paul's.stories

and stuff

Paul is funny. I've known him since preschool.

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Paul's Stories Never Get Old

They just get crusty

'Sexy Fabulous' party August '04

The attached Word document was a cheaply made flyer - Greg’s 29th birthday party - with three pictures: an extremely fat chick wearing the smallest dress I have ever seen, a group of four Geraldo-looking dudes wearing only jeans and cowboy boots with semi-long black curly hair (it looked like that picture was taken at the K-mart portrait room), and a fairly pretty girl squatting down showing some serious plumber's crack and looking back over her shoulder at the camera. The caption read, "Dress is 'Sexy Fabulous' No hoodies, Tims, Hats, or Sneaks." I thought, "What is a ‘Tim,’ and what is sexy fabulous dress?"

I figured that sexy fabulous may be the same as ghetto/metrosexual wear, so I put on some jeans, some sandals, and a yellow terry-cloth shirt with an island scene on the front, which looked like it would fit a 12 year old. Not knowing Greg outside of work, I was a little hesitant on what to expect on this mystery night.

Arriving at the party, two hours late, I was trying to get over the 1.5 hours it took me to drive 25 miles and find parking. When the door opened I introduced myself and was interrupted by an already belligerent Greg who announced: "Hey everyone, Paul is here! He's an intern with our office and he enjoys white suburban gangster rap!" A lie he has claimed ever since the 5-foot tall valley girl in the office announced to us that she is "into hip hop." I commented that the largest market for rap music is teenage white suburban kids. In Greg's mind, that meant I like white suburban gangster rap.

Amidst the excitement of my grand entrance, I didn't process a comment made by someone behind me: "Yeah, he brought beer." I brought it for Greg as a gift, a meager six pack of Sierra Nevada pale ale (a brew I enjoy from my home state). I put it in the fridge and grabbed one for Greg, who replied he didn't want one. He was drinking Vodka - straight; No additional liquids - just Vodka. So I opened the bottle and kept it for myself. As Greg introduced me to his landlord and neighbor, I immediately noticed that there were four other dudes already with Sierra Nevadas in their hands. I was infuriated.

Greg noticed my shirt. "Paul, wow, I love that shirt," he exclaimed and followed with a curious rub of the pectoral area. I shied away and told Greg “only chicks can rub me like that.” He isn't gay; He just tries to embarrass me in front of everyone. I don't get embarrassed.

With the six pack deflated, the decision was made to move the party to a bar down the street called L'etage. There was a conspicuous door, but no sign. The place was small: a bar and a dance floor. I consumed another brew and stood off to the side of the dance floor. I didn't know more than three people at the bar. I talked with a couple of girls I had recognized from work but had not yet talked to.

Suddenly, “Billie Jean” came over the speakers. Involuntarily moving to the rhythm, we walked onto the dance floor. My weird night continued to get weirder: Billie Jean cleared the dance floor! Of all the low-down dirty things that I have ever witnessed, never had Michael Jackson put a stop to the groove. Even worse: Stevie Wonder's "Superstition" continued to plague the clientele. I was inflamed. There is something wrong with the world when Michael Jackson and Stevie Wonder fail to inspire drunks to dance. I left unannounced.

Walking back to my truck, I realized I was not in the best driving condition; Although I only had three beers, I had not eaten anything in a while and I was feeling a slight antsy-in-my-pantsy. (The plan was to sit in my car for about 1/2 hour or so, until I felt comfortable driving.)

As I approached the truck, I noticed a sudden, unbearable pressure on my bladder - it actually hurt. It felt like my abdomen was going to explode. I had to find a bathroom fast! I decided to walk around the block and find someplace to drain the lizard.

Nothing - not one place open. I found several dark corners, but there were a high number of cops on the roads that night, so I decided to hold it. As I walked back to my truck, a brand new black Nissan Maxima with tinted windows pulled over to the curb in front of me. The driver side window rolled down, and the hispanic-looking dude inside said, "What's up?" and nodded. I feared this guy wanted to beat me up or something.

"Not much," I said as I walked passed his car, glancing at him.
He drove past me slowly and stopped again. As I walked by, he said a little more assertively, "What's up?"

I replied, "Not much. What's going on?" but I didn't stop to hear his answer.

He rolled past me again, stopping just ahead of me. "Hey man, you want a ride?"

I realized at that moment, he did want to beat me up - he wanted me to get into his car for sexual relations.

I sped up my walk, and returned: "No thanks."

He passed me again. "Are you sure?"

I held out my hand, motioning for him to stop bothering me and he took off. As I crossed the last street to my truck, I noticed the sign said 11th and Pine streets - an area of Philly people call the "gayborhood." It is the equivalent of San Francisco's Castro District and I was in the middle of it.

A couple of years ago, it was common for dudes and girls to "streetwalk" late at night - a sign that they were out for a little action, but cops had stamped that out. Evidently, this guy thought I was a homosexual prostitute. Needless to say, I was too perturbed to sit in my truck for a 1/2 hour. I drove home. On my way, I stopped down some really dark residential side street and peed into a large fern in front of a gated home.

It was later that I realized he must have been turned on by my "sexy fabulous" outfit of jeans and terry cloth shirt. After all, it is the Cadillac of fabrics.

Haloween'98

I went to San Francisco for Haloween. Me and 10 other people went to the civic center for the night. The whole block by the all of the government buildings and the opera house was closed off for the big party.

It was pretty cool, there were a lot of freaks there. I had my afro made up at the hair dressers and I found some awesome sunglasses that were dark on top and faded to a lighter color on the lenses. I got a pair of girl bell bottom pants from my friend's girlfriend, and got one of my Salvation Army shirts and a wifebeater. The pants were super tight and, to make the costume better, I stuffed a sock down my pants to give me an even bigger bulge! We were pimps, our outfits were the best and I strutted like super fly all night.

Chicks were digging the bulge!! On the way back to the car from the party, we were having an arguement on who's ass was better in our tight pants: Mine or my buddy George. Were arguing for a while and all of a sudden from across the street come these two homosexuals. (I could tell they were gay by the Daisy Dukes and the combat boots tha they were wearing.)

George says "Hey guys I need your help. Can you tell us who's ass is better in these pants? Mine or his?" We both turn around so they could see our butts as they walked away from us. They must have thought we were making fun of then because one responded "I don't wanna be the judge of that." We laughed and kept walking.

The night was pretty fun. That is all.
Late.

Golfing

I went golfing the other day, and i accidently hit my ball into another fairway. There were four old guys golfing and they all had balls near mine. When they approached, I asked if any of them were hitting a top-flite XL ball, one replied he only hit titleist balls, then he told me that "any man who hits a top-flite can shampoo my crotch!"

All I could do was laugh, because here was some 75 year old guy that I didn't know, telling me that I could shampoo his crotch!