Tales of nonsense and items of little interest, sometimes true, always poorly thought through. Less sophisticated than most newspapers and magazines.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

The Vomiting Little Person

You need some spare cash to rent out the upstairs bar at the club where I work, and plenty of it. $10,000 to be exact. That is how much it costs to rent the place out for a private function such as a birthday party. We get a lot of “industry” parties, (if you don’t know what I mean by “industry” I would like to shake your hand!)

We get a lot of plastic people who “host” their show off parties there, thus becoming a “promoter” for the evening and thereby throwing their ego’s around just like they throw their money around. Despite the obvious high society aspirations of the “host’s”, these types of event still end up attracting people who under normal circumstances would not be welcome. I’m talking about the friends of a friend’s sister’s cousin type people who somehow either mysteriously appear on the guest list or tag along as the “+1” that the “host” felt obligated to put on the invitation. This is not to say that all these people are bad guests, most of the time they are better behaved and nicer than the fuckin’ egomaniacs that are there just to be seen, but oftentimes it is painfully obvious that these people do not get out much, if at all. Such was the case with ‘The Puking Midget.’

The event was a combination birthday/ cd release party for some no name girly group. Most of the people were friendly enough, except the “promoter” who was a wanker. Lights too bright, lights too low, not that one this one, it’s too stuffy in here etc. etc.
The crowd of about 300 was behaving itself, no fights, no one giving any lip, everybody enjoying themselves. The DJ was shite, he wasn’t so much a DJ really, more like a guy who played records, mostly those released by Lil John. I’m digressing here…

I had to look several times to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. I wasn’t quite sure, I kept getting glimpses through the crowd on the dance floor, but finally I got a clear look and I had been right. Somebody had let a fuckin’ kid in here! It was supposed to be 21 and over and those bastards on the front door had let a child in! No doubt the parents had greased their palms with a c-note. Surely it would have been cheaper to hire a child minder for the evening? Well, as long as the little bastard wasn’t drinking I wasn’t going to fuck with them. I moved over to where their table was and was horrified to see the child knocking back champagne, from the bottle no less. I was about to intervene when I noticed with horror (and morbid fascination), that it wasn’t a kid at all. It was a woman!!! A fully grown (estimated) 3 foot 8 inch woman!!! The odd thing was, she did not have the features usually associated with little people. Big peanut shaped head, stubby little arms and legs. Her body and features were perfectly proportioned to her size. This was a little confusing as she wasn’t bad looking, but was too short for even a stand up blow job. I was fascinated and decided to stick around for a while to observe her habits.

She had a camera and was taking pictures of everyone, probably even me. I would give a fuckin’ fortune to see those pictures. Tons of snaps of peoples mid sections or of faces taken at such a steep angle that you would be able to see right up their nostrils. Priceless.

She was hitting the booze pretty hard, the champagne had been replaced by a bottle of Grey Goose and she was drinking it neat. It was time for a dance….. She was like a Tasmanian devil, a little whirling dervish, darting around the dance floor and humping folks’ legs like she was a Jack Russell. She was a treat to watch, cutting a mean rug and tearing up the floor like nobody’s business. Several big people had to go and sit down after straining their backs trying to get down low and bump and grind with her.

It was inevitable. It had to happen sooner or later. Her tiny system could take no more. The mixture of booze, the dancing, the heat…. I saw her tiny cheeks bulge and watched as she scampered between people’s legs, making a beeline for her table. She reached up, grabbed the ice bucket and puked up her tiny ringpiece. Sadly, I would have to throw her out, house rules. Ironically, I could have literally “thrown” her out, as in picked her up and launched her into the street but unfortunately, here in California, many people have no sense of humour and a lawsuit would no doubt have followed, so instead I politely let the big people she was with know they would have to take her home. They obliged, all apologies and smiles and left.

Closer examination of the ice bucket afterwards revealed perfectly proportioned tiny carrots and what appeared to be straw mushrooms. We couldn’t be sure.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Tales of Urban Bohemia

I am, as I type, attempting to drink away the pain and misery of an uncomfortable afternoon spent in the dentists chair. 2 hours of root canal fun. Maybe the chinese food from Panda Express beforehand was a poor choice. Not only did I have to deal with trying to focus on my happy place while the sadistic bastard drilled gleefully away at my poor tooth, but I also had to concentrate on not farting or at least not following through on one. A simple guff could always be blamed on the obese latina dental hygenist whose breath, even with the face mask on, smelled like she had eaten an overripe chimichanga for lunch. Once you draw mud though, the game is pretty much up. So that, in a nutshell, was my day. No prostate exam today as my regular dentist was on a golfing holiday in Thailand, besides the last one was clear. This is not what this post was meant to be about though, so I will get down to the meat of it.

Speaking of meat, I just walked into the marital bedroom where Mrs. Waring has just consumed two Slim Jims (meat content = zero) and a bottle or two of cider whilst watching The Simpsons. Already the air is thick with a spicy musk. A night on the sofa beckons for one of us. That is not what this post was meant to be about either, so I will cut to the chase.

Transexuals. Chicks with dicks. Ladyboys. Or, to borrow the words of Alan Partridge, "Fascinating creatures..... Looks like a lady, but really it’s a man. I don’t find them attractive, it’s just confusing."

A few too many drinks and it could happen to the best of us....

For those of you who don't know, I work in Hollywood. Not the movie industry "Hollywood", the real fuckin' Hollywood. The dirty, nitty gritty, 'Blackpool with palm trees' that is a huge disappointment to millions of Japanese tourists every year. I have a weekend job as a bouncer in a club. You get all sorts in there, and that's okay. It's fuckin' Hollywood, it is Disneyland for freaks, misfits, weird (and wired) fuckers from all over the world. We get a few ladyboys in, they are regulars. Asians. From a distance even when sober, if you didn't know then.... you just wouldn't know. Up close, you twig pretty fuckin' quickly that something isn't right but when drunk, stoned or pilled up, the same rules do not apply. I have seen with my own eyes, many a poor unsuspecting fucker dancing with them, necking with them, copping a crafty feel of their tats..... Call me a cruel bastard, but like a foxhunter I will call it sport.

I don't discriminate, I always greet them with a broad smile and a pleasant "Evenin' lads!" They wink and smile back. They know I know the score, they enjoy the sport of it as much as I do.

Anyway, a couple of weekends back, we had a lot of disgruntled Israeli punters in the house. An Israeli DJ, booked to play, had cancelled at the last minute. One particular gentleman, who thought he could buy his own private bouncer (he was right), was throwing his money around and tipped me handsomely to remove any would be tresspassers from the tables that he had payed handsomely for. He was a cunt. A right twat. Snapping his fingers at me and giving me orders, never a please or a thank you, but he kept giving me money, so he had credit with me. I will put up with a lot of shit to put groceries on the table or pay the kids tuition. So I smiled and put up with is particular brand all night.

At one point, he motioned me over. 2 girls and one guy had sat, uninvited at one of his tables. Thinking I was doing as he bade, I told them, politely, to fuck off. Sensing trouble they quickly obliged, not wishing the contents of their pockets to be discovered. Israeli guy then admonishes me for getting rid of the girls as it turns out he only wants guys kicked out of "his" area. I let him know that it will not be a problem and he kisses me on the cheek (bastard) and gives me some more money so I let him off.

A short while later, I return from dispatching a drunkard into the street to find our three lovely "lasses" sitting at the tables and being courted by Yossi or whatever his fuckin' name was. Part of me, the human part, wanted do him a favour and whisper in his ear that he was messing with blokes. Another part of me, the mean part, wanted to do the exact same thing, not to do him a favour, but to watch his disgust and self loathing unfold before I would have to throw him out for punching them. But another part of me, the part that knew that he was probably flashing his money around and would no doubt pay for all three of them to take a limo back to some fancy hotel room and get in the jacuzzi with him, won. Tonight he was going to buy more than he bargained for so I wandered over to watch the go-go dancers for a while. When I got back, the four of them were gone.....

Tales From Urban Bohemia may become a regular feature here, depending on material. It is a true story. It really is. Next up......The Puking Midget.

Monday, April 9, 2007

Equine Fromage Frais

Ok, I know using a funny search term as the basis of a post is the easy way out, but the door is open and I'm going through it.

I'm both saddened and ashamed to say that this particular Google search was initiated by someone in Britain. If, by chance, you are that someone and you just happened to return and are reading this, (because surely my blog will now be the #1 search result for this term instead of #4), please feel free to use the comments section (or email me if you are shy) to explain just why the fuck you would be searching for "my horse has nob cheese".

If your horse really does have nob cheese, and I do not wish to know how you discovered it, do the poor beast a favour and hose the fucker off. Or call a fuckin' Vet.n Try not to resist touching it's dick. You may just find things out about yourself that you would rather not know. Also, I should let you know that you have let down the entire country, I though only Germans and Arabs were into that kind of thing....