He counted the rings.

September 27th, 2004 by

What a weekend. The great thing about having a hurricane every week is that the weather before and after is unbelievable. Good weekend to be creative, so I worked on a couple of paintings. I decided to start titling my artwork according to what the sale of said work will provide for me. For instance “Mortgage Payment in Blue”, “Study in pharmaceutical stock”, and “Plasma Screen Angst” might be some working titles. This should erase any doubt that I am a total sellout. Possibly the most satisfied sellout in history.

But Dusty, what about getting joy out of life? Life is not all about money.

First of all, yes it is.

Second, when I write this stuff I laugh my ass off. I seriously wish I had footage of me writing a good article. I shake like a lab monkey. Typing these thoughts is probably the single most enjoyable thing I do. I even hired cheerleaders to jump and scream while I type. They never showed up, but that doesn’t matter. I love this. I spent most of the day on Sunday standing in front of an easel on my front porch, painting a picture and listening to Sonny Stitt on the stereo. I would do either of these things for free, so don’t tell me about getting joy out of life. Being compensated for stuff you would be doing anyway is pretty much the pinnacle of existence.

You remember when you were in high school and you used to go over to your friend’s house on weekends and be really quiet because his/her parents were sleeping downstairs? If you are presently in high school, remember last weekend? I did that this weekend. For reference, I will be 32 years old in a few weeks. Chad and I spent the first fifteen minutes laughing about what losers we were. Then someone brought us some beer and we stopped.

My brother and I and a couple of guys from the flight school met up with some girls they knew on Saturday night and ended up going to one of their houses to “rock out” very quietly for fear of waking the rest of her family. One of the girls passed out about 22 seconds after we got there, so we spent the next couple of hours being entertained by the other one. She is about 6 feet tall, quite physically attractive, loves talking about herself, and is about as mentally impressive as one of those gorillas they have taught to do sign language. Interesting novelty…but not really good for anything. She did show her boobs to my brother for driving us over there, which everyone was thankful for. Some of her best lines of the evening were “Guys won’t talk to me, and I can’t get dates” (well, maybe you should show your tits more…duh), “No one would ever cheat on me. I have dated millionaires. Several millionaires.”(I guess that holds some sort of prestige among signing primates), “I need to take better care of my nipples” (I forget the context, but my GOD, what a line) and the second best of the evening- “Y’all don’t know me.”

I wish I was making that up. Someone call Springer.

Chad explained the subtleties of a well-executed Upper Decker to her, and I do not think I have ever laughed that hard.

For those who don’t know, an Upper Decker is something you do to people who piss you off. Let’s say you are at a party and the host starts making out with your girlfriend. Or maybe you’re at your girlfriend’s house and she is nailing another dude while making fun of you in Spanish, and you’re mad because she lied to you about not being able to speak Spanish. Go into the bathroom and remove the cover from the tank of the toilet. Stand on the bowl (safer if the lid is closed) and drop trou. Now position yourself in a semi-seated stance over the tank and squeeze cheese. The key here is to make sure the bulk of it goes into the tank, not the bowl. Doodoo in the tank doesn’t go to heaven when you flush. It stays in poogatory for about a week and it pretty much ruins the bathroom for that period of time. It also usually takes the person a day or two to figure out the problem, which adds to the value of the prank. Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.

So Chad is trying to explain to a drunk chick how this works, and by now she’s taking everything personally- “So let’s say your boyfriend cheats on you and you want to get him back…”

“No guy would ever cheat on me. I’ve dated millionaires.”

*awkward exchange of glances around the room to confirm that she just said what we thought she said*

Alrighty.

Chad used the sofa as a demo toilet (no, he didn’t shit on the sofa), and acted it all out step by step, even going to the trouble of dropping his pants for realism (yes, he left his boxers on). We got a picture of it that sort of looks like that Loch ness photo of the “fin” of the monster, except the fin is a hairy leg and has plaid boxers on. And the monster is squatting on top of a sofa, pretending to lay cable while a bleary eyed girl looks on in bewilderment. Awesome photo that I don’t have.

About an hour later I had stopped laughing and did manage to deliver the best one-liner of the night. I’m so proud of it that I chose to share it with everyone. The drunk millionaire dater that we don’t know started asking everyone how old we thought she was. I guessed 4, Jared guessed 53, Chad was still talking about Upper Deckers, and my brother guessed 25. Apparently my brother was correct and she was rightfully impressed by his mystical powers.

“OH MY GOD. HOW DID YOU KNOW?”

Buttless- “I’m just really awesome.” (his answer to all questions)

Me- “He cheated. When you showed him your tits he counted the rings.”

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