Will Dan

My friend Dan, another rebel without a life, hasn't been to my new place yet, so I am to meet him in my former apartment's parking lot (true rebels are never very good with directions, and meeting in the parking lot of a building you were recently evicted from is sort of rebellious, in a Jerry Springer sort of way).I was to meet him at 1:30 AM.Neither of us makes it on time.I'm already fifteen minutes late, and Dan's as lost as an atheist on Sunday.
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Since meeting tardy Dan is my first major event of the day, I start my day here, at 1:45 AM, on a Saturday morning.
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I've always found it ironic that Dan, and plenty of other friends of mine, spend more on the stereos they put into their car than on the cars that the stereos are put in.I have a $30.00 boom-box that I bought on clearance at Target one day when I decided smoking pot would be a cool way to stop my seizures and, instead, went on a paranoid spending spree, convinced the earth was going to end if I didn't spend at least $30.00 on a "stereo" for my car.I haven't smoked pot since, but I do get to hear quality music pumped out of a low-quality system, for my THC-supported effort.

After Dan bobs his head a few more times, I realize that he hasn't noticed my station wagon.I figure that he's head-bobbing along with the Queers album that I convinced him to buy in one of my "punker-than-thou" rants at a local record store.After three or four more bangs of his head he notices me staring at him.I'm sure he takes my stare as belittling; little does he know I just ejaculated all over myself thinking about the fat chick without a face who thought I was "Bill," that I fucked at Holiday Inn, and her bouncing boobies, and I'm totally humiliated.If anything, my stare was nothing more than a horny deer staring, startled, at oncoming hookers.

Hopefully the Kleenex that I used to wipe the snotty semen away from my face will never give my look away as anything more than a ridiculing, "I caught you headbanging over punk rock" look.Dan gives me the finger, when he sees me staring.I give him the finger back; only to become even more embarrassed when I see a huge string of gooey white penis sap hanging off of it.When he looks as embarrassed as me, I figure he only saw the finger, not the spew behind it.Thank Heaven for the freezing rain which worked to disguise my slippery love yogurt.

Dan finally walks out of his car and struts over to my ugly station wagon that I am only driving because my dad said, "if I give you $1,000.00 and the station wagon will you leave the house FOREVER?"and I answered, "yes."I think I probably got the raw end of the stick on that deal.

Dan opens the door to my wagon.Although both of us are sober as an AA member who has been strapped down in the AA "Higher Power" Dungeon for over 30 days, I'm the designated driver for the evening.When Dan sits in the passenger seat, we both try to convey the most surly, disappointed with life look that we can muster.This look is our official "life sucks" greeting.It is hip for the unhip to always come off as thinking life sucks.If you are an unhip rebel, trying to look hip, and you act like life is great, you are going to be unhip with the unhip, and I can tell you right now, you ain't gonna be the star in the next Rocky Horror Picture Show midnight screening.

"Hey," Dan says, as his ass settles into my seat.I rock my head back and forth as if intensely thinking about poultry, and conjure up a similar "hey" between oddly contorted lips."Do you still think you have crabs?"Dan asks."No," I say, while itching my scrotum with a fevered passion."Do you still think you have herpes?"I ask Dan."No," he answers, while itching his genitalia with a passion that could only be rivaled by a leper about to have his dick fall off.

We both pause to take a breath and itch our respective privates, and then I begin to speak, like the rebel I am.I decide it's time to pretend I'm all mad, and I tell Dan that he can no longer fuck with me by being twenty-two minutes late.He says he was only fifteen minutes late, and wasn't fucking with me. Being that I suck with math, this begins to make perfect sense, and I start to wonder if it was maybe me that was late in the first place.He was probably there the entire time, watching me get off over lard lady.Yikes.I decide to tell him I masturbated.He laughs and asks if I want to masturbate at the same time he does."Right now?"I ask."Is there any better time?"Dan asks back, bulge in hand.I decide that there probably is a better time, and that I don't really want to have a circle-jerk with Dan, because it would be "gay," even though the idea is slightly tempting.Fake-gayness is sort of neat.Especially if you're a chick.

Dan smiles over his newfound bisexuality which causes me to think there must still be some ejaculated fluid clinging to my face.I casually rub my hand around my lips and nose, but find nothing sticky stuck there.Dan gives me an awkward look, as though wondering what it is I'm looking for on my face."I've had hives," I say, even though I never have.Thank God for brothers with allergies."Oh," Dan says.Dan smiles at me in a vague, "rebel"-style "puppy-dog" look (which means he isn't scouring), and says, "how long did you wait?"
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I then try to squander up the most angry, "punk-rock-for-a-guy-in-his-late-twenties" look, which essentially means I show off my Converse All-Stars and sneer, all in hopes that Dan will bow down and be the submissive "rebel" for the evening.I mean, I AM the designated driver.I should get the "smack you up, 'ho'" privileges, right?Suddenly I get that "Who Let the Dogs Out?"song in my head, and feel like anything but a rebel.Stupid song.I wonder who really did let the dogs out.I don't share this thought with Dan.

"I guess that it sucks I was late but I was doing something," Dan says.We both know he's totally lying."Let's get out of here," he continues, "it's raining."Like I didn't notice."So, what are we gonna do?"I look toward Dan for any advice he can come up with that will stop the inevitable mediocrity of the night ahead."I don't know," Dan says, "what do you wanna do?"Suddenly I feel like I'm in that one bad Disney movie my friend Heather loves.I decide that I haven't been funny in at least five minutes, and realize that, if I'm not funny for that length of time, I may lose a friend, so I decide to make a joke.Finally, I chalk the urge to make a funny up to post-masturbation jitters, and decide that I don't have to prove myself to someone I've been friends with for 15 years.I proved myself funny to this mother-fucker before a lot of the people reading this update were even born.So, fuck funny.Funny sucks.Everyone tries too hard to be funny.
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Dan finally comes up with the ASTOUNDING, ASTUTE AND AMAZING idea of renting a video."Renting a video would be cool," he says.I decide that just isn't enough.I'm 28 damn years old; I need more.Like the star of a bachelor party finding out the stripper in the cake is full of genital warts, and won't fuck him, no matter how attractive those damn warts look, I decide to get philosophical; "we have been born into this life of tedium," I tell Dan, "Society has conditioned us to live life in repetition leading us, like dogs on leashes, into this pathetic drudgery of normalcy that we both claim to hate.Do you want to go there?Or do you want to go to New York or California and finally become the fucking 'rebels' we claim to be?"Dan responds with a profound "what?!?"I come back to his "what" with an equally profound "nothing," as I make a right turn onto the highway.I feel as dumb as a burn victim in a beauty contest.

I try to press play on my "pot-machine" boom-box.With one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over the seat to fondle buttons like a non-experienced man fondling his first nipple, I lose track of the road.Music is more important than life, anyway, right?I swerve like a drunk between lanes.A gust of bad breath hits me in the face, knocking me out of my daze."Let me do it," Dan, the stinky speaker, tells me.This is a combination of his power-control urge and the urge to survive.I submit.So much for being the dominant "rebel."

I turn back to the task of driving as Dan records, fast-forwards, rewinds, pauses, and does everything else conceivable to a Target boombox, outside of pressing play.His chubby fingers grope for the handle and he pulls the recorder up to the front seat, so it is sitting between us.The two of us, being the most UNLIKELY couple to ever get fucked by a chick, yet fucked by more chicks than 99.9% of "normal" people ever will be, have an intimate moment over a box.
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Dan asks."I don't know, maybe they think we'll get rich and famous," I answer.I'm probably wrong.Maybe personality IS a strong factor in what turns a woman on.I'd like to know.Email me with your opinions on why you fuck freaks, women.

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Dan pulls the "box" upfront without any apology (for a true rebel never apologizes, because they do nothing wrong) to reconfirm that he hit the "play" button that he obviously hit three minutes ago, being that music is playing."OW!That hit me right in the fucking head for the second