Shake Hands With Beef!
by lakrfool
April 5, 2007
*

Hi, my name is lakrfool, and I'm an alcoholic. (you're supposed to say "hi lakrfool.")

But enough about that, let's just focus on me. Yes, I have been on hiatus for a while..a sabbatical if you will. Nestled in the mountains of Yemen with a loosely associated tribe of wildly comedic sherpas and a stand-up shaman, I was able to get "the funny" back. And along the way I lost 175 precious pounds in Tucson that I would really like to have back, but such is life. Oh well, enough of this hemming and hawing…let's get down to business.

**

The other day I was talking to a friend about the state of the stoner/desert rock scene. We were discussing the parallels betweenKyuss recognized as the founding fathers of the genre, and Fu Manchu the current kings of stoner rock. I was then reminded of a story from my days in Santa Monica that my buddy Patrick shared with me about working at an independent guitar shop with Brad, the lead guitarist for Fu Manchu.

Late one summer night we had fired up a "cuppa two tree" (©JK) rounds of Humbolt's finest as we melted into the couch to watch one of my favorite TV shows of all time, "Nightstalker," featuring the lateDarren McGavin. I related to Patrick that I had just picked up the latest Fu CD at the local used record shop, and he began to spin this yarn about the guitar shop he worked at with Brad.

A bunch of musicians were employed at the store for their expertise, and they also happened to be an outstanding collection of smartasses. Over time, it had become a storewide goal of sorts to demean the customers as much as possible for their own entertainment.

For example, a couple of guys with feathered hair came in asking about a particular guitar, and Patrick pulled one off the wall and said "this would be perfect for your gay ass Culture Club cover band." Another time, a mother and her bratty kid came in, and he wanted to be a "guitar player" and have Patrick hook him up. When Patrick asked what kind of music he liked, the kid replied "Duran Duran." Patrick
then hollered across the store "Hey Brad!! Do we have any more of the Nerf guitars for severely retarded children!!" That kind of shit.

As you can expect, many customers became irate at them and theirs being made a spectacle of, and demanded to speak to the manager. The manager was cool as hell, but came off as a hardcore, toe-the-line, corporate guy when he needed to. The customer would then relate their beef to the manager, and he would look them in the eye, nodding affirmatively with them along the way.

When they were finished, the manager would call the offending employee over, confront him with his offense, and after he acknowledged it, he would tell them:

"Get your timecard and report to my office. You're fired!"

Patrick said while the manager was smoothing over everything with the customer, he would go lay down on the couch in the breakroom, and light a cigarette.

About five minutes later, the manager, after impressing the customer with his impressive show of authority in commitment to customer service would make the sale, would come into the breakroom, and start cracking up.

He would then repeat and critique what Patrick said to the customer, laugh about it some more, and tell Patrick to come back out the floor in about 5 minutes. Patrick held the record for getting fired 4 times during a 10 hour shift. Good stuff.

Also, when Patrick finished his story, we realized that Nightstalker had ended, and an infomercial for some sort of electroshock pain-relieving device had taken its place. We soon discovered that Evel Knievel was one of their pitchmen, and he was elaborating on the fantastic painkilling qualities of the product. When Evel delivered the following "big pitch" line, we found it to be quite hilarious: "I highly recommend Product XYZ for those with nagging aches and pains…because believe me if there's one person that knows about pain, it's Evel Knievel." No shit man... (watch the last 2 vids in that hyperlink)

***

My work environs have changed since my last contribution. I have a new boss, and I now report to work in Plano instead of North Dallas. This is much better for me as my commute has been cut by 2/3rds, and let's just say that the "scenery" in the cube farm here is much more preferable than the old building. Wuff. It's like a Baskin Robbins sexeteria here, all the flavors you could possibly want.

There's a little Asian number that goes by the name of "Von Ngo." Even though I know the pronunciation is different, I am still half inclined to send her an email with my ear as an attachment. Love you long time GI.

You might recall that I am an urban commando of sorts, utilizing the combined efforts of my mountain bike and DART rail to get around The D. However, weather didn't cooperate last week, and I was forced to use a shuttle/rail/bus combo commute to get to/from work.

On the shuttle bus that at the end of the day carries my sorry ass from work to the DART station, there are a very entertaining "band of bruthahs" on the same shuttle. In my mind, I have nicknamed them "Big Bruthah," "Dredloxx," and "Other Brother." Their conversations are lively and colorful, usually centering around sports or getting pussy (not necessarily in that order.)

One day, Big Brutha used words to weave a delicate tapestry of an encounter he had experienced the evening before at an exotic club named "Peeping Tom's." I will now attempt to recreate this conversation using the vernacular in which it was presented.

*ahem*

"Yo n*gga! I rolled up ta Peepin Tum's last night, an dat bitch Cee Cee wuz dancin. (he then distributed a "bidness cahd" of said erotic entertainer…I believe the word "juicy" was used to describe her physical attributes) An yo n*gga, when she come slidin down dat pole, I said 'yo, this n*gga gonna get his ass a lap dance from dat ho. (this was received by his comrades with much gusto.) Yo check it…I
waved her ass ovah ta me an akst her how much fo a lap dance. She said 'fohtee' an I said 'coo' and she stahted ta git awl up on me, straddlin me an slappin me round wit her big ass floppy tiddies. (again, the fellas were highly amused with this revelation) So she did dat fo a while, an den dat bitch slid down an stahted grindin her shit awl up an dahn my dick, an lickin me in my erruh. Man, when she did dat, I said 'yo fuck dis' and I cumm-ded awl up awn myseff."

At this point, the bruthas erupted and were howling with laughter, yours truly included. See, this is the kind of entertainment you don't get on the expressway parked in traffic in your SUV. Fuck Howard Stern and all the self-styled "radio personalities" jamming the airwaves with their douchenuggetry. Give me all the ethnicities, punks, gangstas, freaks, hookers, homeless and retards every day, and twice on Sunday. That's how I "maintain one's authenticity" (AKA 'keep it real.')

****

The other night me and my buddy Ken (the self proclaimed "Rock And Roll Chef" of Dallas) and I were attending a late night engagement of an exclusive organization of which we are both members. Afterwards, we were chatting up some females on the sidewalk, when I noticed apeculiar advertisement for an adjacent deli. (That's me by the way, staying in character.)

Then across the street, Ken spied this dining establishment. (me again, still in character) There seemed to be a theme at play here, and we deemed it worthy of a "Kodak moment."

As we were driving home, I was still speculating on the comedic potential of the deli. I then came up the idea that we could employ Ken's older brother Chris (my Best Man at my wedding) who is a
burgeoning documentarian, for a prank.

Under the premise of being a food critic for a local access cable channel, I would interview the proprietor of the deli about his specialty. Here would be my line of questioning.

"So I see in your window that this is the 'home of the johnson.' Could you tell me about your johnson??"

"I see, so how big is the johnson??"

"How does the johnson come??"

"Do you have packages of condomm…ents for a big johnson??"

And…

"In the interest of substitutions, could I get some tuna to come on my big johnson??"

And so on…
*****
Here is the first cartoon in a series entitled "MEN" by my Lakerbrother and good friend Splunge.  He told me National Lampoon owns the rights to it already, so no reason not to run it in here.  Good stuff.

******

As a parting gift, I offer you this. Last night after a run to the grocery, when I peeled off my cap, I noticed atop my reflection an outstanding head of superhero hair (a la the fleet Avenger, Quicksilver.) I attempted to capture it, but it came out kinda blurry. Or artish fartish, however you want to look at it.

Yes, this has been a long update, but I had to make up for lost time. Don't worry, there's plenty on the plate for next week, including details of my buddy Chris' wedding, and an in-depth analysis of dog loaves.

Cheers,

Shakes The Clown
lakrfool32@gmail.com
www.myspace.com/lakrfool

Shake Hands With Beef!
by lakrfool
April 13, 2007
OF LOAVES AND DISHES

This is Rocky, the min-pin that is currently the house dog at Chez Lakrfool. We have recently adopted him from my Mom, and he can be found sleeping on piles of dirty laundry, and marking his turf on stray soccer balls from our Hispanic neighbor's backyard. Sometimes in all of his glory, he lays down in the deepest, greenest patch of grass flat on his back, and suns himself, his junk soaking up all of the vitamin D it possibly can…I was going to snap a picture of Rocky's dick, but I understand the WVSR already has one of those.

One recent morning I was at the Wal Mart Supercenter in Plano (not really fertile ground to play "The Game") armed with a shopping list, and there towards the end was 'dog food.' So I wheeled past the propane grills and stacks of fertilizer bags to the pet section, and commenced looking for the cheapest stuff. Rocky turns his nose up at kibble, so I was in the market for canned dog food. I was checking out the six packs of Ol' Roy, the Wal Mart brand, when I noticed this…check the description underneath the brand name. The snickering commenced immediately (is there an entry for "lone man laughing aloud" in the WM Game??)  I wasn't sure if this was intended to elaborate on the product's qualities, or what you would be shoveling over the fence into the alley in a couple of days. 
Of course I bought it. 

So I arrived home, and the experiment began. When Rocky heard the unmistakable sound of a can's pull tab releasing the vacu-sealed goodness inside, he immediately started shredding the living room rug, cutting about 4-5 donuts in a celebratory dance of sorts. I fished a Popsicle stick out of the trash to scrape out the food, and went to the back patio where Rocky was greedily panting like Father O'Malley sitting poolside at a Boy Scout Jamboree. Without a doubt, Rockyreally dug the hearty loaf. In fact, he gave his dish a tour of half the backyard trying to savor every last morsel of ground testicles it had to offer.  Then like a lion after a fresh kill, he retired to the shade, licking his chops with satisfaction. 
Now for the final phase of the experiment, I had to be covert. Much like Our Fearless Leader, Rocky is not big on public displays of shittery, so I stationed myself in the back bathroom, and the waiting game commenced. I managed to multitask while at my station, in hopes that some aromatic encouragement would trigger Rocky's bowels to churn. Soon, Rocky rose to his paws, and began lumbering very deliberately towards the back fence. When he started "the walk," I raised my camera, and zoomed in for the money shot.  And lo, the Circle of Loaf was complete. Rocky had fertilized the ground, and someday a windstorm could carry the fertilized seed to a not so distant ranch, where it might grow and feed future cattle, and after slaughter the cattle's brains, intestines and genitals would be shipped to the Ol' Roy factory in Bentonville, Arkansas to be loafed again.
It's beautiful isn't it?? *reaches for Kleenex* 

** 

On the subject of loaves, I would like to reflect on a much stupider time in the late 80's when I was a drunken fraternity boor, and was offered accommodations by South Padre Island 's finest. 

My soph year of college a bunch of us took a self-appointed 'early' spring break and headed for Padre for a long weekend in late Feb. After a beer fueled 14 hour trip on a charted bus, 3am found us at the shittiest hotel on the beach, The Miramar, (read reviews) where we were bombing the adjacent hotel with water balloons and empties using some kind of surgical tube launcher. 

Inevitably, the cops showed up. Needless to say I was wasted, and asked the Hispanic officers "donde está Dunkin' Donuts?" Their answer was a prompt cuffing and stuffing, and they hauled me away. Turns out I was the only one in the whole jail that night. I found an empty bunk, and likely enjoyed a better night's slumber than huddled on the floor of that festering toilet of a "resort." 

The next morning I was rudely awakened from my slumber on the top bunk of my private cell by a guard who moved me into the 'holding tank' area...a large room with nothing but a toilet in the middle. I managed to find a corner in which to finish my sleep, and about an hour later breakfast was served: instant coffee and 2 pieces of dry white toast served in a cardboard dish. That was all. I sipped the bad tasting coffee, and it stirred in me the urge to complete the digestive process from my late afternoon, stoned trip to Taco Bell from the day before...plus all the cheap beer I had consumed.

I yelled to the guards for some toilet paper, but to no avail. I weighed the situation, and saw what had to be done. Since there was no one in the cell, the embarrassment factor would be minimal. I took my things and went over to the toilet, dropped my drawers, and assumed the position. The fury that was unleashed was amazing...even though the guards couldn't see me, I knew they could hear me, and somewhere deep down inside they gained a newfound respect for me.It lasted for perhaps a minute or two until completion, and then came the challenge (this is merely another chronicle in my history of toilet McGuyverism). There was no toilet paper, and given the things that were at my disposal, I proceeded to wipe my ass with the dry white toast.

The attempt with the first piece was a disaster, with a full finger poke-through and maximum breakage, the crumbs adhered themselves to the unwiped shit, and I began to regret my hangover fueled impromptu decision. However, the second piece was less toasted and more pliable, and armed with my experience on the previous attempt, I was able to 'rectify' some of the initial damage...but not 'wholly.'

For the sake of clarity, I must state that there is nothing quite likes the feeling of little croutons in a poorly wiped ass. No conceivable sitting or laying down position can provide any degree of comfort. I suffered there for another couple of hours, grimacing in various poses.My friends eventually came around noon and bailed me out. Upon arriving back at the hotel room, I went into the head and finished the job. A melted and crushed Kit Kat bar came to mind as I had the most satisfying asswipe in the history of all mankind. The sweet touch of industrial toilet paper was like the kiss of God, and I think I went at it until it bled…I just didn't want it to ever end. 

*** 

I know I gave a teaser last week for a recap of my buddy's wedding, but that will have to keep until another time, as the South Padre story seemed to complement Rocky's much better. 

So be your loaf hearty, or be your loaf toasted, eventually it all goes to shit. 

Excelsior!! 

Johnny Wadd

#11581 of 20000: lakrfool (LF) on Oct 18 '12 at (11:02:51 AM) 

I've had to relearn elevator etiquette with my new gig, but you know me. I think it would be awesome on a “day after machaca” kind of day, to put on a couple of pairs of adult diapers, get on the elevator when they are packed just after 5pm on like the 10th floor, & just let a violent pantload go. All the while, I’m staring at the door with the same simple grin on my face, oblivious to all the furious spattering & sputtering blasting forth from my rectum. Maybe be quietly humming Spandau Ballet’s “True” to myself. Yeah, that would be awesome.

#6255 of 20000: lakrfool (LF) on Sep 20 '12 at (11:37:23 AM) 

So last night I was polishing off some machaca I had made over the weekend, making soft tacos with refrieds, pico & a shot of Tapatio. I was thinking as I ate my fifth or sixth one that this was going to make for quite the bowel movement tomorrow. Dude. I just felt this convulsion in my bowel, the kind that screams "SHIT! NOW!!" As I walked to the boy's room & gravity started kicking in, I could tell this was going to be a savage dump. So savage in fact, that I took the elevator to another random floor to use it's facilities. I just started working here, & I don't care to be referred to as "that guy that putrified the men's room," thank you very much. After much butt clenching in the elevator, I arrived at the mystery stall, dropped trousers, & commenced with the fury. After a barrage of deafening sharts, the Sonoran steamer broke for freedom & snaked its way around the bowl. I think I shed a tear of joy when it finally broke off. Easily in my Top 10 of all time. And I was wise to go to another floor. There is a HAZMAT team in the front of the building. I'm sure somebody on that floor called 911 to report a toxic explosion.

#13163 of 13587: lakrfool (LF) on Jan 11 '13 at (07:42:29 PM) 

#13152 of 13152: EricT (Eric) on Jan 11 '13 at (06:54:20 PM) I love LF like a brother. But I gotta tell you, if we made it to a meet up together I'd be hard pressed not to organize a plan to hold him down and fold his penis a time or two. Funny story. There was a certain evening in SF where I met a gal at a pub, who was quite amorous, & we took the block & 1/2 stroll back to my place. We tumbled on my bed, & after about 30 seconds of violent mashing she was safecracking my jeans, & once she dialed in the code, she went to town. An epic BJ...slobbering with full hand action & twisting of the mouth on different angles. She knew her dicks, that was for sure. So of course after about a minute of this treatment, like any dude that doesn't have a Van Nuys area code, I blasted. I was drunk, but I wasn't THAT drunk, she had just played Fur Elise on my beef whistle, & got a standing ovation. Now here I was, the buzz of many beers & an epic orgasm floating through me, & this gal is leering at me for more. I knew I didn't have another one in me, but I felt obligated to try. I pushed her over & diddled her for the required amount of time when I get the salute from LF Jr that we we're good to go. Message not received. I had what I like to call a "medium bendable." We weren't ready for action, but we were doing tired calisthenics. She was no virgin, so she could receive a Summer sausage if needed. Bottom line, I folded my cock in half & jammed it into that slathery mess. She moaned approval...so I kept at it. But as my boner unfolded, the sex became impossible, & when I put my half-mast self into that canyon, there wasn't enough friction to keep Junior alive...that whore...totally her fault. So she left unsatisfied. & I went into the living room & played PGA Tour Golf with my roomates & smoked bowls. FTW

#4394 of 13587: lakrfool (LF) on Dec 06 '12 at (03:41:25 PM) 

The most savage handie I ever got was from a drunk blonde one night. It was the classic “you’re too drunk to drive, I will drive you home in your car” (then I will have dirty sex with you until you pass out.) So we get in the car, & we’re not out of the lot & she is already leaning over rubbing my tool. She was wearing a skirt, so I wasted no time reciprocating with the non-driving hand. After 5 minutes of the clumsy foreplay, we were at her apartment, & she ripped into my jeans as soon as I stopped the car, I leaned the seat back anticipating a beej, be she unsheathed my unit & put a death grip on it. Now, I can appreciate some pain with the pleasure, but this chick was out of hand…she seemed determined to test the tensile strength of my penis before it would snap in half. I’m sure Richard Petty’s stick shift in the Daytona 500 could sympathize with what I was enduring here. The purple helmet was deemed to explode if I didn’t intervene at some point. Being the guy that I am, I afforded her every opportunity to lighten up, but it was not meant to be. Part of me wondered if she had ever done this before, & she took ‘jerking off’ & ‘beating off’ literally. I didn’t have a white flag to wave, so I grabbed her by the wrist in a manner that let her know there would be no more roughhousing. She asked me “pleeeeease” to come in her apartment, & while I thought that this could be a freaky adventure, & I could get revenge by hammering on the floor into the corner of her bedroom, only to leave her weeping in a puddle of her own leavings, I wasn’t going to risk it. She had failed the first test, & she was out…RESPECT THE COCK.

#3019 of 13587: lakrfool (LF) on Dec 01 '12 at (01:43:43 AM) 

So I'm back home, pouring myself a glass of juice in the kitchen during the half, when my elderly Mom had just gotten off the phone with her sister, who lives by the farm they grew up on. She came into the kitchen, & here's how the conversation went: MOM: Awww, I just found out that the first love of my life died this week ME: I'm sorry. MOM: Yeah, he died of complications with lungs. ME: That's too bad. MOM: Yes, but he was getting on in his years, & his health had been poor for a while. ME: I guess so...what was his name? MOM: *sighs* Aww...sweet little Jimmy Dick. I was standing in front of her, & it was all I could muster not to do a cranberry juice spit-take right in her face, much less not laugh at all. Jeezis. Sweet little Jimmy Dick.