Well, on account of you being almost at 10,000 posts...


I think that you should tell a couple of stories....and post a couple of really nifty ones as your 10,000th. Because we love you.


And I'm bored.



Alright, Tell us a story!

Do not for any reason sit on that man's lap.

Don't stroke his beard either. You have no idea where that thing's been.

10K

This is one of my more elaborate (and vulgar, I mention it in the pet peeves topic over at the BnB) stories, but is really better suited to in-person presentations and is wildly popular in such venues. That said, this seems as good a time to tell it here as any. It describes the wildest morning of my life.

Edit: 2:15 AM. Realized that the second part of this story may well be pushing it so turned the computer back on. It's now spoiler tagged. If you're young or easily offended, don't de-spoiler it. Even with the board censors in place, it's still probably something you don't want to be seeing. Without further ado, the first time ever in print:

Saturday (or Pufer Collects Rent)

In addition to owning a number of apartment complexes, my family also manages complexes for other people. These folks range from really high quality folks running large, really nice complexes to slumlords who pay us to do nothing but go down and pick up the rent at their craphole complexes once a month. This is a story about the slums owned by one of our slumlords.

I'm usually not the guy who gets to deal with these places, but one Saturday morning, everybody was sick or in Mexico and I was the only one left to go hit up the late-payers at a few properties. The first couple hits went fine. I knocked on the door, they came and gave me their rent, I gave them a receipt, and I went on.

The third place of the day was one of the stranger places managed by us. In order to access the place, you had to jump a short chainlink fence into a backyard, shuffle across the backyard and duck through a hole in a wooden fence into the next backyard, go through a bush, and then end up looking at the back end of a garage in yet a third backyard. The guy who rented this lovely studio with convenient backyard access was a 60-year-old crackhead named Lawrence.

I knocked on Lawrence's door a couple times and got no response. I then went over to the window a few feet away to see if I could see him in there. Now, just because there is a window a few feet away doesn't mean that there was glass in the window a few feet away and I found myself looking down at the top of Lawrence's head as he sat asleep in a chair. I said, "Heya Lawrence." Nothing. I said it again louder. Still nothing. I tapped him lightly on the top of his head and he jumped suddenly to attention.

"Who you?"

"You know me Lawrence, I'm the landlord. You got your rent?"

"Yeah sure. I's on 'dat table, man."

"You gonna' bring it to the door and give it to me?"

"Yeah sure. Gimme' a minute."

"Okay."

I shuffle back over to the door and wait. After a couple minutes, Lawrence opens the door and I notice that he's standing there stark naked. Now, Lawrence was a spooky looking tall, old African American who had been smoking crack for the past decade and probably didn't weigh 100 pounds. He looked a little bit like a confused black holocaust survivor, but I didn't let it phase me. I was there for the rent, and didn't much give a shit how Lawrence wanted to dress.

So he handed me the cash, I counted it out and wrote him a receipt. I tore it out of my book and handed him the book to sign for receipt of the receipt. He signed it and then suddenly froze holding my pen and uttered a question that will live on in my memory forever.

"Is I wearin' any clothes?"

"Naw, Lawrence. You ain't."

"So you can see my dick?"

"Yup."

"Huh. Didn't I put on my pants when you woke me up."

"Beats me, man. Hows'about giving me my pen back."

"Oh. Sorry."

"No problem, man. Take it easy Lawrence."

"I'll wear pants next time."

"You do that."

I went back out to my car, jumped in and took off to the next complex. This was going to be a story for my compadres at the next bar night. The next complex was halfway across town and by the time I got there, it was past 10 AM. 10 AM is good because it meant that my next hit was already going to be outside on the front stoop of the building with his first beer of the day.

I showed up and the old man (I can't remember his name offhand, but he was a friendly old African American dude who couldn't have been less than 80) had already settled into his usual place on the stoop with his beer. He used his social security checks to do three things: pay the rent, buy food for his dog, and buy a case of beer every day. I came up, he offered me a beer, I declined, we discussed how windy it was that morning, and he gave me the rent. Easy as pie and uninteresting, but his presence there and the fact that it was windy are important for the ending of this story.

My next hit lived in the back of the building that the old guy lived at, so I went past him and to the front door of the apartment in question where I knocked. Now this place was arranged such that the door entered into the kitchen that backed to the bedroom, so the bedroom window was maybe six feet from the door. Getting no response at the door, I banged on the bedroom window figuring that maybe she was still asleep inside.

"Stop ######ing knocking, you know the door is open, come in."

I shrug and shuffle on inside as the door really is unlocked. I go over to the bedroom door and look in only to find her naked with some dude all over her.

"Stop looking and sit down, ######. I'll be with you in fifteen minutes."

I'm not expecting this, and I'm somewhat at a loss as to what to say or do. I shuffle over to the couch, push a big pile of crap off of it so I can sit, and do so. However, these places are pretty small and don't really have interior doors so I can still see what's going on in the bedroom. As I'm watching while pretending not to, the dude unzips and starts pumping her for all he's worth.

I consider my position in this and think hard about who exactly this woman is supposed to be. Suddenly, I remember who it is that I'm dealing with (remember, I'm not usually the one who deals with these complexes, she's relatively new and I have never actually met this woman) and realize that I'm currently waiting in line at the friendly local prostitute's apartment!

Alright, I'm fine with that, I'll give this poor bastard a couple minutes to finish up, and then I'm hitting her up for the rent. While I wait, I consider what type of loser I'd have to be to be willing to pay for this woman who I'm currently watching have unprotected sex with some random guy off the street. I then consider what type of loser this guy is for actually having unprotected sex with this woman who will give it up to any random guy off the street.

Time passes as I consider these things and I realize that the mother######er is pulling out every few seconds to cool off before going at it again. He looks over at me and sneers. The ###### is milking his time and showing off to my gringo ass that he can make it last. ######. I yell out, "Hey, how about hurrying the ###### up in there."

"###### you man, I said I'll be with you in a couple ######ing minutes."

"This ###### is taking his time. I have shit I need to do today."

"###### you, I'm giving him a good time. Get the ###### out of my apartment."

"###### that. What, you not good enough that you can finish him off and get to me?"

<silence>

"Yeah, that's what I thought. So ######ing loose that you couldn't get this ###### off quickly if you tried."

"###### you, I tole' you to get the ###### out."

The john speaks for the first time in a heavy Spanish accent: "Hey, I hope you like sloppy joes, pinche puta." as he blows his load inside her.

He gets off her, wipes his dick on the bed, and zips up. I consider bringing his attention to the fact that it's "sloppy seconds" not "sloppy joes,"� but for the first time it occurs to me that I might have just put myself in a bad position here. My heart begins to race as he turns around to bitch at her. There's no chance of getting out if he wants to discuss the situation with me, I have to go past the bedroom to get to the door. I have a gun in my ankle holster, and I'm bigger than him, but still. I ######ed this one up big. I have no real right to be in here.

I stand and puff myself up, the adrenaline is pumping. He walks out of the bedroom and says something to me in Spanish that I couldn't catch on his way out. He just got his rocks off and isn't looking for a fight, thank God, but ###### that was close. I try to catch my breath.

After a few deep breaths, I shuffle to the doorway as she's wiping her crotch. She lays into me with a solid fifteen seconds of obscenities, ending with "Get the ###### out of my goddamn house or I'll call the cops." I'm back in it.

"That's ######ing rich. Where's your rent."

"######ing ######, don't think I'll call... What?"

"Your rent. I'm the manager. I'm supposed to be here at 10 remember?"

She rapidly tries to cover herself up. "I don't got any money."

"What's that?" She has the 'donation' from the john still sitting on her dresser.

"###### you. GET THE ###### OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

"You're already a week late, if you don't get me anything, we're going to have to kick..."

<screaming> "GET THE ###### OUT! OUT! GO! GO!"

I get the ###### out. I walk back to the front of the complex to find that the old guy is being cited for drinking in public by a cop. I look out to the street and see his partner is looking at my vehicle suspiciously as if he recognized it. I call out, "What the ###### you doing to my car, flatfoot." He looks back, recognizes me as one of his good friends, laughs, and comes up to the stoop to shake my hand. Just as he gets there, I hear, "Where is that mother######er? Hey ######, I have your goddamn money you piece..."

I turn around and it's my good friend the prostitute who threw on some sort of cheap kimono thing and ran out to give me her rent. She didn't, however, expect to catch up with me standing on the front stoop shaking hands with a member of the local constabulary. She straight up freezes dead. Silence. My buddy looks back and forth between her and me, the other cop hasn't been sure what the hell has been going on ever since I yelled at his partner, and the old dude is gawking at her like she was the second coming of Christ.

I break the suspense, go over to the woman, take the money she has in her hand, write her a receipt, and thank her for the rent. She's still in shock, standing there trying to mutter something as the old dude says, "Psst! You're showing." Remember the fact that it's windy? She didn't have time to throw anything on underneath the flimsy kimono thing.

She collects herself embarrasedly (yes, embarrasedly) and runs quickly back to her apartment. My cop buddy looks at me and says, "There has to be a story here."

-Pufer

You really ought to write a book of these or something.

Congratulations on the 10,000th post Pufer.

Thanks for the yarn; I wish you many more chances to educate us....

Wow.

I salute you.

Congratulations on 10K of posts.

The story was about as unusual and good as I expected, but I can see how it would be better told in person. I still look forward to seeing if you decide to write down any more of these stories.

awesome.

Thanks for the congrats, everyone. Couldn't have done it without you.



I wish. I don't act like a belligerent arsehole anywhere near frequently enough to have enough material to fill a book.

I mean, I know a guy who worked press on the Beatles' American tours. He has a bunch of stories about how people would fight over his cigarette butts because they were remotely associated with the Beatles, how adoring women would tear off his clothes to get momentos from being so close to the guys, and how he would stay up until dawn playing Monopoly with John, George, and Ringo almost every night during their first tour (John Lennon was obsessed with getting Park Place and Broadway in every game, George Harrison loved the B&O Railroad for some reason). They're good stories because they give you insight into what the Beatles were doing with themselves behind closed doors, but ultimately there aren't all that many of them that are hilarious or anything. Taken as a whole, they wouldn't really have all that much mass appeal.

I'm a pretty good contextual story teller. In the midst of a conversation, I'll hit on something that brings forth a story about something or other and I'll launch into it. I have a lot of these types of stories that draw upon my own or other peoples' experiences (like I'll retell one of the Beatles tour stories, crediting my friend Art, if the conversation turns to the Beatles and I think the crowd would be interested, or my grandfather's Brooks Brothers story in the shoe tree topic).

When called upon to do a story without any sort of lead in, my options are rather more limited. I can't tell a story that's relevant to the conversation because there isn't a conversation. The best thing in such a situation is to tell one of my humorous stories about my various adventures. The problem is that, while if I were to list all the weird stuff that I've done over the years most folks would conclude that I've lived a very interesting life, but the problem is that, like with Art and his Beatles tour stories, while it sounds really good on paper, there aren't all that many stories that are all that great if you don't know if the audience cares about them or not.

My heckling a prostitute story is good because it not only refers to something that virtually nobody has ever or will ever do, and also happens to have enough wildly improbable elements in it that can make it very humorous when I'm telling it properly. It's also relatively long, so it fills the room calling for a story scenario very well.

Take Tucker Max. He does have enough stories to fill a book, and has actually done so a couple times. What's different? Well, adjusting for age, he's an intelligent white guy who tells stories well from a family that owns a bunch of restaurants and went to a top law school, whereas I'm an intelligent white guy who tells stories well from a family that owns a bunch of apartments and is going off to a top law school. Superficially, relatively similar. The thing is, he lives his life in such a manner that he can come up with books worth of stories from his tendency to go out, get shitfaced, be a belligerent dickhead, and get laid constantly. I live my life in such a manner that I visit the ASW webboards every night, don't get shitfaced or laid, and only sporatically get to be a belligerent dickhead. Tucker Max has a bunch of books, a wildly popular website, and a hundred really great stories to tell when he is asked for one. I publish a political guide that isn't especially well known, have 10,000 posts on a webboard, and maybe a dozen really great stories to tell when asked for one to go along with endless list of contextual stories that are dependent entirely on what's going on around me. Even though I have the disposition necessary to create a body of stories the likes of which could compete with Mr. Max's stuff (I mean, if he was heckling a prostitute while she was with a john, the story would've started off with him and a bunch of beers, whereas I did it just being normal old sober me), I just don't create enough wild, screwed up situations for myself to have the material.

Alright. That was too damn long and far too rambling. But that's what I'm getting at. Whenever I'm not wasting time writing long ass posts here that virtually nobody will actually read all the way through, I have time to be a big enough jackass to get enough material for a book. The problem is that I'm never not wasting an hour writing long ass posts here (or doing some other similar pointless thing). I like doing it though, so I'm not going to change anytime soon.

-Pufer

Actually, I formed a completely different conclusion. Tucker Max has picked a topic (being a shitfaced belligerent asshat) and has specialized in that. You have stories from a huge verity of sources and situations. From bandcamp to the beetles
All you need to do is to find a linking topic; perhaps an analysis on a certain belligerent mindset? Or something.


Alternatively, you could just pick the funniest stories and put them in a book and or, a Blog.


Both would be wildly popular, of course.

I can't help but wonder what Pufer would be at without his WAF/Describe the one above/what are you doing now?/ etc posts though.

The big one is WAF, followed by the what are you listening to topics, what did you just do, and This or That? I didn't really post in the describe the one above topic or really a number of the other games, but I've posted a lot in those that I like.

Adding up all the spammy topics that I can think of, they account for around 2200 of my posts, which is a lot. However, that means that I'd still be pushing 8000 and would be amongst the top-30 postcounts even if those spam topics didn't exist. The fact that I've always been a regular across three boards has jacked up my postcount fairly substantially.

-Pufer

Pufer, you are a brilliant man. Probably one of the most interesting people I have encountered. Even if you do never write a book, I'm glad I have access to the posts you make here daily. Now, to end this post the right way.

-Pufer

Heh, I used to skim over or skip your long posts. Then I read one of them one time and realized that this guy is actually pretty smart and occassionally funny (or maybe pretty funny and occassionally smart).

Yeah. I probably should write less, but I can't bring myself to worry about it.

-Pufer

Considering that you're talking about how you're not writing a book, that's a great quote. By the way, which law school are you going to?

Don't know yet, the cycle isn't over. You can check out where I stand at any given time here: http://www.lawschoolnumbers.com/display.php?user=pufer

dude3: Deferred means different things to different schools, but it basically means that your decision is being deferred to a second look of some variety. In the case of Berkeley, for instance, it means that Dean Tom (head of admissions) wouldn't let me in unilaterally, but I was a quality enough candidate to make it through to to the faculty admissions committee. Decision deferred to fac-comm. If you (or anyone else) have any questions about preparing to apply to law school, send me a PM. It's worthwhile to begin thinking about it early.

-Pufer

In that case, I hope Boalt comes through for you. Goooooooooooooooooooo Bears!

And just think: you could be the next Earl Warren.

Pufer, the next time I get in trouble with the law I will be contacting you. It seems like a good idea.

I can't quite find the words to express how much I approve of this post.

You've got quite a impressive roster of applications there (based on their undergrad reputations anyway, I know squat about law schools) though, so I'll be interested in seeing where you end up.

Perhaps I am a bit late in my reaction to Pufer's story-forgive me.

Pufer. <3. That was AMAZING. I was sitting at work laughing out loud. Beautiful.

-Veccy

Man, I hope so too.



All the schools I applied to are all top tier (except UNM, but it was mostly a safety) and I'm probably not going to drop below 36th ranked at this point. I'm still hoping Top-14 (top-10 is meaningless for law schools, T-14 is where it's at) with one of the three remaining apps (Berkeley, UVa, Cornell) I have up there.

-Pufer

Ooh, you got accepted to my school (Boulder - but as I'm not in Law, I have no idea how good the law school is here).

What does the "index" column mean? There's a bit of a description on the site, but it doesn't seem to be a standardized formula among all the schools (or at least, different schools don't appear to be using the same constants in their formula).

The index number isn't especially useful. It's an aggregation of LSAT and GPA into school-specific scales. It can tell you stuff like what type of applicants you're similar to even if your stats don't match particularly well (a 165/3.5 might have the same index number as a 170/2.97 and a 160/4.03 at a particular school, for instance, so their odds would theoretically be equal in a world that was entirely different than this one and actually fair). It's an intraschool applicant comparison number.

I'm actually typing this from a hotel room in Louisville, I'll be touring the facilities at Boulder tomorrow.

-Pufer

That's interesting, I'll be within a half mile of Pufer. Now I'm thoroughly expecting some kind of random extraordinary event to happen tomorrow.

This makes me want another meet.

And wow, Pufer. Whenever I read through a topic, your posts are always the most anticipated - but I've never really read anything quite like that. I'm going to show it to friends and brag about this awesome dude I know on the internet

Bravo.

Yess! Meet! Meet!

-Veccy

I would eat my neighbor's dog to get Pufer to come to Reno.

I'd cook it for you.

Heh. The ol' travel funds are looking pretty scant with this weekend's Boulder jaunt and a flight out to Boston next week, so there's probably no Reno visit in the works for the forseeable future.

Hey Av, whereabouts are you living in/around Boulder (don't worry, I'm back in ABQ so you don't have to worry about me showing up suddenly)?

-Pufer

I suggest that the Reno crew (and any other West Coasters who want to join) migrate East sometime this summer. Preferably in August. Thoughts?

-Veccy

There's definitely a knack for storytelling that some people have and that some people don't. I will hypothesize that Pufer certainly has this knack, unlike myself. Anyway, it was a damn good read, as I sit here bored between classes. I sometimes wish my life would be a little interesting, but we can't all have entertaining anecdotes at the ready every second of every minute. Ah well, best of wishes for your acceptances and whatnot.

Come to New York City at the end of August. I'll totally be there.

There is a chance I'll end up on the west coast sometime over the summer. If this happens, I'll let you know.

Possibly Veccy... however, that would mean lots of money that I currently don't have. So... yeah, money must be made first. Second - Chicago is coming to Reno in August. And there's no way in hell I'm missing it!

The first time I read this sentence, it confused the crap out of me.

It's okay.. I forgive you..

That raises even MORE questions...

Is your previous statement a promise of inquiry? I'm intrigued.

Pufer-

I am curious how you pronounce your name. I say "Poof-er" but do you say "Puff-er"?

-Veccy (inquiry managed)

Puffer

-Pufer

Curses. Foiled again.

-Veccy

Duly noted and ignored.

Werd.

So other people made the same mistake?

Phew.

-Veccy

Holy posting spree, Vecoriwen. Back from the deaaad.


Define 'east coast'.

I specifically remember an instance where Pufer told us it was Poofer.

Perhaps I am mistaken. But of course, that rarely happens

Dude, I know. But, I'm glad to be back.

East coast meaning New England, I'm thinking.

I think I might've said something like "it could be pronounced 'Doc,'" but short of that, it's always been Puffer.



If I go to BC, I'll host.

-Pufer

BC...as in British Columbia?