March 2009

I am in Starbucks, trying to obtain information on how to activate a membership card to be able to use the Internet. I walk up to the cashier calmly. A clearly annoyed tall black man, he has an attitude with me as soon as I open my mouth. Sometimes I wonder why a prominent multi-billion dollar corporation such as Starbucks employs some of the most ignorant and idiotic people on Earth, while with my multi-billion dollar college degree it is nearly impossible for to lock down a focus group. But that’s for another story.

Bob: Welcome to Starbucks, how can I help you?

Me: Excuse me, can I activate my card?

Bob: Can you what your what?

Me: Can I put money on my card?

Bob: What card?

Me: MY Star Bucks Card So I Can Get On The Internet?

Bob: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Me: In-Ter-Net. Com-Pu-Ters. On-Line. I have work to do.

Bob: You’re gonna have to talk to (co-worker) Shirley. Hey Shirley! Maybe you can understand what the hell this guy is talking about.

Shirley: Welcome to Starbucks, how may I help you?

Me: Can you please tell me how I can get online?

Shirley: You mean how to activate your card to purchase the online plan?

Me: Yes. What am I going to have to do? Donate a limb? Jump off a plane?

Shirley: You’re going to have to go online to purchase points for your card, which can then be converted into Internet hours.

Me: HOW am I going to be able to do that if you can’t fucking tell me how to get online?

Shirley: Please lower your voice sir. There is a police precinct next door and I do not want to call them.

Me: I mean COME ON! All I’m trying to do is get on the damn Internet.

Shirley: Well that’s going to cost money, sir.

Me: How much money are we talking about? Come on, give me something good god damn it!

Shirley: Hold on, let me ask (another co-worker) Katie. Hey Katie! Can you tell me how much it’s gonna cost for this guy to purchase a card to sign up for the pre-paid plan for him to get wireless access here?

Katie: I have no idea. Any of you guys?

Bob: No clue.

Me: YOU FUCKING WORK HERE! It is your job to know this stuff.

Shirley: Well we don’t. It’s the corporation’s rules.

Me: And you wonder why your stock price is plummeting. In two years, I will take over your corporation and eat you all alive.

Bob: Have a nice day sir.

Me: I’m just saying, man.

Bob (aggravated): HAVE A NICE DAY! Bye. Go.

Me: You have a nice day, sir.

Bob (under his breath, but audible): Dickhead

Me: (under my breath, but slightly louder, enough to ensure that Bob can hear): Asshole.

October 2008

I have spent much of 2008 here in the city, in pursuit of that green, man. Some of my exploits have been fairly successful (getting paid $15 an hour to sit in an office in Brooklyn doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING), but the majority have not (Sports Betting). And, there was one recent financial disaster, which I will write about shortly. As of lately, I've been trying hard to get my money right, after getting it very wrong, which you will read about in my "Scotty Gets Scammed" section. But that's for another story. Right now, I'm gonna let you in on a little not-so-secret. I haven't lived on my own in 3 years.

I recently attempted to get out on the street, but instead I learned of the harsh and shady world that is real estate brokerage. During the summer of 2008, an old college acquaintance of mine (who happened to have huge boobs) named "Shirley" told me that she had just obtained her real estate liscense and would be willing to help out any of my friends who lived in the city and needed an apartment. I thought to myself: "Hmm, sounds like someone is looking to me for a boost in self-esteem." Common theme among people who bother to contact me these days.

So I decided to play along and told her that I would potentially need a place for the fall. A couple months later, I ran into Shirley on the street, and the next day she sent me one of the weirdest messages I have ever recieved in my 5 years on Facebook. I am going to copy it verbatim: "It was really good seeing you the other day, and really random hehe... but maybe it was meant to be, maybe it's a (spiritual) sign that i am supposed to help you with apartment search, I totally believe in signs... glad i saw you!"

Is this girl on CRACK? OK, at this point I was thinking Wow- is she really that desperate and low on self-esteem that she's resorting to spirituality to get me to look at apartments with her? Sensing a potential watershed of story material, I... wrote some bullshit reply and forgot about it. A few weeks later, she messaged me again, telling me she's been "thinking of me" and my apartment search. Realizing that this girl will not shut up until i agreed to meet up, I sent a tentative date to come by her office and look at places she has available. That date came and went, with the excuse that she was "too busy" (On a SATURDAY? Hmm...) so she rescheduled for the following weekend.

I arrived at her office on one Saturday afternoon in early October 08', and was immediately reminded of a morgue. Her boss was a sketchy guido Italian, and she was the only female in sight. Within 5 seconds of my entrance there was a clipboard on my lap asking me to fill out detailed personal personal information. I BSed most of it. Then, almost instantly there were three apartments for me and Shirley to check out. Just like that.

So me and Shirley spent an afternoon walking around, looking at random apartments and talking about college stuff, living in the city, etc. After each apartment we saw, she took note that i was interested in it. Then, she cordially invited me back to her... office. As soon as I got back, there was a clipboard in front of me to sign something. At this point, Shirley and her scumbag-in-training boss gave me all this crap about how great this apartment would be for me and my current situation. One side of me wanted to get the hell out of this office and try desperately to enjoy the rest of my Saturday. The other side of me was blinded by the gravity of the situation, and the possibility of grabbing my own place no matter what the extensive cost may be. By the way, including broker fees this apartment would cost over 3,000 dollars a month, way beyond anything I can even come close to forking up in this shithole economy.

But at the time, I did not put two and two together. So I signed myself into a contract worth me paying 3 fucking grand a month. At the time, thanks to a little incident I barely even had 3 grand in my bank account. So we left it that I would have to sign some shit and have my parents sign as well. I lied and said it would be "no problem". All the while as her boss was explaining this to me, Shirley was sitting there giving me seductive glances, her boobs hanging front and center like the good little prostitute she is.

Then I got home and realized I had dug myself into a hole that would be hard to get out of. I realized I just couldn't pay what I would have to pay. I called Shirley then and tried to cancel. But she put forced logic into me, just telling me to get the damn money and documents into her, then quickly ending the call. At this point I realized that this was a much deeper and wider hole than I had imagined. My defensive guard had let me down, and now it was time to go into the offensive. I went into my playbook and came up with something John Madden wouldn't dream of in his prime. And it is an offense that has worked fairly well for me in the past.

I am talking about the legendary Fake-Out Offensive. This means I was to give the impression that I was totally committed and excited to do what they want, get myself the apartment and get Shirley her nice, handsome commission fee. Then at the last possible second, completely bail on them and not even give a fucking callback. So I immediately called Shirley back and told her I would get all my "stuff" in by tomorrow and was excited, ready to close on this place. Then I just went to sleep that night and forgot i had said anything.

The following morning, I had to go to work for one of a seemingly endless series of dead-end jobs, which I will be writing about soon in my Office Malfunction section. But that, my friends, is also for another story. I got out of work early for some reason, only to look down on my phone, which had to be on complete mute (NO Vibrate, no beep) for the nature of my job, to discover a whopping 30 missed calls. Maybe more, who knows. The missed call directory on my phone looked something like this:

1) Shirley 10:17AM

2) Shirley 10:18AM

3) Shirley's Boss 10:21AM

4) Shirley 10:22AM

5) Boss 10:25 AM

6) Shirley 10:26AM

And so on and so forth. For 5 FUCKING HOURS worth of calls. Whoops. Did I just blow off this bitch, and put the Fake-Out Offense into full effect? I think I did. But when I came back home, I discovered an unexpected hitch in my plan that I had completely forgotten about. I had already PLACED DOWN a refundable charge on my parents' credit card for the first month's rent. And since I had placed down my mom's cell phone as an "emergency contact" on the papers I had signed, Shirley had called my mom, who had no idea I even was looking for apartments, nor knew I had a broker or knew about any of the papers she was expected to sign according to the agreement, nor knew that I had placed down a payment of 3,000 dollars. Whoops. Looks like someone fucked up. And even after Shirley called my mom and explained her the situation, she called back 10 times just to punch it home.

These brokers are sharks, they are nothing more than common city scud. The kind I usually vomit on, spit on, and eat for my breakfast. I really wonder what is included in the training materials for being a broker. Whatever the case, I'm pretty sure "How To Be A Fucking Scumbag 101" is in there somewhere. Essential Reading. Also "Lie, Cheat, & Steal", "Real-Life Applications of Prostitution" (required reading for all female applicants), and "How Douchebaggery Can Pay The Bills". You get the idea.

So at this point, I had only one course of action. To go into the office, demand a refund, and never come back. I stormed into the office and demanded to speak to the boss. He came out with a furious look on his face, and took me into a private conference room. At this point I panicked, because he looked like the kinda guy who would go into his closet, get out the baseball bat and pound my head in like the Home Run Derby. I went in there, and made up some bullshit about how I "evaluated my situation" and realized I couldn't pay for this shit. I demanded a refund. He was very pissed off, but told me it was OK. He thought I was "changing stories" on him. Seems to be a common theme among my stories

He then told me I could do that, but needed to pay cancellation fees. Fine. I was stupid. You can have my money. I can chalk that up to having a really bad date with a gold-digging whore. But a hundred dollars out of my wallet is much better than having to pay 3,000 dollars a month and bullshit broker fees. I at least saved some face. Because if I hadn't gotten out of that, I would have been evicted already.

It turns out that what I did, a cancellation on something I already planned on, is a cardinal sin in the world of real estate. It's pretty much the equivalent of murder. And Shirley was beyond pissed. I did not find out the extent of exactly how bad her feelings were until I sent my friend "Phase" on a mission to do a little undercover reporting.

Through Phase's reporting, I found out that Shirley thinks I am an irresponsible asshole who made her look bad in front of her boss by being confusing and switching stories. Well I have an entire website of stories I can use, so I can switch em' to whatever I want if it'll keep my money away from those scum. Shirley also has had several other of her male friends use their "apartment search" as an excuse to spend a day walking around and talking to her, because apparently she comes across as too flirtatious for her practice. Well my friend, you do need to learn the fine line and limits between solicitation and just plain prostitution. If I hadn't taught her that lesson, I don't know if she ever would learn.

The summer after my graduation from college was a tumultuous one. I had to adjust back to life in my native city after being away for so long, and face the harsh reality of living at home with my parents, particularly my bitchy mom, after living my senior year as a college king. I also had to face the tough truth that I did not have a job, and would not have one for awhile.

The only thing that was ever certain during these months was that there was always an open bar every weekend at The Pork, an NYC bar with the reputation of being a safe haven for people who wished they were still in school and couldn't go two days without a healthy habit of booze. Such as myself. And luckily for me, back then the bar had not yet been discovered by this guy

I would become so ubiquitous with The Pork, that their PR staff would call my cell phone every week and tell me I've won an open bar. They still do today. This one time, I even convinced its promotions department that I was in a hot young rock group, so they gave my "band" a gig, and let me play on my guitar there for almost an hour. But that's for another story.

One night late in the summer, this girl "CrazyBitch", who I had not seen since 9th grade contacted me through The Facebook out of the blue, and invited me to her 21st birthday party, which happened to coincide with my open bar that weekend at The Pork. She was your typical metropolitan party girl, which me and my good buddy "Phase", commonly refer to as a "buttslut".

So I arrive at her 21st celebration, and CrazyBitch immediately runs up to give me a hug. Typical for a girl who has not seen me since the 9th grade, because I was relatively normal way back then. So the night started out rather routinely, just hauling in and chugging as many beers as I could from the hourlong open bar, and chatting with CrazyBitch ackwardly about random high school stuff. Her buttslut entourage was huge, as it is for most girls on their 21st.

So the open bar ends, and immediately the entire entourage begins shuffling towards the VIP area in the back of the bar. I follow them, with the hope that I can use my high school connection to completely steal another two hours or so of free drinks. But instead, CrazyBitch comes up to me to solve a little problem.

"Hey Scotty, I don't have a credit card on me, so could we please, please, use your card to get the VIP. I have it reserved for the night. I promise, promise you I'll pay you right back". Then, she gave me a nice kiss on the cheek.

OK, here is where there should have been a series Screaming Red Flags thrown in my mind:

Flag #1: She is drunk, and drunk people tend to forget about things upon sobering up Flag #2: She just turned 21, and usually according to tradition, girls on their 21st birthday celebration tend to get a LOT, a lot of drinks" Flag #3: She has a huge entourage, which combined, are all gonna take huge advantage of any kind of open tab. Flag #4: She has not seen me in seven years, and if the Law Of NYC Mentality correctly played its part, there is no reason to believe I will be seeing her again for another seven. Yet another excuse for her to take advantage of me. Flag #5: Most importantly, she is a buttslut, and there is nothing that buttsluts enjoy more than sexually teasing guys with the vague promise of action, only to take advantage of their large wallets and access to funds.

But after reading the rest of my site, do you think I ever have the piece of mind to pick up on social cues? Um, that's a rhetorical question. The important thing is that now, I faced the pinnacle of embarrasment and succumbed to it. Through the drunken fog in my brain, I thought that CrazyBitch was trying to tell me that she needs to show one of The Pork's bouncers that someone here has proof of a credit card, not that she and her friends had any plans or intentions of using my card to buy all their drinks.

God, I cannot even tell you how many times I just slapped myself hard in the face in rapid succession just thinking about how idiotic my thought process was on that occasion. I kill myself sometimes.

I handed my card over to The Pork's bouncer, and CrazyBitch came over to give me another big hug and kiss on the cheek. Within 10 minutes, CrazyBitch and all of her friends were dancing on top of the bar in the VIP room to the song "Crazy Bitch", a favorite at The Pork. Hence her nickname. I was throwing back bottle service drinks, and everything was looking good. A little later on, I cornered CrazyBitch and made sure I had her digits, so she could be contacted to pay me back. Of COURSE she said she was gonna remember...

Maybe a half hour after that, CrazyBitch was hooking up in the corner of the VIP room with some random guy. Not with me of course, but with someone more resembling these guys. As a matter of fact, all female members of her entourage were soon hooking up with similar-looking guidos. Of course, being the stank bitches they are, not a single member of her buttslut entourage even bothered to acknowledge my very presence in the VIP section, much less thank me for being the poor shlub they were all drinking off.

At a certain point around 3AM when they were all not looking, I walked over to The Pork's hefty bouncer and demanded my card back, just then remembering it was in his posession. The resulting bill he handed over put me in a state of shock. CrazyBitch and her buttsluts had squeezed the lifeblood out of this tab, which in turn almost literally squeezed the life out of me.

I will not say the amount of the resulting bill, because it still pains me to this day, but let's say that it was in the "high hundreds". It made me want to puke, right then and there. I considered puking directly on the bouncer, but because The Pork did serve its purpose for me with weekly open bars, I wisely decided against. Instead, I ran out onto the street and puked my guts out.

The next day, first thing I called CrazyBitch on the number she had given me. Only to hear "You have reached a non-working number. Please contact your service provider". I was fairly sure I had copied it correctly. In fact, I had her give it to me 3 times to make sure. BITCH!

Then I went onto The Facebook to send her an angry, ANGRY message about how she's a bitch to give me that fake number. But, I got an automated message from a Facebook admin when I clicked on her profile: "(CrazyBitch) does not exist on Facebook. Please try another name" WTF?! At this point I was fuming. "She did NOT just cancel her account. She did not just cancel her fucking facebook account!", I screamed aloud. That was the last (legal) show I had at getting my money back. Looks like someone got PLAYED!

Why, WHYYYY am I always the sucker in these situations? I can never explain it when it happens, I just accept that fact and hope that with this book, it will come back around.

In the off chance that I ever run into CrazyBitch again at The Pork or any other bar, not only is her drink getting spilled but she is going down to the fucking floor, falling down like the drunk buttslut she is. I don't care who she's there with. I don't care if she's there with a fucking WWE superstar to throw down for her. Whatever the circumstances, she's getting what she deserves for that.

And the moral of this story, according to me, is : Never, EVER, trust a buttslut. You could also say that the moral of this story is that I am a retard. You choose.

One Saturday night during early Fall 06’, Casa Nova rounded up the gang me and C-Town, and told us he wanted to go out somewhere a little “different”. We ended up at a place called Luke and Leroy’s in the West Village. Just by the name you can probably tell what kind of place it was. So being in an awkward and uncomfortable social situation, I just did the same thing I always do in situations like that; got fucking wasted at the bar.

I was clearly among the straightest men at this bar, and also one of the drunkest. The highlight of the night for most people was a hot body contest, hosted by a transvestite- which unfortunately for me, was co-ed. So as my mind had to adjust to the sight of seeing live female boobs, I also had the unfortunate necessity of seeing some naked dicks as well. And there was cheering. And clapping. And a lot of it. Which tends, combined with alcohol, and sights that I’m not accustomed to seeing at a bar, to push me over the edge- to bring the Animal out of me.

So for every guy that came up naked, as all the gay guys and smattering of girls (fag hags) cheered, I let out a really loud “Boo” and screams of “You suck, fag”, various taunts and the like. And for every girl that came up, I yelled really loudly and started chants of “Show Your Tits”, which, of course, no one joined in with- just to show that I was the straightest man in the room, and to make fun of the gay guys. Fuck with their heads, which has been elevated to the level of a sport by me.

And the gay guys in the house were not remotely amused. As a matter of fact, after I unleashed one “Show Your Tits” chant, a gay dude standing right behind me, right behind my ear, unleashed a spew of words which have forever been engraved in my brain. Imagine the gayest dude in the world, in the gayest accent in the world, unleashing the following sentence: “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you, you fucking asshole” I could barely restrain from laughing. Then, this gay dude took me by the arm and started leading me somewhere. But some other gay dude told me to come back or something, and the first gay let me go.

Apparently, the story according to Casa Nova, who was standing behind me the whole time and overheard the gays’ conversation, was that the gay that had unleashed the tirade in my ear had serious plans to drag me out into a back alley and beat the bloody hell out of me, but the other gay somehow stopped him from, I swear he was planning on doing this, “beating me to a bloody pulp”. Miraculously at the last minute, Gay #2 had told him to calm down and take it easy on me or else he “wouldn’t give him a back rub” during sex later.

Which, of course, gave me a chance to get to the complete opposite side of the room, to relative safety. Where, of course, I continued my raucous cheering and jeering until the bloody end of the hot body contest. So thanks to a fucking back rub during gay sex in the West Village, I was spared what would have been one of the most embarrasing moments of any man’s life.

Gay #2, whatever West Village nook or sausagefest you’re sitting in as you read this, I owe you one. Because of the horrendously drunken state I was in at the time, it’s unlikely I would have put up a fight with Gay #1. And Casanova would have seen me getting my ass kicked by a gay dude and reported it back to the rest of the group, and then I would forever be the laughingstock of everyone. Not very manly, is that?

I went to get a few more drinks after this event cause there was a 3AM open bar. And CasaNova put his arm in front of me, blocking me as I went up to the bar to get my second rum and coke off, and said “You’re done man. Don’t get any more drinks.” OK, I need a second do explain the magnitude of this situation. When Casa Nova tells you to stop drinking, you are beyond fucked up. This is a man who, for two straight years', turned my New Year's party into “a puke playground”. This is a man who ran away from all his friends in an unknown upstate NY town and screaming into thin air that “no one feels his pain”. Alcohol turns Nova into the devil himself. So if THIS man tells you that you need to stop drinking, then maybe you deserve to get your ass kicked by a non-straight male.

You already know bars in NYC, and clubs in any city, are way too pricey with their drinks. 12 bucks for a fucking G&T? Blow me. You ever feel guilty of spending way too much money at a bar, even though you willfully chose to go there and you willfully chose to take residence in the ridiculously expensive city you live in, or happen to be a native of? Well I do all the time.

You ever feel like just bringing your own shit to bars to rebel against those unfair prices? Well I do, all the time. But let me warn you, if you ever actually do bring your own drinks to a bar, never EVER go to a little joint called Kabin Bar & Lounge on the lower east side of Manhattan. (Note: As a matter of principle, I do not call people or businesses out by name on this site, because i am close to broke and cannot handle any kind of lawsuit. But I am so pissed, so ridiculously livid at this particular bar, that I will make a rare exception for them.)

On a recent Thursday night in February of 08', I went out with my buddies Panic, C-Town, and the infamous Casa Nova to our favorite Thursday hangout joint Lit. But Casa Nova could not get in there because he is a dumbass. Nova is 24 and carries around an ID with a picture from when he was 12. It's absolutely a miracle any bouncer is dumb enough to let him in with that ridiculous middle school ID.

So we walked across the street to Kabin, which was decidedly more lenient to letting overgrown children in. We just walked him in, and the plan was to chill there for only a couple of minutes, to show Nova we actually cared about him, and then the members of our gang who actually have competent IDs were to go back inside Lit. I was ready to get my drink on, and wasn't gonna let a little setback stop me. I wasn't ready to pay for a drink at Kabin either, since the bar was basically a stopover. So, I reached into my jacket and cranked out a can o' Bud.

I had a buttload of leftover beers left over from Super Bowl Sunday, and I wasn't gonna let an opportunity to kill a couple pass me by, so I was rolling that night with cans in the pocket. I thought nothing of it when I first cracked the can open and took my first few sips. This place was a hole in the wall anyway, so I didn't think anyone would really give a shit. That's when I recieved a sharp tap on the back.

I turn around to see a snarling monster of a woman standing ON TOP of the bar. Breathing fire and brimstone and all that other shit, she screamed at me, in a thick Long Island accent: "Gimme ya damn Budweiser! Yeah, you. Ya hear me? GIMME THE FUCKING BUDWEISER RIGHT NOW before I kick your face in!"

Stunned and overwhelmed by this beast disguised as a bartender, I just said, in a truly intimidated tone, "OK, I'm sorry", before handing it over. She grabbed it from me angrily and crushed the can with her bare hands, spilling the remainder of its contents all over the bar, with a force I have never seen in a woman outside of WWE's Chyna. Oh that's fine, bitch. That's OK, I got something for ya later on.

Immediately afterwards I turned around to see Casa Nova and Co. laughing their asses off. Ever ones for sympathy, they were sitting back and enjoying the show as usual. The Scottydukes Drinks and Gets Into Stupid Shit Show has replaced all their favorite movies. Losers.

I grabbed C-Town and Panic right away and gave them a line they have heard literally millions of times in the two years we have all been going out in Manhattan: "Guys listen. We have to leave this place. NOW!" Usually being ones for sympathy, those guys respond with something unanimous like "OK. see ya Scotty" or "Laate", before sticking around as a group to enjoy watching the situation, and my anger, escalate. Such as in "Terror on Ludlow St." But feeling as much disgust with Nova as with me, this time they actually complied, leaving for Lit.

This visit to Lit was uneventful, so I suggested we all stay there. But my buddies somehow missed the presence of Casa Nova. So they decided to go back over to Kabin and rejoin him, before going wherever the hell he wants to go. Obviously being nice guys, my friends have never heard of the term "Demonstrating Higher Value".

OK. Going back to Kabin was fine with me. I had some unfinished business there, if you know what I mean. I had to finish the job I started with big ol' Dragon Bitch. I needed to prove that I was not scared of her. So upon my entry I immediately sauntered up to the bar, yet again. Showing no sign of recognition, or any hint of the vitriol she had blasted at me earlier, she came up and asked me plainly: "How can I help you?"

Of course I ordered a PBR, the cheapest and most disgusting drink known to man. And then... get ready. if you read about my adventures of Cockblasting throughout the East Village, you know damn well what's coming next. C'mon, you can even say it with me: "Her tip was nowhere to be found". Then, in typical asshole fashion, I turned around and ran off to another corner of the bar, not even acknowledging the fact I just shortchanged her tip. But once again, I underestimated what magical powers this evil sorceress possessed.

I was barely able to take 2 steps after completely shortchanging this bitch, before all of the music at the bar abruptly stopped. It was almost something out of a Hollywood movie, when all music or side chatter in a scene abruptly stops, and all eyes in the room are automatically directed at the two main characters as a confrontation erupts. Except this was real fucking life.

"EXCUSE ME" Dragon Bitch bellowed, as all eyes turned to the monstrous figure standing on top of the bar. "HOW DARE YOU not leave me a fucking tip. First you sneak a fucking Budweiser in here, then you fucking play me like that. You, out of this bar! NOW! ENOUGH OF THIS! she screamed, as the room shook. All I could do in response was whimper in fear. "I, um, I... OK I'm leaving right now. Sorry for any trouble". I ran for the exit. Victory in her hands, Dragon Bitch jumped back down to from her perch and magically resumed the music.

The three members of my crew were standing near the exit. They knew the speech that was coming. But this time they were not so lenient. "Um, we're drinking here" C-Town replied to my desperate plea for us all to vacate. "We'll meet you outside dude". Fine. But I sure as hell wasn't wasting another second in this dragon's lair. Upon leaving, I told the bar's bouncer to "have a shitty night". He told me to never come back again.

And how long did these assholes make me wait outside, in the freezing cold? 15 minutes. Upon his exit, Casa Nova started cracking up. It took him a good minute of laughter before he finally got a word out: "You... why.... why do you do this?" Being in my pissed off, "you wanna start shit with me, motherfucker?" drunk form, I got right in his face and challenged him to give me one good reason to disagree that she was an absolute bitch for even caring that I brought beer into her bar, and turning off the fucking music with psychic powers to call me out in front of everyone. Then I called him out for having a middle school ID. I expected Panic and C-town to side with me at this point and bust out laughing. But their lines were drawn, and in this case they were clearly in Nova's corner.

Being a veteran bartender himself, Casa Nova had some choice words in response: "I have been to more bars with you than anyone, and I can conclude that you are every bartender's worst nightmare. Next time you come in my bar, I won't give you two seconds of my time. She was absolutely right to do what she did, because you are rude to us, disrespectful to us, you are basically scum. To a bartender, you are essentially all the evil forces in this planet combined into one man. You, Scotty Dukes, are the Antichrist of Bars!"

My response to him was "So, you are the Antichrist of Higher Education". Weak and uncalled for. At that point, C-Town just signed off: "Well, I guess I'll see you, dude" before the three of them unanimously walked away, hopped into a cab, and continued on to another bar, without having to worry about the Antichrist.

But seriously, how the hell did Nova come up with that statement? He knows his shit eh? With a literary reference like that, he must be like the Jack White of bartenders. So you know what, you might as well get behind me, satan!

I hereby accept my appointment as the Antichrist of Bars! I needed a new personality for the year 2008 anyway, so this might as well be it. And as for Kabin, they got their wish- I am never coming back. They don't need my business anyway. But if there are any brave warriors out there who think they can take on the Dragon Bitch and live to tell about it, then hey, you know where to go. Just whatever you do, don't tell them I sent ya.

Women have not been too kind to me lately, let's just say that. As I've grown older and more bitter, I've been less and less of the kind, caring gentleman that bitches want me to be. Instead, I've been an outright asshole through and through, saying anything mean or offensive I feel to a girl to get a laugh. I mean, New York City is so big that you could straight out offend someone to their face and most likely never see them again, right? So I thought. This story is just a little episode, a little example, to show you what most girls' treatment of me has been like in recent months.

A few days after I got back from Israel (a trip I will describe on here, somehow), me and my crew of flunkies were at The Beauty Bar, just drinking, doing what we do, when I decided to test the waters. While on that trip, I had recieved a pocket glow-light with the trip company's logo on it. So I walk up to this one girl who seems like the type that might be amused by my shenanigans. Tattoos all over the body, thin and manly, the hipster type. I go up to her nonchalantly, reach into my pocket and turn on the glow light, around the area of my crotch, and just say "Hey what's up?"

Her response: "Are you fucking kidding me? You can't be for real. Get the fuck outta my sight right now before I kick your ass."

OK fine. Whatever. I just walk to the back of the bar, chill out and pretend it never happened, and everything's all good from there. She's just one bitchy girl out of everyone here. Her daddy beat her a few times too many when she was a kid, and waitressing and stripping won't pay the bills, so she's taking it all out on me. Right? Wrong.

Because it turns out this girl in particular has power to do something about it. Little did I know, not only is this woman the DJ at this particular bar, but she is also the owner or manager or something, who has veto power over who stays and who goes. Just my luck, right?

So I'm at back of the bar, and she sics the dogs on me. Literally, she sends this large pitbull of a man to run to the back and chase me out of there, threatening violence. I don't think I have ever screamed louder, even when I got arrested (See "The Worst Nigh Ever"). "WHYYYY! I didn't do anything. I'M SORRRYYYYY!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, running out of the bar as fast as I could. And I did not stop running for about 5 blocks, worried this 6 ft 5, 300 pound defensive lineman was running after me. Luckily, he stopped after my "punk ass" left the bar.

My buddy "Panic", who was in the bathroom and heard my screams of agony as I was chased, talked to the woman afterwards and calmly interrogated why I was kicked out for such a silly gesture. She explained to Panic that I had been "cock-blasting" her, and she did not appreciate it, so she was merely doing everyone else in the bar, who God forbid had any sense of humor, a favor.

What the fuck is Cockblasting? Making up new terminology to describe my brand of harassment. Eh bitch? You got another thing coming for ya.

A few months after this incident, me and my crew were out drinking at a completely different bar, in a completely different area of the city, when my buddy C-town comes up to me, and he's like "Yo dude, the girl who kicked you out of Beauty Bar is here". Whatever, I thought he was lying. But when I go up to the bar to order my third or fourth drink, lo and behold, who comes up to serve it to me but Little Miss Cockblast.

OK, first of all, I thought she was the manager or owner of that bar, so WHY would she be working in a completely different area of the city, nevertheless BEHIND the bar? That's what I didn't understand.So I go up to the bar, she immediately recognizes me, and greets me warmly. "Are you fucking kidding me? Fuck you, what do you want?"

"I'll have a beer, woman, and be quick about it"

So a minute later, she comes back with my beer, along with something not included in the price. A large middle finger. I wonder, should I even bother to pay, or completely Reservoir this bitch (Watch the movie, get the reference). Unluckily, I put down the money for the beer, 6 dollars I very desperately want back. A beer is a beer anyway, I could go to any college or keg party anywhere in the country and get one for free.

But her tip was nowhere to be found. Before she could even get a sentence out ("WHA? FUCK? MOTHERFU..."). I quickly turned away and began to shove by way through the crowded bar, to get the hell away from that evil bitch. Only to feel something cold and hard slam into the back of my head.

This bitch just fucking beaned me with her 95 MPH fastball. Luckily though, the projectile was not an actual baseball (now THAT would be a story), but a large industrial-size ice cube. And it hurt like hell. Oh it's ON now. Thanks to you, bitch, I will now turn Cockblasting into a nationally recognized sport. Fuck that, I'll make it the new national pasttime.

Just goes to show, you never know when a bitch will come back around. And also goes to further show that for me, nothing ever goes fucking right.

Edit: The last time I came into the Beauty Bar, she was back there, and refused to serve me. I am currently banned from getting drinks at their establishment. And you know what, I Do Not Fucking Care