CHRIS WALKER VS. THE FUCKIN’ A

Today, instead of being an asshole I decided to do something nice by educating you, my readers. I found this passage in an outstanding text book and thought you should read it. It’s pretty awesome and maybe it’ll teach you something.

CHAPTER ONE: Introducing You to the World of Communal Relations

In the world of communal relations – communication within an international spectrum – there are a large number of socially, interactive, methods. These forms of relational-based contact have proven essential to our everyday lives, ensuring better communication and understanding of ourselves as well as our peers – business and personal. This chapter will highlight two of the most poignant ways humans interact: greetings and physical displays of excitement.

Greetings: corporal gestures between two or more people when initial contact is made in a social setting.

Greetings vary drastically throughout different regions of the world but all convey the same basic message – hello. Americans shake hands; Japanese bow; Maori’s do a tribal dance that, if you didn’t know better, would lead you to believe they were going to kill you; the French flamboyantly pronounce, “Bon crosse!” before spanking each other on the ass; Best Buy employees ignore you; and that other group does that one thing.

Greetings are an ancient, worldwide, tradition and fun for everyone! Except for children, who are to be ignored until they're old enough to work the factory assembly line and reproduce.

Physical displays of excitement: actions performed when something so remarkable takes place an individual needs to make bodily contact with an additional person to affirm the occurrence’s awesomeness.

The most prominent physical display of excitement is called the hi-five. A hi-five is an action where two people (men, typically) each raise an arm above their head and – with palm’s facing one other – forcefully engage hands to create a slapping noise.

A man may perform a hi-five after his favorite football team scores a touchdown; he makes a winning shot in beer pong; or his “alleged” child – birthed by a woman he randomly slept with – is black whereas he is white.

A woman will perform a hi-five when she is a drunk and sloppy whore, ripe for plucking.

Editor’s Note: for clarification and sake of debate, two people are not necessary when performing a physical display of excitement. You can execute a solo activity like clapping but clapping is stupid so who the fuck cares? Come to think of it, hi-fiving is pretty retarded, too.

CHAPTER TWO: The Fuckin’ A, and History Of

Now that you’ve learned about greetings and physical displays of excitement it’s time to bitch-slap you into man-land with an interaction known as the Fuckin’ A.

The Fuckin’ A: a manly exchange executed after an event of insanely epic magnitude – or minor significance – occurs. To perform, simultaneously speak the words, “Fuckin’ A,” and extend your fist to the other person at about mid-chest level. The individual you’re offering your fist must reciprocate by solidly, not forcefully, engaging your fist with their fist to complete the Fuckin’ A. The recipient may also respond with their own, “Fuckin’ A,” for added bad-ass appeal however, it is not mandatory.

Although it can’t be proven, scientists believe the Fuckin’ A originated near the end of the Triassic-Jurassic Era after a Viking – called Viking A – slayed the last living Tyrannosaurs Rex by wielding its own offspring against it like nunchakus, killing all the T. Rexes at the same time. This feat of heroic proportion was witnessed by another Viking whom approached Viking A, offered his fist in recognition of Viking A’s skills, and proclaimed, “Fuckin’ A.” Viking A responded generously by tapping his fist against the other Viking’s fist and upon that bond the Fuckin’ A was born.

Manly in all facets of being, the Fuckin’ A asks the question, why go for a bitch-ass hi-five when you can engage knuckles like a savage-fucking-caveman? Hi-fiving is for grade-schoolers, volleyball players, and men too drunk to know better – that’s it. Ever seen a hockey player hi-five? Never. They play with broken bones and black eyes, they’re tough as shit; they don’t hi-five. They bang sticks together like tribal warriors – on ice. I remember this old clip I saw one time on ESPN where a rookie hockey player tried to hi-five a teammate after a goal. Instead of hi-fiving, the teammate ripped off the rookie’s arm and beat him to death with it right there on the ice and no one said shit. In fact, the fans were rabid with excitement and one of the announcers dropped his pants and did a cartwheel in front of a bunch of kids on a field trip. And no one was clapping because clapping is dumb.

I’m surprised they don’t show that clip more often.

Some people may ask, “Well, okay, but why do you have to curse? If you feel it’s absolutely necessary to assert your manliness that way why can’t you just tap fists and be done with it?” I ask these people, why aren’t you throwing yourself in front of moving vehicles? You say Fuckin’ A because you’re a man and that’s what men do. Men say fuck – and shit, and whore, and manual transmission, and no thanks, I don’t eat faggy turkey bacon. It’s instinctually in our blood since mankind came from Vikings, anyway. I even know women who say it accompanying the fist tap and those women are awesome. Like my mother, she said it right after she forced me from her womb. Then she chopped off my father’s head because she’s a praying mantis.

Yeah, I’m just kidding about that part. Sorry, mom. She does say it, though.

Some people think it is acceptable to simply cup another man’s fist when it is offered to them. These people are ball-garglers. Contrary to belief, when someone offers you their fist as a manly gesture of celebration and acceptance you do not open your hand to receive the fist in your palm. This makes you a pussy and a douchebag. It makes me want to cover baby seals in tanker oil just thinking about it. If my fiancée can do it correctly so can you. And if you can’t well…I can only say hand over your balls and start performing Vagina Monologues so many times before you either get it or you don’t.

In case you’re a fucking idiot I’ve provided pictures of how to, and how not to, perform the Fuckin’ A. See below:

Fig. 1 The Sign of a Man

The manliness in this picture is so rugged it’s practically punishing the HTML. If I were a woman I would take off my bra and toss it and the first animate object that crossed my path. God damn, that’s tough.

Fig. 2 What a Soft Bitch

If this picture were at a gay disco it would scream, “I’m a catcher, would you be my pitcher?” Do this and you have about as much masculinity as Kate Hudson. By the way, her movies suck.

See the difference? It basically comes down to how you want to be remembered. If you were to spontaneously combust and burn in eternal hellfire (probably for being a pussy) would you want your best-friends at your funeral saying, “Yeah, Ass-can was all right but he did the Fuckin’ A like a bitch. Every time with that moist palm catch – disgusting. I had flashbacks of prison,”? Probably not. Guaranteed that’ll also be the guy “consoling” your girlfriend after you’ve passed. And by consoling I mean banging her in ways she never would have let you because you were too big a pussy and didn’t know how to assert yourself like a brutish warrior. Douchebag.

Now that we’ve got this sorted out hopefully you can all become the best conveyors of communal relations you can be. Or whatever I was talking about in the first place.

Hopefully, you’ve learned your lesson.

CHRIS WALKER VS. THE WIN A DATE WITH GOLDEN RESULTS

It’s official. The Win a Date with Golden contest was a complete disaster.

It’s not that no one entered the contest, it’s just no one seriously entered the contest. Sure, with application answers like, “My ideal date would be pounding you into the next universe,” I got to have a good laugh but there was no potential for a real winner. And it’s brought me to one of two conclusions: a.) the majority of my male readers enjoy same sex companionship; or b.) there are a lot of sad lesbians out there.

I’m willing to except either.

To be honest, I’m relieved. The whole time the contest was going on I was afraid some guy would submit a good application, win the date, and turn out to be a serial rapist – locking Golden in his dungeon until he cut off her face and made it into a mask or some other crazy Chainsaw Massacre shit. That, or an Everquest nerd who goes on Caribbean cruises for online gamers (they really do that) and is still a virgin – of his own choice, of course (yeah, right) – would win. Both outcomes are equally frightening.

Whereas I’m content over the outcome the major letdown is for the girls (i.e. Golden and The Mrs.) and women in general, perhaps. I think they had some kind of Tom Hanks meets Meg Ryan, chick-flick, fantasy going on in their minds where Chris Noth or Justin Tinselballs would win the contest, ride into Golden’s life like a prince on a majestic steed, and live happily ever after in a cloud palace filled with midget trapeze artists and the laughter of small children.

I, on the other hand, am aware of my reader base. I know better.

Purely for my own curiosity, though, if there are any girls out there who wanted to win a date with Golden let me know. It won’t change anything, I’d just be interested to find out.

In other news…

Remember what I said about P.F. Chang’s and how great the bartender was? Forget it. I’m boycotting the bar at Chang’s from now on and will be finding a new hang out for my after-work Fridays.

CHRIS WALKER VS. THE GAYEST PLACES ON EARTH

My boss – Big Boss, as I refer to him (Metal Gear anyone?) – frequents Chris Walker Versus and recently voiced concern over a statement I made. I know, hard to believe considering how politically correct and inoffensive my commentaries are but it’s true. He thought I should take it easy on the whole “Australians and New Zealanders are gay” thing in the off-chance one of our customers found my site, read the comments, and responded negatively. A reasonable argument but a probable scenario? Not really. Let’s face it, Australians and New Zealanders are about as internet savvy as the Amish. It’s seriously a joke over there. Even if they do get internet I’m sure they have better things to do than Google my name or go looking for a website they don’t even know exists.

Regardless of how improbable the whole thing is I took the suggestion as an opportunity to reflect long and hard (wink, wink) upon my vocalized opinions on a broader spectrum. Should I be more sensitive toward these people and their feelings? Should I stop saying Aussies and Kiwis are effeminate and love dudes? It’d be the nice thing to do and writing about how entire continents are a gay certainly isn’t the peak of my abilities. Funny, but no pinnacle.

I found myself at a crossroad. Kind of.

You’ll be happy to know after intense deliberation I made the right decision. Realizing the likelihood of any of my Australian/New Zealander customers actually reading my site is about as great as Paris Hilton winning a Kindergarten Spelling Bee I did what any reasonable person would do. I went to New Zealand and told them they were gay to their faces.

By the way, that bitch has a song out now? Why has the mouth of hell itself not opened? Jesus Christ.

Anyway, that’s where I’ve been, in case you were wondering. New Zealand. I started in Auckland last Monday, visiting customers, and ended in Queenstown for a convention with New Zealanders and Australians. Remember what I said about the drinking at the Latin American convention? Pretty much the same thing only less beaches and sunshine and more gondola rides and snow. Oh, that and I could actually understand what people were saying to me. Most of the time.

Before arriving in New Zealand I hadn’t made it a goal to share my opinions but after being surrounded by all their “tea times” and “g’day” hippy shit I was unable to keep my unfiltered thoughts to myself. I had to tell them how gay they are. It wasn’t malicious, by any means. It was all in humor and in the end most of them agreed with me because let’s face it – they really are gay. I mean, come on, New Zealanders refer to themselves as kiwis? Might as well call your people Ass Masters.

Now, you might be sitting there thinking, “What about rugby players, Walker? They’re tough as nails and that’s manly.” Very true however, according to a statistic I just made up, only one percent of Australian/New Zealand men play Rugby – at least on a professional level. That leaves 99% of Australian/New Zealand men to be Grade A fruit cakes. Argument dismissed. On top of that, I was informed many rugby players are actually, truly homosexuals. Although I have nothing more than hearsay to back this up I’m willing to believe with all that man-grappling it might be true.

Now that we’ve got that sorted I’ll continue.

Two instances from my week-long trip stand out regarding making fun of Aussies and Kiwis and their love of men. The first was brief; a guy my age from New Zealand was asking me about the United States. I told him San Francisco was probably my favorite American city and he said, “Ah man, why do you like that place? Aren’t they all gay there?” I laughed at him, “They’re not all gay. There’s like one district in the entire city dedicated to them – that’s it. Your entire island is a haven for rampant homosexuality. And dudes who fuck sheep.”

He might’ve had a comeback after I generalized all of New Zealand but the sheep comment shut him down. It hurts when it’s true. You probably aren’t aware of this but New Zealand men are well known for their fondness toward farm animals. In fact, when you arrive at the airport terminal there is a huge sign that reads, “New Zealand. Where the Men Are Men and the Sheep Are Scared.” I’d swear to God it was true if I wasn’t lying about it. In all honesty though, New Zealand men are rumored to and often accused of loving sheep. I’m not sure how it started and really don’t care, what’s important is it’s funny and judging from their complete lack of interest in women, I believe it. Seriously, I heard maybe seven or less standard, inappropriate, remarks about women (i.e. “She has a great set of tits!”) come from New Zealand men the entire trip where as those derogatory comments are a staple in a Mexican’s every day existence. And don’t give me any of this ‘manners’ shit – they’re just plain gay.

I’m sorry, I was distracted. An Australian boy just skipped past me. I repeat, skipped past me. And no one in the entire Air Zealand Lounge threw a bottle at him. If these people aren’t gay, Liberace’s straight.

The second event was my final night in Queenstown. I was sitting on a sofa in the hotel bar, wearing a pink shirt, drinking a Smirnoff ice, chopping it up with an Australian woman from the show when I told her, “You know what, Australian and New Zealand men are just gay.”
Australian Woman (laughing): Why’s that?
Me: For starters, did you see the sign in the elevator, the one that say complimentary “nibbles” at half time? What the hell is a “nibble?” That’s like the gayest word ever, “nibbles.” I would never say to my friends, “Hey guys, want to get some nibbles?” They would punch me in my face. No man says “nibbles.”
Australian Woman: Well, what do you call them then?
Me: I don’t know – food? Appetizers? Something less homoerotic. And how about your cigarettes, you guys call them fags. So basically, if you’re a smoker you suck on fags all day long. Don’t tell me that’s not super gay.
Australian Woman: Yeah, you’re absolutely right about the cigarettes. That is definitely gay.
Me: Super gay.
Australian Woman: So, what about the pink shirt you’re wearing? Doesn’t that make you gay?
Me: Wearing pink doesn’t make you gay. It’s just a color – nothing to be afraid of. It’s not going to attack you or stab you in the neck. A pair of brass knuckles to your face and gunshot wounds? Those are things to be afraid of. Not pink, it’s just a color. Real men can wear pink; guys who are insecure with their masculinity can’t.
Australian Woman: I like that. Pink, it’s just a color. I’m going to have to tell my husband that.
Me: I think I’m going to start a dictionary or book of phrases or something because one of the guys I was hanging out with the other night started using one of my sayings, too.

Then I told her what a Gatekeeper was.

A Gatekeeper is the one “picnic basket of absolutely not” in a group of supermodels you meet at a club, bar, family reunion, wherever you so happen to drunkenly end up. She’s typically ugly and/or overweight – whereas, her friends are smoking hot – and will determine the course of events for the entire night. It’s simple, if the Gatekeeper is unhappy everyone suffers; if the Gatekeeper is [content/distracted/preoccupied/given an All-You-Can-Eat, Red Lobster coupon] everyone has a green light to enjoy themselves.

Guys, how many times have you been talking to an attractive girl at a bar when out of nowhere her hippopotamus looking friend you’ve barely even acknowledged as a living, breathing, noun (person, place, or thing) chimes in for a well-timed cock block? Too often, I’m sure. You’re fine-tuning the delicate intricacies of your newfound, “it’s cute tonight but don’t expect me to put up with all this blah blah blah and feelings talk once I sober up” romance when Fatty Lite decides she has to go home to prep for a Women’s Studies test at 11:30 PM on a Saturday night making all her friends leave with her, ensuring your hard work pretending to care was in vain. It’s enough to make you rip off her two-sizes-too-small Torrid stretch top and choke her with it but she’d probably uppercut you and break your jaw if you tried.

These Defenders of All Things Supersized are unfortunate but, much like absolute evil, they can’t be killed – only contained.

Therefore, regardless of whether or not you want to, you or someone else in your entourage must pay attention to this Altered Beast – at least until she is satiated with attention. If she is not attended to and made to feel momentarily special she will fuck up your entire night. God put her on the obstacle course of life. She’s spent years carrying bottles of Ranch dressing in her purse and mocking celebrities able to pick a treadmill out of a line-up to earn her position as a Gatekeeper however; if you’re crafty you can defeat her.

After my Gatekeeper explanation I realized the Australian Woman I was talking to wasn’t exactly the skinniest chick in the room. I felt like an asshole. Oh well, what could I do? Thankfully, she didn’t take it personal.

After a while Australian Woman’s Husband came over and sat with us. She told him I thought Australians were gay. After I explained the main points of my argument he agreed. Australian Woman’s Husband is actually friends with Big Boss, laid back, and definitely not a gay. He drank Scotch all night and told stories about getting hammered and doing retarded things in inappropriate places. Pretty straight. At dinner he ate an entire shoulder of Lamb – as did I. Definitely straight. After dinner he struck his wife and commanded her back to the hotel with no explanation whatsoever. Super straight. No, I’m just kidding; he didn’t hit anyone. Hitting women is wrong. Or so I’m told.

We all had a lot of fun and I ended our festivities by doing a little gift shopping for The Mrs. with help from the ladies in our group. I understand this could make me sound like a gay but whatever. I’m more manly than half the douchebags that read this site – so suck it.

Also, to give them a little credit, there were a few Aussies and Kiwis at the show – like Australian Woman’s Husband – that weren’t raving, flamboyant, hygiene afflicted, homosexuals. A few, but not enough to make me change my mind about their culture as a whole. One guy I hung out with from New Zealand, in particular, was cool as shit. We got loaded and went to bars and he ended up banging one of the girls that worked at the hotel three consecutive nights. Aside from having to endure the arctic tundra of Queenstown at 5:00 AM, walking back to the hotel from the broom closet she evidently called a room, scoreboard for him.

And for the record, there is nothing wrong with being gay. I’ve got a ton of gay friends too afraid to admit it. Being gay is fine. I covered that a month or so ago – not that I’m the end all, be all to what kind of lifestyle choices are acceptable but, hey, whatever. I just think Australia and New Zealand are the gayest places on Earth. They’re beautiful locations and a lot of fun to travel to but the majority of their people are Certified Sausage Handlers. I didn’t make them that way, God did; I just had to point it out. Sorry.

I also made up the Smirnoff Ice thing. We all know no one aside from high school chicks – or chicks with high school mentality – actually drink that bullshit. I was, in fact, drinking a Monteith’s Black, which is a lot like Guinness, has a 5.2% alcohol level, and is 100% delicious.

I’ve been traveling for a full day now so I am going to sleep. Goodnight.

In other news…

Contest is officially closed. Results tomorrow. If there are any, that is.

CHRIS WALKER VS. DRINKING WITH THE MOB

It’s amazing the direction your night can go depending on where you sit at the bar.

As I’ve mentioned before, every Friday after work The Mrs. and I meet at the bar in P.F. Chang’s. We get a few drinks; order a couple dishes, and go home. It’s never anything blogworthy, just a relaxing way to end the week with some delicious food and tasty cocktails.

Until last Friday.

The Mrs. and I got to the bar a little late, 6:00 PM, so it was more crowded than usual. Seated dead center of the bar was a middle-aged couple. On the couple’s right side were two empty chairs followed by another middle-aged couple; on the couple’s left side were three empty chairs followed by an Older Gentleman, drinking by himself. For no reason whatsoever we chose to sit on the left side.

Once seated, the bartender took our drink order. Older Gentleman was boisterous, giving everyone a hard time but very cool at the same time. He was drunk and friendly and all the employees seemed to know him. Aside from that brief observation I didn’t plan on paying him anymore attention. I was wrong.

Within five minutes this faintly New York sounding accent erupted on the other side of the Mrs., “Did he buy that for you?” The Mrs. and I both looked to our left side, it was Older Gentleman.

Older Gentleman: Did he buy that for you?
The Mrs.: My ring?
Older Gentleman: Yeah, lemme see that thing. I’m a jeweler.
Older Gentleman takes The Mrs.’ hand and investigates her ring.
Older Gentleman: Oh yeah, he must like you.
Me: Yeah, she’s all right.

Older Gentleman introduced himself and shook our hands. This would be the first of many handshakes. And by many I mean a hundred. No shit. He was giving me a handshake, or kissing the Mrs.’ hand, every other sentence. And no, I will not be revealing Older Gentleman’s real name – or name he chose to present himself as – for reasons you’ll soon learn.

Older Gentleman told us, “It’s great to see two young kids in love,” then started into a repetitive, long-winded, spiel about how your dick doesn’t control your brain, your brain controls your heart and how important children are. Whenever he said “fuck” or “shit” he’d make The Mrs. cover her ears. I laughed every time it happened. Then he started grilling me about whether or not I really loved the Mrs. and would I be able to support her forever?

I told him: I support her now so I’d like to think so.
Older Gentleman, getting stern with me: That’s not what I asked you, I asked you will you support her forever?
Me: Of course.
Older Gentleman: He said ‘of course,’ I love this kid!

Then he gave me what was probably my fifth hand shake.

To some, this behavior might sound obnoxious. A drunken guy you’ve never met before questioning the intricacies of your relationship while repeating every other thought. I understand however, that wasn’t the case. Older Gentleman was awesome. Dare I say – a fucking riot? He solidified this notion as fact when late in our shenanigans a couple came up to the bar, the lady from the couple tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Sir, you know you’re sitting on two stools, right?” He turned his head, glared at her over his shoulder, and said, “What can I say? I got a fat ass.” The couple was appalled. I laughed.

As much as I instinctively wanted to break huddle and go back to ignoring Older Gentleman I couldn’t. It’s like those times when a bum appears at your door asking for shelter and you deny him and then it turns out to be Jesus Christ in disguise. Just like that. There was something compelling about Older Gentleman – a genuine awesomeness exuding from his chocolate martini laced breath and I knew if I continued talking to him I would not be disappointed. I also had a feeling Older Gentleman was lonely, this was an opportunity to share his story with someone. And honestly, who better to share it with than a guy who will turn around and share it with the world? Or at least my friends? Nobody, bitches, nobody.

Older Gentleman had a past and he wanted to share it. It was just a matter of time, alcohol, and more handshakes. His stories started simple. First, he told us about the time he got pulled over by a cop in Beatty, driving a rental car to Reno. I’m going to skim most the story but here’s a highlight, completely out of context: “So, the officer asks me, ‘Do you have any felonies or prior arrests?’ And I say to him, ‘I saw you talking on your radio back there so you already know. Why don’t we cut the – close your ears, honey – cut the fucking foreplay already? Either you give me a ticket or let’s go get a cup of coffee!’ And you know what happened? We ended up driving down the street to get a cup of coffee!”

Classic.

Older Gentleman was a felon, tough as shit, and enjoyed busting cop’s balls. Fucking sweet. To drive all these points home Older Gentleman told a second story about being pulled over. This time he got pulled over in Gardnerville around 3:30 AM for failing to register as a felon within 48 hours. Evidently that’s something you have to do in Gardnerville. Then he showed us his felon card – which was pink. Did anyone know felon cards were pink? Me neither. The cops took him to jail; he busted their balls the entire time, and before long Senator Harry Reid was on the phone telling Gardnerville’s finest to release him.

According to Older Gentleman the police gave him a year probation with instructions not to report. He also had pizzas delivered to the jailhouse because he knew a guy who ran a local pizzeria and after law enforcement escorted him out of the county he bought them drinks at a bar. I guess they were also worried he was going to start up “operations” in Gardnerville and practically begged him not to. Sound a little far fetched? Absolutely. Did I believe him? You bet your ass.

By the end of that story I was on my third vodka martini, which Older Gentleman had bought for me. He’d also bought the Mrs. and I a shot of who-the-fuck-remembers. I returned the favor by buying Older Gentleman a drink. I think it was an espresso martini because he’d been drinking those and chocolate martinis all night.

As I said, Older Gentleman repeated a lot of shit. In-between stories he’d remind us how important children were and when a couple falls on hard times it’s the kids that suffer. He told me since the Mrs. and I weren’t married we were “living in sin” and that if she were his daughter I’d probably be paid a visit from Joey the Knife or someone to that extreme – no disrespect. None taken. Then he told the story that even if you’d thought he’d been bullshitting a storm thus far you’d have no choice but to believe him after.

Older Gentleman was a convicted felon and from what I could tell in his stories it was because he wouldn’t make a deal and rat out the Las Vegas Mafia and connected Las Vegas politicians. He wouldn’t talk so he had to serve time thus, making him a felon. I didn’t press the issue or ask for too many specifics because I honestly didn’t want to know. Last thing I want is to be “paid a visit” for knowing too much however, Older Gentleman told me this, “You seen the movie Casino? That’s the kind of shit I was doing.”

Basically, Older Gentleman was from the Las Vegas old school and a made man.

The part that made me wholeheartedly believe him was when he started talking about his wife, whom recently passed. When the shit that led to Older Gentleman getting arrested was hitting the fan the FBI came looking for him at his home – he wasn’t there. His wife answered the door; asked the agents if they had a warrant; they didn’t, so she slammed the door in their faces. When he told this part he got choked up, made the sign of the cross, and got really reserved for a couple seconds. The memories had struck a nerve in him. He was too shithoused to be faking it – this was indisputable emotion.

Once he composed himself he apologized and tried to continue the story. The FBI visited his home a second time and, of course, he wasn’t there. But once again, his wife was and they tried to scare her, telling her how much jail time Older Gentleman was looking to serve. She wouldn’t give him up or back down, though. She told them, “I know what kind of man I married and no matter how long you lock him up he’ll always be my husband.”

That shit was touching. Older Gentleman got choked up again, and honestly we all got a little emotional, but managed to hold it together. The Mrs. and I did our best to console Older Gentleman as he worked through it and we all ordered another drink. We’d long passed our typical three drink maximum by that point, hadn’t ordered any food, and I was pretty drunk. Older Gentleman was on his way to destroyed. We were having fun, though. I think we’d been there about three hours.

We made a toast. Older Gentleman returned to his animated, fun-loving, self when he started hitting on a hot, young, blonde whom had posted up on his left side at the bar. After she left he hit on another young girl. After she left the aforementioned “I’m sitting on two stools because I’ve got a fat ass” moment occurred. Everything was back to inebriated fun.

The rest of our time at the bar, which began getting fuzzy, Older Gentleman told fun stories about canoli’s and how he was a “sick motherfucker,” “someone you do not want to fuck with,” and how he had, “a lot of sins to pay for.” He would follow all that up with, “I hope I haven’t offended you,” to which I would reply, “[Older Gentleman], there is nothing in the world you can say to offend me.” Then we would repeat the conversation.

Although we never ate and will probably hear, “Man, you should have seen yourself…” the next time we go into P.F. Chang’s it was a fucking blast talking with Older Gentleman about the mob and his criminal adventures. We exchanged phone numbers and I don’t really remember how the night ended although I evidently wouldn’t stop cranking up the new AFI on the car ride home (just a little more fuel for those of you who enjoy making fun of me for liking AFI) and The Mrs. and I both passed out in bed, fully clothed.

Reading through this, I don’t know if I’ve made it entertaining enough to be something worth sharing. Then again, I don’t really know that it has to be. Maybe you had to be there to get the full effect of how funny and interesting this guy was, all I know is it was pretty fascinating to meet a real-life Mafioso and get to hear about his trials and tribulations. It was also hilarious waking up in bed with all my clothes on at 3:00 AM, wondering how’d I’d gotten there. Typically, I can at least take my pants off.

Just goes to show, you never know direction your night can go depending on where you sit at the bar.

CHRIS WALKER VS. TALKING LIKE A PIRATE

Here’s how not to be a pirate. I bet these guys even say “please” and “thank you.” What is this, Peter Pan? Pussies. They’d be walking the plank, for sure.

Talking like a pirate is the greatest thing ever.

Disagree? You’ve obviously never spent two days talking like one. It is seriously the greatest thing ever. That is, until I find the next greatest thing ever in which case that will be the greatest thing ever. Until then, talking like a pirate is the greatest thing ever.

Don’t believe me? I’ll prove it to you.

Part One: Being a Pirate Is Awesome; Being a Ninja Is Gay.

Before getting into the whole talking like a pirate thing I’d like to illustrate how pirates, in general, are Grade A Certified, Charles Bronson Level, Bad Ass. How will I do this? By finally settling the long-standing debate between pirates and ninjas, conveying all the ways in which pirates are superior. Grab your ankles and prepare for the fury.

Ninjas have shurikens and ninja-kens, which are definitely sweeter than pansy-ass pirate swords, but that’s where ninja’s dominance on the Awesome Meter ends. If it weren’t for their remarkable killing devices ninjas would suck entirely. Many of you red-blooded males may be thinking, “But Chris, weapons are the coolest part.” You are mistaken.

Basically it’s like this: pirates have stupid swords but everything else about them rules. And seriously, even though their swords are crappy they’re still able to stab shit so what does it even matter? It’s like taking home a fat chick after a hard night of drinking when you’re horny and lacking good judgment – definitely not your first option but she’ll get the job done, regardless. Pirates get shitfaced off rum as they sail the high seas; pillaging and plundering for treasure; constantly swearing; drinking more rum; wearing eye patches; acting foul with no remorse or concern for other’s well-beings, banging pirate maidens; drinking even more rum, and most notably – they get to fire cannons at shit. If that’s not the most awesome lifestyle ever I don’t know what is. If you are a man and disagree punch yourself in the balls and start performing Vagina Monologues; you are a pussy.

A ninja’s lifestyle, much unlike a pirate’s, consists of meditating; learning awesome fighting moves only to use self-discipline and restraint of one’s abilities; being stealthy; occasionally assassinating someone; traveling on foot; and overall, being a bag of ass. Sounds like barrels of joy to me. Yeah-fucking-right. What good is learning kung-fu if you’re not running around the woods karate chopping fools in the neck with your skills? I know that was a completely ignorant statement regarding different forms of fighting and martial arts but you know what I meant. Being a ninja is dumb, being a pirate is great; this debate is so easy it’s appalling. Let me get this straight, I can either: a.) get drunk and fire cannons at towns and ships while wearing an eye patch, swinging on ropes accompanied by a parrot and/or monkey or I can b.) have sharp-ass ninja stars I’m not supposed to use while I climb a mountain to self-reflect and channel my inner chi? Yeah, I’m going to go with “a.” I have to explain why you don’t deserve to know.

Pirate might as well be another word for invincible and death metal. End of dispute. Shut your mouths, scallywags.

Part Two: Pirates Are Awesome, Why Not Talk Like One.

Plain and simple, talking like a pirate is great for one reason and one reason alone: you can say anything – absolutely anything - and no one will [be offended/cry/call security/clutch a bible/shoot you/fill in any form of revolted response here]. Why? Number one: they’ll be thrown off. They won’t know what to think because who the hell talks like a pirate? Answer: you do. Number two: no one takes anything in a pirate voice seriously. It might have to do with aligning stars, baked potatoes, artificial flavors, or some other shit but no one ever takes anything said in a pirate voice seriously. Sure, you might mean what you say but they don’t know that, you’re just talking like a pirate, it’s funny – they think you’re cute. Har, har. We’ll see how cute they think you are after you’ve set fire to their curtains; stole their jewels; banged their daughter; and slaughtered their lavatory plumbing with your pirate excrement. Argh!

Try this at your next social gathering, yell at someone, “You’re a pile of shit and I hope your first born dies from AIDS.” You’re likely to get punched in your head however, if you say it like a pirate, “Argh, yer a steamin’ pile o’ whale shit an’ I hope yer first born dies of the full-blowed AIDS,” everyone just laughs and continues eating chips. Trust me, it works. I did it last weekend when Dong Wang (from various Chris Walker Versus) and I traveled to Las Vegas for a blackout-tastic excursion fueled by alcohol, debauchery, Chipotle, and several late night viewings of Out Cold. Pay respects to Rick Rambus, bitches.

On Saturday night Dong Wang and I went to my sister’s house and cooked for a bunch of her girl friends. We made meat and veggie skewers, prosciutto wrapped asparagus, grilled chicken, grilled salad – the fucking works. What the girls do? Sat around and read US Weekly. Why? Their mothers never taught them how to cook (a tangent I may dedicate an entire blog to; you can probably see where I’m going with it) and Dong Wang and I are masters of the kitchen. After dinner we played drinking games, blah, blah, blah, fast forward to when Pit’s McGee (from another Vegas related Chris Walker Versus) made a rule during a game of King’s Cup decreeing everyone had to talk like a pirate before they took a drink.

And the ceaseless pirate talk began. The men of the game just took it upon themselves to talk like a pirate at all times. We were drinking all the time, after all; why not just cover all bases? The pirate talk carried on through the rest of the night, the following day, and the drive back to Reno. Every time we said we said something, regardless of what it was, it was absolutely hilarious.

I wasn’t keeping score but to make a rough estimate I’d guess I said the word “whore,” directed at a present female, at least 100 times and got slapped in the lips zero times. Why? Because I was saying it like a pirate. Keeping with the rough estimates, I’m going to presume Dong Wang, Pit’s McGee, Lentzy (whom was also present) and I said the word “whore,” directed at a female, a combined 3,000 to one million times and got slapped in the lips a grand total of zero times. Dong Wang even blew one of the chicks out because of his uproarious pirate mannerisms.

It’s true. All because we were talking like pirates.

So, the next time you find yourself amongst your closest friends start belittling them in a pirate voice. They’ll giggle and laugh and tell you you’re a riot. It will be fun for everyone, no one will get hurt, and all will be well with the world.

Hell, someone might even get laid.

CHRIS WALKER VS. A SAD DAY FOR STRIPPERS

I’ve got two things to say.

Number One: If you’ve told me to update my site; asked when I’m going to update my site or, requested I write about last weekend in Vegas I have one thing to say to you: shut up. It’ll get done when it gets done.

Number Two: I’m opinionated and rip on tons of shit. It’s true however; as prejudice as I may be on an issue I like showing both sides of the coin whenever the situation calls for it. For instance, in the first Dumbing Down of America series I presented both anti-beer pong and pro-beer pong pieces in order to give you a broader spectrum before you came to your own conclusion. Just because I think something sucks doesn’t mean you have to agree. You’re wrong, of course, but who really cares? Not me.

Anyway, what I’m getting at is the lack of updates is due to the fact I was waiting for a pro-strip club piece to be written by my Strip Club Aficionado friend, Dawon. I figured since I’d spent an entire story belittling strip clubs and soulless whores – I’m sorry, strippers – the least I could do was offer up a positive opinion from a guy who when referring to strip clubs says, “Hey, sometimes you just want to go where everyone knows your name.”

Unfortunately, Dawon is too busy and feels unable to write me something that would be to his full potential and therefore, there will be no pro-strip club story. Yes, a sad day for strippers however, it also means I don’t have to wait around anymore so fresh shenanigans are on the way. Wipe away those tears, baby birds; your day is born anew.

In another letdown for whores, I asked Dong Wang to find a picture of either a sad looking stripper or a crying stripper to accompany this post and he came back with jack shit. Evidently, no one’s ever caught a stripper crying on camera and posted it on the internet. Hmm, I wonder why. Could it be because strippers don’t have feelings? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Suck it, pole-humpers.

In other news…

Sound Team album, Movie Monster, came out this week and although I wouldn't call it the soundtrack of the summer it's pretty damn good. Some of my standout favorites are “Born to Please,” “Your Eyes Are Liars,” and “Shattered Glass.”

After receiving it in the mail I can say with great confidence and authority the Beirut album, Gulag Orkestar, I’ve occasionally mentioned and linked to is every bit as good as I knew it would be. It’s quirky and offbeat and absolutely fucking solid.

After finally finding the perfect moment to listen to the new Tool album, 10,000 Days, in its entirety – completely uninterrupted, as I like to do with Tool albums – I can officially say it sucks. I waited five years for Lateralus, Part Two, Only Super Shitty? It couldn't end fast enough. Sure, “Vicarious” is okay but I liked it better when it was called “The Grudge.” Whatever.

Aside from Gulag Orkestar, the only new album I’ve heard that I’ve actually enjoyed – and I will undoubtedly catch shit for this – is the new AFI album, decemberunderground. It’s a great album and you can tell a lot of hard work and dedicated craftsmanship went into it. And if anyone says either a.) dude, they totally sold out; or b.) I like their old shit better, you should fly to China; throw your body into a food processor, and be that weeks “special ingredient” on Iron Chef. You’re worthless as an oxygen consuming being.

Good day.

CHRIS WALKER VS. WIN A DATE WITH GOLDEN

My friend Steph, or “Golden” as I refer to her in Chris Walker Versus, is newly single and out on the prowl for some quality cock. That’s right, she looking for good chicken.

If you’re wondering who Steph is, she was the one who brainstormed the photo shoot for Chris Walker Vs. Giving Relationship Advice to Women; was part of the source material for the actual story, itself; and has occasionally appeared in a couple other stories (namely Chris Walker Vs. The Nevada Beer Fest). She and I have been throwing this idea around since the first contest and decided there was no better time to announce than right now.

So, without further ado, the latest Chris Walker Versus contest is: Win a Date with Golden. That’s right, you, the guy sitting in front of the monitor, nursing a hangover in your underwear at 1:00 PM in the afternoon, can actually win a date with Steph.

Here’s How To Win:

Fill out the Application form provided below and e-mail it to me. For all you dumbfucks who can't find it in the "blogger profile" my e-mail is chrisjwalker52@hotmail.com. It’s that simple. You don’t have to know her, know me, be friends with acquaintances, or anything like that. You think she’s hot and feel like taking her out for sushi in attempts to get in her pants? Fill out the form and your game plan’s in motion. Ass is not guaranteed but submit one and at least you’ve got a shot. After the deadline I’ll look through the submissions, pick my favorite, and that person wins a date with Steph. Oh, that reminds me, I have to find out if she’d be willing to date a girl.

…

Yeah, sorry ladies – dudes only. What can I say? I tried.

The only real stipulation is you must live in the Reno/Sparks area, or be willing to travel to the Reno/Sparks area if you win. That and you’ll probably have to pay for the date; be a gentleman for once in your life. Oh yeah, and I guess you have to be a guy. Whatever.

Deadline for Submissions:

Midnight (or roughly around), June 19^th, 2006.

To see more of Steph:

Steph at MySpace

Date Steph Application (written by Steph and The Mrs.)

Answers to all questions are required unless stated otherwise.

Be sure to include a picture for greater consideration.

Name: ______________________________

E-mail: _____________________________________________

Phone Number (optional): ____________________________

Age: _________

Eye Color: _____________________

Hair Color: _____________________

Height: _____’_____”

Weight: ____________

What’s the best part about your body?

________________________________________________________________________

What’s the best part about your personality?

________________________________________________________________________

What’s your education level?

________________________________________________________________________

What kind of cologne do you wear?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you have a hairy ass?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you manscape your man region?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you have ugly toes?

________________________________________________________________________

Boxers or Briefs?

________________________________________________________________________

What’s your favorite food?

________________________________________________________________________

If you were a pizza what would your toppings be?

________________________________________________________________________

What’s your favorite alcoholic beverage?

________________________________________________________________________

Can you and do you dance?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you play any instruments?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you work out?

________________________________________________________________________

What’s your favorite movie?

________________________________________________________________________

Are you on MySpace?

________________________________________________________________________

Where is your ideal date?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you cuddle after sex or do you fake heartburn in order to get out of the girl’s room?

________________________________________________________________________

Have you ever been married?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you have any kids?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you have a job? Is it full-time or part-time?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you own a vehicle?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you live in your mom’s guest bedroom or do you have your own home/apartment/edifice?

________________________________________________________________________

If you were a girl and had a sister would you make out with her?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you have a gambling problem?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you have a criminal record? Have you ever been charged with a felony?

________________________________________________________________________

Do you do drugs?

________________________________________________________________________

If requested to do so would you be able to cut down a tree with a herring?

________________________________________________________________________

Would you still love me if I lost a leg?*

________________________________________________________________________

*for the Daniel Tosh fans out there.

Get cracking fellas!