E R N I E ' S H O U S E O F W H O O P A S S
Nuts Across Canada
For some reason, when I go out and do something -- something really big and worthy of writing about -- I like the events to have a theme. not like we all wear sailor suits and sing "Tomorrow" kind of theme, I mean a common thread to tie the events together. I remember when I was growing up, there was some kind of a national charity/fundraiser/drive called "Hands Across America." The theme would be people from different communities would all gather up and hold hands in one big human chain, with the ultimate goal of one continuous human connection reaching from coast to coast.
I adopted that theme to Canadian Jay's bachelor party this past weekend in Ottawa, and thus "Nuts Across Canada" was born. But before we get into who's nutsack went where and with whom, let us begin the story from the beginning.
The foundation of this bachelor party lay in an airshow. An airshow that the best man would be performing with, he being a member of the USAF's A-10 demonstration team. The weekend was obviously declared "All Cocks, No Box" and the goal was all said Hunter Gathers (HG's) attending the bachelor party would meet up in Ottawa on or before Saturday afternoon, to be VIP guests of the Carp Airport airshow. Everyone except myself and my road buddy Jeff made it up in time for the airshow, as we left Boston at 7:30am on Saturday morning, not destined to arrive in Ottawa until 2:30 later that day.
In the meantime, the current HG's of the party sought libations and found it in a stores called, well, The Beer Store. I truely regret not being there for this part of the trip, as I can assure you I would have stipped naked and run cock bouncing between the colossal pallets of beer. But alas, that damned oncall pager has foiled me once again.
But alas, Jeff and my's travels were carring us northward, through New Hampshire, Vermont, across the Canadian border into Quebec, Canada, and finally into Ontario. I will take a moment to point out that we had the hottest little border crossing girl checking us through. Yes indeed a naughty, bad, dirty, little blue eyed brunette border crossing girl. At least I'll alwayys remember her that way. You will have to forgive me for not getting her picture so you too could drool at her Canadian hotness, but all we had for identification was our drivers licenses and didn't want to risk body cavity searches.
Up through Montreal the winds carried us, where I came across a startling fact. The graffiti there was written in French. I was dumbfounded. It never occured to me that someone might actually vandalize an overpass in a language other than English. I was pleasantly amused.
Quebec has many stupid road signs, and someone there obviously feels the need to punctuate their meaning with pictures. Look at this. What the fuck does this mean? Your truck is going to be picked up? Who the fuck is coming, Godzilla? This signs translates to English as, "Park Here to Wait For Godzilla to Throw You." Or how about, "Hey American if we catch you speeding you will have to pay a us a fine of $4 US dollars.
After many miles of fucking nothing but corn between Montreal and Ottawa, we finally arrived at the airport and met up with our fellow Hunter Gatherers. Arriving too late to actually catch any of the flying demonstrations, we took a few ceremonial pictures and then set out for more important things: booze.
Back to the hotel we go, stopping off to pick up a few quarts of Gatorade as hangover preventative maintenance. The hotel -- the Brook Street Hotel in Ottawa -- as fucking spectacular. Our room had an birds eye view of the hotel's pools and golf course. And no, I didn't bring my clubs, fuck all.
But freshly groomed golf courses and brown bottles of beer could not hold this crowd of HG's for long, as it was time for us to go out and seek the three B's -- burgers, beer, and boobs. The best man, Puddy, being the forethinker that he is, arranged for a bus to transport us all around in. Yes it was a short bus, much like you see the Window Lickers taking to school in the morning, but that was no matter. We and our Holy Arc of Beer piled on the bus and sped off for the ballpark. That's right, the local Ottawa AAA club was playing the Pawtucket Red Sox (local to me), and one of the A-10 pilots was tossing out the first pitch.
I'd like to take this time to state that we had seats right on the third base line where the Paw Sox dugout was, and we asked one of their coaches if we could borrow a bat for a photo opportunity. He didn't even reply, just stared at us like I had just finger fucked his eight year old sister with a miniature poodle. We asked again, clearer now, so that he could certainly hear us. Again we were ignored. So fuck you, big fat loser fat man who will never be any more than a coach wannabe. That's right, reach up your ass and see if you can't find a clue. I will surely write your jersey number on my balls, scan, and send to you.
Okay, after sticking around the ball park for enough time to see the first pitch, we set out in search of food. Dave our bus driver brought us to a restaurant which I don't remember the name of because I was becoming rather drunk at this point. We completely took over their outside seating area, and enjoyed many a tasty dish and even more tasty glasses of Molson XXX served to us by a very friendly wait staff. We toasted the groom to be, and wished he and his fiance the best of luck as they embark on their lives together. Yours truely was even given the opportunity to stagger behing the bar for a photo opportunity. And yes, I kept and drank the beer.
Our bellies full of food and beer, we then set off for a bar to drink more beer and make larger asses of ourselves. Or, sorry, that last part was just for me. To a new bar we reached and again, the name escapes me as I was quite intoxicated from our dinner beverages. I think it began with an M though.
It is here at this new place where I broke out with a new fever -- nutsacking. I can not explain what brough ton this great wonderment, I can only tell you that I found it extremely amusing to get photographed nutsack exposed with several unsuspecting people. Extremely amusing indeed. Behold...
It's here that I'd like to formally lodge a complaint with all strip club owners. Why can't we take cameras into your establishments? The chicks already agreed to gear down? Why can't we have a few pictures for keepsake?
But alas, as the rules would have it, Puddy had to surrender his camera at the door. Right next to the ATM machine. Where I took out $500 Canadian dollars. Which is what, like $37 American?
Now before I go into this, let me first cut all of you Montreal assholess off at the pass. Yes I have heard about your strip clubs. No I have not been there yet. Hell yes, I plan on making a trip to do so. But I have experienced Ottawa strippers, and so I will comment on them now.
Let me begin by saying that -- at first -- I was not impressed with this strip club. A third place that shall remain nameless, not because I feel any obligation to protect their good name, but because I was too pie eyed to read. There was only one stripper. On one stage. And she was surrounded by no less than ten feet of coin waving Canadian hockey fans. (Yes I know now, Canada doesn't have a $1 bill, but a $1 coin. Even a $2 coin. So most cheap bastards give strippers coins for shaking their cootchie cootchie.)
But as the night wore on -- more strippers came out and I drank more beer -- things began to look up. I think it would be fair to say things peaked when I discovered I could put a $5 bill between my teeth and lay backwards onto the stage. Whatever stripper up there would then get down on her hands and knees, crawl on top me in a 69 position and wriggle aroud for a few minutes before slowly withdrawing and taking the $5 bill between her breasts. Did I mention that I took out $500 Canadian bucks earlier?
I hereby decree that Ottawa strippers earn the same Cool Points Standing as Philadelphia strippers do with me. And I'll even say to the poor girl who's shaved box I accidentally licked while she had it a mere 1" from my face was perhaps worthy of a few cool points more. I also can assure her the second time I licked it (tastes like chicken!) was an accident too.
The night gets fuzzy from here. I do remember giggling and handing $5 bills to all my fellow HG's to get the 69 treatment. I do remember having my dick playfully bitten by one of the dancers. I do remember closing the place.
Outside and back on the bus, the nutsacking quest continued.
From there the evening drew to a close. Dave the bus driver brought us all back to our hotel, safe and sound and not a man lost. Thanks Dave!
We all sat up for quite awhile talking and polishing off the beer. And when it was time we headed for bed. Hey, even Superman needs his rest.
I'm Nuts About You
Me, and my nutsack, are back from Ottawa. I have many pictures of the festivities and Best Tits entries to post. Stay tuned.
What's In Your Wallet
Rest easy, for I shall have my digital camera. Hopefully I'll be able to get at least one Canuck to bitch me out in French so I can vomit on his shoes. Hey, a guy's got to have goals.
In the meantime, I guess you'll just have to keep yourself occupied using other means. In fact do what I do on slow weekends... watch some Family Guy. Stewie fucking kills me.
Ladies, keep those Best Tits entries rolling in. I've got 2-3 more to post right now but I'm headed out the door.
So don't worry about me, there aren't any crocodiles in Canad-eh because this crocodile was on the beach in front the Petrolum club, Plage Sportive in Pointe Noire. 21 FT long, 4,500 lbs, around 80 years old minimum. Specialists said that he was looking to eat humans because he is too old to catch animals. For the past few months in some villages close to Pointe Noire people were complaining that some people in their villages have been disappearing, could be this crocodile. This crocodile was killed by the army last Sunday at 3:00 pm, currently he is in the freezer at the Azur hotel.
Good news. I've got the video of the SFC Paul Smith raffle cut to a .mpg file to post (135Mb .mpg file and 43Mb .wmv file). The video shows the family thanking everyone who helped in organizing the raffle, Paul's daughter drawing the ticket, and Brad calling my dumbfounded brother.
Bad news. It's also got a nice clear close up of the winning ticket which has my bro's address & telephone number on it. My brother would stab me in the face with a bazooka if I posted that.
I need someone with the ability to blur out portions of the video -- like I did to this screen capture -- to contact me, so I can safely post it without worrying about someone molesting my relatives in their sleep.
Oh and we're already up to six entries in the Best Tits contest...
May The Best Boobies Win
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please.
I would like to formally announce the start of the long awaited, ever anticipated, definitely mandated, Best Tits on the List 2003 Contest!
Yes, we're starting a little late this year, but the call to the liadies is still the same -- strip off those tops, grab a camera, and strike a pose!
As always, we'll have cool prizes including gift certificates to Victorias Secret, battery operated toys to keep you company, porn to watch with your significant other, and whatever else we can get our hot little hands.
As is our traditionm, I'll also be donating $5 to breast cancer research for every pair of boobs that enters the contest, and will gladly post a list of other sites that are willing to do the same. So this one it on me folks, all you have to do is sit back and enjoy the boobies!
We're officially accepting entries starting today, and will continue to do so for about three weeks or so. Once entries slow down, we'll open the polls to you fair reader to cast your votes and determine whoch gal will wear the crown of, Best Tits on the List!
And In This Corner
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the fight of the century! In this corner to my left, the challenger, hailing from the Alaskan tundra and wearing in at 212 pounds, a ten point buck!
And in the corner to my right, coming all the way from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, weighing in at 247,000 pounds, A USAir Boeing 737!
This evening's main bout is scheduled for 12 rounds.
And the winner, with a KO in the 9th round.... The Boeing!
What Comes Around Goes Around
So you turn the heat up and the pussy French start dropping like fragile little butterflies. Hmmm, let me think for a minute and decide how I feel about this. These are the same people who claim the Sept 11th attacks were a conspiracy. These are the same people who risked the lives of American, British, and Australian soldiers when they blocked any NATO action on Iraq. These are the same people who continue to desecrate the memories and burial grounds of countless Allied soldiers; soldiers who gave their lives freeing the French when they were too cowardly and weak to do it themselves. And yes these are the same people who are now delaying some long overdue closure to the families of the Pam Am 103 Lockerbie bombing by Libya.
Three thousand of our citizens die and it's a conspiracy by our government. Three thousand of their citizens die and it's a disaster.
Yeah, let me reflect for a minute and think about how I feel about the French being fried in their very streets? Oh, yeah I know, Fuck em. If I'd have known this we could have gotten ride of them this easily, I'd have left my oven on and the door open a long time ago. No mercy and pass the apple pie and cheeseburgers.
Big Wheels Keep On Turnin
Okay, so the Atlanta road trip will obviously be a long story, so I think I'm going to break it up into parts so I don't get hand cramps and ruin my sex life.
Plans changed last minute, and instead of me, Flaherty, and Sir Jimbeau driving to Rochester so we could leave at the same time as my bro and his family, I ended up crashing Thursday night in New Jersey at Jimbeau's house. You see Flaherty, bailed out at the last minute, this earning him this year's Great Big Pussy award -- but as a side note we did see his sister on the road.
So anyway, if a year ago someone had told me, "Ernie you're going to take a 14 hour road trip to Atlanta," I'd have told you to kiss my balls. But much to my surprise, sure enough here I was on a dreary Friday morning with a full tank of gas, a half a pack of cigarettes, it dark outside, and me wearing sunglasses. So hey, we hit it.
Our downward trek brought us out of New Jersey, through Pennsylvania, then the home of that blonde piece of ass, on to the mountains of Virginia (probably the only time we found anything decent on the radio), through North and South Carolina, and finally followed the Devil as he went down to Georgia. The trip down was rather uneventful, except for a fucking rain storm through Georgia that reduced visibility to no more than 30 feet, tops. But don't worry it didn't slow down Jimbeau and his Quattro. I caught this clip in the absolute tail end of the storm.
One thing worth mentioning though. I discovered a service called In-Fone where they will answer, for lack of better words, anything. You see me and Jim were driving along and somehow we came on the topic of the movie Joe Dirt. Then the conversation naturally drifted to Britney Daniels, and "that other redneck blonde chick he met at the fair." A chick, whom despite having her name RIGHT on the tip of my tongue, I couldn't think of her name to save my fucking life...for like 20 miles this was fucking KILLING me. I grabbed my cell and called Flaherty, since he's a movie buff, sure he could tell me. But he was off waxing his pussy or something. So I tried a couple other friends, no answer. Tried the guys at work... nobody was at their desk (go fucking figure). Finally, I said fuck it off something I heard Jesse Ventura say, called 1-800-411-1111. Some dude answered and after going through a rather painful signup process, asked him flat out, "Who was the redneck chick from the movie Joe Dirt?" He put me on hold and came back 15 seconds later, "Is it Jamie Presley?" Ah, relief. I could have kissed the fucking guy. I spend the next 20 miles thinking of all the things I'd do to Ms Presley if given the chance.
Alright so after many miles of hauling ass, we pulled into our hotel in the suburbs of Atlanta around 9:30 at night. Checked in and then decided to find the nearest bar. It was me, Jimbeau, my bro Brian, and Brad -- Paul's brother in law. Brad decided to join us for "a drink." Right. A drink. How cute. Anyway, it was at this bar that I was introduced to the term "Duck Butter." If you're as clueless as I am, that's a clever new catch phrase for a load of spooge. "hey you've got some duck butter on your chin." might be a good way to use it in context. As stupid drunk people often do, we ordered a round of tequila shots. Actually, it was our third. Anyway, the shots come and I've got mine to my lips about to poison myself once again, and someone yells, "look out it's duck butter." I don't know why it struck me as funny as it did, but I can tell you I laughed/spit out the tequila about 700mph. Straight into my shotglass. Where it went right up the sides and back into my face. And my eyes. Tequila in your eyes hurts. Come one $200 bar bill later, the four of us called it a night.
The next morning was, as one might expect, rough to say the least. We got up and stumbled over to Brad and Lisa's (Paul's is Lisa's baby brother and she was the main contact with the raffle) house for breakfast/late breakfast/early lunch. One of the first thing I saw when I got out of the car was Lisa's Ford Expedition, which I thought was pretty fucking cool.
We hung out there for awhile and my brother was understandably eager to pick up the bike, but we had to wait for Steve the Marine who rented a caravan for the weekend's festivities to carpool us over. When he showed up, I laughed aloud. They say it's good to be king, and they're right. We all piled in the van, and went off to Earl Small's Harley Davidson.
My 38 year old brother had a look like a kid on Christmas when they started the bike up (the garage is indoors so there's a nice echo), and I do believe I saw wood when they pulled it out to let it warm up and pop a plate on it. Yes, they parked it right next to the Prize Patrol van for all to see, especially when Bri took it for his first spin around the parking lot. Please note the 1980's glasses and velcro sneakers. He is so 80's. Anyway, he grabbed a couple helmets and we beat feet back to Lisa & Brad's for lunch, which Jimbeau graciously provided. At 2 and 3/4lbs apiece, no less than seventeen cows died for these eight steaks, believe me.
Around 6pm or so we ducked back to the hotel to change and then piled into the minivan to begin the part of the trip we've all been waiting for. Well except Brian, he came down for the bike. Strip club time. First stop? Shooter's Alley.
This report is going to be somewhat abridged since the people involved requested I take it easy on a member of the party who despite being arranged as a designated driver, became way huge intoxicated. (Whatever!). Which is something I am inclined to do considering by the time we got there I had the most nauseous stomach I've had in a long time. The first lap dance I got, when the dancer pushed up against my stomach, bad things almost happened. I must have made about a half dozen trips to the bathroom to hershey squirt my brains out, which is really funny considering southern strip clubs usually have some poor bastard working in the bathrooms to hand you paper towels and whatnot. And the bathroom was really small. So after about an hour of that, I decided to go outside and lean into the plate and take one for the team. Two fingers and one empty stomach later, I was back in my A-game swigging down booze with the best of em.
Two of the strippers from Shooters Alley came with us over to our next stop, The Cheetah Club. A much more upscale place, with lots more tables, lots more girls, and lots more ways to get into trouble. The girls there are smokin. But I must confess I did discover one thing rather troubling about Georgia strippers... they all have the same moves. They gear down right at the beginning of the lap dance, no leading up to it. Slide boob sup and down face (don't wear glasses!), play with cooter, turn and bend over, shake butt, later, rinse, repeat. Every girl, every time. Is there some weird state law I don't know about down there?
Anyway, if there's one stripper that did stick out in my mind, I'd have to say it was the Cowgirl at the Cheetah. She was blonde, wore a black cowboy hat, and had nipples the size of tater-tots. And I'm not kidding you. Both Jimbeau and my brother each had their glasses hanging off her nips -- and my brother's got some big fucking glasses -- they were that wonderful. I've heard people joke about a girl's bosom going around a corner before the girl does, and I'll tell you what. This girl's nipples are already poking into tomorrow.
We departed Cheetahs around 2am and made the venture back towards the hotels, Brad driving because our "desigated driber" was in the back seat a bit too loopy to take the lead. We made a late night run past the governor's mansion -- a place where Steve confesses to tossing a beer bottle at from time to time -- and then got dropped off back at the hotel.
Sunday was a day of recuperating and relaxing. We made an afternoon trip back to Brad & Lisa's to load the bike and say goodbye to everyone. I got the chance to read the actual recommendation written up for Paul's Medal of Honor. That was humbling, let me tell you. Lisa also gave me this coin which used to belong to Paul. It was given to him when he graduated his Sapper Leadership Course, and carried it with him always, up to and including the last moments of his life. To hold it is a humbling experience, and it sits on my desk next to me as I type this.
Loading the bike was also an experience, especially considering we almost dumped it going up the two 2x12 ramps we had into the back of my brothers pickup. But load it we did, secured it down with umpteen straps, and said our goodbyes, as we had a long trip back north in the morning.
Got to goof around a little bit on the way back, and having nicer weather helped. We passed Gibsonville, where surely Jimbeau will spend his later years. Passed a huge giant fucking peach which ironically was in South Carolina and not Georgia as one would expect. It looks like an ass, if you ask me. Stopped to get some fireworks. No, stopped to get lots of fireworks. A couple times. Each. Jimbeau even stopped at a cigarette outlet and bought cartons of cancer sticks for $21 each (only the generics were $11). Later on during a slight traffic altercation we even had some nice southern gentleman wave his cock at us, but alas, I was not as quick with the camera as he was with his shorts. Let's see, we also stumbled across what can only be the grossest gas station bathroom in America. No look closer, I mean it.
Our trip back brought us through two additional states of Maryland and Delaware, Our road trip came to a graceful close in New Jersey (Hey fuck you buddy!) at 2am on Tuesday morning. I made the trip back up to Boston after catching some z's at Jim's. I took a day to relax, and that brings us to where we are now.
Thank you Brad and Lisa for your hospitality. Thank you Steve for the van and your company. Thank you Michelle for the dances and not barfing in the van. And thank you Paul for kicking ass.
All in all, it was a very fun and exciting yet humbling trip that really put a lot of things into perspective for me. Got to see more of the grand ol USA, got to travel places and see people that some once prowled around but will never be able to do again (eerie feeling at first), and spent some quality time with friends and family.
High Speed Internet Connection My Ass
I'm back. Hotel didn't have high speed internet access like advertised, so no on the fly updates. Have lots of stories and pics to post. Unpacking. Unwinding. Recirculating blood to ass cheeks after 16 hour drive. Stay tuned.
Well, since I decided to shave my nuts for Mike & Jon, I decided to finally quit being a wussy and shave my head, too. Given I'm wearing a helmet a lot (and sweating my shorn balls off) and also considering that my hairline ain't gonna get any fucking better -- it's been something I've been meaning to do for some time. Dont' get me wrong, I used to have a thick head of hair when I was younger, but sometimes it was just so unmanageable, and I got tired of looking at it every morning. So alas, now I'm Kojak. And I feel sinister.
I don't know where you'll be on Saturday night, but I'll be at the Cheetah checking out all the wonderful southern boobies! I wonder how many girls with a Georgia accent I'm going to propose marriage to? Only time will tell.
Anyway, I'll have my laptop with me, so I should be able to update and post pictures of this monumental trip soon after they're taken. Assuming I'm sober enough to type. So stay tuned, and in the meantime, have fun photoshopping my head.
Bring Your Appetite, Porky
Yep, this is the week me & bro (& his fam) will be driving down to Atlanta to pick up the new bike. So I figured while down there, I'll throw a party and you're all cordially invited! The seven course meal will be served on custom burnished black coral place settings with African Elephant ivory service. Each table is made from pure California redwood.
Before Dinner Drink: Nectar of the Haleakala volcano flower in commemorative native-carved ivory cups (limit of 24 per family).
Appetizer: Black Footed Ferret Bisque with Spotted Owl Egg Confetti Garni.
Salad: Seared Breast of Whooping Crane Roulade with Haricots Verts and Sun-dried Grapes. Served with Oil of Baby Dolphin Lips Dressing on the side.
Entree: Roasted Florida Panther, Baby Sea Turtle fins and White Tiger Meat Cassoulet. Served with vegetable tortino and Provencale sweet onion tart.
Dessert: Sweetened Rhinoceros crème brûlée and caramelized Vancouver Island Marmot Soufflé with Crème Anglaise.
After Dinner Drink: Panda Juice with or without pulp and/or paw
Dinner will surely be a delight to the senses and will be served by the last remaining members of the Anasazi Indian tribe. Come one, come all!
Hail To The King, Baby
See, there are few things in this world that this withered old heart of mine can come to truly love. And I don't mean in a romantic, "I'll give you flowers," kind of way -- I mean in an "I'd kill for you," kinda way. Two of those things are The King, and The King. Yep, that's right, I'm talking about Elvis ("Uh-huh-huh") and Bruce Campbell ("Good, bad, I'm the guy with the Explorer...").
So imagine my suprise when someone sent me the link about Bubba Ho-Tep, where The King will be played by The King. Ah sweet, sweet life. I'm so giddy about this I feel like a school girl who just discovered spin cycle. In fact, if I were to win the lottery, so help me Christ the first thing I would do is bankroll Evil Dead IV.
Also, I'd like to remind people that Arabs do not like to be called "towelheads" or "ragheads", as that term is very derogatory. For your information, Mr. Ignorance, the item they wear on their heads is not a towel but a small sheet. Henceforth, please call them "little sheet heads." Thank you.
Thanks to Fark! for Bruce's "Explorer" quote...
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