The tranny at the bar

I walked into the bar around 11 on a Tuesday night. The bar has a special on Tuesdays, which is 25 cent Natty Light draws, so the place was packed with twentysomething college kids. I was there because Tuesdays are my days off, I was bored, and I wanted beer.

I strolled up the the actual bar and said my hellos. I knew the bartenders, John and Brooke, because I work across the street. The jostling of the crowd and the noise drowned out any real attempts at conversing with the help. Instead, I ran into a couple of my weekend regulars, guys who routinely come in to drink cheap and hit on girls.

"Did you see her?" Jordan, the tall, spikey blond guy asked.

"Who?"

"This chick with giant tits."

I glanced around. There wasn't exactly a dearth of large breasted women around.

"What about her?" I asked.

"She's not a she. But she has great tits."

Jordan and his friend wandered onto the back patio to continue to scope out the scene. I resumed my position at the bar and ordered another bottle of beer.

Soon, a tanned brunette with what can only be described as too-big-to-be-real boobs in a tiny white wifebeater came up and stood around the corner of the bar to me. Something was a tad off-putting about her. Maybe it was the heavy eyeliner. Maybe it was because her nipples were about to poke through the thin cotton of the shirt. Mostly, though, it was because she kept eyeing me and posing. She kept arching her back and standing in various positions, constantly turning to show off her chest at different angles.

It was a little disconcerting. The direct eye contact had me constantly moving my gaze from place to place. The absolute trainwreck was fascinating. I glanced at John, the bartender. He gave me a look that said "what the fuck?" Pretty soon, when it became obvious that I had no interest in conversing or paying any more attention to her than I was, she moved on. I watched as she kept looking at other men, winking at them.

Sure enough, there was a group of guys who had wandered in behind me, and one of them thought he had an easy target. He went up to her and gave her his best lines.

I kept watching.

Soon, they started putting their heads together, and I saw her say something into his ear. He stood straight up, as though shocked by an electric current. He backed away, then turned to his friends and started yelling, "She's got balls! She's got balls!" at the top of his lungs.

He ran (and I mean literally, ran) back to the safety of his friends, yelling "She's got balls!" the whole way. I glanced back at the now outed tranny. She gave a visible shrug, as if some drunk dude screaming out about her (his) genitalia was no big thing.

I immediately grabbed my phone and texted one of my best friends, a lesbian I used to work with. I knew she would get a kick out of this.

At the bar, I wrote. Tranny here.

Get pics! was the reply.

I worked the camera option on my phone. Unfortunately, it was too dark to make anything out.

Too dark, I replied.

Just remember don't go home with the tranny ho! she replied.

Lesbians.

I decided to pay my tab and head out. As I left, I turned around to see the tranny had been engaged in conversation with a drunk girl, no doubt because the girl was impressed by the tranny's choice in clothing.

It was time to go.

So just remember the immortal words of my friend- don't go home with the tranny ho!

Story?

There are many ways to die. Sean had seen almost all of them.

Back in Iraq, in 1991, Sean had been backing up the British SAS who were looking for Saddam's Scud missiles. At the time, they were raining down on Israeli cities and so the locating and destruction of them was a top priority. Sean and his fellow Rangers were in the deserts of western Iraq, looking (mostly unsuccessfully) for the mobile launchers. One would think that such a flat, featureless place would be difficult to hide a giant truck with a huge missile on the back. One would be wrong.

The desert is huge. Dotted with small, unknown villages, it is easy to get lost in. Usually the Iraqis would hide the trucks behind a building, covered in camo netting, and if it didn't move, it couldn't be spotted.

The Rangers came up on a such a village in the middle of the night. A lone dog barked, then quietly crept away. The Rangers spread out, silently going through the village, checking the buildings and looking out for Iraqi soldiers.

Sean was on point for his squad. As he stopped at the corner of a building, he checked around the edge and saw the tail fin of a missile. The wind had blown the edge of the netting over the fin, and had exposed the missile.

To be continued...

Tuesday night ramblings

Maybe I need more sleep. Maybe I need to just relax and let things happen. Of course, doing that my whole life really hasn't netted much in the way of positive things. I do believe that the time has come to grab the bull by the horns, metaphorically speaking, and start to take control of my life.

OK, so I know I want to write. In what way? Fiction, of course. I think the best way is to start writing a story, any story, and get the sucker published. That's always the hardest part. Once I get that, though, I can start building a resume of published work, and eventually, I will be what is known as an author. And that, my friends, is what I'm really looking at.

I have a book that details how to get started on this, and tomorrow I'm going to re-read it and start taking it seriously. Hopefully, I can get something published around town, to start off with. Building a foundation is never easy, and I've been slacking off for too long. The time is now. It's the only way I can do what I want to do and make any kind of money doing it.

Until tomorrow.

No title

Words. Turns of phrase. What do you do when you can’t think of anything new? To whom do you turn when your brain stops churning out those little nuggets of wisdom?

I learned a long time ago that the best thing to do is to just write. As long as you are putting anything on paper (or Word) you are doing well. Just write. I think that after a very long time I can come to grips with always wanting to be a writer. Dealing with that reality has been a burden. Always needing a job and not having the gumption to just WRITE for God’s sake. I think that Rubicon has been crossed, however. The one thing you owe yourself is to do what you want in life. To me that is writing.

I’m fairly certain that as I age I will get better and better. The only problem I have is what to write about. I do believe, though, that that issue will resolve itself. As long as I keep writing and developing my voice. I’ll know it when I get there.

The craziness of the American Midwestern small town

I spent the weekend in a "Weekend Improvement Program", or WIP, for my latest DUI. The state of Missouri runs these things through a private company, Midwest ADP. the basic premise is that you spend the weekend locked inside a hotel while going to various groups and classes where they talk about how bad booze and drugs are for you, and why you really, really have problems. Basically, it's like a rehash of high school health class.

I was sent to the Independence office of ADP to do my time, I suspect because they figured that I wouldn't get through the downtown WIP alive. So, I was sent to a Holiday Inn by the Truman Sports Complex to do it. Along with doing it in the country (by my standards), I also got to deal with country drunks and weirdos.

First is the girl who showed up 7 months pregnant. Counting backwards, I figured she had to be only a couple months preggers when she got her DUI. Alas, she had been responsible, she later told me. She had put off her WIP for over two years, well before she was pregnant. With this child, I assume.

On Friday night I got to meet my roommate for the weekend. Can't really recall his name, but he seemed like a fairly normal guy until he told me how he got his. It seems that his son was hanging out with some pothead friends, and the guy got so pissed that he drunkenly drove over to the kids' house to get his son. "I was so mad at that little shit, I purposefully drove through a red light," he told me.

At lights out, he gave me this little bit of info. "I drink a lot, so, I'll probably be throwing up this water that I've been drinking tonight."

"Really?" I said, not really comprehending what I had heard.

"Yep. I'll probably be in there all night."

Sure enough, not long after we turned in, he gets up and goes in the bathroom. I hear him coughing as the door closed. Jesus, I thought. He wasn't kidding.

He comes back out, lays down, and 10 minutes later he's back in the bathroom.

OK, I'm thinking. He had to show up today sober. So he probably hasn't had a drink in about 24 hours. So that means he can't live for a day without booze?

Seriously? You're so fucked up your body is rejecting... water?

Wow.

He ends up running to the bathroom about a half dozen times that night, interrupting my sleep, let alone his. I finally got around 4 hours of sleep that night, my roommate considerably less so.

The next day was all about "big groups" and "small groups" and watching videos and having discussions about our lives. I met a 52 year old Puerto Rican junkie from Jersey, a 20 year old heroin addict from Springfield, a douchebag 32 year old pilot from Grandview, and a 23 year old wiseass rich kid from Raymore.

The Raymore wiseass was the son of rich parents. He had been kicked out of high school for selling speed to the wrestling and football teams, he had gotten married to some girl and had a 3 year old daughter, and now he had gotten 3 DWI's in 8 months. Ahh, I though. That bar I work at? Yeah, he's basically one of our customers. Too young, too much money and too small of a brain.

Saturday was such a long day it was incredible. They woke us up at 6:30 and sent us to our rooms at 10:30. I never really got any sleep because I'm a third-shift guy trying to do a first-shift workload. If only I could have brought in some beer.

I finally made it out at 2 on Sunday afternoon. It felt like getting out of jail, and in a way I guess it was. Will it help? Not with my drinking but with my driving. Gotta be smarter than to drive around drunk.

Der Spiegel and Obama's economic plan

Here's what the Germans have to say about Obama's economic plans. It's pretty dead on, even with the latent anti-Americanisms. When the Europeans are concerned about your spending, it's time to call it quits.

Obama and the Chrysler deal. The man is dangerous.

From National Review Online...

Finally, A ‘Terrorist’ Obama Is Willing to Fight [Henry Payne]

Over the last two month, the Obama Treasury Department has attempted to steamroll the rule of law in order to hand majority control of Chrysler to its union, the federal government, and Fiat. With the tacit approval of a lapdog press that has virtually ignored the story, the administration’s mob-like tactics seemed destined to succeed — but for the brave protests of Indiana pension funds that have stood in the middle of the road and demanded accountability.

“The Obama administration’s effort to hurry Chrysler through bankruptcy court ran into an unexpected last-minute delay on Monday, when the Supreme Court said it could consider whether to hear the objections of three Indiana state funds and consumer groups,” read the New York Times’s lead story today. The court’s action is only “unexpected” for readers of the Times, who have been denied reporting (even as alternative press sources such as Planet Gore, Larry Kudlow, and The Business Insider have provided full coverage) on the administration extra-legal tactics in making offers that debt-holders like Indiana can’t refuse.

Those tactics have included the bullying of TARP banks and outright political intimidation of investment funds “to withdraw opposition to the deal under threat that the full force of the White House press corps would destroy its reputation if it continued to fight,” according to funds’ lawyer Tom Lauria.

Now, as a result of the Indiana funds’ persistence, documents have surfaced detailing in chilling detail how car czars Steve Rattner and Ron Bloom dictated the terms of Chrysler’s restructuring.

The documents show the Democratic administration’s determination to cut out Chrysler executives (who questioned Fiat’s worthiness as a partner) and secured debt-holders (who by law had first claim on Chrysler’s assets) in its single-minded determination to hand control of the company over to a key party political player, the UAW, and preserve union jobs. (As with its stimulus plan, the administration has framed its political power play as necessary to save the economy from collapse.)

Perhaps the most revealing documents detail how Chrysler executives tried to avert bankruptcy in late April — mindful of the legal rights of its debt-holders. But Chrysler management’s attempt to sweeten the deal to bondholders was met by the full fury of Obama’s Treasury.

“I am not talking to you,” responded Rattner deputy Matthew Feldman. “You went where you shouldn’t. It’s over. The president doesn’t negotiate second rounds. I’ve protected your management and your board, and now you’re going to put me in a position to have to bend to a terrorist like Lauria. That’s BS.”

So the lawyer trying to protect the pensions of retired Indiana teachers and firefighters and police officers is a “terrorist.” Remember that the next time President Obama says that his Chrysler deal is necessary to save America’s working man.