Sunday, January 10, 2010

This One Night With Scott

Sex and Guns (but no drugs)

For those of you that could give a shit, it was my birthday last Thursday.

Birthdays are a lot of fun – for infants.

The significance of turning anything is null and void when you realize that true maturity comes from spiritual growth through stepping into the abyss of your fears.

And I have been running through the abyss like it was a hot coal trail. And, therefore, have learned nothing.

I had planned a night out on the town with close friends and I suppose it will continue tomorrow as I host a barbeque.

But, the night out on the town was Thursday and it’s come and gone like a loose fart ripped from the ass cheeks of Jenna Bush at a loud fundraiser.

That’s not to say the evening was uneventful – there were events, just nothing to be proud of, and nothing that will change a damn thing as far as my spiritual growth is concerned. Or, Jenna Bush’s ass cheeks, for that matter.

No, like Jenna Bush, last night will be forgotten by all those concerned in a media blackout that will begin after this post.

No one wants to put the President’s daughter under a microscope, and no one wants to see the same punishment incurred on an adolescent boy-child.

The night began, simply enough, with beer, chips and dip. Chris showed up first and immediately shat in my toilet.

I lit incense and summoned spring rain in order to dull the pain of his wicked stench.

Later, Shanna and Scott arrived.

Shanna made some Spaghetti-O’s and Scott sat gravely listening to Chris’ wedding stories.

Josh was the final quotient to show up and he drank Mexican beer like a rhinoceros running through a stump farm.

Before long, I was too drunk to remember what else happened.

But, a cab arrived and we went to the Bad JuJu on Capitol Hill.

We had no real plan and I mentioned that I wanted “WEIRD tonight.”

Capitol Hill, being Seattle’s center for freak circi, came to mind immediately.

As an anecdote, Josh mentioned that his wife’s girlfriend used to get paid to masturbate in front of a webcam above the Bad JuJu.

So, it was to the Bad JuJu we went.

If I wrote shitty comedy, I would now say “More like boring JuJu.”


I think I was seven drinks in by the time I arrived and I was beginning to debate hard alcohol.

A pool game started and I began to wage war on the natives.

My only mission on the bar scene is to fuck with people.

That’s it.

I have no plans of trying to get laid. If it happens it happens, but I’m not the sort that’s in to one night stands and I meet most girlfriend material through friends or at work.

But, I wasn’t feeling the Matt Eckert I know and hate. He wasn’t on his A game. I could feel my lack of random wit and it depressed me.

But, I’m a champ and I go with the flow. If I’m to crash and burn and lay some lame conversation on the detritus of America – so what?

My first victims were a gay dude and a girl he was trying to get in bed to keep himself in the closet.

Or, at least this is what it appeared to me.

And to everyone else.

We all assumed he was gay until we left and saw him making out with the girl.

Accusing others of gaiety is a bad habit and I don’t like to do it, but…what the hell.

We began asking them odd questions about their opinions on movies like Romancing the Stone and Big Trouble in China.

Half way into it, I realized we weren’t being funny – we were being guys who thought they were being funny.

I then ordered hard drink.

I had it in my mind to get Scott drunk and I ordered him the same.

He didn’t take to well to my hospitality and ended up dumping his Buschmills into my Greyhound.

This led to a question and answer session in which I tried to get him to admit guilt.

He didn’t.

Annoyed with my drink, I turned to the women behind me and told them I owed a Porsche.

They responded “We’re so impressed.”

That’s the response I imagined I would get, but it didn’t strike me as funny.

I then began to beat the joke into the ground by telling all the women at the table that I owned a Porsche.

I didn’t get a funny answer until one of the women finally responded “I’m here with my mother!”

We left about this time.

Come to think of it, I think that was a different bar. Yes, there was some bar between Bad JuJu and the strip club. But, for the life of me…

It was then that we decided to go to the peep shows.

Scott was looking mean and I should have thought about this when we entered a cab for four, leaving Shanna and him to fend for themselves.

“I’ll call you!” I screamed from the yellow dash that ran from Capitol Hill into…

Good God! See what drink does to you?

There wasn’t just that last bar, there was also the gay bar!

I totally forgot about that.

This is a perfect example of what drink does to the time and space relationships in our minds; in our memories.

No, before the “I own a Porsche” bar, we walked down the street looking for freaky places to go.

On the way, I asked everyone we passed “Do you have any Tapioca pudding?” gravely, like I would die without it.

“Are you sure? What about your girlfriend?”

And so on.

This was mildly amusing to me and those who were accosted.

“Dude, we should go to Neighbors.”

This from Chris. I have to hand it to him, he had the balls to say it.

We all wanted to go somewhere weird, but it took Chris and his balls to come up with a gay bar.

Any heterosexual man who suggests going to a gay bar, for the most ungay of reasons, sets himself up for a brutal pillory of jokes.

But, because of his true determination to make the night weird, I did not make fun of him and encouraged the idea.

I’ve been to Neighbors before under the same safari-type curiosity to see what the other side plays, but I remembered it being more Babylonian and depraved.

Not on a Thursday.

It must have been lesbian night, because I nary saw but one male-gay couple being intimate.

Immediately I focused on a black woman who looked incredibly hot and pulled the Tapioca line.

I don’t remember what her response was, but somewhere down the line I began to get freaked that she might be a dude and moved on.

On to the dance floor.

But, first, Chris and I ventured upstairs to find the sick and depraved coke party we stereotypically guessed gay people would be enjoying out of sight.

There was no coke party, but there was a plum of a lesbian adorned with a feather boa that she graciously gave me to help me meet people.

It’s true, I, Matt Eckert was at the point where I needed a gimmick to fuck with people.


So, decked out with the feather boa, I returned to the dance floor where I began dancing with a cute blond girl until she either remembered she was gay, or decided I was nuts.

I pumped my fist as I tried to uncover every stereotypical white guy dance I could remember.

Then, I broke out the moves and kept expecting the dance floor to form a circle around me.

They didn’t.

So, without the cute blond, I began dancing with Shanna, slapping her ass and faux grinding on her.

This comes into the story later.

Bored of dancing, I absconded to the table of some lesbians and let fly with my needs concerning Tapioca pudding.

They were less than amused.

At some point, one of them called me a white male in a derogatory manner.

I retorted with “Uh, you’re white.”

She said some gibberish and I cut off with “You’re fucking confused.”

After this, we left.

On the way out I warned all who entered “Dude, I think this is a gay bar.”

That’s when we went to the “I own a Porsche” bar and left it for the peep show.

At the peep show I busied myself with staring at vaginas.

The booths, remarkably, smelled like pussy. I don’t know if they draft in the smell of day old pussy, but that’s what it smelled like: that sitting out in the sun, eating heavy cheese pussy smell.

It was ugly.

At one point I went into one of the “special rooms” where you could tell the stripper what to do.

I didn’t have a clue.

I went in for laughs, not for a hard on.

The woman told me she would masturbate for an extra five, but I knew better.

She began writhing on the ground like Oprah under the couch for a hot dog and I realized I was at a low point in my life.

Then she put her lips up against the plexiglass partition and told me to “Take it out so I can suck it.”

This, I slowly realized, meant that I would take it out and jerk it into her waiting lips – behind plastic glass.

If this isn’t a metaphor for what sex stands for now a days, I don’t know what is.

I refused, citing that I didn’t want to catch mad cow disease.

I exited the booth and told the other patrons it was “a mind scrambler.”

I don’t know, but all in all the peep show isn’t much of a turn on.

I would rather see the women dressed first, rather than just walking in on Animal Kingdom.

It’s the same reason most people would prefer jerking it to Playboy than National Geographic: they give away the show too early.

One of the strippers commented that there was some large number of dead parrots that made up my feather boa.

I told her I ate them.

This gave away the impression that the strippers can’t actually see you behind the “one way glass.”

Soon, we left.

We caught a cab to 13 Coins and I made the necessary finger movements to get a hold of Scott.

He asked that I buzz him into my lobby.
I informed him that we were already seated at the restaurant and that he would have to wait for me to let him into my actual studio.

This didn’t seem to bother him and I attempted to invite him to the restaurant – cab on me.

He wasn’t having it. He talked as if he was drunk in fog and something told me that there was a weird, detached ugliness to him.

At 13 Coins we ordered omelets and were informed that the women next to us were transvestites.

I’ve never seen a group of transvestites, and this was ripe for realization: they dress like old women.

It’s true.

You’d figure they’d be all Paris Hilton’ed out, but that’s not the case.

This group of transvestites dressed like Ediths on Archie Bunker.

One even had a group of three white flowers pinned in her bun of hair.

After the omelets we headed back to find Scott passed out in my lobby…but, no Shanna.

We kept inquiring after her and he would mumble something about her being elsewheres and he didn’t care.

This is typical guy shit that I’ve pulled a million times, but I still was worried.

Finally, he told us she was out in the car.

Chris and I searched for her once we got Scott into my studio.

We found her hanging out on the street corner like common trash.

She explained that Scott had become enraged or stupid or something about us dancing with his woman.

This is very unScott and I realized that Scott is best left away from booze.

What followed was a long, drawn out talking Shanna into not leaving for home.

She was bent on ditching Scott at the studio and picking him up in the morning to teach him a lesson.

I explained that that would only make her drive here and there for no reason and she agreed to stay.

After that, I decided to Sonny Corleone Chris with a water gun and this ended up with Chris decideing to write shit on the sleeping.

Chris, being a dipshit, couldn’t manage to do so without waking them up, so I ended it all by writing “I like Dick” on Scott’s forehead.

All the while I consoled Shanna in the spirit of being the first time I wasn’t the dickhead of the night.

It’s amazing how much advice and lecturing you can give a person when your only motive is to bask in the warm glow of not being the bad guy for once.

Saturday I found myself driving in Kent.

When you’re driving in Kent, for any reason, it’s the best example of “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Kent is an embarrassment to Washington, like Texas is an embarrassment to the United States.

Anywho, I found myself stuck in hardcore suburban traffic and soon realized that there was some sort of police event going on.

The police love putting on a good show and they pulled a humdinger on Friday.

Apparently, some rumor spread through my old high school, Kentridge, that someone had brought in a gun for show and tell.

For a squared mile streets were blocked off in what can only be described as some cop’s fantasy that he could be the next P.R. guy for Washington’s Columbine.

Better to be safe than sorry is the ugliest expression in human language and cops and teachers are only too eager to lock down a high school for rumored bullshit.

Which brings me to guns and my high school gun story.

I have this ex-friend who I’ve mentioned before: Name Withheld.

The guy is the biggest douche on so many levels, but that’s a story for other days.

What happened in this event was that Name Withheld got into guns in high school. He had all sorts, including assault weapons.

I marveled at the dipshitery and would tell him time and again that I didn’t want to be near the damn things.

Which brings me to my views on gun control: same as drugs. Have all the weapons you want – don’t expect me to come by your place or hang out with you.

Seriously, owning a gun is a right you can have, but it’s like owning syphilis – no one should be around you.

Well, Name Withheld got into some discussion with some guy he worked with at Home Depot and the guy was all interested in buying guns from this other dude we knew.

So, Name Withheld sets up a deal between these two losers at a mall.

Well, the guy we knew shows up with a trunkfull of Uzis or whatever and immediately a task force of cops is on him hauling him away.


But, the REAL bastards got away.

Namely, Name Withheld and the guy from Home Depot.

See, the fag from Home Depot was an “Explorer Cop.”

An Explorer Cop is a rat that decides that he wants to be a cop when he grows up, so he starts riding along with cops, giving them oral pleasure, and letting them fist fuck him so that when he’s old enough he can be a cop.

Well, this fuck fixed up the deal with Name Withheld so that he could create a “bust” of sorts.

And he did.

Look, I don’t like the guy who was selling guns, but what I hate worse is a snitch who snitches for snitchings sake.

That type of man is lower than G.W. in my book.

But, the funniest thing about this is that for some damn reason, Name Withheld didn’t show for the sale.

He was supposed to be there and yet, for some strange reason, he didn’t show.

Name Withheld will deny it to this day, but I’m positive that the Explorer Slop tipped him off to what was going down and Name Withheld sold out the gun dealer.

Now, nothing is worse than a sell out with no cause and Name Withheld was just that.

Doing someone over to stop crime is one thing, but doing someone over because you’re a weak, spineless toad is another.

Name Withheld – you were the lowest fuck I knew and that makes me the lowest fuck in the world for hanging with you.

It’s never the crime - it’s the motive that bothers me.


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