Login: dave Name: Dave Hindler
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Mail forwarded to randy
Awright, boys, help me out here. I met my future trophy wife at Thursday's
Ionstorm party. The woman was bright, worldly, and killer. I never got her
number, though. And Tom Hall was useless when I tried to find out who she was.
So here goes: her name is Orna and she told me she was a stylist but doesn't
cut hair. Something about photography. That's all I have. Not even a
Somebody out there has to know who I'm writing about. Puhleeze help me out
with her phone number.
Last week, Ran's wife, Kristy, and I went to a strip club. Ran didn't go.
Just Kristy and me. We went to the Million Dollar Gentlemen's Club. Just
Dave and Kristy. No Ran. Kristy had red wine, I had a Budweiser. Ran didn't
have a Coke. Or if he did, it wasn't at the strip club.
Ran didn't comment,"Dude, that is talent--I'm impressed," when a raven-haired,
slightly-toned, but not in a Zap way, perky-breasted (and by perky, I mean
siliconed), suckable-bottomed babydoll did a handstand and the splits at the
And did he immediately announce that the dancer who gyrated to Ran's song du
jour, Walking on the Sun, by Smashmouth, was automatically his favorite? No,
that was just the wind.
Truth be told, I didn't pork Ran's wife. Much. And, because I was with a
female, no dancers propositioned me for a lap dance. That may also be because
I have one hazel eye and one blue eye. And one brown eye. I'm very self-
Ran wouldn't be caught dead admiring scantily clad beautiful women. But when
I asked, "Hey, dude, can I skive off to a strip joint with your wife," he
replied, "Sure. Oh, take this stack of singles I have in my wallet. And have
a ton of fun tucking." I'm pretty certain he said "tucking."
Alas, I fear the mad pisser tis' I.
--Macbeth, Act II
For weeks now, Jason, Dirk, Billy, Randall, Kristy, Landon, Steve, and Brian,
but primarily Jason, have been complaining about the mad pisser.
"Some guy is leaving a pool of urine on the men's room floor down the hall
from our office and it's disgusting," they remarked. All in unison. Except
for Randall who was a little off. "It's like the dude strafes left and right
and then left again."
As I listened to their gripes, I envisioned pools and pools of pee. Enough
for hot tubbing with the Sugar Hill Gang and all of their hoochies.
(Hoochies means ladies in rap.) But the truth was, I'd never noticed any
liquid at all.
Finally, one day Jason escorted me down the hall to point out the devastation.
"See," he lamented, with the men's room door propped open by one arm "that's
the destruction of the hose beast." He indicated what could not have been
more that one and a half shot glasses of liquid sunshine on the floor below
"Uh, yeah," I said, not wanting to get lynched for what I realized was my,
doing, "the mad pisser sucks, fuck the mad pisser, I fuckin' hate him,
The moment Jason headed back to our office, I knelt down to examine the pubic
hairs on the floor to see if I absolutely was the culprit. Sure enough, I was
guilty--they were mine. I also managed to inadvertantly examine other people's
short curlies. This was particularly distressful, not so much because I was
holding the pubic hairs of other men in my hand, but because someone entered
the restroom in the middle of my inspection. He was shocked.
I had to think fast for a logical alibi. I spun around and said, "Oh, nothing
weird going on here--these are my own."
I still havent answered the obvious question. The answer is that I lost a bet
so I was forced to do it, and all twelve kittens were consenting.
The answer to the other obvious question--"Why was I the mad pisser?"--is that
I cant bear to touch the urinal. So, better to drip a little on the tile than
brush against the porcelain.
But hey, I'm a team player. So, sorry all, I'll make more of an effort not to
drip the golden showers. And to not pee on the floor.
I noticed that on the Cyberathlete roster, Harry Miller and Mike Wilson both
have the title "CEO" after their name. My title at RBR is toaster boy. And
I'm not even that crazy about toast. If I change my title to match theirs,
I might have their luck with women. One date; is that so much to ask?
So, yeah, so, I'm the biz guy at RBR and we're working on Knight Ryder 3D.
I keep busy doing Knight Ryder 3D publicity, Knight Ryder 3D marketing, and
Knight Ryder 3D accounting. Oh, and I also make sure that Landon, Brian,
and Billy have a plentiful supply of Knight Ryder 3D toast and jam. As I
write this, I'm humming the theme to Knight Rider. You know, to be witty.
But you can't hear it.
I've decided to come up with a new image for myself. I don't have the
bucks for a crazy red Ferrari or anything like that. I don't have the
cash to blow on thick gold chains and diamond rings. I haven't got a
spare $28 for a second pair of Gap Jeans.
So I've decided to become a hunk. I no longer fit the mold of skinny
pale geeky guy. I'm now Arnold Schwarzenegger. Sort of. I mean,
I'm not muscular or even adequately toned. But I use all the macho
phrases. Like, "You're cruisin for a bruisin," and, "You better
check yourself before you wreck yourself."
I sauntered into a local bar to sport my new image and note its effect
on the women, I mean babes. I found a prospective red-head cutie and
usurped, "If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put you and me together."
"Thank you," she said. She said it as if she were talking to her brother.
Tough guys always get girls to talk to them in between giggles and "ee-gads."
So I was disappointed.
Just then, some guy was trying to get through the crowd and brushed by me.
Tough guys are ready for action 24 hours a day. I whirled around and began
to speak to him loudly enough so that my sweetheart with the crimson locks
would hear, "I came here to drink beer and kick ass and I'm almost out of
He punched me in the eye and I jumped into action. Sort of. But replace
"punched" with "bitch-slapped and "jumped into action" with "whined in between
sobs, 'you broke my eye.'"
The red-haired damsel took me home with her. I stopped crying after ten
minutes. I was going to score after all.
When we got to her place, she laid me down on her couch. She went to get an
ice pack. When she returned, I puckered my lips to kiss her. Just then, I
could hear someone at the front door.
"Who's that?" I asked.
"My husband," she said, and couldn't have been more calm.
"Hi, Honey," he said.
"Hi, Sweetie," she said, kissing him.
I was preparing for fight number two. Cuz when the heat goes down, real men
stay ice cold.
"Sleep well," she said to me, tossing me a blanket and walking into the bedroom.
"Did you get in a fight with your boyfriend?" He asked me, and didn't even
wait for an answer before following his wife.
Hi. Dave the Knave here. My coworkers said that my plan file was my deal.
I could express anything in here.
"Dave's Domain," they encouraged.
"Just as long as you don't mention anything about the game. That's under
wraps," Brian admonished.
"And keep company business out of your plan," Ran warned. "The last thing
we need is a lawsuit."
Billy cleared his throat and in a godfatherly tone said, "About the tech,
no numbers." Then he waved me off.
Finally, Jason lifted his violet-quaffed head and spoke. "Genetic evolution
is dictated by genetic algorithms."
I thanked them all for their advice.
I've been trying to reinvent myself lately. I seem to identify most easily
with Batman. Well, not the superhero part. So really, I should say Bruce
Wayne. You know, the millionaire playboy part. That's me. A millionaire
playboy. And when I say millionaire playboy I mean the kind that doesn't so
much have a million dollars as $350. In available credit on my "My First
Visa" card. Did I mention that the kind of playboy I am hasn't had a date in
two years. I mean, I'm not so much a playboy as a reader of.
There was this babysitter who lived next door to me. She was a wild one.
I invited her over to watch the movie Swingers. I tried to kiss her during
Vegas scene. She wouldn't let me kiss her. Wouldn't let me touch her.
She noticed a picture of my ex-girlfriend on my TV set.
"Who's that," she asked.
I told her. She asked to see more photos of us and I brought out pictures of
our trip to New Zealand.
All of a sudden, she grabbed the photos, ran into my bedroom, and
scattered the glossies all over my bed. She stared intensely at me for about
I didn't know what to say. I said, "Neat."
She threw me down on the bed and started attacking me. Really
passionately. A minute later, she said, "Dave, you're on fire."
I said, "I know, I'm burning with passion." Then I screamed in pain.
Apparently, she had lit the photographs on fire and had singed the hair on my
leg in the process.
She jumped off the bed and angrily yelled, "You're one of those people
that has to make a situation about themselves." Then she stormed out. I
never spoke to her again.
Rebel Boat Rocker...
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