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I have written 2 books, which ironically are completely different in every way, shape and form. Those who know me are probably not surprised by this at all, considering how diverse my interests are. Here’s a good example for ya…..I am a Nascar loving, NY native who is addicted to the beaches of South Carolina, the crooning of Tony Bennett, the sound of a tricked out Harley, my little dog Mook, the tiny Caribbean Island of Jost VanDyke, Scooby Doo Cartoons and the bad-ass attitude of Lynyrd Skynyrd….. Point being…. when you read one of my stories, you never know exactly what you will get!

Slurred Words - April 2007

I'm so damn classy it hurts.

At some point on Saturday night, I dropped my phone into a urinal and then proceeded to try and piss it down the drain. Guys, you know when you've been holding in your pee for a long time, and you're standing there at the urinal and you try to push the urinal cake thing down the drain with your powerful urine-stream? Yeah, I did that. If you squint, my phone kind-of looks like a urinal cake.

You see, I was quite intoxicated. Partially on the superhuman amount of alcohol and miscellaneous pharmaceuticals coursing through my system, but mainly on my own sense of awesomnity (yes, that's a word, and I lay claim to it). I was enjoying several beverages with some good friends at the Townie Hotel in Sydney



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Phone tag.

When I go out drinking, I inevitably end up with a whole bunch of phone numbers in my phone, and no recollection of who these people actually are. Sometimes when I get phone numbers I have a moment of clarity as I enter the name, and add details to help me remember who that person is. A couple of examples are "Kel..wantsarmink", "Jess..hugetitsbutstupid". You get the idea.

So I met this girl on Saturday night, and I want to hook up with her, but I can't for the life of me remember her name. I distinctly remember getting her number, she gave it to me while her friends were dragging her away, classic cockblock style. She's a cool girl too, and probably a 7.5, though she'd go straight to a high 8.5 if she got fake boobs. But fucked if I can remember her name, dammit. Going through my phone doesn't help at all, there's waaaay too many numbers in there to sort through. So I decided to conduct an experiment this morning



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The Redneck Bar.

OK, so across the road from work there's this pub called The Queenslander. It's not just any pub, it's a fucking experience. It's the kind of place where people threaten and berate you for looking different before you've even set foot in the door. Ever seen The Blues Brothers? There's a bar in that film, you know the one I'm talking aboot - "We've got both kinds of music, Country AND Western!". The one where there's a chicken-wire fence in front of the stage to catch the broken bottles being thrown at the band. The Queenslander doesn't have the chicken-wire fence, but you get the general idea.

Now, heading down to the Queenslander is something that I'd advise against. But sometimes when you've exhausted all the alcohol in the house, and you're just at the point where you think locking yourself in the car and singing along to the radio, burning yourself with the car keys, or roaming shoeless in a construction site is a good idea, you just get that certain urge. The urge to be a complete idiot and flirt with danger, if you will


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