addiction – aMediocreMan

Golf course hotel

Another hotel for work. I stay here a couple times each month. It has a golf course and small convention center.

It’s the same freak show every time. Fat, white golfers with their pasty cheeks toasted by the south Florida sun, come in for drinks after chasing a ball around for five hours.

A mix of business men sitting at bar tables, intently focused on their laptops, checking stocks, because these rich assholes can actually afford to own stocks. Always rude to the bartenders and staff for no reason other than to satisfy their inflated egos.

Rarely, if ever, does a woman show up. I don’t blame the women though. When they do come to the bar, every guy is trying to be cooler than they actually are because their wives are far, far away. While at the hotel on for business, they dream of strange, anonymous pussy, but rarely seal the deal.

Business man next to me at the bar wearing a fancy jacket, cuff links- yes, fucking cuff links, apple air buds in, making calls, speaking loudly so everyone knows how important he at least thinks he is. Holy fuck, I don’t dress that nice for a wedding or funeral, but thankfully he does.

He ordered a Stella draft and that’s shit beer, so that confirms he’s a fucking fraud. He’s damn good looking and fit, but would probably fuck himself first because no woman could ever be as hot as he thinks he is.

I wish I could Dexter this guy; lay out the plastic, put the tranquilizer in his neck and drain his blood because he’s doing nothing positive for this world. He probably has a huge cock too, that’s usually how it works.

“I’m a salad guy,” he said to the waitress as his cuff links shimmered from the bar lights above.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I walked outside, smoked some weed and went to bed.

(Related Posts: Another Hotel Bar; Another Florida Hotel Bar; Beach Bar)

beach bar- (florida east coast)

(This is a crappy bar I go to sometimes while working. It’s always an incredible trainwreck and I can’t stop going. I know I’m an asshole, thanks.)

It’s a Wednesday night around 7:30.

Barback– guy with American flag bandana, dancing behind the bar, throwing his lighter in the air like a drunk Muppet, trying to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but he’s fucking not at Burning Man

Bartender– cute, but worn, searching for something more, she could do better than this. She meanders behind the bar languidly, like a beaten puppy, just hoping for some decent drunk to pet her and scratch behind her ear.

Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, talking to one of the regulars at the bar, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck-up, if they only knew…..

New couple- sits next to me at the bar, she’s cute, but you can tell the husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching about wanting a frozen drink, fat husband remains indifferent to her bitching. She’s definitely tired of his dick, sad because he actually seems like a nice guy, but damn she’s such a bitch. Continue reading “beach bar- (florida east coast)”

An ode to Mountain Dew

According to Wikipedia, in 1940 two Tennessee beverage bottlers named Barney and Ally Hartman invented the formula for Mountain Dew.

Below is my tribute to those two fine men:

I walked into the 7-11 and quickly made my way to the back of the store where the drink coolers are located. Immediately, I could see it staring back at me.

The 12-ounce, green canned goddess looking into my eyes.

It was screaming, “Touch me, open me, drink me down you dirty boy. I won’t quench your thirst, but I taste so good, so slippery and so sugary. Everyone is drinking me, just take me, take me now.”

I couldn’t resist, I grabbed it and jumped to the cashier and butted in front of an old lady with blue hair and a walker. I couldn’t wait.

Beads of sweat began trickling down my forehead towards my nose. The cashier looked at me like I was a crack or meth head looking for my next hit. Well, she wasn’t that far off.

Much like meth addiction, if I continue my assault on these green canned goddesses, my teeth are sure to start dropping out of my mouth indiscriminately.

She scanned the bar-code, “that will be $1.06 please,” she said as she annoyingly chewed her gum and twirled her poorly bleached blond hair. Continue reading “An ode to Mountain Dew”

big day off (mediocre man style)

Wednesday, the day after Xmas I was off from work. (I like to use “Xmas” instead of Christmas, it feels more daring to me.) I really didn’t have anything planned and thought a couple times about doing something productive.

I woke up and had a Mountain Dew, because I’m addicted to sugar and caffeine. Then I ate a cashew Lara bar. It tasted pretty good. I like cashews. Apparently Lara bars are Paleo friendly. I’m not on the Paleo diet, but I like cashews and think maybe it’s somewhat good for me. And I think cashews pair well with Mountain Dew.

I turned on a documentary on Netflix and chilled, by myself. I was wondering how I should handle that situation. If I “Netflix and Chill” by myself, do I have to jerk off? Or can I just watch the documentary and leave my dick alone?

plastic parade

A-typical Rolex submariner sits on the dad’s wrist like a beacon of arrival.
His too-tight Ed Hardy tee sticks to his cross fit chest like an extra layer of skin.
Those hours in the gym, the broccoli, the grilled chicken, the spinach salads……
Eyes scanning the crowd looking for that 25 year-old who hasn’t yet sunk the Botox into her forehead…….

Wifey to his left, flipping her platinum dyed hair again and again and again.
She, looking for someone to make fun of, looking for someone to help her feel better about her collagen duck-faced lips.

Her third tit job, her fourth anal bleaching, her fifth affair with a new trainer, tattoo reads “MILF” along the panty line that only a select 50 or so willing erections get to see.

She, peering at the younger women while licking her lips with the misguided confidence of an American Idol contestant.

Continue reading “plastic parade”

the lost milf- dancing Al Roker

Dancing Al Roker (the lost milf)

her main job for the day is to take the kids to and from school. They are older now so the task has become considerably easier. Their Iphones have the alarm clocks now and they no longer care for breakfast.

“The bus leaves in 10 minutes,” she warns them each morning.

her bus is an extended Chevy Suburban with those cute stickers on the back window that helps everyone understand exactly how many kids and pets she has now. The windows are tinted as dark black as legally possible so no one can see her face absent of make up that earlier in the morning. The crows feet are deeper now and the dark circles widen with each year.

after dropping them off, kisses blown and back to the house. Once inside, time for the magical breakfast 5-4-3 cocktail……..5 grapes followed by 4 crushed and snorted Oxy’s followed by a glass of water with 3 lemon slices………….ah, let the numb morning begin. Continue reading “the lost milf- dancing Al Roker”

my addiction

soda I’m embarrassed, I’m ashamed and I’m weak because I have an addiction. I’m not proud of what it does to me. I’m not proud of what I do to get it. But I do it anyway.

When I first roll out of bed, it nags at me like a hangnail.

“Come get me, you know you need me. You know you can’t make it an hour without me,” it whispers knowingly in the back of my mind.

I look around my house in odd corners hoping to find a couple of quarters or dimes. If I can’t find enough there, I lift up my car seats and scour underneath to find the right amount to pay for it.

Once I find enough change, I get into the car. I don’t brush my teeth, I don’t bathe, I simply put the car in drive and get there as quickly as possible. Continue reading “my addiction”

another hotel bar

Another hotel bar; I’m on the corner bar stool, minding my own shit, hoping no one tries to talk to me, only thing I want to say is “Yes, one more please.”

Another business man, probably mid 40’s and a little fatter than most, sat down next to me, his eyes scanned the rest of the bar, looking for some strange pussy, hoping some desperate clit will let him in. His Brooks Brothers button up is wrinkled from sitting behind a computer for the past 8 hours and there are visible pit stains. He should work out more, he’s too puffy for a hookup, especially given the 10 to 1 male to female ratio. That’s the typical ratio, damn the women are “lucky.”

He ordered a Glenlivet neat. Shit, the puffy man has bigger balls than most. He’s really trying to impress, really trying to show the rest of the bar that his expense account is for real.

The bartender took notice, but only because the scotch means her tip should be bigger. Her bangs and wrinkled forehead tell me that she’s either 25 or 50 and she’s probably seriously questioning her life choices. He will talk to her about his two divorces, child support and how he’s hoping to retire to South Florida one day and buy a boat. “Do you like boats,” he asked her. She says she that she does, but only because she has to say that so she can make a payment on her Boost mobile cell phone the next morning before it gets shut off again. Continue reading “another hotel bar”

night at a beach bar

it’s night, I’m at a bar across from a beach, east coast of Florida

The Cook– Skinny, white-trash looking guy with American flag bandana dancing oddly behind the bar, throwing his lighter into the air. He looks like a drunk Muppet, spinning around as he tries to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but let me be clear, he’s fucking not at Burning Man. Must be a bored cook….. people would have to be desperate to order food from this hole of shit bar.

Bartender– she’s kind of cute, nice brown hair and her skin appears somewhat innocent. Her strained smile and lack of amusement for the drunk Muppet gives her motive away…… searching for something more than this place. Good luck honey, don’t let those tips suck your life away.

The Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, a real fucking big shot. Talking to an old dude who is probably a regular, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck up….. if they only knew.

The Couple– they walk in and sit close to me. She’s cute, in that trashy kind of way women look cute to me when I’ve had eight beers or so. Husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching and whining about wanting a frozen drink.

Fat husband sits silent as she argues with the manager, he’s probably seen this shit a few times before and he’s tired of it. Just like she’s probably tired of his gut and his dick, she gives zero fucks about embarrassing him. Kind of sad, because he actually looks nice, but damn she’s a bitch. She’s un-fucking-pleaseable. Continue reading “night at a beach bar”

email #10

Email #10

Hi, it’s me again

I know, another email

Can I

be your friend?

just click “accept friend request”

it’s online, safe like your gated community

no realness, no weekend barbecues

no disjointed, clumsy

bar stool meet n greet

where you flip

your bleached hair

5, 10, 15 times

and pretend to look into my eyes

between Miller Lites and Jameson shots

thoughts dusted with cigarette ash

no excited stumbling

back to my place

where soiled sheets don’t matter

your hooker skirt doesn’t matter

but your unbathed, glowing cunt

breathes freedom around my cock

just click “accept friend request”

email #10