The time has come to take a stance against cutesy pillow-

talk. Because cuddling has an ugly sister.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

 Elina Does Miami! Again?! Yes, Again.

 The expectations for this trip are much like Clay Aiken's love of punani, nonexistent. This time around I'm kicking off the trip with 3 girlfriends. Lana, Jane, and RIta. Although I have no idea what these three crazy bitches will end up doing exactly after the first bottle of Patron, I can only hope that a few things reign true.

My hope for Jane is that she keeps her alcohol induced Lindsay Lohan/Samatha Ronsen love for me publically discrete. I already had one Dike Night in Miami and seeing as my adoration for anything resembling pussy is STILL at an all time low, I am certainly not looking for a part 2. Altough, if she manages to pump me full of enough Sangria, I probaly won't resist/remember some above the waist action.

Lana's an interesting drunk to say the least. See the thing is that she does not seem to transtition smoothly from being slightly buzzed to COMPLETELY anhilitated. There is absolutely no warning signs of this swtich-over. What happens during a night of marathon drinking is that at some point, seemingly out of the blue, a deep, deamonic sounding laugh will come out of this sweet girl's mouth. In fact it is so scary that at time's I'm not sure whether or not she's aware of the fact that she's waiting around at the bar rather than stannding in line for an audition to star in the remake of The Exorcist. Either way, although the girl is a ton of fun to drink with, I prefer this satanic sound does not grace the streets of Miami. Quite frankly it scares the shit out of me and will have me hiding under the covers, sucking my thumb while trying to fall asleep. And to be perfectly honest I can think of at least a hald dozen other other things I'd rather be sucking on in bed.

And that of course leaves us with Rita. A brave soul for not only surviving March's Miami trip with me, but more than willingly agreeing for a second go. She's a trooper so I can't say that i have too many hopes for her. Although, I do have one. I only pray that within these last couple of months she mastered the art of properly latching bathroom doors. Afterall, half of Miami's population is already well aquanted with the sight of her love dumpling due to her lack of skill in the door-locking department. And if the other half will be given this opportinituy as well, I'd like to know ahead of time so that I can start charging cover.

As for me, well,  my retardation can only be properly predicted by few. And although I'd like to think that I have a nice and relaxing vacation ahead of me, I know that my tendancy to start drinking at noon will most likely prevent that from happening. I will say that the point of this site is not so that I could have a personal, prepubecent-like diary to document every single drink/person I put in my mouth. If I come back with a somewhat clear memory of the trip and something interesting and new to write about, then I will gladly pop an Adderall and proceed to do so. If by the time I sit my ass on the plane back to Philly, I still have nothing out of the ordinary to write about, I'll just have to take matters in to my own hands. I promise that at this point in time, upon my arrival in the Philadelphia area, I will proceed to limp to the first cop I see and cover my eye with one hand while holding my shin with the other. I then will continue to calmly explain to him that the men in Miami appear to have an incredible affinity for the 'Angry Pirate' and I'll need medical attention ASAP. I predict that the blog will pretty much write itself after this point.

So farewell all. I'm off to DO Miami once again, one thing's for sure I will definitly not be cuddling it afterward. The rest (much like my future) is pretty much a crap shoot. I'll check back within a week if my plans of becoming a permanent member of Pit Bull's crew fall through. However, if by chance this dream in fact comes to fruition, you can be sure to catch me in his next video. I'll be the half retarded looking one with the smallest ass.

Sunday, May 2, 2009 

Elina Does Miami...Again. Part I

For the second time in my life, I took on the rather exciting and incredibly honorable task of doing Miami. My last trip left me quite sore in more ways than one and I couldn’t fathom what could possibly go down this time around to top it.  However, much like the Psychic Hotline, I was terribly wrong. In fact, it’s rather safe to say that this trip to the city of palm trees, booze, and banana hammocks kicked last trip’s ass and then proceeded to teabag it, and finally stuff it into a locker.

As usual, my tendency to dabble in the wonderful world of alcoholism prevents me from delivering a long description of the week. Also I feel like that would be highly unnecessary seeing as much time was spent  contemplating exactly how sand made it’s way into certain crevices of mine. An issue my trip buddy Rita and I made sure to discuss at great lengths. Never the less a few stories stuck out as my personal favorites from this go around, and I would like to share them with you like the Rock of Love ladies like to share their chlamydia 



The Shit You Find In Bed

Although Rita and I devoted a whole week to this trip, our friends Lana and Jane were only able to join us for the first two days. Naturally, these two days were filled with just about as much shit as we could pack in while still attempting to consume as much alcohol as humanly possible.  

In the very beginning of this adventure I suggested toting a portable margarita IV drip with us. Apparently that ‘implied’ I have a drinking problem. I’d respectfully disagree, and rebut that in reality the people with the true drinking problems wil be the ones that dare stand between me and the constant buzz I insist on maintaining during all my vacations, and most week nights.  

But enough about the airport. Moving on to Miami. Upon our arrival all four of us settled in the hotel. This is about that time that the 3 out of 4 jackasses realized that a beach towel didn’t make the top of our packing priority list back in Philadelphia. In my defense after I remember to pack my duffel bag of condoms, everything else seems quite secondary. But, realistically, one fact remains. Clearly, even with the added protection of a towel, we all have enough issues with digging sand out of our coochies at the end of a long day at the beach. And quite frankly we weren’t about to see what kinds of treasures we would have to be digging out if we were to decide against the use of beach towels.  

As we spotted the first beach store, the four of us shuffled in and made a b- line toward the wall that had all the towels displayed. Each one was more decorative than the next and after vetoing a few that resembled floats at the gay pride parade, Lana and Rita settled on two similar looking towels with “South Beach” plastered all over them. 

“Tourists,” I mumbled as my eyes scanned the vast selection. However within seconds I spotted the towel I knew I could be sprawled all over for the rest of the trip. 

“I’ll take the SCARFACE ONE!” I announced as the three girls looked over at me then up at a towel which boldly displayed a 6 foot tall picture of Al Paccino’s face cigar and all. Although they then collectively let out a chuckle after I grabbed it and headed for the cash register; I know they were all secretly deliberating on how they can get away with settling as far as possible away from me on the beach without me noticing. Seeing as embarrassing them is just one of my beloved hobbies, they were shit out of luck. 

Scarface towel in hand, the south beach day was filled with a lot of tanning, and even more club promoters harassing us every 10 to 20 minutes. I only allowed this to continue because of my unfaltering belief that perhaps one of these lovely gentlemen would like to sell me some weed as well. No such luck. However, within 30 minutes I was equipped with 5 party fliers, 2 open bar invitations, and a possible threesome proposition. Seeing as getting Eiffel- towered by these two douche bags was about as high on my priority list as taking it the ass from Ron Jeremy, I quickly made the executive decision to decide where we were heading to that night. While listing through the dozens of clubs, one in particular caught my eye. Naturally it was called ‘Bed.’ Yes, I only picked it so I can tell everyone I was heading to bed that night, incredibly intoxicated and with a whole bunch of strangers. 

Fortunately after a few liters of alcohol, Bed is exactly where we headed. Upon entering it was no surprise to see the whole place was filled with beds surrounding a dance floor. I quietly applauded the owners of this wonderful establishment for cutting out the middle man in the one night stand situation. This way if I decide I would like to leave with someone trustworthy, there’s no awkward cab foreplay. Just settle down and get right down to business. (By trustworthy I of course mean well endowed,) 

Not ready to jump into bed with any one yet, I looked around to see the typical club/lounge scene unfold. A bunch of girls dancing around in the middle while the men are lined up holding the walls up, sipping their beer, nodding to the music…waiting to approach their victim for the night with that ‘awesome’ line they caught from “The Pick- Up Artist.” Quite frankly the predictability of the scene is about as amusing as watching a couple of retards play catch at the park. Try as they may, neither one of them actually get anything accomplished.  

But I was tipsy and decided to be on my absolute best behavior while grinding up on Jane’s leg. All of the sudden mid hump, some assbag pushes his way by me, grabs Jane and begins dancing with her. A bit offended at first, I took a few steps back to show my disgust. However, upon further inspections of his face, particularly his eyes (which were half way to rolling to the back of his head) I cracked a smile and watched him dance with Jane in sheer anticipation.  

It was clear that at this point of his high on whatever his drug of choice was for the night, he could only focus on executing one dance move. Unfortunately for Jane, it simply consisted of spinning her around in circles. Over, and over AND over again. Somewhere between the 67 and 68th spin in the span of no more that two minutes; Rita, Lana, and I stopped dancing completely and stared at the scene unfolding in front of us. “Is he serious?”

Apparently, soon after Sir Spins Alot grabbed Jane, it even became clear to him that we were but a short 2 minutes away from Jane blowing her dinner all over him and the rest of the place, and he abruptly let her go. The next several seconds were particularly entertaining to me because I kept a safe distance watching Jane catch her footing resembling a newborn calf.  

“Haha are you ok?” Lana asked, all the while making the huge mistake of coming a little bit too close to Sir Spins A Lot. She must have been pale enough to resemble a nice, long line of coke, because before we knew it, she was gone. 

Yes the group lost another one to the human merry- go- round on crack. There she went…suddenly gaining a newly found appreciation for dreidels all around the world. 

“Hahahahaha, ‘you spin my head right round right round when you go down when you go down down’ hahahahahah!” I exclaimed at the top of my lungs…cuz I’m an asshole.

Sometimes, even I get fucked by the huge black dildo I call ‘karma,’ and before I knew it Sir Spins A Lot came rushing at me. Lana, assists my kidnapping, and there I went spinning. 

“What the fuck?!” I screamed out. Shit, I thought as I wracked my brain for which STD I can tell him that I have for him to leave me alone. But from the looks of it, he possessed quite the collection himself. Shit, I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy in Miami.  

However, as I felt dinner creeping up, I loudly tried to scream over the music, “One more spin and I’m going to take your ball sack for a twirl asshole!” That must have triggered something because Sir Spins A Lot abruptly stopped as if the ride ran out of quarters. Thank you Jesus, it was over. 

Wrong! Just when I thought we were in the clear, and could order a round of shots to celebrate out victory over the torture he affectionately referred to as ‘dancing,’ Sir Spins A Lot’s even more handicapped friend approached the group. Ironically enough, I’m fairly certain his name was Ed. As in Special Ed.  Due to his blatant disregard for the movements of his own limbs, I came to the logical conclusion that he must’ve have outran his aid, while she took him for his daily walk earlier that night. 

Special Ed, unlike Sir Spins A Lot, had no interest in dancing up on any one of us. He was apparently there to school us on the art of dance. For the next half hour Special Edward proceeded to instruct us on his moves that looked like a mix between an epileptic seizure, the pee pee dance, and a disco fever throw back.  

“C’mon Step it UP Ladies!!!” he would yell every time one of us decided to take a breather.  

However, no matter how much we tried to imitate him, we simply could not master the grace and innovation he put into each move. I, of course, had to blame it on the fact that neither one of the four of us ate paint chips as children. Special Ed had apparently sprinkled them on top of his Frosted Flakes every morning growing up.  

In all honesty, it was quite amusing to watch this jackass going ape shit all over the dance floor, up until his last dance move. If someone were to ask me at the time, I’d expect his grand finale to consist of throwing around his own fasces, but unfortunately for Rita it was not. 

I say unfortunately for Rita, because Special Edward’s last maneuver consisted of some sort of distorted two step which with out a doubt ALWAYS ended with elbowing Rita directly in the eye. She would have found it about as funny as the rest of us, had she not had to dodge him every ten seconds. She knew very well, that if it hit hard enough, she might have to wear an eye patch for the rest of our stay. And there was no way I was going to walk around with her without insisting on telling everyone who approaches us that her eye injury was a result of an unfortunately aimed cum shot.  

After 4 times of blocking his elbow, with the grace and swift footing of Muhammad Ali, the 5^th time was apparently a charm for Special Ed because he hit her square in the eye! 

“Owwww Asshole, that hurt!!!!” she berated him as she held onto her right eye. 

After the realization hit Special Ed, that his interpretive dance somehow turned into some sort of retarded version of Dance Fever Tai Kwan Doha; he gazed deep into her good eye sympathetically. We all waited in anticipation for a deep and heart felt apology. Maybe even the offer of a drink. However, the event to follow could not have been predicted by anyone. 

Although he managed to blurt out an “I’m sorry” It was quickly followed by his right hand headed straight for Rita’s vagina with a wiggle of his fingers, for what seemed like the FULL intention of a good old fashioned fingering! I say intention because upon Special Ed’s hand traveling south of the border, Rita jumped back faster than a prisoner who made the fatal mistake of not investing in soap on a rope, and therefore suffering the consequences. 

“Holly Shit! I’m going to kill him!” she yells, all the while still holding on to that eye. 

Even I, who strongly believes that there’s nothing that says “I’m sorry” better than a few fingers to the ‘Georgia peach,’ could sympathize with Rita’s less than enthusiastic reaction. 

It was then that I decided it was time for Special Edward to return back to the home and the very much needed medication he escaped from earlier in the day. With a couple of shoves and flicks to the shoulder he got the hint and stumbled away to teach his next dance class to a group of girls bunched to the left of us. Judging by the uniform of ass cheeks hanging out of their dresses, I was comforted by the thought that they would be better equipped at dealing with Special Ed. It was rather obvious that an elbow wasn’t the only thing they would be taking to the eye on this lovely evening. 

Just as Rita groaned in excruciating pain, a guy shows up out of no where and says to Rita, “Hey you and your girls want a free drink?”  

At this point in my life, I know that there is no such thing as a ‘free’ drink, and there was something shady about the guy I couldn’t quite make out between the strobe lights. Rita, however, saw this as a perfect opportunity to self medicate and exclaims “YES!” before I could voice my concerns. 

The four of us were led to a bed at the back of the club which was filled with a group of guys who had VIP bottle service. And suddenly as my eyes focused I quickly realized what it was that I found so incredibly unsettling about the guy that dragged us…. 

All five of them looked to be about 16 years old! Oh shit, I thought to myself as I nudged Jane. 

“Hey what the fuck is this?!! The one on the left looks like he just got off his mom’s tit about a week ago.” 

“Haha” she responds, “whatever, free drinks!”…lost cause 

Of all the things I’m willing to be arrested for, corruption of a minor is not one of them. 

“Guys I don’t want to be on To Catch A Predator!!!!” I sternly stated as the three bitches devoured the alcohol faster than a two dollar whore consumes jizz.  

About ten minutes later, I was still not happy about my sudden and premature turn into a ‘cougar’ at my 21 years of age. I sat there quite disappointed in the whole scene as one of the guys decided to commit one of life’s greatest faux pas, he proceeded to strike up a conversation with me. Doogie Houser plopped his pimply ass in the seat next to mine, and continued to throw out a few of his best lines. To be completely honest I wasn’t even quite sure what they were, as I was far too distracted by his voice cracking every ten seconds.  

On his third attempt to get my phone number I finally threw in the towel… and gave him Lana’s.  

Soon after I wrangled the drunk asses off the beds, and (much like I like to do after a night of porking) made a swift and speedy exit out of Bed, and what I feared would be the scene of my Dateline debut.