk away angrily. Why didn’t he think I was a cute guy? I wanted a free drink! I slammed the drink and stole the martini glass (I had to retain some dignity somehow. What better way than by spitefully stealing something that was my fault?)
There goes that dream.
Skinemax Movies From Blockbuster. “Oh, well he that for…um…uh…that’s just weird.”
I was 17 years old. I was single. I was still going through puberty. I love Cinemax after dark (boobies!) I want to watch them at 3 pm, not just 3 am. I go to Blockbuster a lot. They have movies! Maybe with boobies!
I go up to the local Blockbuster and peruse the used DVD aisle. After some searching I find one worthy of my Jurgens: Wicked Intentions. I was about to go to the register when I saw a sign: 3 DVDs for $10. My movie was $5.99. Why the hell not get two more booby movies?!? With some more searching I located Bikini Summer 2 and My Boss’s Daughter (Tara Reid stripping for 1.5 seconds…sounded good…I was 17!) I collected all three and went to the register. This is where I get nervous.
While buying condoms has become the nervous transaction of society (I never understood this…you’re going to have sex. You should have a big grin on your face making eye contact with everyone near you nodding while you lick your lips)…you haven’t bought two Skinemax movies and a crappy movie at a Blockbuster at 8 pm on a Friday night. I don’t know what the equivalent for women is (my guesses are buying tampons, a pregnancy test or carrying crotchless panties around and running into your parents.) It was nerve racking.
I put My Boss’s Daughter on top of the pile so I look the least bit of a loser as I stood in line. When I got up to the cashier my palms were sweating profusely, my face blushed and my ass crack was like the Amazon River. As I walked up I wanted to come up with a line that would make me not look like the pathetic dateless wonder I was. I thought…thought…thought…got it!
Cashier: “How are you doing?”
Me: (voice cracking) “Good.”
Cashier: (looking at the movies and judging) “Is there anything else you want?”
Me “Yeah, uh…do you have any sort of wrapping paper I could buy? I’m buying these for a friend as a present.”
Cashier: “Uh…no.”
Coming up with a lie to make it seem like I’m not a lonely loser made me even more of a lonely loser. I quietly went home with my shame, enjoyed Wicked Intentions and cried myself to sleep.
Old Speckled Hen. “That sounds like a sh*tty-ass beer.”
It was a sh*tty-ass beer. Don’t do it. It tasted like the insect repellent, wood shining, toxic sludge it looks like.
Change purses. “What the hell’s wrong with this guy? He’s buying women’s underwear for himself, martinis at a gay bar and now change purses? Does this guy have any form of genitalia at all? I’m beginning to think he reproduces asexually because no one would want to be with this weirdo.”
First off…ouch. Secondly I was a certified wuss when I a youth. Any fight I got in was me bullying someone and crying like a bitch when they fought back. I was like Scud Farcus in A Christmas Story…right down to the fire crotch.
I carried around a neon green change case that I wore around my neck. I was a frugal dick. One time a friend was short $.45 on something he bought and he asked me for change. I gave it to him and told him at least 17 times throughout the rest of the day I asked him “You’re paying me back, right?” IT’S $.45!!! I could have asked for that from a homeless guy. He’d just say “$.45? Really? Wow you must REALLY need the money.”
My second change purse was bought at a Cleveland Browns game. It was shaped and colored like a Cleveland Browns jersey. I couldn’t guarantee it, but I’m pretty sure Tim Couch sold me it to make ends meet. I’m not even a Browns fan and I have a penis so I shouldn’t have a purse.
I just…I…there’s nothing else to say. I’m embarrassed.
I hope there’s enough money in my change purse to buy Bikini Summer 3: Bryan Fraker’s Shame.
