Totes Rando

Last Friday I went to Floyd’s Barbershop in Santa Monica and told the stylist that she could do whatever she wanted.  While the tattoo laden stylist distracted me with an interesting conversation about the health risks involved in anal sex she managed to give me a haircut that later garnered references such as - a fighter pilot, Hitler and the guitarist from Interpol.

Later on that night, an Amazonian cougar drunkenly swaggered over to me, showed me a dinner menu and asked me if I was on it.  She was about three inches taller than me and there was a decent chance I would find a dick under her skirt, so I politely walked away.  As she attempted to grab my ass a friend with slightly lower standards gently nudged his haunches in the path of her gorilla hands and let her feel his goods.  I watched in horror as he stuck his tongue down her throat and proceeded to lift up her shirt exposing her (prosthetic?) breasts.  This wasn’t a dive bar by the way, it was a high class restaurant on Main Street - the Vatican is presently in debates to determine if it was a miracle he wasn’t promptly removed from the establishment.
The next day I went down to Huntington Beach to see the US Open of extreme sports.  A friend of mine goes way back with a veteran BMX vert rider, and he got us all wrist bands to watch him compete from the edge of the bowl.  For those of you that don’t have a tattoo that says SoCal across your back, the bowl is like a giant swimming pool made out of wood where athletes that hate themselves can vent some of their frustration with mainstream music.

After the competition we went out to dinner with some of the BMX riders, who graciously paid for everything since they were humbled by the fact that they just made thousands of dollars for riding a bike. I overheard the girl sitting next to me talking secretively about a guy she’s dating that won’t sleep with her but (for whatever reason) sends her photos of himself jerking off, so I insisted that everyone at the table raise their hand if they want to see the picture.  After a unanimous vote, she reluctantly passed the phone around then expressed serious shame for showing us the picture as the rest of us laughed our asses off.

When my plate arrived, a stared at the sushi roll for about twenty seconds and contemplated how bad I felt for the guy in the photo.  Then I ate the roll and asked to see the photo one more time.

As I was leaving Floyd’s the hair stylist convinced me to buy some product and made a joke that it could probably double as amyl nitrate.  I think that she thought I was gay.  She was probably right.