by Mike Stangle
The Nutty Irishman used to have live bands every Saturday. They stuck with mostly local groups, but once in a while they would have a band with some sort of gimmick: all-girl bands, cover bands, you know the drill. One night, they booked this band that was an all-midget KISS cover band. Fucking awesome. I would usually get to work early to help stock the bar. This allowed me an opportunity to steal a bottle of well liquor to bring out to the front door with me for the night. That night, I saw the midget KISS guys unloading and setting up. Full makeup, little tiny fellas. They went all-out. As the night started, I realized that this midget band had a huge midget following. Midgets from all over were turning up. Do you know how hard it is to keep it together when you have to ask hundreds of midgets for ID? They are so insulted. They kept looking at me like what, you think I chalked my midget ID? You think a fellow of-age midget passed his ID down to me? Check the height. It says four feet three. Fucking measure me, you punk! Also, I either had to say, “look up at me, please” or I would have to squat down to see their actual faces. This became extremely awkward, which I fully embraced. Oddly, they didn’t find the humor in it.
As the night went on, I’d estimate we had about seventy-five midgets in this bar. We also had the usual crowd in there—the drunk idiots of Long Island. This was the ultimate recipe for a disaster. When midgets are in packs and drinking, they think they can fight regular people. This isn’t the case. Every twenty or thirty minutes on my headset, I would hear about a small skirmish. I wanted to see one of my giant coworkers toss a midget out the door by his collar and the seat of his pants. It would have been too perfect. It never happened, though. Instead, we kept throwing out the full-size guys and leaving all the little guys inside. It was their night, after all. No reason to bring the fight to the street. At about 2 a.m., I got the order to close the front door. There was a full-blown brawl inside. I shut the door and headed in to see if I could help. It was mayhem. Imagine a swarm of midgets all working in a group to fight anyone who fucked with them. They were like a pack of hyenas jumping all over elephants, biting at their ankles.
In the history of Earth, there’s been no manual written on how to handle this. I don’t blame the midgets for being so fired up. These meatheads had been making fun of them all night. I had, too, but my jokes were cheeky and delightful. Theirs were mean and reflected their own insecurities. After a few minutes, I saw that there was a leader of the midgets who was clearly not backing down. He was fucking fearless; slippery, too. The bar was so crowded and he was so little, none of the giant bouncers could get ahold of him. He was just bobbing and weaving under skirts and around bar stools, causing trouble. Of course, Little Dave got assigned to him. The bouncer who killed a guy once, he told me to get the little guy the fuck out of here, so things would calm down. I felt like I was chasing around a squirrel that got in the house. He was scurrying everywhere. When I finally cornered him, I was exhausted. And confused. What, do I just pick him up like a kid? Hold him against my chest with my arm under his butt like a five-year-old? The only thing I could think to do was shoo him out. I began walking him toward the door with my hands and arms slightly out to my side, making a sweeping motion toward the exit. He was fairly cooperative as he walked backward, constantly looking around both sides of my hips, yelling at anyone who had something to say. My shoo method was working. As I walked forward and he walked backward, there was only about a foot between us. He recognized that he was on his way out, but he wanted to get in every word he could before we reached the door. When we were in the homestretch, someone did something that really, really didn’t go over well: dumped a full pint of some sort of daiquiri directly on his oversized midget head.
He made a charge to get past me, and I reflected him back. I stood between him and the culprit. He tried again, and again I reflected him. Then that sneaky little fuck shrugged, rolled his eyes as if he were about to give up, then wound up and landed a haymaker directly on my junk. I dropped to my knees. I couldn’t fucking believe it. He sprinted past me and dove into the crowd like Scrooge McDuck diving into his vault of gold coins. I didn’t know what happened to him, and I didn’t care. The entire bar was filled with brawling meatheads and midgets, and I was crawling on the ground, unable to grasp what had happened. Somehow, the fight died down and was wrangled under control within two minutes of all this happening. The band stopped playing, cops showed up, the dust was settling.
A pain- and whiskey-induced blackout has kept me from remembering much from the rest of the night, but what I can tell you is that the Nutty Irishman had a shitload of security cameras. After the bar closed that night and the staff remained, we enjoyed a multi-angle, SportsCenter highlight-style replay of my dick’s encounter with a midget fist. I’m not sure what happened to that footage, but I’m definitely going to try to get a copy for my old man. He’d appreciate that.
* * *
1 The marshy stretch between Gilgo Beach and neighboring Oak Beach would later dominate the news as the decomposed remains of several missing prostitutes starting turning up one by one. The culprit was never found, though I’d like to take this opportunity to assure our readers I had nothing to do with dumping those bodies. I love hookers!
Gay Guys, They’re Awesome!
We Honestly Wish We Were
(Mike)
You know where gay guys love hanging out? Vacation towns. And Washington, D.C. It just so happens that I’ve spent the last couple of years bouncing between a few vacation towns and had a nice stint in D.C. Maybe it’s my fashion-forward attitude, maybe I’m naturally approachable, most likely I’m just way too comfortable with my sexuality. Whatever the reason, I’ve been propositioned by gay men more times than I could count.
I’m not gay, but I do have several gay friends. How do I maintain this sexually comfortable balance? Let’s just say I’ve had some practice. Before I even get into this whole subject, let me make it completely clear that most gay guys are fucking awesome. Every group has a coupla dickheads, but for the most part, I enjoy my time with the gay dude demographic. In fact, I would make a great gay guy—save one massive characteristic: I don’t like dick! Dave and I have had this conversation several times and are in complete agreement. If we didn’t like girls so much, think about it . . . gay guys (generally) dress cool, throw fabulous parties, can cook, are cultured, have tons of girlfriends, can dance, have interesting hobbies, are in great shape . . . I mean come on, those fellas really TCOB.
Dave is probably 30 percent gay, which still doesn’t qualify him as gay, but he’s closer than I am (so jealous). The other day we started talking about gay guys, and I got thinking back to my Math B Algebra days, and came up with this “proof.” (Remember those? I don’t. Just had to google what they were called.)
(Male)sexdrive + (male)sexdrive > (male) sexdrive + (female)sexdrive = gay guys are way hornier.
No good at math? Me neither. The bottom line is that guys generally have a stronger sex drive than most women. Women just aren’t built with semen in them. They don’t need to get it out every goddamn day. When you get two guy-loving-guys together, they’re going to be much randier than if there was a boner-buzzkill in the mix. Add to this the fact that they don’t even understand monogamy. Bet you my bottom dollar that gay guys cheat more, but they don’t even consider it cheating—it’s more like “boys’ night out.”
When a husband ends a marriage on the excuse that he is gay and wants to have sex with men, everyone says, “Good for you! You came out! You found yourself. You are honest.” If a straight guy ends a marriage because he wants to have sex with women, he’s an asshole. My point here is that claiming you’re gay might be the best excuse to get out of marriage. Even if it means actually going gay for a little while, you still get out of a shithole marriage, and people actually support you! They’d probably even buy you things, help get you started on your new, gay life. You’d start dressing better, probably get in shape, you’d definitely start tipping better. Before you know it, you’re a new man! A ne
w, gay man. I guess I don’t really know the endgame with this one. You’ll just have to let your conscience be your guide.
Mark
Want a formula for a can’t-miss night? Pair up a straight guy you can’t make uncomfortable (me) with a butt-hugger you can’t offend. Meet my friend Mark: he is twice my age and a titan of his industry. Mark and I met through my roommate Slime Dog, who knows Mark through work. Mark is a high-profile, consummate professional and an avid dick sucker. Mark and I both like joking around, making people a little uncomfortable, and we both get a kick out of pushing the envelope every once in a while. It is these shared characteristics that have built an overnight friendship.
Upon meeting Mark one fateful Thursday during a D.C. happy hour, our group found itself in a very nice, very gay steak house. Until arriving there, I didn’t even realize there was such a thing as a gay steak house, but Mark clearly did. What excellent service! Claude, our server, was a delight.
It was Slime Dog, gay Mark, and smart-hot but sort-of-bitchy Asian Kara (Slime Dog’s other coworker), and myself. The four of us had some gay drinks and ordered some gay steaks, then looked around and started to giggle about the situation we found ourselves in. Slime Dog and Kara were sitting next to each other and looked as though they were a couple. Mark and I were across from them, so I looked like Mark’s boy toy. The clientele was old, rich, and hungry for meat. I took a look around and realized these guys were looking back. I’d never had such a captive audience. Ninety percent of the room was looking at Mark like he was the luckiest guy in the world. Shit started getting weird when a group of eight or ten older guys eating together next to us were entirely turned around in their chairs to stare at me (this is a goddamn restaurant). All I could do was laugh.
After about five old-fashioneds, I was confident that I simply could not offend Mark. Every time the jokes got rolling, especially the gay ones, he would one-up me immediately. This makes sense; I guess he’s had practice. It was around that fifth old-fashioned that I brilliantly realized my new gay friend would be pivotal in introducing me to the girl of my dreams. Girls love gay guys! The only problem was, we were in a place inhabited almost completely by penises. Seriously, I felt like I was walking a runway when I had to use the restroom. It kind of boosted my confidence, is that weird?
The old-gay-gawkers left eventually, and a group of women replaced them. These gals were beauties, all of them. Except one, whatever. We were getting ready to leave and Mark drunkenly offered to introduce me to this entire table of pretty girls. I obviously agreed and approached with Mark, full of inflated confidence. Mark introduced me and I got a warm reception; these gals were sweethearts! We ended up sitting down for a drink with them, having a bunch of laughs and taking a few photos. Whoa, Mark is my secret weapon! How did this strategy for meeting nice girls not occur to me sooner? Photos taken, drinking, laughing, joking, they’re sorta touchy-feely, incredible eye contact! What is happening?!
Oh, wait. They thought I was gay. Of course they weren’t threatened. Well, I guess that ship sailed.
We eventually go to the next place, a bar on the other side of town. It’s me, Slime Dog, gay Mark, and smart-hot but sort-of-bitchy Asian Kara. It’s eleven thirty, we’re already shitfaced, and nobody is ready to switch from bourbon to beer. So we spend a messy three or four hours gallivanting around D.C. Slime Dog’s looking for love, Kara’s being hot but kind of bitchy, but also kind of funny, and Mark’s drunk enough to start feeling out if I’m like secretly gay or something. We trade jokes for an hour, and I finally convince him I genuinely like women. At this point, I am so drunk, all I can manage to do is tell him that I “wasn’t a butt hugger.” After I make the not-liking-dick thing as clear as I can, Mark gets on this kick of introducing me to women who are CLEARLY out of my league. Model-type women, gals with boyfriends standing next to them, unfriendly black hotties. None of them go home with me, but we certainly have entertained ourselves.
It’s 4 a.m. and Slime Dog goes home with a nice gal, we put Kara in a cab, and I tell Mark I’m walking the ten minutes home to the studio I share with Slime Dog. Mark says he’ll walk with me, then hop into a cab outside my place. We stumble to my building and he asks to use my bathroom, drunkenly promising he “won’t try and fuck me.” I take my new friend at his word, and we head upstairs—just a straight twenty-four-year-old intern and a gay fifty-year-old executive, pallin’ it up. He ends up hanging out for a drink, and next thing I know, it’s 8 a.m. . . . I wake up, still drunk. I’m in the recliner and look over to see Mark all curled up, boots on, in my bed. I laugh, jump over to Slime Dog’s bed, and pass out with a smirk on my face. A few hours later, I wake up to Slime Dog (literally) shitting his pants laughing. He had arrived home in the early morning and was hungover, getting a drink from the kitchen. He heard boots coming out of the bathroom and figured I met someone the night before, and that I consequently had a girl over. Instead, the person he actually saw exiting his bathroom was his gay consultant, Mark.
Mark hung out for a while and eventually made his exit. Slime Dog often still wonders aloud about my true sexuality. As I’m writing this, Mark and I are texting plans to get drunk sometime next week. He’s definitely going to try to fuck me again. I can’t wait!
Randy
I was living in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. At night, I worked at this bar right on the mountain called Slopeside, and I taught ski lessons during the day. One afternoon, I’m really high, skiing on my own, and I get talking to this guy on the chairlift. He’s my father’s age, friendly, standard. We chat about what we do, and my ski instructing comes up. By the end of the chairlift ride, he asks me for a lesson off the books. You see, a private lesson through the mountain is $650—it’s crazy steep for the customer, and the instructor only sees about $100 of that. He wants to ski trees and moguls better, and he offers me $200 cash for a lesson. I agree, obviously.
We meet the next morning around nine to start the lesson. This guy, Randy, is awesome! A salesman from Philly, he owns a condo here with his wife and spends three or four weeks a year in the mountains. I’m a bit hungover for the lesson, and he sympathizes during our funny conversation about being young, drinking, and shenanigans. We get through a whole day of skiing, and boy is it a beauty! The weather is perfect; he’s a good skier and a really good dude, to boot. At one point he even gets me high in the woods. This is the last guy on the planet that I would expect to indulge in that sort of hippie stuff.
At the end of the lesson, he offers to buy me lunch, a move that is nice but not that uncommon for customers to do. I oblige and suggest we go to my bar, which we can ski to and where we will be treated well. I introduce him to coworkers and my boss, and all is well in the world. Just as salads are served, we get into a talk about patriotism, of all things.
“I’m a big flag flyer,” he says. “Five or six American flags around the house.”
Sorta strange, but whatever floats your boat. An old-guy hobby, I suppose.
Me:
Nice, funny you should mention, I have a pair of American flag print swim trunks.
Randy:
Oh they sound nice. . . . Are they Speedos?
Me:
Uh . . . what?
Randy:
I just think you’d look nice in a Speedo. . . . So, do you have hairy legs?
Me:
Wha—uh . . . not more than norm . . . what?
Holy shit . . . is this guy . . . He could be my grandfather . . . wait, did he pay me yet?
Randy:
Well, by now you must know. I’m interested in you sexually. Do you feel the same way toward me?
Me:
Uh . . . excuse me? No, man. Sorry. You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. . . . I wish I could help you. Wait! I don’t wish I could help you. I just wish you the best of . . . God damn it! Sorry, man, I like vagina, to put it bluntly.
Randy:
Really?
What does he mean by really?! Why is he surprised? Man, this is happening
too much. I need to start looking tougher. . . . I can’t even leave, he hasn’t paid me yet! Did he even need a lesson? Probably a lesson in dude fuckin’ . . .
Me:
No, sir, sorry. Not a dick guy. I’m not uncomfortable or anything, just want to make clear I am not interested in you sexually. . . .
Randy:
No problem! I’m a salesman, you know! Had to ask . . . But really, you wouldn’t even have to do anything, just sit there. . . .
Me:
Oh-Jesus-God-no! Randy, stop that. Seriously, vagina for me. Come on, dude.
Randy:
Okay, last time. Sorry. Anyways . . .
What the fuck do we talk about for the remaining forty-five minutes of this meal? Does this mean he won’t tip me? Should I give him a sympathy HJ? Seriously, Mike, too soon.
Me:
So . . . you’re gay, huh? What’s that like?
Maybe it’s the result of living in more socially progressive cities after growing up in a small town, but we’re both genuinely thankful we’re part of a generation that has actually seemed to let go of the stigma surrounding homosexuality. Nobody in our generation seems the least bit worried about which body part makes you antsy in your pantsy, and that is fantastic news. If in your spare time you’d prefer to butt-hug your buddy instead of bedding a nice lady—it doesn’t matter to me. Nobody we know that’s our age is worried about gay marriage. Dave and I are lucky to have as many hilarious, fabulous, dick-loving friends as we do. Haaaaaay!