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RATS OFF A SINKING SHIP

The following events may or may not have happened. Things are just so unclear these days; I don’t even know when I’m lying anymore. What I do know, however, is that some of the best parking on the dogleg can be found East of the Ready Ice building on 9th Street, just around the corner from Stubb’s Bar-B-Q. Under the shadow of downtown Austin’s police depot, this area may be considered an arrest risk by many partiers, but I have a theory that may counteract those fears.

All of the patrol cars driving in and out of that station are manned by officers who are either on their way to their respective beats in other parts of town, or who are returning to the motor pool after a hard nights work. This has created a small vacuum right in the belly of the beast where all sorts of criminal activity can go unchecked. The throngs of crack dealers and panhandlers who inhabit the blocks surrounding the station seem to ascribe to this theory as well. (Did I use the word ascribe properly? I have no idea.)
Anyway, that’s where I park when I go downtown. Often times, I end up fucking in my car when it’s parked over there, and have never really been worried about police interference. I find fucking in the car to be a good way of avoiding many of the complications and inconveniences that can arise when you actually go home with a girl. If nothing else, it allows you both a chance to get to know each other, while at the same time letting you avoid the awkwardness that accompanies a hasty departure from one’s home late that night or early the next morning. On top of that, the snug confines of an automobile can actually lead to some pretty creative lovemaking. Besides, what kind of girl wants to bring a strange man to their house anyway?

I fondly remember banging on this one chick over there, not only because she was markedly better looking than my usual haul, but also because of a rude interruption we suffered during the throes of passion. This particular time, I was parked right at the entrance of the APD parking lot, just begging for trouble. I had her laid back in the passenger seat, and was huddled up on top of her, just a humping and a bumping when the passenger door swung open. Being so close to the police station, and having already ceded the fact that I was bound to get caught fucking in public someday, I calmly looked up to face my accuser, fully expecting to see a police officer standing over us. What followed was a classic good news-bad news predicament. The good news? Not a cop. The bad news? Mexicans, five of them, fully intent on joining the party.

I could tell they were Mexican Nationals by their diminutive size and complete lack of style. As they began forcing their way into the car, they gave off yet another telltale sign of their nationality. See, when Mexicans get involved in a serious felony, they tend take on a silent desperation, nothing at all like their larger, louder, American-born cousins to the North. As quiet as church mice, they went about their business, two of them climbing right in on top of me with the other three pushing from behind. Without even withdrawing from my date, I stiff armed the pair and started pushing them back out into the street. In a mixture of English and broken Spanish, I asked them where their gun was, and told them that if they didn’t have one, they were wasting my time as well as their own. If they had had a gun, I may have had to take a couple of shots while stomping the vermin. As it was, I never even had to quit fucking while I threw them back out onto the street and locked the door.

I watched them for a minute as they ran back to their car to regroup, but I soon lost interest, completely unimpressed by their attempted treachery. The punch line here folks, is that the girl I was with was so drunk, I said “Jesus Christ, can you believe that shit?” and she was like “Believe what shit?”

I really fucking hate these new toilets in office buildings and other public locations that are self-flushing. You know, the ones that somehow sense when you’re done taking a shit, and flush on their own? Oh, it’s great that you don’t have to touch anything to flush them, but doesn’t everyone use their foot to flush a public toilet anyway? What sucks about these things is this; what happens when you want to flush halfway through a shit? You have to get up and pretend to leave the fucking bathroom just so the toilet will flush for you, that’s what happens. What’s worse than that is when you get to the bathroom, and there’s still shit left in there from the last guy. You have to hover over the commode as though you’re taking a crap, and then pretend to leave just to get it to clear out for you. I know this may seem like a lot of work, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m just going to sit down and mix turds with some fucker of god knows what race.

I know I say this a lot, but this time I really mean it. I have absolutely nothing to write about. I wish somebody would send me a letter from prison, just so I could waste space. Instead, I’ve resorted to doing this “the funny thing about taking shits” routine for the second week in a row. Now I know what Jerry Seinfeld feels like when he shits his pants. I hate that little fucker, by the way. I love many of the characters on “his” show, but I swear to God if I ever see that little cunt out in public, I’m going to kick a hole in his ass. What I really hate is the way he’s always getting all this pussy on his show. Are you fucking kidding me? There is no way in hell Jerry Seinfeld pulls wool.

Did I ever mention that Ricky Williams knows me personally? No, I don’t mean that I know him; I mean that he knows me. Back during the height of his Heisman Trophy campaign, The Longhorns were practicing in the huge white tent that now sits due South of the football stadium. Apparently, the alumni bought this thing in the guise of it being needed as a temporary locker room while construction was being done on the current facility, and then moved it over to the stadium to serve as the beer gardens/ restaurant complex during Longhorn home games. If you are wearing the proper wristband, you can enter this place during a game and buy a 32-ounce beer for seven dollars. If you don’t have the proper wristband, there are several steps you can take to secure one, none of which we are going to elaborate on at this point.

Anyway, I was working at Elk Electric, the company that had secured the lucrative electrical labor contract from the UT physical plant. I was part of the crew that installed all of the power to the tent while the football team was moving in. While working there, we had minimal contact with the players, at best. The most interaction I had with Ricky Williams was stealing his nametag off of his locker, yet I must have caught his eye somehow, because he would always stop to talk to me in the following months when I would run into him on campus.

The thing is, I always got the impression that he wanted to fuck me. You know how sometimes you can just tell when someone wants to fuck you? Well, that’s the feeling I got when I talked to him. Don’t get me wrong, if Ricky Williams wanted me to fuck him, I probably would, especially in light of everything he’s done for the State and the University, but there’s no way in hell I would let him fuck me, no fucking way, and absolutely no kissing either, ewwww.

When Greg Powe called me well after midnight on Halloween and told me he wanted to go to the UT-Nebraska game at 11 o’clock the next morning, I must admit I had my doubts about his sincerity. These doubts were completely erased at 7:04 the next morning when he called me from the parking lot of The Texas State History Museum, asking me where the fuck I was, as he had already begun tailgating. Apparently, much like Mike Brant, (see my Bowl Games article from the “Handsome Joel” edition of Rank and Revue, February 2003) Powe had decided to stay up partying all night on a major holiday in order to assure himself he would be up in time for a football game the next morning.

When I finally made it to DKR Memorial Stadium at 10:30, it was already obvious that Powe’s plan (like Brant’s) had backfired. Too drunk to find the stadium on foot, Powe caused Jim Isaacs and I miss the opening kick-off as we talked him in on our cell phones. Within minutes of reaching our seats, Powe leans over and tells me he’s about to beat up guy behind us because, “He’s talking shit about Texas.” Noticing that the man in question was wearing all burnt orange, and had his entire family with him; I told Powe that perhaps he heard the guy wrong. Powe’s response was “How the fuck would you know?” Shortly after Vincent Young’s 65-yard touchdown run, Powe gets up and tells me not to be surprised if I never see him again. He calls me during halftime because he’s having trouble finding our seats. Problem is, he’s at the intersection of MLK and Trinity. In conclusion, seeing UT romp Nebraska 31-7 only made this year’s losses to Arkansas and Oklahoma all the more bitter.

-CHAD HOLT

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well he was nude but we had to crop it for the publisher....

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