There are different kinds of hungry. There’s “I can get by on these eggroll appetizers” hungry. There’s hungry for sushi. There’s KFC hungry (which I’m experiencing at this very moment). There’s Hungry Like The Wolf. Then there’s So-Fucking-Hungry-I-Can-Eat-A-Volvo-If-I
Friday night I was hungry for ribs. So we headed to Mr. Cecil’s California Ribs. There are basically only three things on the menu: St. Louis pork ribs, baby back ribs, and beef ribs. They're marinated for 24 hours and cooked without sauce. You pour on the sauce yourself, choosing between either a sweet barbeque sauce or, my favorite, a spicy sauce. They even offer hush puppies as a side dish. In one sitting I believe I personally ate about half a cow.
Then the owner came out. I was expecting Mr. Cecil to be a big jolly black dude in a sauce-spattered apron with a salt-and-pepper beard and thick arms. But Mr. Cecil looks like the Anglo-Saxon CEO of an investment bank. Then I remembered the $625 Château Lafite Rothschild in the wine menu. Crap, what kind of rib joint even has a wine menu!?! This whole thing was a sham! But the ribs … so damn good … must go back.
I was bloated after dinner – to the point where I was secretly hoping some Oompa-Loompas would come out and roll my inflated ass outta there, just so I wouldn’t have to walk back to my car. On account of my fat and lazy state, we decided it would just be a Blockbuster night. But no ordinary Blockbuster night, mon ami. We rented “Monster’s Ball.”
For $3.99, not only do you get to see P. Diddy fried on an electric chair like the overrated slice of Spam he is; but the film’s about as close as Halle Berry will ever get to doing porn. Watching the wonderfully graphic sex, I wondered why everybody made such a big deal out of her boob scene in “Swordfish.” There’s a catch, however. In order to see Halle get her groove on, you must also see Billy Bob Thornton naked. I tried to narrow my eyes and angle my head in such a way, so that I could possibly block out Billy Bob Buttocks. But no such luck.
I think there was a plot too. Something about lost souls seeking redemption. Or something like that.
This guy Larry threw a birthday party and rented out Oiwake over in Little Tokyo. I didn’t really know the guy other than he’d always show up at parties bald and wearing a vest. But I was told he was a model/actor.
In a cheap ploy to get us to come, he kept complaining about how he’d over-invited women; and now he needed more guy friends to show up to help even the ratio. The cheap ploy worked, especially since the guys assumed that a model/actor like Larry would have lots of hot model/actress friends. Unfortunately, it was just actresses who showed up. And we knew them already.
Below are three party pics, with short descriptions:
That’s me in the middle with the blue shirt. It appears that I’m attempting to clean my friend’s ear with my tongue. But you’d be wrong.
A buddy successfully snorts green Jello up his right nostril. Why? Because the drinks were cheap that night. Any more dumb questions?
Afterparty at Brie’s pad. Sort of. If you’ve forgotten already, that’s me in the blue shirt. This is a group photo of those who managed to remain conscious up to this point. After this round of shots, there were two less people in the next group photo.
T and Geney Boy stopped by. They were in the area and needed a place to urinate.
I think all this stress about moving to Hong Kong, the contract dispute, the thought of all these beautiful women all over the world not having sex with him … it’s fucking with T’s mind to point where he’s only capable of annoying thoughts. The boy’s turned into a Chinese George Costanza.
T obviously had an incident that caused me to come to this conclusion, but it’s not as interesting describing it to you on paper as it is having T tell it to you in person. And it’s not actually interesting at all. It merely makes you want to smack T upside the head and say “What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” Which is why you need to have him tell you the story in person. And therein lies the Internet’s biggest flaw: The inability to allow you to smack another person upside the head in real time.
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