So, I am Nearly Devoured by a Big Black Bird

The Traveler:


36 hours before ruining that front desk clerks aspirations of becoming a crime scene investigator, I discovered that Ausi women can be aggressively … uh… aggressive. Seriously where was this place when I was a in my 20s?


It was a Friday night, and I should have known better. I even had to shoot the doorman a look that suggested that even the aspiring forensic investigator of a desk clerk might not find his body if he made any noise about letting me in.  So, there I was sidling up to the bar, one of three ultra snooty bars associated with my hotel. And all I wanted was a Jack single barrel, and then to find a quiet corner to watch people.


As I waited for my drink, a reasonably pretty giraffe of a girl leaned over and said: “Blur, Dja aaye ur merkan”


Even being the ho whisperer, I musta missed the class in drunken Ausi chick translation. I looked at her harder. she looked to be feathered, like wearing a black Big Bird costume. I had a Hunter Thompson moment, and remembered the talking lizards in the Las Vegas hotel bar, and had to shake it off to stop the flashback trip.


It didn’t work. She really was dressed in what could only be a black Big Bird costume. The Big Bird said again: “Blur, Dja aaye ur merkan”

Not her but really close

I hadn’t really been drinking yet, but it was high time I started. I shot the jack, and nodded for another. 


Excuse me, I asked her wide eyed.


“BLUR, Dja aaYE uR MerKan”


“What?” I asked afraid of the answer. Was this Bird gonna eat me? The night before I had weird nightmares about snakes being everywhere in my house… could this be a part of that… some kind of latent living nightmare. Black Big Birds feathers pulsed just like the brown snake in my dream. 


Fuck me. 


“Uhhhhhh...” This is how it ends. They put this giant black unintelligible bird here to talk to me, while the kidnap van pulls up out front and dudes in black suits and sunglasses step out…


My imagination is too over active for this circumstance. I am waaay too tired, and this is just some dumb chick wearing altogether too many fucking feathers. 


That settled my heart rates down a bit more. I shot the backup jack, announced officer down, and called for more backup. 


Not unsurprisingly, the second double 100 proof single barrel acted like a babble fish, and suddenly I was fluent in drunk Ausi chick.


“Hmm?” I asked. 


“I said, did ya say you were an American?”


“I didn’t say that, but I am…” I said with a clever smile.  Single Barrel Jack also has the ability to convince me that talking like a total cock, but adding a sarcastic tone is charming. 


“ThAt’S AwESOMe!” she said stamping her foot.  Suddenly I’m filled with visions of a strutting rooster at a cockfight, Is she gonna fucking fight me? 


“We’re hanging with this total asshole from Santa Barbara, you should hang.”


“Does ‘Total Asshole’ Mean what I think it means”.


“Yeah. He’s absolutely wretched, but he’s rich!”


“Yeah… so turns out I came here to escape from an asshole from Santa Barbara, that I owe money to.” I said – tee hee. I’m so funny, Gods I need more drink.  That jack found the bottom of my tummy, and I needed to call the SWAT Team. 


“Fuck the good stuff,” I told the bartender, “I need the cheep liquor, stat!” My plan was simple, drink myself into a coma so I didn’t have to finish this conversation, or god forbid go hang out with her and some advertised asshole from Santa Barbara who almost certainly thought of this Bird of his, and wouldn’t enjoy her bringing me back with her. 


“You’re so funny.” She said. Hand brushing shoulder, and chest.  Jesus, the fricken Brunettutan would have torn off your head for that – Needed to turn this off now. “You really should come join us.” Join us… Join us… Join us…


“I am Not going to join your cult, you are Not going to turn me into a big bird.” I said. 


My words simply didn’t register. I could have said anything, it didn’t matter, the blew through her like wind. “Where are you from?”


“Dallas Texas”


“GeT ouT! NO WaY!!” She said so loud I think I dropped my drink.  Seriously. She ANNOUNCED that shit. Like spun and shouted it to everyone in the whole bar. “ThAT iS FUCKinG AMAzinG!”


Oh Dear God, It’s Gonna eat me. As hard as I tried, all of the Hunter Thompson inspired hallucinations returned. 

“wwwwhhhhhhhyyyy?” I begged.


“The Santa Barbara guy… He’s a HORSE WHISPERER.”


Oh I so seriously doubt that. I thought. That sounds exactly like the kind of thing an asshole from Santa Barbara would think would impress a big dumb black bird dressed Ausi chick.  That is so a marriage made in … whatever I don’t want to get involved in that. 


“What does that have to do with—“ 


She cut me off. “BeeeCAUZEE – you know.. Dallas… Horses… “


“Okay sweetie.” I said. Suddenly all the evil flashbacks were over. She was just a big dumb girl. “So you know that Dallas is like four times larger than this little cow town, and nearly twice as big as Sydney, right? I say that meaning, we don’t let horses just fucking walk around,”


“But you have on cowboy boots” she said. Somewhat smaller.


--mouth agape—I start to say something. Stop. Start again. Stop. Then finally, “Yup, you got me there.”


About that time some dude walked up behind her and said something completely unintelligible. She turned to him like the dog in ‘Up’ “Squirrel!”.


Just then an elderly couple stepped between me and her, and I shit you not the husband said to me: “You better make your escape.” 


I looked at him for a second. Was this another flashback? I am I really that drunk? But his wife spoke up: “You better hurry, go!”


I went.

So, Bob and I Devise the Ultimate Weapon

The Traveler:


(This actually happened a month or so back, it was written in word and never posted... sorry bout that).


As fortune would have it while I was in town trying to educate a new crop of CIOs on such thrilling topics as IT Branding and Governance, Bob (EMEA CTO for a major software company, and pondonkit co-inventor) was in San Jose doing whatever high end technologists do who have real jobs. 


We managed to find time to catch a drink, and after several, Bob who had been a recon soldier in something called ‘Her Majesties Green Shirt Regiment’ or some crazy shit like that was trying to convince a friend he’s brought along (Andy) that during survival training recon soldiers lived solely on a diet of squirrel’s milk. 


I being a former recon guy in the very clearly named, 82nd Airborne had to back him up, of course.


“How would you even milk a squirrel?” 


“You just rub ‘em.” Bob said.


“with gloves on, of course.”  I said.


“Oh yeah, they’d completely fuck your hands up”.


“No way you’d spend all your time just trying to catch and milk squirrels.”


“Dude, “ I said incredulously. “You bring your own squirrels…”


Bob: “Seriously, wild squirrel milk is disgusting.”


Me: “Nothing but free range ethically harvested organic peanut fed squirrel’s milk for me.”


Bob: “That’s great for the omega 3 fatty acids”. 


“Dude, no way… there is no way you could even carry enough squirrels to get enough milk.” Andy said. 


“Squirrel bandolier.” Bob said patiently. 


“Well in the American army, we used our grenade vest, but yeah same principle.” I said. 


Andy: “Bullshit, I call bullshit on that. Where would you keep your grenades!”


“They don’t let you have grenades in training.” I said.


“Can you imagine a bunch of 18 year old hormone raging boys flinging grenades at each other.” 


“It would be like Iraq.” Andy said. 


That was good for an ironic laugh… then Bob said, cold dead serious: “Dude. They should let us carry squirrels into combat.”


“Fuck. Me.” I said.


“Can you imagine the terror on some jihadi’s face you hurl a fucking squirrel at his face?”


Andy jumped in. “fucking thing would get all up in his hair and his beard.” 


“Gentlemen, I think we have discovered America’s next great terror weapon.” I pronounced. 


… and from there, as these things do… it got a little silly. 

So, The Front Desk Clerk Thinks I Look Like a Crook.

The Traveler: 

Okay, so I’ll tell you right off the bat, I was a colossal asshole to this guy, and he didn’t even really diserve it. I’m not gonna make any excuses – I will offer some backstory, to perhaps slightly mitigate my bad behavior.


The Backstory. 
So yesterday, I nearly drove my bike off a mountain. I wasn’t being crazy, or exceeding my limits, or those of the bike or (I thought) road conditions. When the incident happened I was upright, neither accelerating, or breaking, or turning.  


You know how asphalt is sometime surfaced with little black rocks held down by tar?  Well when less than competent road workers apply these as patches, sometimes all of the black rocks don’t stick. 


If enough of them don't stick you get a spot that when you ride over with a car, you don’t notice because nothing bad happens, but if you hit it with a motorcycle, it is like driving on ice coated with ball bearings. 


Everyone got caught up in it a little bit, I got caught up a lot. I lost traction in both wheels, went sideways and started to lowside  --I had to kick off the ground with a foot, dirt bike style to keep the bike upright and give a chance to straighten out. Which I did, and nearly tore my foot off in the process, because 50 miles an hour doesn’t seem fast in a car, but it far exceeds the velocity tolerances of the human foot. 


Anyway, after that I needed to stop riding for the day. But I was three hours at high way speed away from my hotel, AND I had an hour left to go of mountain roads I had no confidence in. 


Needless to say, I was tight as a snare drum by the time I got back to the hotel. A snooty arrogant, five star joint where the people who work there act like they’re better and more refined than the guests. 


One of my riding buddies --an owner of one of the most exclusive and exotic motorcycles on the planet was afraid they wouldn’t seat us in the bar due to our state of dress – the place was that kind of snooty.


But they let us in, and it was great.  We even played Ninja Peekabo  with the bartender, had a fantastic time -- and that is totally a different story. 


Of course, my stress relief drinking coupled with the fact that I had basically quit drinking several months ago, meant I woke with the kind of hangover that sticks with you all day, and gets WORSE.


So by the time I got down to check out, I was good and miserable. I had also paid fifty bucks for a late check out that anywhere else would be complementary, and had been interrupted four times by housekeeping come to check on me, when I was on the toilette, when I was changing, when I was talking with the Brunettutan Twice. Just pestering the shit out of me to get their room back. 


SO EVERYTHING IS FINE UNTIL HE HANDS ME BACK MY CREDIT CARD.


Which I go to put away. But as I do, the smarmy little fucker says to me, “I need you to leave that out sir, so I can check your signature.”


“You can just check my ID if you’re concerned about who I am,” I say. 


“No, “ he insists now, like strongly. “I need to check your signature.”


“My fucking signature is different most of the time because I scribble it.” I said. 


Now granted, that is not a particularly reasonable response from me to what is a perfectly reasonable request from a hotel clerk, but I has just about enough from these arrogant shit gibbons, and I was nursing a nuclear hangover. Again, not an excuse, but a mitigation. 


“We do not tolerate, being cursed at, sir.” He snorted.


“Oh, -- is that the royal we, or you got a mouse in your pocket. I’m just trying to fucking pay you.  And I don’t appreciate your insinuating that I’m a thief.”


“I said no such a thing!” he spat.


“Then why do you want to verify my signature?” 


“To prevent fraud.” He said.


“QED, you’re suggesting I might be a thief – but not an ordinary thief. OH NO. Because the name on my passport, room reservation, and credit card all match, I much be a master criminal but you were able to see through all that and trip me up with your clever 'signature test' which even an accomplished passport forger like me is unable to overcome.  You got me dude. You should be a fucking detective.”


I hand over the card, he flips it over to check the signature and goes white.


On the back of the card there is no signature, instead in large block letters written in sharpie marker are the words ”Check ID”.

So, I Discover a Man Phone Sexing his Colleagues

The Traveler: 


I got up at Four AM this morning to catch a 6am from Boston to SFO, through ORD. Last night when I made a change to my return, it took away my upgraded seats and dropped me back into coach, and I had to spend a precious system wide VIP upgrade to correct the problem. 


All of this serves to explain what I am not in what laypeople call a “good mood”.  And that should explain what happened next.


The bathroom at the ORD H terminal admirals club is basically shit. It’s your standard airport / bus station bathroom with half height pooper stalls—urinals divided by cellophane, and all that. In otherwords lacking the privacy and refinement a club bathroom should have – and what is common even a train terminal public Loo in the UK. Read: Shithole, but with the expectation of better / cleaner clientele. 


Except that’s a false expectation. What you can expect is cleaner narcissistic corporate assholes with a sense of entitlement and self-importance. 


One such asshole parades into the bathroom trailing an aura of grandiosity and cloud of Drakkar Noir – and oh my gawd talking in a booming voice on his phone. He saunters up to the urinal, whips it out and keeps talking about this or that contract or the Monroe deal or some such nonsense.


Going to the toilette is the one place where even the baddest-ass apex predator can be vulnerable – literally caught with his pants down, as such, among men, talking, looking or basically anything other than doing your business is strictly out of bounds. 


Yet this asshole was disturbing the peace and harmony of pee-pee time… it was so over the top that the guy next to me and I broke rule number 1 and exchanged a glance – like “what is this asshole kidding?”


And that was that.


“JESUS DUDE… DO THE PEOPLE YOU’RE TALKING TO KNOW YOU’RE JACKING OFF?” I say to the guy. Pretty god damned loud. 


He doesn’t realize I’m talking to him, he’s so obsessed with his conversation. So I try again. 


“MASTURBATING” I shout now locking eyes with the drakkar douche. “THIS GUY IS TOTALLY JACKING OFF!” 


He stops. “Hold on Janie…” He can’t cover the handset because he’s talking on one of those corded headset things, which is probably picking me up pretty easily. “What’s the problem here?”


“NO PROBLEM” I shout right in the direction of the microphone. “I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF JANIE KNOWS YOU’RE JACKING OFF WHILE TALKING TO HER.”


“I am not… Janie.. I'm no—“


“YOUR DICK IS IN YOUR HANDS IS IT NOT? AND ANYTHING MORE THAN TWO SHAKES CONSITUTUES AN ACT OF PLEASURE.  IT’S OKAY DUDE, I UNDERSTAND HABITUAL MASTURBATION IS A SICKNESS – I GET IT… “


“Janie let me call you back.” 


“AFTER HE’S DONE JACKING OFF!” I say. 


He hangs up the phone, I turn to leave, but amazingly, he still wants to play.  “What the fuck is your problem?” he demands. Apparently drakkar douche is more accustomed to having his ass kissed than his balls busted. 


This is a careful situation. A person in my situation can’t show any outward signs of aggression. This could get way out of hand easily.  So I stand my grand, but say in a non-threatening voice.


“Rude assholes who act like their whims are the only thing that matters.  Like for example, talking too loud on a phone in the bathroom.”


He takes a step towards me, which is difficult in his situation. I step back. Let the record show I yielded ground. 


“What the fuck gives you the ---“ he takes a labored second step.


I hold up a hand. “Dude. Think about where you are and what you’re doing. With your pants around your ankles and your little wee-wee poking out of your boxers, one more step and you’re pretty much gonna get charged with sexual assault.” 

And Thus, I Palm a Drunk Dude's Head (and he doesn't mind)

The Brunettutan:

Trade show evenings are unfailing fraught with alcohol-soaked pseudo-professionals gone wild, and for someone who takes great joy in fucking with people, they provide an indulgence of opportunity for one to do so. 

One such evening, I was enjoying friendly banter with some colleagues in the courtyard of a lively bar on Bourbon Street. The evening had shifted from late night to early morning, and the nocturnal hunters were becoming desperate for prey.  

Since my late nights are primarily motivated by social interaction as opposed to inducing alcohol poisoning, I was substantially more lucid that the majority of my bar-mates. 

There was a break in conversation within our group, and we all casually shifted focus. Just as I was turning to walk across the courtyard to chat up a friend of mine I had just spotted, I was very abruptly stopped by a tall, company-logo-polo-shirt clad dude. I guess he thought I would be more weak and vulnerable, having been separated from my main group. 

News for you, big boy … you watch WAY too much Nat Geo Wild. 

 He heavily staggers into my path, and the first slur out of his mouth is, “Heyyyy, you here for the trade show?”

Of course, genius, 90% of the people in this bar are all attending the same trade show. The other 10% look like spring breakers or extras from deliverance. 

“Yep.”

“Coooool, yeeeeeah …. Me too.”

“Really? Because the khaki pants and logo on your shirt weren’t nearly obvious enough.”

“Ohhhh, heh, yeah … right.”

I move to step around this goofy dude, and he puts his face about three inches from mine and asks me where I’m from. I instinctively step back, and look at him like he’s slapped my grandmother. I really don’t like close-talkers. 

I sigh, and answer the dude. And it turns out, OMG!, he’s from the same state! He’s so excited by this, he again puts his damned face three inches from mine to express his surprise. 

This time, instead of stepping back, I simply palm his entire face, and push it back about a foot and half, and inform him that he is, indeed, talking way too close to me.

I expect his ego to be bruised enough by this, that he calls me a bitch and decides to pursue an easier meal for the evening. But no … it didn’t even phase him! In fact, he even kept talking while my hand was on his face. 

And this, people, is why drunk dudes can be gratifyingly fun to fuck with … they have very little to lose at this point in the evening. They will tolerate almost anything as long as it keeps the conversation going. 

So, the conversation continues in a sort of predictable cadence:

Dude makes it about 45 seconds before leaning close enough to me that I must alert him that he’s talking too close. I give him about 5 seconds to redirect his lean, before I redirect him myself … using his face. He’s almost like one of those blow-up clown punching bags with sand in the bottom. No matter how many times I push him back, he bounces right back up again. 

This occurs no less than 10 times in the course of our relatively short conversation. it is so absurd to me that he’s put up with it for this long, while I’ve made it very clear he has absolutely no chance for anything beyond this little chat with me … I have to laugh at the guy. He’s been good-natured enough I end our conversation on a friendly note, and turn and walk away. 

I look down at my open palm … I would pay $50 for some hand sanitizer right now

So, this trip is starting off great

The Traveler: 

Driver calls my house like 3 times trying to find out where it is...


"you on Johnson? There ain't no 123 Johnson street in my gps!"


"Johnson trace" I say, "it's a cul de sac off of Johnson"


"Johnson --- right but there ain't no 123 Johnson in the gps"


"no trace not street --- Johnson trace"


This goes on--- he either can't or won't listen.


He calls back twice. Finally I say: take a right on park and a left on Johnson then a right on Johnson trace...


That musta done it because he managed to get here---


On leaving my house we set off --- we haven't gone 2 blocks before I have to interrupt him: " the airport is the other way" ...


Seriously --- this is a local towncar company in my suburb of 30000 people --- and the driver knows neither where I live nor were the airport is...


I'm convinced of it--- the ruination of humanly will be due to the fact that theyre just too fucking annoying to live

And Thus, Two Chatty Dudes are School'd on Seat Back Etiquette

The Brunettutan:

If there is anything worse than traveling with amateurs it's traveling with amateurs who think they're pros... 

“Just a one hour flight, that’s it … awesome” I think to myself as I board the plane to New Orleans.

Things are going well – half of the people boarding are Executive Platinum – a plane full of professional travelers. A wave of relief passes over me. How bad can this be? Everybody keeps to themselves, we faithfully ignore the fact that we’re ALL within each other’s personal space. -- 60 minutes and we're done painless as can be. 

A nice quiet woman sits next to me … nothing alarming. Two (rather chatty) dudes occupy the seats in front of us.

I settle in with my book to ignore the whole flight attendant spiel.

We take off, its bumpy … but, whatever.

Right when we get to cruising altitude, and the flight attendants release us from our shackles, ChattyDude #2 decides to recline his seat into the lap of the woman next to me. 

We exchange looks – mine is one of pity. Hers, annoyance. 

I try to catch the eye of this egregiously rude man, so I can convey our collective annoyance at his disregard for other people. But, before I can get his attention, brassy-haired Chatty Dude #1 reclines his chair – hitting the top of my book in the process – effectively putting his seat in my lap.

Ohhhhh no you di’int.

I am so appalled, that all I do is stare straight ahead – alternating between my book and his ratty, brassy hair, 3 inches from my face.  

All kinds of evil ideas go through my head. I’m so engrossed in what I could do or say, I stay on the same page of my book for 10 minutes. 

I try subtle clues, like erratically pressing my knees into the back of his seat, just hoping he gets the idea.

You know, I probably could have just let it go. Chalked it up to ignorance. Some people are 
douches on the golf course, too. Their mama obviously didn’t teach them manners … is that really their fault?

But, no, the dudes are seriously chattering like fucking rhesus monkeys and Chatty Dude #1 keeps shifting in his seat like he’s a humpback whale in breach. I am inches away from grabbing the hair on the top of his head (that I’m staring DOWN at), and telling him to settle the fuck down before I throat punch him.

As I’m delighting myself with this fantasy, CD1 looks back at me and smiles. Possibly interpreting my intense staring as interest of some sort. 

Men. 

I cannot let the opportunity pass.

“Are you smiling at me because you’ve had your head in my lap for the majority of the flight?” I ask this in my sweetest voice with a look of [not-so] genuine curiosity.

Chatty Dude #1 looks shocked … so I quickly continue: “I hope it was enjoyable for you, because I’ve been incredibly uncomfortable this whole time. Thank you SO much.” I think he gets my sarcasm, now.

Both chatty dudes, are no longer chatty.

“Do you travel much?”

CD1 nods … mouth a bit agape.

“I don't think so.  --here’s the deal, there is etiquette on an airplane – much like on the golf course or at church. Part of this airplane etiquette dictates that if you recline your seat on anything less than, say, a three hour flight, you are broadcasting to everybody that you are an amateur and a colossal ASS-HOLE. And there is a special place in Hell for people that recline their seat on a ONE hour flight … and just end up talking the whole time. ”

[there is various snickering around us, since I’m not exactly being quiet]

CD1: “I, uh, didn’t … er … I’m sorry.” He oh-so-thoughtfully puts his seat back up. CD2 obediently follows suit. 

That’s a good monkey.

“Well, now you know … so you can avoid looking like a (and I repeat) colossal ASS-HOLE on your next flight.”

We all settle in for a much more comfortable, and quiet, flight. Well, at least for me.

See,  peer pressure still works on adults.