Sunday, August 22, 2010

BRB

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Dear 38 39 Followers and lost Google searchers,

It's recently come to my attention that while this blogspot is probably the best thing to ever happen to anyone that's ever visited it, or anyone that's ever walked past or been in the vicinity of anyone that's ever visited it, I need to start administering these extremely concentrated doses of knowledge and skills to other avenues, namely the ones that I don't know of at this point in time.
Don't call Suicide Watch or your relatives just yet, I'll still be posting on the same inconsistent basis you've become accustomed to, just in less inconsistent measurements of consistency. I've written a metric ass-load of stuff on this blog, stuff that has helped people deal with the things in life that they previously assumed they couldn't deal with before reading this blog, sort of like a chilled out humanitarian, and I've had a wonderful time doing it even though no-one ever gave me any money ever and I clearly hinted at it several times.
If you'll kindly bare with me and go visit some other blogs (crazy I know but there are some pretty cool ones out there), I can get back to focusing on the more important things in life, like becoming so rich that I can buy actual human beings (Angelina Jolie) and so enlightened that I can hover at will. Given time, my ability to buy people and hover will no doubt benefit you guys in ways I can't even imagine because they probably don't exist, but they do.

Meanwhile, I'll be doing some stuff over here and I still use my twitter account @wacksauce because I never said it was lame or that I was deleting it so I still have every right to use it and you have every right to contact me there.

Thanks for nothing and remember, blogging is what happens when you're making other plans and you want to write about those plans at a later date.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Never been chipped.

As this once biblical blogspot flaps about on the html soaked decking of the HMAS GOOGLE, I figured that instead of trying to save it I'd go out with a bang in the form of a blockbuster yarn about the first time I busted someone's block. As none of you probably know, I was in England for a few weeks recently for a well-deserved holiday from all the hard work I do contributing to my community and my tireless efforts as a great guy. It was an eye-opening experience and far from the usual hostel-to-hostel "let's tour London!" fare that the general public would generally experience due to the fact that I know people who know people and these people had obviously been made privy to how much of a great guy I am prior to my arrival.

During the day it was Oxford estates, vintage Ferrari's and fine dining and when night fell I was on my West End shit, sitting in the VIP poppin' bottles with models and celebrating (my lack of) success with the kinfolk. Due to some mutual friendships between my girlfriend and the model-by-day-promoter-by-night types responsible for keeping the rich, flaccid businessmen in the area surrounded by beautiful young women at every club they go to, I was given a two week insight into one of the most superficial and extravagant party scenes in the world and literally having fire extinguisher sized bottles of Grey Goose shoved in my face every step of the way.

As hard as it was to not completely lose myself amongst the opulent mayhem I was surrounded by, I made sure to take a minute every now and then to observe the characters around me and how this whole scenario operated. Bouncers accepting four figure bribes, models flocking to private tables like wilder beasts migrating from one watering hole to the next, millionaires dancing awkwardly to fast-paced electro bangers, wealthy youngsters comparing car keys and the quintessential crime bosses watching it all unfold from the curtained security of their private booths. As I maneuvered through this eclectic ecosystem of mirrored walls and self-importance, I found solace in my usual method of dealing with other people's ignorance, and that is to just imagine them all pooping.

Now, I'm not really huge on the whole fighting thing. I tend to avoid physical confrontation by keeping good company, watching my mouth around the company that others keep and being polite to everyone regardless of their background and how many Ed Hardy tattoos they may or may not have. It's not so much the me getting my head boxed around thing that bothers me about fights, I've been skateboarding for six years and I eat Mexican food at least once a week, I know real pain. It's just that it's kind of awkward. I can barely handle standing in an elevator for five seconds with someone that I don't know, let alone running up to some guy I've never met before and bludgeoning him with my huge fists because he pissed me or one of my friends off. It's like humiliating a stranger, with your arms, like a faux pas sign language of sorts. Sure, if you're the victim of some kind of un-provoked attack or it's in defence of your honour or your system of beliefs, swing away. I'm just saying that I'm not forcefully applying my hands to some guy's face unless it's absolutely necessary.

Unfortunately, as stated above some altercations are unavoidable. On one particular evening of living large in the West End I was a little more intoxicated than what had become the standard during my trip, which ranges anywhere from absolutely smashed to "why do I have a garden shovel and a chessboard?". It was close to 3am and I was at my new local, Luxx, which is basically just a runway lined with couches that offer it's wealthy patrons a vantage point to relax and ogle models and affluent daddy's girls as they shake their collective frames on it's illuminated floors in the hope of attracting someone that can buy them nice things whenever they want, which would be all the time.

The venue was wall-to-wall packed with the usual suspects and I was on my way to the bar for vodka shots with my best new promoter friends when I had an epiphany. I asked myself what could make this night even better than it currently is? Perhaps I could go out to the smoking section and watch two ridiculously attractive ethnic girls eat eachother's faces by invitation for five minutes? Hmm, already done that. Maybe I should go and reload on some complimentary cologne at the restroom? Nah, I smell amazing as it is. No, what would really top this night off was if I were to punch someone in the face. It can't just be anyone though, it has to be someone that takes care of themselves. Someone so big that they could take the entire venue down with one well-aimed swipe.

My mission was clear as clear as the vodka I'd been swilling as I subconsciously decided to look for the biggest, meanest looking dude at the club so I could subconsciously smack earth, wind and fire out of him. I walked towards my friends who were at the bar when one of them turned around for a complimentary bro embrace. I had no qualms with this, he was one of the promoters that had so graciously poured expensive liquor down my throat on so many occasions and if a little appreciation was all it took for more, I was ready to support the cause. As I opened my arms to connect, I realized I was going in a little more aggressively than predicted. It was like the alcohol was telling me to get these formalities over and done with as quickly as possible in order to acquire more alcohol. As my arms flung toward my target at speed, something stopped my left hand dead in it's tracks, namely the face of the biggest, brownest, angriest looking Argentinian bodybuilder to ever exist. The physical manifestation of fear. In a split second my night had gone from Neverending Story to Final Destination.

By the time I realised what I'd done my friend was already back at the bar passing lime and salt around to anyone in his vicinity. I looked down at this mountainous accumulation of muscle and anger lent over the couch, actually holding his face and reeling from my blow. He was even bigger than what I'd first assumed, he looked like he arrived via monster truck and had eaten a live Komodo Dragon to keep the alcohol down. This meant one thing, that I was stronger than I'd previously assumed. I did some quick calculations and realized that I now stood somewhere between 6400 and over 9000. This didn't matter though. After further calculations I also understood that I was now dead man walking. I had two choices, try and apologize for what was clearly human error combined with sheer power or flee the country and build a bunker somewhere below the equator. I didn't have long. My kind nature got the better of me and I walked towards him and put a hand on his back, being careful to manage my new-found muscular output. I asked him if he was ok to no avail. He just stayed there, slumped over the couch's expensive leather arm like a freshly wounded Cyclops would a cliff side.

This was it. In 24 years I'd never provoked a soul to the point of hand to hand combat and here I was about to have my clock cleaned because of a miscalculated gesture of friendship. This beast was going to turn around and Dragon Uppercut me through a solid object. As concerned as I was for my life, I had a momentary lapse of conscience and thought that if I just turned around and walked to the bar he wouldn't even see me, thus significantly slimming any chance of rebuttal/death. This was my second miscalculation. As I cautiously applied the salt to my now shaking hand and my friends prepped for a communal shot, I feel a light tap on my back.

As much as I hoped it was the bi-sexual models I'd seen earlier that were currently requesting my attention, such was not the case. It was Goliath, and he was pissed. His nose was bleeding, his fresh white shirt was tainted and his pride had been shot by some tourist who was really strong. I screwed my face up and prepared for impact as all the nice things I'd seen during my time on this planet played through my mind like a pre-flight slide-show before my subsequent ascension to Valhalla, where all good vikings live on for all eternity.

Goliath: "Why you hit me mang?"

Me: "Look, I'm real sorry, my friend came in for a hug and you happened to be walking past. It was a complete accident".

Goliath: "Why you no say sorry mang? You just hit someone and walk off like it nothing?"

Me: "I tried to apologize but you weren't responding (because I'm clearly stronger than you are), then my friends dragged me to the bar".

Goliath: *Glares directly at me and clenches his fist*.

Me: "Umm.....Can I get you a Corona?"

Goliath: "You don't owe me nothing! I want an apology right now (?)".

Me: "I tried to apologize before but you didn't listen. Ok, I'm sorry again.".

Goliath: "Now shake my hand"

*I shake his hand with a solid grip to deter him from trying any funny business afterwards*

I was about three heartbeats from a stroke when he finally walked away and I breathed a sigh of relief as I'd been granted a second chance at life. My friend Jamie grabbed me, asked me what happened and warned me that if I didn't have a shot with these guys they'd take offense, an offer I couldn't refuse. I pointed to my nemesis and said "just punched that guy in the face didn't I". Jamie then asked what he said and I told him we shook hands and I offered him a Corona. "Shouldn't have offered him anything mate. If that guy touched you he'd be put in hospital by every bouncer in the club" replied Jamie.
God I love London. Not long after, we raised our glasses and downed the novelty sized shooters, shortly followed by cheers and the general jolliness associated with a post-shot celebration.

I was celebrating for a different reason though. After what had just gone down, I'd never felt more alive. Not only had I narrowly escaped critical injury AND gotten away with punching a man that was possibly raised in the Andes Mountains by a herd of steroid abusing Alpacas, but I was at a guestlist club in Mayfair, spilling drinks on girls with contracts and showing very little remorse whilst belting out Alicia Keys' chorus to Empire State of Mind with some genuinely good people.

Not even Goliath's continued disposition throughout the evening could sour my last night at Luxx and I may not have exactly said it there and then, but now that I'm back home, 15,000kms from London, I know well and good that I could've beaten the shit out of him anyway.