11-20-2005, 05:34 PM
11-20-2005, 05:51 PM
Wow, you're really cutting with all that edgy tech info.
11-20-2005, 07:40 PM
is this like that commercial on at night where I can text hot horny babes waiting for me to text them about how big my cock is?
11-20-2005, 07:55 PM
helped me find a hookah bar at 2 in the morning last night.
11-20-2005, 07:56 PM
who the fuck looks for a hookah bar at 2am on a Saturday
11-20-2005, 08:04 PM
Galt.
11-20-2005, 08:32 PM
but Galt is not a 17 year old
11-20-2005, 09:21 PM
None of us had ever been to one. We were talking about planning a trip to Amsterdam and started on the hookahs.
Since I've only smoked pot twice and had about 5 cigarrettes in my life, the hookah really fucked me up.
Regardless. Google local text.
use it. it's cool.
Since I've only smoked pot twice and had about 5 cigarrettes in my life, the hookah really fucked me up.
Regardless. Google local text.
use it. it's cool.
11-20-2005, 10:11 PM
Druggie, hope you get AIDS from injecting that filthy crap in your veins.
11-20-2005, 10:30 PM
ive been using this for months
11-20-2005, 11:34 PM
which hookah bar did you go to?
11-21-2005, 12:25 AM
Well, to be honest, I don;t what the difference is between 2am at a hookah bar and 7pm, tho I know when I first went to one a few months ago, it was full of young people.
It was a Friday afternoon, and I was finishing up some drawings at work while the minutes ticked away till my boss woud close up shop. I got the call. Two l's of haze, ready to go. I planned earlier that morning to make an effort to think about my wardobe for work, something that would look snazzy when slightly modified later in the evening, something that would say to drunken broads on Bleeker, "Hey, look at me, and suck it, or I'll punch you in the face." I was certain that I owned an outfit which would send out that specific aura, and I was certain that I didn't need to make Triple H shirt a part of the outfit. I put that back on its hangar and hung it back up along the trophy wall, next to my wrestling medals and honors certificates from high school.
When i left in the morning, I was dressed to the nines. So much so that I felt overdressed for work, especially since the secretary and the assistant both wear and share clothing which either props up the cleavage and makes sure the nipples get noticed, or the ass is hugged being hugged by pants tighter than a snare drum, like spandex. Fortunatly, the clothing gave me immediate overconfidence, and I simply explained to the women when I walked through the door that I had dressed simply to melt their panties off. I noticed the people I was meeting first thing in the morning had already arrived and were sitting in the conference area just beyond the front reception area. I made sure to tell the client's wife that my suit would melt hers too.
By the end of the day, the only thing my outfit was melting was the crotch cheese in the sides of my balls, which had managed to collect, grow, and process into the cheeselike substance, had been cured and everything, and was now melting like mozzarella on a tomato pie. It was obvious I would need a shower and a change, as my plan had backfire, and thus, another hour tacked on to my day, another hour taken away from the evening.
I drove home listening to some Papoose that my friend had left in my car, and as I listened and breathed through the alphabetical rhyming skills, I made a significant attempt to work through the stress that this oufit had caused me. That all this planning and anticipation for the banging of 20 year old skanks had done nothing except turn my ass into a chocolate calzone. The stress did not dissipate, nor did it during the hot shower featuring Dr. Bronner's Peppermint Hemp soap. I attempted to read the great words of wisdom from Dr. Bronner's along the huge blue label with white lettering which covered the majority of the bottle. I had attempted several of the many all-in-one uses that the soap promised, but I found myself using my own bottle of mouthwash to clean out the fake possible use this label had offered. Much of the rest of the instructions along the bottle weren't really instructions at all, but rather spoke of God's Spaceship Earth. This whole spaceship theory of Dr. Bronner's boggled my mind, because the word spaceship is not meant for things like planets, but rather, for machines which transport organisms. I didn't think land masses which have a gravitational pull counted as spaceships, but rather, as space planets. I could no longer believe in the words of Dr. Bronner, and his ALL ONE GOD FAITH ETERNAL cleanliness propaganda failed to alleviate my stress, though the menthol scents of the tan liquid soap did open my nostrils, in the way that Zest does, or Irish Spring, but without the gay overtones that come from dropping the soap in the tub. For years, I used bar soap, and the goal when you have a bar of soap in your hand is to not drop it. Whenever the bar fell on the ground, and made the distinctive thud, a shudder goes through the spine of the homophobic man. The fear that, in picking up that bar of soap, some man will jump out and begin to rape. Plus all the crud getting all over the soap that you just washed off your body. I couldn't bear the thought of picking crotch cheese off a bar of soap while protetcting myself from any potential man-rapes, so, I had begun using Dr. Bronner, and endorsing his clean and morally pure words.
But not today. After the mouthwash incident, the spaceship theory on planets was the straw that broke the camel's back. I threw thr bottle out the bathroom window in disgust, and I believe it shattered when it hit my neighbor's pavement. She could enjoy the smell of peppermint, and I could now be free of the word power of Dr. Bronner.
Now, my thoughts betrayed me. The flowers, I thought. Dr. Bronner's hemp soap would most likely kill the beautiful garden of marigolds, four o clocks, and morning glories. The morning glories had been a bright spot from days of your, waking up at 5 am to leave at 6, the sun just peaking, and the morning glories opening as the temperature rose and the light began to shine.
ALL DEAD. Because of me. Because of my selfish desire to rid myself of the evil words of Dr. Bronner! His cult-like worship of purity! I would have none of it! And my neighbor's morning glories, the sacrafice they had to make on my part. They would be alive for just a few more days, until either the rain came again, or the hose washed the tan stain away before it dryed and baked in the oncoming summer sun.
The stain, the flowers, the spaceplanets, the mouthwash, the crotch cheese and chocolate calazones, hot bitches and their panties melting, suave dressing and croutons to boot, all stressed out, and low on cigarettes as I sped out the door and to my car, over the VZ, to Soho to meet my friend, puff some l's and get some ass. The stress, however, began to degrade my desire for ass, for the mere thought of attempting to scam for some hot broad with all these other stressful thoughts weighing on my mind, ugh! It felt as if my brain was getting too much oxygen, I was processing too many thoughts.
What I needed was a serious kick to my lungs, and I just wasn't sure 2 l's of haze and a fresh pack of cigarettes was gonna do it. I needed lots of smoke inside my lungs, flavored smoked, smokes which would bring my mind to great euphoric places all across the globe.
Traffic light. Damn that was quick. I found myself on Chambers Street, waiting to make the turn onto Church. My phone began to glow in the center console. I picked it up, and glanced at the screen. It was my friend. He was inquiring as to whether he should begin smoking this l, or am I within 5 minutes of his door. I pleaded and begged, and cried my eyes out. He told me to zip it up and explain the story when I arrived. I agreed, for I was about to hit a pedestrian.
And I did.
The lady looked maybe in her 20's or so, and she was wearing tight jeans and some slutty top, and a crowd of her whorish looking friends had jumped into the street and attempt to make their way across the taxis and such. She straggled along, and found her ass smack dab on the ground, as my car did not quite stop or slow down as much as it needed to. She got back up quickly, and I quickly made a motion to divert any of their whore attention from looking at my license plate. I screamed out "HEY YOU LADY YOUR PROSTITUTE JUICE IS GONNA STINK UP THE BUMPER OF MY CAR!" and sped away, making a quick slight right down Sullivan, turning up on to Spring, turning around the blocks, and finally parking on Sullivan. I suceeded in avoiding those broads, and made my way to my friend's door.
Once inside, the blunts of haze were lit, and I told him of my list of stresses, beginning with the melting panties at work, and then, as the blunt passed to me the second time, I slowly began to forget what the list was really about. When I looked at it, it was just a list of things which I added and strung together to make up for the fact that I was breathing too much oxygen. I confessed to my friend that I felt I was breathing in too much oxygen, that my lungs had still been working just as good, if not better, than in my days of atheletic activity. I needed to really removed a significant portion of my lung capacity in order for me to feel better, in my opinion. As he listened, he seemed to come up with an idea inside his head.
"Yo, you wanna hit up the hookah bar? It's early, maybe we get something to eat there, and smoke some hookah."
"Word?"
"Word. Plus, you an drink and smoke, so it's a lil pregaming spot in a way."
"I see. What are these hookahs like?"
"To be honest, I went mad long along, so I don't really remember."
"You don't remember?"
"i've smoked alot of pot since then and now. It's a miracle I that can vaguely remember who you are, John."
"You have a point. "
"Plus, I think this might be the kick to the chest you're looking for. This is easy emphesema, most definatly."
"Sounds like a plan, then."
"You rolling that next l?"
"Do I have to?"
"Well the l isn't going to roll itself."
"How do you know? It is weed. It does strange things."
"I've never seen it happen."
"But you told me once you saw a one armed man flip an l like it was nothing."
"That's different."
"How?"
"He had an arm."
"Yes, but all it took was a few fingers for him to roll an l, which as we all know, is not possible. We need to use both hands. But if what you say is true, and this man could roll it with one hand, its perfectly concievable that the l can be rolled with no hands."
"No hands?"
"Just as a bicycle can be operated with two hands, one hand, or no hands, the same applies to all things."
"where did you read this?"
"The ALL ONE GOD FAITH."
"The fuckicty what now?"
"DR BRONNER!."
"WHO?"
"ALL ONE GOD FAITH!"
"Its that god damned 18-in-1 soap. You used it for the 18th use!"
"ALL ONE GOD FAITH!"
"You washed your mouth out with soap! DIDN'T YOU!"
"ALL ONE GOD FAITH!"
"Oh man, this is worse than I thought. I'm gonna need to roll this l myself, and we have got to get this smoke in ya, and get to the hookah bar for some steak, smoke, and Sam Adams."
"ALL ONE GOD FAITH!"
By 8pm, I found myself leaning my head on the wall, as I snacked on a beef and cheese log which I had picked up at the gas station just before I came to the apartment. It was there which I also purchased a fresh pack of Marlboro Menthols, a Red Bull, and a Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng, the preferred beverage of stoners everywhere. My lungs felt heavier as I inhaled my cigarette, and my alertness raised as I drank my Red Bull. It felt as if I was in some RPG video game, and I was on the main menu, using various items and drugs on the heroes, and increasing the stamina, and experience points while we watched Finder Keepers on Nick GAS, as my friend drank his Henny and Red Bull and smoked a Wave. Waves are similiar to Newports, except that they are Waves, come 20 bucks cheaper than a carton of Newports, and have to be purchased online from Poospatuck Smoke Shop. In the city, it seemed that they could not afford the high stakes game of brand name cigarette smoking, while I felt like an outsider rich blue blood, puffing away at my Marlboros. I bought them because I enjoyed the full flavor, and I knew no one would take a Marlboro Menthol if they knew everyone else was smoking Newports. A key deterrent in the war against cigarette grubbery.
By 8:15, we were out the door. A quick spray with the Axe body spray, and I was ready to go. We got out the door, and walked down the stairs, and stepped onto the sidewalk like gravely voiced men full of machismo, ready to go conquor whatever vagina stood in our way. Insert and move on, that's our philosophy for the evening. Never mind faces and names or numbers. The 1000 yard stare from 2 feet away, that's our MO. Look through the women, like they aren't even there; that way, you can get away with looking at their chests and assses, without the nagging feeling that you're rudely staring at a female. She wants you to stare, and she wants you to act like you don't even know she exists. Oh yeah. That's how they like it.
"Yeah I don't even see you you fucking cunt."
"Who the fuck are you talking to?"
"Those fucking broads ar going down, you know what I mean."
"Hey, you're cursing again. I knew that last el would lift you up."
"Where's the hookah bar? Where's dem sluts?"
"It's just up a few blocks."
"Where's dem bitches?"
"Calm it, killer. You a bear, she's a rabbit, but no need to rip it to shreds, just tear it up a lil."
"Them fucking rabbits. Kill em all."
"No, Lenny."
We reached a place that resembled any typical Indian outdoor sidewalk cafe, except on the table outside stood large metal shafts, with tubes wrapped in fantabulous textiles, being sucked on by both businessman and 17 year old girl alike. We came on an evening when the crowd was mixed sufficiently with other yuppie wannabe looking losers like ourselves, and what appeared to be a senior high school class trip to the NYC downtown, and these kids didn't look like they had a curfew set for anytime soon. We spotted some hunnies more around our age, and my friend began scheming like a Palestinian and quickly came up with a plan for attack within the cafe.
"So what you wanna get?"
I glanced at the hookah menu, and spotted a name that stood out.
"I think I'll get the Tony Montana. Sounds like a hot ticket. You?"
"I dunno, I'm thinking cherry."
"Aight."
We had observed on the other tables, with one hookah on them, and thought that the top could simply be switched from one to the other. We ordered, and then soon found ourselves sitting on a 3 foot diameter table with two huge metal hookah sitting on top. We hadn't even been able to figure out how to get the plastic mouthpieces on, when our food arrived. I had forgotten all about it. I had ordered a cedar plank salmon with a special spice rub and a rice pilaf, while my friend ordered a steak with peppers. On top of that, our beers arrived, a Corona for me and a Heinken for my friend. I smoked a Marb while we assed the situation.
It seems we've walked up in here and purchased a spread like Puff Daddy."
"This is the high life. Ya gotta live it."
The clutter on our table, and the speed at which the staff had brought it out, had made people start looking in our direction, thinking either we were big shots, or losers trying to be big shots, or that we were gay.
Before me stood my hookah of Tony Montana. The mouthpiece on, I took a puff, and inhaled the smoke. It went down my throat like a tampon string during cunnilingus, smooth and tasty. I inhaled and seemed to be in another world. I looked around me, and saw others puffing away, and one in particular, a fat lady, sitting near the window, amongst friends, sucking on a tube like Jabba in Return of the Jedi, and she even had a lil troll of a girlfriend sitting next to her laughing like Robin Quivers, and my friend took a pull from his hookah, and he stated the cherry tastes like cherry, and that the snozzberries tasted like snozzberries. I commended him on his use of the quote from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, and gave him a 2 point bonus in my note pad. He screamed for joy, and then began to thank his countless number of supporters throughout this whole struggle, include the support that that bra is giving that broad's tits over on the other side of the cafe. He made a motion with his fingers, as if to say in sign language that third base is open, so be careful, because he's gonna round second soon. She seemed to laugh, and then went back to her conversation. But at least the message was out there. She knew where to find us. Just look for the table that looks as cluttered as the Manhattan skyline. We could not get away from the fact that we had simple ordered too much to have on one dinky table. Soon enough, we put our hookahs on the floor and held their tubes in our hands while we forked mouthfuls of food in between puffs of Tony Montana and Cherry smokes. The Tony Montana, I said, tasted and felt just like the haze we had just msoke, just a lil less potent. I was still very much stoned, having only spent 30 minutes in between then and the last puff of the blunt.
Once we had finished out meal, we called for the mexican to take the plates away, and, just as he did, the waiter came by and noticed out hookahs were almost up, so he refilled them, on the house, and even gave us some more beer. We stayed, smoked, drank, and talked about broads and possible bars to visit later in the night. By 10, the waiter handed us a bill, 40 bucks each. Money aint a thang, and we dropped the bills like they were hot, and, now, with the confidence of a two blunt, two hookah, two beer night, I walked up to the big titted bitch in the back of the bar and said
"Look at me, don't ya wish you could just suck my cock?"
"No, not really."
BAM!
We left with a gratuitous tip left on our table, and a note to the waiter to refill Madame Jabba's hookah in the corner on us, ready to tackle the nightlife of NYC.
It was a Friday afternoon, and I was finishing up some drawings at work while the minutes ticked away till my boss woud close up shop. I got the call. Two l's of haze, ready to go. I planned earlier that morning to make an effort to think about my wardobe for work, something that would look snazzy when slightly modified later in the evening, something that would say to drunken broads on Bleeker, "Hey, look at me, and suck it, or I'll punch you in the face." I was certain that I owned an outfit which would send out that specific aura, and I was certain that I didn't need to make Triple H shirt a part of the outfit. I put that back on its hangar and hung it back up along the trophy wall, next to my wrestling medals and honors certificates from high school.
When i left in the morning, I was dressed to the nines. So much so that I felt overdressed for work, especially since the secretary and the assistant both wear and share clothing which either props up the cleavage and makes sure the nipples get noticed, or the ass is hugged being hugged by pants tighter than a snare drum, like spandex. Fortunatly, the clothing gave me immediate overconfidence, and I simply explained to the women when I walked through the door that I had dressed simply to melt their panties off. I noticed the people I was meeting first thing in the morning had already arrived and were sitting in the conference area just beyond the front reception area. I made sure to tell the client's wife that my suit would melt hers too.
By the end of the day, the only thing my outfit was melting was the crotch cheese in the sides of my balls, which had managed to collect, grow, and process into the cheeselike substance, had been cured and everything, and was now melting like mozzarella on a tomato pie. It was obvious I would need a shower and a change, as my plan had backfire, and thus, another hour tacked on to my day, another hour taken away from the evening.
I drove home listening to some Papoose that my friend had left in my car, and as I listened and breathed through the alphabetical rhyming skills, I made a significant attempt to work through the stress that this oufit had caused me. That all this planning and anticipation for the banging of 20 year old skanks had done nothing except turn my ass into a chocolate calzone. The stress did not dissipate, nor did it during the hot shower featuring Dr. Bronner's Peppermint Hemp soap. I attempted to read the great words of wisdom from Dr. Bronner's along the huge blue label with white lettering which covered the majority of the bottle. I had attempted several of the many all-in-one uses that the soap promised, but I found myself using my own bottle of mouthwash to clean out the fake possible use this label had offered. Much of the rest of the instructions along the bottle weren't really instructions at all, but rather spoke of God's Spaceship Earth. This whole spaceship theory of Dr. Bronner's boggled my mind, because the word spaceship is not meant for things like planets, but rather, for machines which transport organisms. I didn't think land masses which have a gravitational pull counted as spaceships, but rather, as space planets. I could no longer believe in the words of Dr. Bronner, and his ALL ONE GOD FAITH ETERNAL cleanliness propaganda failed to alleviate my stress, though the menthol scents of the tan liquid soap did open my nostrils, in the way that Zest does, or Irish Spring, but without the gay overtones that come from dropping the soap in the tub. For years, I used bar soap, and the goal when you have a bar of soap in your hand is to not drop it. Whenever the bar fell on the ground, and made the distinctive thud, a shudder goes through the spine of the homophobic man. The fear that, in picking up that bar of soap, some man will jump out and begin to rape. Plus all the crud getting all over the soap that you just washed off your body. I couldn't bear the thought of picking crotch cheese off a bar of soap while protetcting myself from any potential man-rapes, so, I had begun using Dr. Bronner, and endorsing his clean and morally pure words.
But not today. After the mouthwash incident, the spaceship theory on planets was the straw that broke the camel's back. I threw thr bottle out the bathroom window in disgust, and I believe it shattered when it hit my neighbor's pavement. She could enjoy the smell of peppermint, and I could now be free of the word power of Dr. Bronner.
Now, my thoughts betrayed me. The flowers, I thought. Dr. Bronner's hemp soap would most likely kill the beautiful garden of marigolds, four o clocks, and morning glories. The morning glories had been a bright spot from days of your, waking up at 5 am to leave at 6, the sun just peaking, and the morning glories opening as the temperature rose and the light began to shine.
ALL DEAD. Because of me. Because of my selfish desire to rid myself of the evil words of Dr. Bronner! His cult-like worship of purity! I would have none of it! And my neighbor's morning glories, the sacrafice they had to make on my part. They would be alive for just a few more days, until either the rain came again, or the hose washed the tan stain away before it dryed and baked in the oncoming summer sun.
The stain, the flowers, the spaceplanets, the mouthwash, the crotch cheese and chocolate calazones, hot bitches and their panties melting, suave dressing and croutons to boot, all stressed out, and low on cigarettes as I sped out the door and to my car, over the VZ, to Soho to meet my friend, puff some l's and get some ass. The stress, however, began to degrade my desire for ass, for the mere thought of attempting to scam for some hot broad with all these other stressful thoughts weighing on my mind, ugh! It felt as if my brain was getting too much oxygen, I was processing too many thoughts.
What I needed was a serious kick to my lungs, and I just wasn't sure 2 l's of haze and a fresh pack of cigarettes was gonna do it. I needed lots of smoke inside my lungs, flavored smoked, smokes which would bring my mind to great euphoric places all across the globe.
Traffic light. Damn that was quick. I found myself on Chambers Street, waiting to make the turn onto Church. My phone began to glow in the center console. I picked it up, and glanced at the screen. It was my friend. He was inquiring as to whether he should begin smoking this l, or am I within 5 minutes of his door. I pleaded and begged, and cried my eyes out. He told me to zip it up and explain the story when I arrived. I agreed, for I was about to hit a pedestrian.
And I did.
The lady looked maybe in her 20's or so, and she was wearing tight jeans and some slutty top, and a crowd of her whorish looking friends had jumped into the street and attempt to make their way across the taxis and such. She straggled along, and found her ass smack dab on the ground, as my car did not quite stop or slow down as much as it needed to. She got back up quickly, and I quickly made a motion to divert any of their whore attention from looking at my license plate. I screamed out "HEY YOU LADY YOUR PROSTITUTE JUICE IS GONNA STINK UP THE BUMPER OF MY CAR!" and sped away, making a quick slight right down Sullivan, turning up on to Spring, turning around the blocks, and finally parking on Sullivan. I suceeded in avoiding those broads, and made my way to my friend's door.
Once inside, the blunts of haze were lit, and I told him of my list of stresses, beginning with the melting panties at work, and then, as the blunt passed to me the second time, I slowly began to forget what the list was really about. When I looked at it, it was just a list of things which I added and strung together to make up for the fact that I was breathing too much oxygen. I confessed to my friend that I felt I was breathing in too much oxygen, that my lungs had still been working just as good, if not better, than in my days of atheletic activity. I needed to really removed a significant portion of my lung capacity in order for me to feel better, in my opinion. As he listened, he seemed to come up with an idea inside his head.
"Yo, you wanna hit up the hookah bar? It's early, maybe we get something to eat there, and smoke some hookah."
"Word?"
"Word. Plus, you an drink and smoke, so it's a lil pregaming spot in a way."
"I see. What are these hookahs like?"
"To be honest, I went mad long along, so I don't really remember."
"You don't remember?"
"i've smoked alot of pot since then and now. It's a miracle I that can vaguely remember who you are, John."
"You have a point. "
"Plus, I think this might be the kick to the chest you're looking for. This is easy emphesema, most definatly."
"Sounds like a plan, then."
"You rolling that next l?"
"Do I have to?"
"Well the l isn't going to roll itself."
"How do you know? It is weed. It does strange things."
"I've never seen it happen."
"But you told me once you saw a one armed man flip an l like it was nothing."
"That's different."
"How?"
"He had an arm."
"Yes, but all it took was a few fingers for him to roll an l, which as we all know, is not possible. We need to use both hands. But if what you say is true, and this man could roll it with one hand, its perfectly concievable that the l can be rolled with no hands."
"No hands?"
"Just as a bicycle can be operated with two hands, one hand, or no hands, the same applies to all things."
"where did you read this?"
"The ALL ONE GOD FAITH."
"The fuckicty what now?"
"DR BRONNER!."
"WHO?"
"ALL ONE GOD FAITH!"
"Its that god damned 18-in-1 soap. You used it for the 18th use!"
"ALL ONE GOD FAITH!"
"You washed your mouth out with soap! DIDN'T YOU!"
"ALL ONE GOD FAITH!"
"Oh man, this is worse than I thought. I'm gonna need to roll this l myself, and we have got to get this smoke in ya, and get to the hookah bar for some steak, smoke, and Sam Adams."
"ALL ONE GOD FAITH!"
By 8pm, I found myself leaning my head on the wall, as I snacked on a beef and cheese log which I had picked up at the gas station just before I came to the apartment. It was there which I also purchased a fresh pack of Marlboro Menthols, a Red Bull, and a Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng, the preferred beverage of stoners everywhere. My lungs felt heavier as I inhaled my cigarette, and my alertness raised as I drank my Red Bull. It felt as if I was in some RPG video game, and I was on the main menu, using various items and drugs on the heroes, and increasing the stamina, and experience points while we watched Finder Keepers on Nick GAS, as my friend drank his Henny and Red Bull and smoked a Wave. Waves are similiar to Newports, except that they are Waves, come 20 bucks cheaper than a carton of Newports, and have to be purchased online from Poospatuck Smoke Shop. In the city, it seemed that they could not afford the high stakes game of brand name cigarette smoking, while I felt like an outsider rich blue blood, puffing away at my Marlboros. I bought them because I enjoyed the full flavor, and I knew no one would take a Marlboro Menthol if they knew everyone else was smoking Newports. A key deterrent in the war against cigarette grubbery.
By 8:15, we were out the door. A quick spray with the Axe body spray, and I was ready to go. We got out the door, and walked down the stairs, and stepped onto the sidewalk like gravely voiced men full of machismo, ready to go conquor whatever vagina stood in our way. Insert and move on, that's our philosophy for the evening. Never mind faces and names or numbers. The 1000 yard stare from 2 feet away, that's our MO. Look through the women, like they aren't even there; that way, you can get away with looking at their chests and assses, without the nagging feeling that you're rudely staring at a female. She wants you to stare, and she wants you to act like you don't even know she exists. Oh yeah. That's how they like it.
"Yeah I don't even see you you fucking cunt."
"Who the fuck are you talking to?"
"Those fucking broads ar going down, you know what I mean."
"Hey, you're cursing again. I knew that last el would lift you up."
"Where's the hookah bar? Where's dem sluts?"
"It's just up a few blocks."
"Where's dem bitches?"
"Calm it, killer. You a bear, she's a rabbit, but no need to rip it to shreds, just tear it up a lil."
"Them fucking rabbits. Kill em all."
"No, Lenny."
We reached a place that resembled any typical Indian outdoor sidewalk cafe, except on the table outside stood large metal shafts, with tubes wrapped in fantabulous textiles, being sucked on by both businessman and 17 year old girl alike. We came on an evening when the crowd was mixed sufficiently with other yuppie wannabe looking losers like ourselves, and what appeared to be a senior high school class trip to the NYC downtown, and these kids didn't look like they had a curfew set for anytime soon. We spotted some hunnies more around our age, and my friend began scheming like a Palestinian and quickly came up with a plan for attack within the cafe.
"So what you wanna get?"
I glanced at the hookah menu, and spotted a name that stood out.
"I think I'll get the Tony Montana. Sounds like a hot ticket. You?"
"I dunno, I'm thinking cherry."
"Aight."
We had observed on the other tables, with one hookah on them, and thought that the top could simply be switched from one to the other. We ordered, and then soon found ourselves sitting on a 3 foot diameter table with two huge metal hookah sitting on top. We hadn't even been able to figure out how to get the plastic mouthpieces on, when our food arrived. I had forgotten all about it. I had ordered a cedar plank salmon with a special spice rub and a rice pilaf, while my friend ordered a steak with peppers. On top of that, our beers arrived, a Corona for me and a Heinken for my friend. I smoked a Marb while we assed the situation.
It seems we've walked up in here and purchased a spread like Puff Daddy."
"This is the high life. Ya gotta live it."
The clutter on our table, and the speed at which the staff had brought it out, had made people start looking in our direction, thinking either we were big shots, or losers trying to be big shots, or that we were gay.
Before me stood my hookah of Tony Montana. The mouthpiece on, I took a puff, and inhaled the smoke. It went down my throat like a tampon string during cunnilingus, smooth and tasty. I inhaled and seemed to be in another world. I looked around me, and saw others puffing away, and one in particular, a fat lady, sitting near the window, amongst friends, sucking on a tube like Jabba in Return of the Jedi, and she even had a lil troll of a girlfriend sitting next to her laughing like Robin Quivers, and my friend took a pull from his hookah, and he stated the cherry tastes like cherry, and that the snozzberries tasted like snozzberries. I commended him on his use of the quote from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, and gave him a 2 point bonus in my note pad. He screamed for joy, and then began to thank his countless number of supporters throughout this whole struggle, include the support that that bra is giving that broad's tits over on the other side of the cafe. He made a motion with his fingers, as if to say in sign language that third base is open, so be careful, because he's gonna round second soon. She seemed to laugh, and then went back to her conversation. But at least the message was out there. She knew where to find us. Just look for the table that looks as cluttered as the Manhattan skyline. We could not get away from the fact that we had simple ordered too much to have on one dinky table. Soon enough, we put our hookahs on the floor and held their tubes in our hands while we forked mouthfuls of food in between puffs of Tony Montana and Cherry smokes. The Tony Montana, I said, tasted and felt just like the haze we had just msoke, just a lil less potent. I was still very much stoned, having only spent 30 minutes in between then and the last puff of the blunt.
Once we had finished out meal, we called for the mexican to take the plates away, and, just as he did, the waiter came by and noticed out hookahs were almost up, so he refilled them, on the house, and even gave us some more beer. We stayed, smoked, drank, and talked about broads and possible bars to visit later in the night. By 10, the waiter handed us a bill, 40 bucks each. Money aint a thang, and we dropped the bills like they were hot, and, now, with the confidence of a two blunt, two hookah, two beer night, I walked up to the big titted bitch in the back of the bar and said
"Look at me, don't ya wish you could just suck my cock?"
"No, not really."
BAM!
We left with a gratuitous tip left on our table, and a note to the waiter to refill Madame Jabba's hookah in the corner on us, ready to tackle the nightlife of NYC.
11-24-2005, 08:13 PM
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11-24-2005, 08:37 PM
yeah I feel the same way...
11-25-2005, 12:55 AM
the jays reminds me of a high school version of hunter s. thompson, with vastly less addictive narcotics.
i read the whole thing and enjoyed it.
i read the whole thing and enjoyed it.
11-25-2005, 01:00 AM
I guess they'll all be high school stories until I get into my "snorting coke in high rise jersey condos while trying to junggle various real estate" period.