Tell us your best story. Your best day, the wildest thing you've seen, an event in your life.
I'm looking for the story that defines your life, the one you'd tell your grandkids around a campfire, the one you and your old friends re-tell half a box of beer into a night.
Tell us about the time you saw your dad kill a bear with his case knife, the day you won the lottery, the turd that was born with your child, the day your grandpa took you fishing.....good, bad, ugly. Your best story.
The only rule, it has to be true to the best of your memory. Go. [Reply]
These little bustards were like a sewing machine needle. I can't even count the lumps for sure because they are in a group. I know it's at least 30. When I was young we would mow into a swarm or drag a hay rake through them, and would drive through a cloud and maybe get a couple. Once in a while someone would swat at them at get 10-20.
The hornet spray has no effect on them and didn't even knock them down. I'll go back with more gas and fire They gotta go before the kids or visitors find them.
I mowed half a width closer to a clump of bushes than I had all year and that's where they were.
I guess I'm glad it was me instead of the Mrs....or the kids playing or fishing.
The salt in the wound...I broke the end of my index finger a few days ago...and I smacked myself and the mower several times swatting the assholes off of me...so my booger picker has a boohoo too. Makes a guy feel a little bit like a puss to whine about a finger and some tiny bug bites. [Reply]
23rd birthday. I was living in Clermont Florida, a suburb of Orlando. Renting a house with a buddy and his girlfriend. We had a big keg party with atleast 100 people there. Random people just starting showing up but we had plenty for all comers.
A beautiful redhead shows up. It's my birthday, I am hammered so I went in for the kill. Ended up getting the best BJ of my life. Took her a good 20 minutes to finish the job I was so wasted. Not a drop was wasted (hint), she put her shirt on, said happy birthday wrote her number down and left my room. I stumble out about 15 minutes later to my roommate being punched in the face by his girlfriend. He got caught within that 15 minutes kissing the girl in our backyard. I pull his lady off him laughing my ass off, "Hey Britteny, remember when you walked in my room and saw me getting serviced? Well that was who Clint was kissing!" I turn to Clint, "So did I taste good?" I still laugh to this day thinking about that. [Reply]
Originally Posted by Iowanian:
This isn't My best story but I didn't know where to put it.
So, tonight I came home from a long day at work and decided I needed to mow in between monsoon rains.
I climbed on the mower and mowed as quickly as I could move in wet grass. About half way I realize I am running out of gas and run to town to fill up. After picking up s couple of buckets of apples for the compost pile or a trail camera I get back to it.
Half an hour before dark I make a lap along the pond and when I get under the trees I start feeling something distinct. A burning sensation I. Different parts of my hands, neck and arms. Son a bitch that is starting to hurt....and then I see them. I had ran over a ground hive of yellow jackets and those bastards are mad. They're hitting my left hand, they're up my shirt sleeves, they're stinking ing the shit out of my right arm, neck, by my eye....
I've been stung multiple times before while mowing or raking hay, but me per like this.hell, yesterday I helped get honey from hives and didn't get stung but once.
These bastards were the angriest, most persistent assholes o have ever personally encountered. It pissed me off and I went and grabbed a new can of flying bee and hornet spray and go back down for payback....my dogs followed me down and went to the noise and got their asses stung off,,,,then I sprayed and sprayed until it was gone. it just pissed them off and got me stung 3-4 more times. That listed me off so I got the last half gallon of gas, threw it on the ground where they were still swarming and flipped a burning rag on it.
If it is the last thing I do I wills mash or muder every wasp or yellow jacket I find.
I spent about an hour barfing and dry heaving, generally feel like shit and feel life I wrestled a porcupine. Those bastards.
Jesus dude. I get one and I GTFO and plot my chemical revenge. [Reply]
Another "not my best story" but some things you just need to share.
I've coached multiple youth sports for quite a few years. During that time I've had a lot of experiences with the teams, the kids, the parents, opposing fans and coaches.
Tonight, something happened that's never happened to me nor anyone I know before and likely won't again. Between innings, as I'm sending kids to the field, I'm helping a young fellow put on the catchers gear. I'm strapping on the shin guards and I suddenly feel my hands doused in warm liquid. I look up and realize that the boy is getting rid of a bottle of water he drank earlier. He looks me in the eye as I'm kneeled in front of him and keeps peeing. Before I let go of the straps of the guard, my hands are soaked, my shoes are spattered, my pant leg is wet....
What in the hell do you do? I step back, remain fairly calm and tell him it's not a big deal and we'll figure something out. He removes himself from the game and I quickly call the third baseman into the dugout to catch.....but I can't put the shin guards on him, can I?
It worked out, but some of the kids saw what happened and I can only hope the poor kid does t leave school tomorrow with a new nickname.
I thought about it on the drive home and I realized the look he gave me when he kept fire hosing both of us was similar to the chubby kid when he got handed the taser in the hangover. [Reply]
My dad used to throw these big yard parties in the late 90's. I was home over the summer from school. So at one of these parties, I meet this female from Marshall Missouri.
We grew up in the era of NWA/Snoop Dog, etc where, "It wasn't no fun if the homies didn't have none." So our motto was basically if my dick got wet, your dick got wet. We weren't running trains or anything but she had friends to hook up with my friends. So I bang the chick and we're all cool and shit.
A week later a group of friends and I pack up and head to Marshall Missouri to visit the chicks. They had us in a big 2 story older victorian style home. It's like 4-6 of us that packed in my minivan (yes I drove a minivan in college).
Anyways, we get there and a few minutes later... in walks the Mo Valley GIRLS BASKETBALL TEAM with bottles of alcohol which meant we would eventually have our picks of the litter with a little patience.
Then there's Jermaine! Jermaine had the well sculpted natural 6 pack that our pudgey asses would die for that he'd flex as often as possible when girls would come around. Jermaine also liked to get drunk. TOO DRUNK!
We're all sitting and vibing and playing spades, listening to music and just biding time before the possible orgy kicks off. Jermaine all of a sudden, "gets hot" and takes off his shirt. Right on queue, the girls (still drinking) notice his physique and start flirting, etc. We're all drinking and smoking at that point. Girl-guy ratio is like 3-1.
Jermaine and I were spades partners against 2 other chicks. Out of the blue, after a few hands, Jermaines' drunk ADHD starts to kick in. He throws his spades hand down and says, "**** this shit! What's up?!? Roger said y'all bitches was sucking dick"!
Me, holding my hand turned my head like those dog videos when the dog ****s up and is getting interrogated. The girls go 0-100 stat! "Roger! WTF! You told him that?"
"Hell no I didn't tell him that shit! I don't know hat he's talking about! He's drunk!"
Needless to say, it went from pre-orgy workout to us having to force his drunk ass to the minivan so we can get the hell out of town as they were calling the "hood" to come. We get to my fathers house, this ****er is passed out and then manages to crawl to the front steps. Falls asleep on the front step and throws up some red shit in his sleep.
To this day I bring it up everytime we reunite! Shit was funny as hell.
Originally Posted by Detoxing:
Big Blue: Our money making, drug running machine. (Heroin Era….and the beginning of the meth era)
Cars have always been an influential part of my life. Ever since my pre-kinder years when my uncle lit up the tires in his ’81 Trans Am, I’ve been infatuated with them. I would day dream about my car to be, and I would eventually run away from home, chasing that dream. That dream car now sits in my driveway. Even now, I have a career in the show car industry. It pays the bills.
But I have special memories with a blue, 1985 Ford F150. We called it big blue and it was our work horse. I had a special bond with Big Blue…after-all, we shared the same birth year.
My dad considered himself a working class hero. He had a ton of pride. He was born in North Carolina, and even though he spent the vast, vast majority of his years as a SoCal beach kid, he thought that being born in North Carolina somehow made him better than everyone in SoCal. He called himself a “Carolina Cowboy”, had staunch republican values, and considered himself a southern gentleman. He wore blue jeans, cut off shirts and a black faux Stetson that he lifted from Wal-Mart. As such, he had to have himself a working man’s truck. And like any good, drug addicted working class hero, he put the down payment on the truck, drove it off the lot and never paid a dime in payments.
He worked two jobs. My dad was a lot of bad, bad things, but lazy was not one of them. He used the truck for local jobs hauling shrubbery and when not doing that, he worked for a moving company that was directly across the dirt parking lot of the motel. The moving company of course, was owned and operated by heroin addicts. They’d shoot up before work, go to whomever’s house, move their furniture for them and go back and shoot up after work. Debbie, one of the whores and his soon to be “girlfriend” got him the connection.
At night, He, Debbie and I would drive around to various construction sites stealing the rolls of copper wire and collected money for them at the recycling center the next day. He used bolt cutters to break through the fence and would lift the construction materials in the dead of night. We spent many afternoons sitting around in the Home Depot parking lot. Debbie would go out and search the parking lot for receipts. If we found receipts with items of high value, my dad would go in and lift the items on the receipts and then Debbie and I would go in with the receipts and items in hand, and then collect the refund money. Debbie and I would go because a woman with a child looked less suspicious. That was my dad’s reasoning anyway. He used that reasoning a lot.
Sometimes we would run out of money and dad couldn’t afford to pay the rent for the motel. The back of the moving trucks became our motel. I spent many nights sleeping in the back of moving trucks, using the thick blankets as bedding. In the morning, we’d get up, clean up and my dad would be off to work for the moving company.
The police knew Big Blue pretty well. They’d stop us quite often just to see what my dad was up to. They knew him by first name. They’d often threaten him but they’d never arrest him. They’d threaten to have me taken away. They’d threaten him by saying things like, “I have warrants for your arrest and a rap-sheet a mile long”. But they rarely did anything. My dad punched the shit out of the front windshield of Big Blue, putting spider cracks all throughout it. You couldn’t see out of the windshield on the passenger side because it was fractured so bad. He did it in a fit of rage because Debbie refused to stop trickin’. The ****ed up front windshield gave police further incentive to stop us.
Once, my dad and I woke up to a squad car parked right outside the motel, behind Big Blue. The cop was scratching the registration stickers off the back of the truck. My dad yelled at him and ran down there. The cop didn’t like that we had just registered the truck (finally) and accused him of stealing the tags. He told my dad that if he said anything about this that he’d have him arrested and me taken away. The cop was full of shit. I KNOW the tag was legit. I was there with my dad at the DMV. I put the sticker on the plate myself. I pulled the sticker out of the plastic baggie myself. But what could he do about it? Nothing. So we drove around with no registration tags so the cops would have more reason to pull us over.
My dad would eventually get jailed after being hospitalized for a bad infection caused by the Heroin. But, you see, when he would get jailed, he would kick the habit of whatever he was abusing, and then subsequently pick up a new habit once he was released. I watched him OD on Heroin a few times. Debbie and I dragged his lifeless ass down the motel hallway and into a cold shower. He was foaming at the mouth. It was gross but I knew he wouldn’t die. I never worried about that. I remember being mad more than anything.
Eventually I would meet the man who supplied the Heroin. I black man who’s name escapes me. He was somewhat thin, older, in his 40’s. He dressed like a professional, always clean cut with reading glasses and a gold bracelet. He didn’t look like a drug dealer. He looked like a professional middle class black American. He sold everything from Heroin to weed to Meth. He was a cook…as in he cooked up crack rocks. He had an apartment he rented in Oceanside, a coastal town to the west of Vista and Camp Pendleton’s southern neighbor.
The apartment was empty. Nothing but a couch and cooking ingredients. My dad would help him cook. I would sit and wait on the couch while they worked in the kitchen. He owned a big, beautiful house on a hill where he resided. It over looked San Juan Capistrano Park; I spent my last birthday with my mother at that park. The last time my mother would ever see her little boy’s birthday was right there at that park. I would lean over the fence, looking down at the park as a kid, and even then the irony of that didn’t escape me. “Oh how life comes full circle” I always thought.
My dad became the dealer’s right hand man. The dealer would cook and my dad would deliver. Big Blue became a delivery truck. We delivered all over North County. I always went with him because my dad thought having a kid in the car made it less suspicious. We’d meet people at pay phones most often, sometimes at parks and other times it was home delivery. My dad wasn’t paid in cash for this, instead he was paid in Meth, which kicked off the “meth era”.
***************************************
I have a lot more to add to this guys, but im out of time and need to get back to work. There’s simply too much to tell. I’ll finish this up later with the fate of Big Blue, as well as the time we were chased out of an apartment by shot-gun wielding gang members during a drug deal gone wrong. Oh, and the time I had to drive Big Blue on my own. The events leading up to that were some of the most surreal events in my life.
This was a helluva read. If you have more, I'd love to read it. That's an amazing childhood you lived. [Reply]
LOL For real, though. I hate dudes like that. I had a good friend from high school who was similar. He tried WAY too hard to get laid all the time and if he sensed that he had no chance he'd just say the most off the wall, offensive shit.
LOL For real, though. I hate dudes like that. I had a good friend from high school who was similar. He tried WAY too hard to get laid all the time and if he sensed that he had no chance he'd just say the most off the wall, offensive shit.
Cockblocking asshole.
I had a buddy just like that. His name was Steve and he was about 6'5" and he would say anything at all if he thought he had no shot, especially if he was drunk. We were at the NCO club one night and he asked this chick to dance. She said no thank you, super polite. He says, "Then why the fuck you come here bitch? You know your momma is watching your kids so just take me back to your house and let's fuck!" It did not work [Reply]
I went to Gig to see my favourite called Puressence (should check them out) band in the city of Leeds about 200 miles from where I was living at the time. The plan was to go to concert then get the last train. The gig was great but I missed my train. So I was stuck in Leeds for the night. I figured I would just party all night as it was a Friday and get the first train back in the morning.
I also had tickets for a Big Soccer Match the next day I needed to be back for.
I was in a Bar and noticed this grown woman checking me out, she was with 2 guys I figured one would be her man it wasn't, turned out they were both Gay. Anyway we were drinking and kissing when she told me she was an office manager and had the keys to her office around the corner. We went back to the office and all I can say is I HIT it! I noticed a picture of her on the wall of the office and noticed she had a wedding ring on in that photo. It turns out she had slipped it off before I noticed.
Anyway we said good byes and exchanged numbers. So I was still stuck 200 miles from home spending the night in a weird city. I carried on partying at different bars and lost my train ticket. I blagged my way onto a train the next morning but the conductor caught me and booted me off about half way home. A very nice lady helped me on the next train but obviously I was worried about getting back for the Game.
I got to the game with 10 minutes to spare my buddy had my ticket and my team won the game 3-1.
I didn't say anything to the woman possibly being married at first but I later found out she was. I continued the fling for a few more months, being married now I am not proud of it but at the time I was 22 and didn't care.
It was those type of nights that remind me how old I am now. [Reply]
Originally Posted by phisherman:
I pretty much knew that this story was going to go south after hearing about your Freddie Jackson Plenty of Fish stories, Roger. :-)
Originally Posted by ChiTown:
This was a helluva read. If you have more, I'd love to read it. That's an amazing childhood you lived.
Yes Detox those were incredible stories and you told them very entertainingly. Amazing upbringing you had. Sounded like even though your dad was a drug addict at times and did what he had to to get by, he tried to be a good man.
Thank you very much for sharing. Sounds like you could write a book about your childhood! [Reply]
When I was in high school/college, we used to frequent downtown KC because it was a great place to skate and it was normally a ghost town at night. We generally started at Barney Allis Plaza and worked out way around downtown as the security guards would chase us off.
One particular trip down there nearly got me killed just a couple of days before my high school graduation. Me and 4 of my old skater friends made the trip downtown and were skating the steps at the AT&T Town Pavilion. While we were skating the steps these three kids wearing starter jackets came up to us and started chatting us up. The kids were probably between about 13-16 and were very friendly at first. I let the youngest one ride my board for a minute and then he decided he wanted to walk off with my board. I chased him down about a block or so to get my board back, and one of the little shits pulled out a gun. I assumed that it was just a pellet gun so I grabbed the board from the kid and ended up wrestling it away from him and I fell to the ground as I yanked it away from him. I rolled over and immediately started running up the hill away from them after I got to my feet. During this scuffle, I heard 2 gun shots. One immediately after I got my board and started to run and then another a few seconds later when I was in full sprint mode.
When it happened I just assumed that the kid must have had blanks because I never heard any ricochets and my friends said they guy was pointing the gun at me from pretty close range on the first shot. Looking back, I'm guessing that it's more likely the one with he gun (who was wearing a LA Raiders starter jacket) was probably just a bad shot.
Did a lot of crazy, stupid shit back in the day and probably should have bit the dust that day. [Reply]
Sure, I'll continue. My apologies for the wall of text. I need a book for everything i have to share, lol.
James…..(more from the Heroin era and Big Blue)
Of all the characters I came across in life, I never distrusted any of them. I never felt weird around them, I never felt like they were bad people. Whether it was a junkie, a whore or a dealer, everyone always treated me well and they all felt like good people with bad problems.
Except for James. A black man in his late 20’s, James was a different kind of guy, and I don’t think even my dad liked him. I could tell my dad didn’t like him. I didn’t like him. Our time with him was brief, but impactful. But desperate times called for the help of desperate people.
My father, as I mentioned before, was a prideful man. You’d never catch us on the corner begging for change. He had too much pride for that. He’d never ask for a handout. Too much pride for that. He’d rather deliver drugs than to ask for help. If we needed food, we never asked. Instead, we took our asses on a trip (often walking miles) to whatever Church was serving the homeless that day. He valued himself as an American, blue collar working class hero that was down on his luck and doing what he had to do. James however, didn’t have any sort of pride or moral code he stood by. James was a weasel. A scumbag. He gave no ****s. He’d stab you in the back and pretend nothing happened to your face. The man had no shame.
James would often let me borrow his sweet Sony Walkman. It was awesome. One day he asked if I wanted one. I said sure. He asked my father to take us to CVS (Thrifty’s at the time) to get me one. My dad reluctantly complied. As we walked into the store I was pretty excited. I was going to get my first Sony Walkman. We approached the counter and James asked me to wait. When the clerk left the area, James quickly hoped the counter, yanked a Walkman off the wall and we casually walked out the store. I had never been so disappointed. I thought he was going to BUY me my first cassett player. Instead, I received a piece of stolen merchandise. My excitement deflated. I went from feeling great to feeling horrible. It was a reminder that this is what my life is. To make matters worse, he didn’t give it to me. Instead he sold it to us for $20. That’s the kind of guy James was.
********
It was a warm weekday afternoon, when most kids were in school, but my father and I were in Big Blue and on our way to pick up James. We pulled up next to a house that was well known within our circle. James was there, apparently ****ing a beautiful whore. She was a gorgeous blonde girl in her mid 20’s. Dirty-blonde with wavy hair and blue eyes. Admittedly, I was crushing on her a bit. Ok, I was crushing on her a lot. She was aloof. Your stereotypical ditzzy blonde bimbo. She didn’t really hang out in our circle, so I rarely saw her around or ever conversated with her so I don’t recall her name. I wanted my dad to date her. I thought she was very pretty and she didn’t have the look of a druggie., but my dad that she was classless.
She walked out of the house with James and crossed the street towards Big Blue. (I remember that house well because I once walked in on Debbie and Letty giving a double BJ to an old senior citizen.)
James walked around to the passenger side and I scooted over on the bench seat to make room. She walked around to the driver side and said to my dad,
“Holy shit, sorry about making you wait! James was ****ing the shit out of my ass for over an hour! My asshole is still throbbing!” She continued on with the details…
That moment she forever cemented herself in my memory. Sure, sex wasn’t a new concept to me and I was well exposed to it, but it’s not like the other working girls would turn a trick and come out of the room telling me a story. But this woman was damn near shouting to everyone how much she just got ass ****ed. The graphic nature of her vulgar mouth, the proudness and exuberance in which she said it, coupled with the fact that it was James who ****ed her….i just couldn’t believe it. I was pissed. It felt like what ever innocence in me that was left was now gone.
And then came the day with James that I’ll never forget; one of the most degrading days of my life. [Reply]
