Tag Archives: Creative

My time as an Uber driver in Washington D.C.

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Thursday, 10:37 p.m., Pennsylvania Ave and 20th St.

There I was, a well-regarded Uber driver with an impeccable 5-star average rating, lounging in the back seat of my own car, sandwiched by a pair of buxom Russian lasses with unspeakable intentions. There was desire in the air, risk in the offing, breasts in my face, and I saw no reason to hold back. Promiscuity isn’t typically on the menu of an upstanding chauffeur just trying to make a buck, but when twin Eastern goddesses climb into your vehicle wearing less than Winnie the Pooh and demanding you take them to “Destination Pleasure Town,” you abide like The Dude at a bowling alley.

And you leave the meter running, because they insisted.

“Take me! Take me!” Natalya cried repeatedly, her long legs splayed on top of mine, her firm loins girding for gratification.

“You really are a shot of life, Natalya,” I panted huskily.

“It’s Tatyana,” she replied.

“Whatever,” I said.

Locked in the throes of passion, I barely noticed Ulyana — or was it Olga? — stop stroking my hair to reach down for her purse. She quickly produced a fresh cupcake, licking it seductively before offering it my way.

“It is from Georgetown Cupcake,” she muttered through a honeyed accent thicker than the chocolate frosting at her fingertips. “Have you heard of this?”

Even in the midst of copulation, I managed to roll my eyes in her direction, for I am a self-respecting D.C. denizen who dutifully avoids the products of overhyped tourist trap bakeries unless they are fed to me by naked Russian ladies.

“Feed me, Ulyana, my sweet!” I cried as she shoved the luscious confection into my face.

Suddenly a frantic rap came at the window, and I jumped for fear that the fun was coming to a swift end. Thankfully, it was only just beginning.

“Do not worry,” Tatyana reassured me. “It is only our friend, Svetlana. May she join as well?” Continue reading My time as an Uber driver in Washington D.C.

Bathroom found, sanity at large

“Excuse me, where’s the bathroom?”

Just head towards the back of the restaurant until you find the emergency exit door. Once you push that open, climb down the fire escape and you’ll see three side alleys ahead of the massive garbage compost you just landed in. You’ll walk through scattered colonies of diseased rats and heroin addicts if you pick the first one on your right, and you’ll likely get stabbed if you choose the one next to that, so I definitely recommend you opt for the first alley on your left side when you’re facing the abandoned parking lot. From there just go straight until you see a scruffy ne’er-do-well named Rufus, who will kindly offer you the piss bucket and let you know what a dumbass you are.

“Right upstairs, sir,” I reply while pointing to the nearby staircase whose sparkling “Restroom” sign and suggestive arrow would render this search too elementary for a segment of Blue’s Clues.

Waiting tables in Georgetown is about more than just raking in mad tips off deep-pocketed schmucks too inebriated to notice or care that gratuity was already included. It’s about the process of throwing oneself headlong into the social melting pot, or the act of engaging with men and women from all walks of life and realizing, no matter which corner of the globe they’re from or what language they speak, people just aren’t particularly competent creatures. Because I don’t care how many minions work for you on Capitol Hill; if you need to ask me about the difference between a falafel burger and a veggie burger, there’s just no way your daily consumption of valuable natural resources can be justified.

These are the kind of thoughts that cling to me as I march toward dreaded table 23, a party of four whose bewildered faces give them away as one of those families making its annual trip out of the house for dinner. They stare at the menus as if they’re clutching copies of Mitt Romney’s tax returns, and I can’t help but dread what my spiel about the evening’s specials will do to their feeble minds. Continue reading Bathroom found, sanity at large

Thanksgiving story

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The thought of Thanksgiving always makes me smile because it reminds me of my senile old uncle, Col. Shelton Haybasket. At every Thanksgiving when I was growing up, Uncle Shelton would gather all the children in the family together and tell us the captivating story of how Thanksgiving came about. He would always begin the story the same way:

“Go get me a beer, dag nabbit!”

But Uncle Shelton is currently off in an infirmary somewhere, so allow me to relay the classic tale in his stead.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, the Pilgrims, tired of Europe’s annoying tolerance for chain smokers and French people, set sail for America. According to history buffs, they arrived sometime between the 12th and 18th centuries, the “Age of Not Knowing Where America, or Even Asia for God’s Sake, Is.” Continue reading Thanksgiving story

The importance of being drunkest

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Like most people, I came out of high school as dumb as a cow. But thanks to the thousands of dollars my parents have spent on my college education, I can now say with some confidence that I am at least twice as smart as the average cow – and probably even smarter than the smartest cow in all of Albemarle County.

Indeed, after four semesters of college, I have learned a great deal, including:

1. Thomas Jefferson, our nation’s fifth Latin-American president, is responsible for our freedom, our University and according to GQ magazine, our douchebaggery. He also invented the Gus burger, Louisiana, cheese and gravity, among other things.

2. Without Mother, the seemingly simple tasks of placing the toilet paper on that rack contraption and cleaning dirty dishes by hand are nearly impossible.

3. Facebook is the most reliable news source available today.

4. Globalization is happening and it involves the globalizing of the globe or something like that.

5. Heavy drinking impairs learning, and sometimes even column-writing. Continue reading The importance of being drunkest

Edgar Allan Poe: dead, but still kicking

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One thing I’ve noticed about the University is the great respect it gives to its mentally deranged student demographic, the one driven by severe sleep deprivation, manic depression and a proclivity for being named John Nelson.

Totally kidding on that last one, of course. But not really. I don’t know the guy, but I hear he’s in charge of some self-righteous political organization, thus automatically making him kind of a tool and worthy of some serious, ungrounded heat from the belligerent media.

But I’m a nice guy, so I’m not going to do that. Instead, I’d like to look back on the legacy of the University’s first mentally unstable student, the great Edgar Allan Poe, whose 200th birthday the University library is honoring this year with a special exhibition portraying the author’s enduring influence. To conclude the exhibition’s opening ceremony, one University official eloquently put forth the significance of the bicentennial, noting, “If Poe were alive today, he would be one decrepit-looking old dude.” Continue reading Edgar Allan Poe: dead, but still kicking

April is (not) the cruelest month

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You know what they say: “April showers bring May flowers.” This old adage, which is a slightly adapted version of the even older Pacific Islander expression, “April showers bring much death and destruction,” seems to adequately sum up the current state of the University community.

After putting up with all of March’s crap, including the persistent cold weather, Daylight Savings Time, the basketball coaching controversy, the commencement speaker controversy, the switch to SIS and Twitter, we are finally ready to move on and put up with all of April’s crap, including taxes, spring cleaning, Kelly Clarkson’s birthday, the onslaught of allergies and mysterious egg-dealing bunny rabbits.

Yes, there are a myriad of things to get excited about in April, which according to the omniscient Professor Internet, has been deemed by federal lawmakers as National Pecan Month, Irritable Bowel Syndrome Month, Women’s Eye Health and Safety Month and, of course, National Straw Hat Month. Here are just a few highlights of the next 30 days: Continue reading April is (not) the cruelest month

Bloodthirsty birdflesh

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Times are tough. We are in the midst of a horrendous economic crisis, thousands are dying needlessly in conflicts overseas and innocent people all over America continue to be subjected to Nickelback on their radio stations. Locally, a backwards honor referendum is being passed (or are they? I wrote this thing four days ago, people.) Students are coping with the loss of their most trusted news Web site (Juicy Campus), biweekly Cavalier Daily columnists continue to work without pay and needy underage punks constantly pester surprisingly old second-years named Nick Eilerson to buy them beer.

Now throw all that in a pot and stir it up with a smorgasbord of personal problems: I recently suffered a sprained ankle, am still recovering from yet another bout of football-related depression (or, in medical terms, Rooting-For-the-Dallas-Cowboys syndrome), continue to live in Gooch/Dillard and was recently dumped by my girlfriend of three years, Selma Hayek. Continue reading Bloodthirsty birdflesh

21, here I come

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Like most people my age, I realize I am statistically likely to die this week. According to the U.S. Bureau of Questionable Statistics, 55 percent of 20-year-olds fear drowning themselves on their 21st birthday, while 76 percent actually do drown themselves. Yes, I am on the verge of becoming just another statistic, as I turn 21 Wednesday.

For the average American college student, this final rite of passage into adulthood can mean a number of fun and diverse things, such as eliminating all those unwanted excess brain cells, losing complex skills like walking and completing a sentence, obtaining a renewed fascination with toilets, depleting one’s credit card by buying drinks for anything that moves or makes noise, feeling suddenly less inhibited to remove one’s clothes in public, annihilating one’s liver, puking all over … well … everything and even waking up in prison the next day. My 21st could very well involve all this and more, but here is how I envision the night playing out:

I roll into Coupe’s with my usual weekend posse of anywhere between 10 and 35 of the finest babes on Grounds. I take a seat at the bar, and the bartender says, “What can I get you? Pepsi? Sprite? A juice-box perhaps?”

The ladies giggle and begin to caress me sympathetically.

“Watch the hair,” I warn them. To the bartender I cockily reply, “How ‘bout a Heineken?” Continue reading 21, here I come

The true meaning of Christmas

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There are questions that have baffled scientists for millions of years: What the heck is eggnog? Better yet, what the heck is “figgy pudding?” And why do the carolers who sing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” always force their listeners to get in the kitchen and fix them several batches of it? Talk about rude! I mean, let’s get real — if the main ingredient in this stuff truly is figs (I don’t know what they are, either), can it really be that delicious?

These important issues naturally lead into a slightly less important, yet equally relevant question: What is the true meaning of Christmas? To find out, let us examine a few of this holiday’s most cherished traditions.

According to the disciples of Jesus, the most important element of Christmas is the depletion of one’s bank account via purchasing gratuitous numbers of gifts for one’s parents, siblings, friends, cousins, second-cousins, second-cousins’ cats, ex-spouses, and ex-spouses’ brothers’ nephews’ pet sheep. For years humans, particularly of the female gender, have been wandering aimlessly into stores and buying random cute, little items in bulk, which they then cover in cute wrapping paper and couple with cute Christmas cards depicting fat, bearded men and large, antlered mammals. This strange practice, one that many women begin as early as July, apparently originated in biblical times, when shepherds got sweet deals at Best Buy and were able to buy the baby Jesus an Xbox 360 and Call of Duty: World at War for the price of just two arms and a leg. As the infamously incoherent Little Drummer Boy so eloquently explains in his famous song, “Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum, to lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum…” Continue reading The true meaning of Christmas

The art of manliness

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It’s a question I get all the time — “Nick, how did you get to be so darned manly?”

The answer I give to people is never clear. Typically, I just demonstrate the old front double biceps pose, followed by a simple front abdominal/thigh isolation pose and then insist emphatically, “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The signs are all there: gigantic cinder blocks of muscle popping out of every conceivable area of my body (scientists recently discovered that I have more muscle in my index finger than the average adult male has in his entire arm), massive amounts of facial hair, a tendency to single-handedly construct large buildings when bored, hitting puberty at age seven and owning more Old Spice products than socks. Continue reading The art of manliness