Life of Scott

Imagination unleashed.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Review: Emmanuelle's Intimate Encounters

Scott: Amanda and I watch softcore porn sometimes.
It's not like that. Calling it porn is misleading. That is like saying you are going out for burgers, when you are really going to the hipster place for veggie patties and alfalfa sprouts. Softcore is just a bunch of terrible unedited scripts where tits fill all the lead roles. The blabbing head above the tits say stupid things like, "we have a failing restaurant, but I have a way to save it," and then the tits take over again with some synthesized music.

I used to watch these movies at sleepovers. Cinemax never let us down. There was the movie where a scientist invented a device that made everyone in its vicinity horny as hell (including a priest at a picnic in one scene). But now we have Netflix so we don't have to wait for the weekend.

Emmanuelle's Intimate Encounters is about a paraplegic woman who wants to experience sex with her husband, so she invents a headband that lets her take over the body of whomever her husband is fucking. This leaves the husband fucking lots of different women while remaining faithful to his wife (can you tell it was written by a man?) And the handicapped lady has big boobs.

Side note: Roger Corman produced the Emmanuelle movies. He also produced Death Race 2000, Carnosaur 3, and Alien Terminator. I've never seen the last one, but judging by the name, I bet it is the best fucking movie ever made. Roger Corman is one of those guys who could have made the garbage that is "Two Weeks Notice" into an awesome movie. He would have killed off Sandra Bullock immediately and made Hugh Grant live in a sewer until he became explosive enough to take down a corrupt police force and nail a thousand women at once. But I digress.

So the handicapped lady has big boobs and thwarts a robbery by controlling the body of the female burglar. I don't know why I expected anything else, but the burglar ended up doing a flashy showtunes-style dance with gloves and a cane, with a rousing finish, naked and nailing her partner. Hooray! The secret stash of horny amulets are safe!

So different people get controlled and Emmanuelle borrows the special body-inhabiting necklace from the handicapped lady, thereby eliminating all joy from her sedentary life. Well my sex necklace is gone. I guess I'll go for a jog down by the-- oh fuck, that's right I'm crippled. I guess I'll just sit here in this chair and cry myself to sleep again.

The biggest moment for me was when Emmanuelle inhabited the piano player's body and played the piano so sensually that everyone in the bar had an orgasm at the same time! There were 8 women and three men and they were all screwing in the bar and no one thought anything of it. They just thought, well, I am about to orgasm, so I might as well take my clothes off to avoid the mess. Hey, she looks like she is about to orgasm, too! Maybe I can just put this here....

Overall Rating: 7.9 (out of 10)


Thursday, January 24, 2008

Worst Hangovers

At the risk of writing too many articles referring to alcohol, I will write one more. This time about hangovers, which probably should have been written on New Years Day. There are so many different types of hangovers.
  • The typical 6-pack hangover is most often a weekday hangover because you can usually sleep it off on Saturdays. This one starts with a mild headache (four Tylenol), mild nausea (skip breakfast), and exhaustion (coffee). Cured by 9am unless you work in a steel shop. Then it is cured the first time you almost cut your finger off.
  • The wine hangover is strictly a headache. No real cure except Tylenol and TV. Be sure to turn the volume down.
  • The Las Vegas hangover usually occurs in the airport on your way home. I don't know if there is a cure, but it sure as hell is NOT getting into a plane for four hours. That just makes you nauseaus and then you want to cut off the fat arms of the guy next to you and kill the whiny kid four rows up (what the hell are kids doing in Vegas, anyway?) and throw the still-frozen breakfast banana at the captain for hitting turbulence.
  • The poker night hangover has no cure. It is a rotten mix of still-drunk and fighting off pukes. It is never a good idea to plan things the day after a poker night. One time I had a haircut at 11am after going to bed at 8am and the haircutter was a friend of my mom's and I thought I was all smooth asking for the receptionist's phone number. But there I was in yesterday's clothes smelling like a cleaning bucket after a wrestling match.

I am sure there are others, but here are my top (bottom) five hangovers.

  • 5.) St. Patrick's Day 2005 -- I woke up in Joe's bed (thankfully Joe was not there for reasons I will leave to his own blog) an hour after I was supposed to be at work. This was after arguing with a cop that Joe didn't deserve a parking ticket and he should rip it up. All the while making it more and more clear that I was tanked and this was not my car, yet I was about to drive it home, so fuck you and your ticket.
  • 4.) New Years Eve 2004-2005 -- I woke up in my own bed with a trashed room and an open bottle of absinthe on my desk. After a shower, I was looking for my guitar picks so I could brush up on my work-in-progress, Boston's "Peace of Mind." I was also looking for the perfect pair of underwear for the day. When I bent over to find my picks, a potted plant fell on my head from the TV on my dresser. My hair was still wet, which made mud and roots all over me and my clean underwear. Happy new year!
  • 3.) Poker Night #2 -- I woke up in my own bed after a 12-hour game and another drunken breakfast from the bagel joint down the street. We also lost Evan on our way to that pre-sleep breakfast and managed to drink three more beers before finding him. On the walk back, I found a garage that opened with my student ID and I started exploring. But then the door came down and I did a terrific Indiana Jones dive-and-roll just before the door made it all the way down. It felt terrific then, but it couldn't have been that great because I had a steak-shaped bruise on my side for three weeks.
  • 2.) Halloween 2004 -- I woke up in my own bed without my girlfriend, but with Kevin sleeping in my easy chair. And still dressed like Luigi, except without our plunger because I lost that somewhere. I left my then-girlfriend at a party while she was in the bathroom because I thought she left. Then when I went back to pick her up, she got red hot pissed at me and walked home. I had foolishly signed up for a racquetball tournament that next morning and was in fine shape for it. After the score was 5-5, the room started spinning and I got cold sweats. By the time the second game was 0-10, al I thought was if I didn't score those first points, I'd be done by now. Then I had to buy roses for the girlfriend.
  • 1.) New Orleans -- We drank 27 of 29 days on our US Road Trip. The two sober days were Sunday and Monday after New Orleans. I woke up with my knees on the floor and my chest on a hotel bed. Joe's face had dried blood on it in the other bed from when he went the wrong way out of the casino at 5am. We tried to have every specialty party drink there -- jager tutters, body shots, some grenade thing, and 56 others. We lucked into a heat wave that morning on our way west on Interstate 10. 105 degrees and humid as hell in a car with no air conditioning. Joe was his usual chipper hungover self, bitching about how the Wendy's was too crowded and I just curled up on the passenger seat and tried not to puke any more than I already had that morning.

Thank God you learn not to drink so much as you get older.


Tuesday, January 08, 2008

To Catch a Predator

Amanda and I have watched two episodes of Dateline: To Catch a Predator. It is a mostly hilarious show that sets up and traps adults who chat with little girls and boys and eventually go to a house to meet them for sex. It is hosted by Chris Hanson -- one of those newscasters who almost certainly winks at himself in the mirror and practices facial expressions before he leaves in the morning.

Before I go any further, I must admit that anyone over the age of 16 who tries to have sex with a 13-year-old deserves whatever he gets. Even high school senior-freshman combinations are a little weird to me. I work near a university and even the college freshmen look so young any more! And since I still look just as awesome as ever, it must be them and not me that are changing.

That being said, I would rather leave my daughter (if I had one) with any one of the pedophiles (victims?) than with Chris Hanson. I think that if the not-so-little girl posing as a 13-year-old were to say no, the pedophiles would all leave and apologize. But Chris Hanson just keeps being annoying and saying retarded shit. One victim, when Chris Hanson showed his faggy face from behind his hiding wall, claimed he was going fishing and just stopped by to say hello to this little girl. He insisted, "I have my fishing license and my pole and my tackle box, I was just going fishing." And Chris Hanson came back with a real zinger, "The only thing you're fishing for is sex with a 12-year-old!" When he reviewed the tape, he said aloud, "Good one, Chris. No no... great one. If they made an award for witty remarks, you would win the shit out of it."

I say victim because these adult "decoys" get online posing as little girls and say the most lewd, alluring, and sexual things they can think of, then quickly mention 13 years old and then back to the sexy stuff. It's like showing a glass of 25-year-old Macallan scotch to a recovered alcoholic, smelling it and sipping it in front him, saying "MMMM, THIS IS SO GOOD, I AM GOING TO DRINK 15 GLASSES AND I WILL FEEL WAAAAY BETTER THAN YOU BECAUSE ALCOHOL IS AWESOME AND TASTES LIKE HEAVEN ON ITS WAY DOWN WHERE IT WARMS YOUR BELLY LIKE 15 GLASSES OF PURE HAPPINESS." Then when the rummy reaches for the glass, you call his wife to tell her. Sure he should have the sense to leave, but it still doesn't seem right.

After a few victims are captured, the show gets tired. Everyone says the same thing. I was just coming over to hang out. She said she was 18. It was a slip of judgement. This is my first time. This is the last time. These condoms aren't mine; I borrowed my friend's pants. Chris Hanson always pops out from behind the hiding wall like that giant hand with a face painted on it from Pee-Wee's Playhouse that scared Pee-Wee every time, except the hand at least shut up when Pee-Wee screamed and ran away.

The girl is always 12 or 13 years old. Never ever 14. I assume this is because it is always illegal to try to sleep with a 13-year-old. There are probably circumstances where it is legal to get with a 14-year-old, maybe if you just got out of prison or her parents are hippies or during natural disasters. Or if the year is 1425 and you usually get cholera for your 19th birthday.

The show reminds me of when people used to attend public hangings. It indulges the voyeur in everyone. Like children poking a dead fish on the beach or rubber-neckers gawking at a traffic accident. We all want to feel good about ourselves; seeing someone else's misery is a great reminder that a long commute and a boring job are not so bad.

My rating: 7.5 (out of 10).


Friday, January 04, 2008

New Years and Cabs Can Go to Heck

I cannot think of a smooth, no-problems cab experience. I have taken more cab rides than most people in Cleveland. I lived downtown for two years, take them every time we're in Las Vegas, and they never fail to amaze me.

Joe and I were going from the Vegas airport to our hotel when the cabbie decided to lecture us on how the world is about to end because of all the sinning gamblers and drinkers. las Vegas is a silly place to preach that kind of thing. The fool! Same trip, next cabbie told us about his swinging days and how he "fucking blasted" this one married woman while her husband watched.

Another trip, I was all hungover with Joe in the back seat of some Chinese woman's cab when I asked her to roll up the windows and turn the air on because it was hot. As soon as she did, I farted a disgusting morning-after-drinking-and-buffet-dinner fart. The Chinese lady was all pissed off, rolled down all the windows, and even threw the window shade off her own window so it could open farther. Then we played $1 craps at Slots-of-Fun, which is a such a shithole. But not as bad as the Monte Carlo, which smells like dirty diapers.

A few days ago on New Years Eve, I arranged cabs to and from a place 20 minutes out of town. I was quoted $25 each way, which is fine for eight people. The first guy tries to charge us $35, so I gave him $32 and told him to charge me whatever he wants because that is what he gets. This was after he pulled into the wrong driveway and I insisted he take us around the building. He kept saying "no no no no no," and I said, "just go to the left of the pole, just go that way, hurry up, it's right there." So he finally listened to me and scraped the shit out of the bottom of his cab because there was a curb I didn't see. "Oh... oh dear. Now I understand why you didn't want to go that way."

The second guy was 45 minutes late and told me that he was going to charge us $50 if we want him there at all. We were sitting in the vestibule of an empty party center, so of course I said ok, sure buddy, whatever you want. When we got back to my place, I handed him $31 and started walking away. He got out and started grabbing my shoulder to keep me back, threated to kick my ass if I didn't pay more, that it was a $59 cab ride and I was getting a discount. He knocked the poinsettia out of my hand, called his dispatcher (who told him to cool it and leave with the money), and continued to threaten me for not giving in to his bullshit scam.

There were four or five of us, so he didn't want to actually start a fight. Amanda was a little hysterical and called the police. Craig stood there looking tough in case we needed to throw down. Joe tried to be the reasonable one, asking, "how much did it actually cost you to go back and forth, so we can tip you on that because it's only the tip that matters to you." Evan is being all legal about it, saying, "We have a contract with the dispatcher! If you have a problem with the rate, that is between you and the dispatcher!" When he didn't respond to those, I got angry, took my hands out of my pockets, got in his face, and said, "Listen here you pecker. I paid you $31 on a $25 fare, which is a 25% tip for a cab that was 45 fucking minutes late! As far as I can see, you are lucky we're fucking paying you at all for that kind of horseshit. Now if you have a problem with that, we can stand her all fucking night in the cold rain, but you are not getting another goddam cent out of me! If you don't get the fuck back in your cab, then you can suck--" Which is where I stopped myself. He did leave after that and we drank more beer upstairs.

If I got any part of that story wrong, don't correct me. Because I felt tough and awesome and that is how I remember it. We were renegade defenders of mild-mannered cab riders everywhere! We refused to be swindled and we emerged victorious, albeit wet and cold. No one will steal from us and get away with it! We will not give up $20 just because it is easier than standing outside for a half hour! And why? Because we are awesome. WE make the rules. And no one will push us around!

This is what makes people drive drunk.

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