Caught Red-Handed

Once when I was a kid, I meandered into the living room where my Dad was sitting in his favorite recliner watching TV.

Something immediately caught my eye. I noticed Dad had white powder sprinkled all over the front of his shirt. I recognized it immediately. And I wanted some.

"Oh! I want some powdered donuts!"

"We don't have any powdered donuts," he replied dismissively. Apparently, he was oblivious to the half kilo of evidence clinging to his chest.

"But you have powdered sugar all over your shirt!" His brows furrowed and he frowned as he looked down at the incriminating dust.

He quickly brushed it off, leaving faint white streaks in the cotton fibers of his T-shirt. "We don't have any powdered donuts," he repeated.

I continued my protest as he tried to go back to watching television. But I wouldn't have it. I wanted some powdered donuts, and the evidence of their existence was right there in front of me.

Finally, he relented. "I ate all of them. There ain't none left."

Disappointed, I went back to my room.

The Opening...

Sorry for my delay, folks. My computer finally bit the dust, so I've got to steal a few minutes from work in order to post.

But to continue...

As I was saying, Shelley bungalow nights are always full of fun and merryment. She was living in her Aunt's back yard in Torrance before she married Matt. And as a bit of trivia, the photo you see at the top right (with me wearing my bug-eye glasses) was taken at her Aunt's house in Shelley's "front yard" on New Year's Eve one year.

On the night in question, Shelley had assembled the usual suspects: Matt & Shelley, of course; Michelle & Mateo, who were "just friends" at the time; Geoff & Emily, who hadn't been married long; Matt & Raven, his mail-order wife from the Phillipines...and me and Alba.

(By the way, you ever notice how you always put the name of the person you've known longest first? For instance, I knew Michelle long before I met Mateo, so naturally it's "Michelle & Mateo," and not the other way around. But I only met Raven after she came back from her and Matt's Phillipino "shotgun wedding" with Matt wearing a scottish kilt with the photos to prove it (even though he's not Scottish), so it's "Matt & Raven." Do you do the same thing?)

I don't exactly remember how Shelly got away with insisting that everyone be present for "the opening," but somehow it happened. We're all sitting in our pow-wow circle in Shelley's tiny, hot-as-hell living room when it's finally time to open my present from Ms. [grotesquely fat woman].

Naturally, I'm curious to know what Ms. [grotesquely fat woman] would get me for my birthday and how the hell she knew it was, in fact, my birthday. But I'm also not as gullible as you might think, and I knew Shelley must have been up to something. But who am I to stop the fun?

So the gift is presented amid the hushed crowd, as everyone looks on expectantly. Excitedly, I tear off the wrapping, and open the box inside it...and pull out...wait for it...and big, black dildo dubbed the "Jr. Dong," with a note in lovely, flowery writing that says:

Happy Birthday, Aaron.

I hope you get as much enjoyment from this as I did!

-Ms. [grotesquely fat woman]

Obviously, I must show the crowd my lovely new gift, so out comes the wobbly "Jr. Dong" for all to see--including the incredibly scandalized Raven, who was a bit more conservative than we realized, I think.

So everyone's howling except for the scandalized Raven, when Alba pulls out Mr. Jr. Dong and starts waving it around herself, and making favorable comparisons between its 7" length and my own personal dong, which I don't discourage.

So anyway, it was all a riot. Even Raven finally relaxed, and after about a million "Oh, my God's" and had to admit is was pretty damn funny.

So after that, the Jr. Dong started making the rounds as it became tradition to pass it on to someone else at the next birthday. I happen to remember another scene in a nice restaurant, when out came the Jr. Dong at Heather's birthday. (I think it was Heather's birthday, but don't quote me on it.)

But with time, the Jr. Dong has passed into legend, and no one is sure what its fate was. Maybe it's still out there...waiting for the day it will rise again.

The Stan

It's My Birthday!

It's my birthday today. And Alba has been saying "Happy Birthday" to me for a week, "just in case she forgets." In fact, she was in such a hurry, that we celebrated on Sunday with some Chinese takeout from the Emerald Garden. (Alba has to work late all this week, so Sunday it was.)

Anyway, every year my parents usually get me an Amazon gift certificate, which is definitely the best present anyone could ever give me. I probably tithe my income to Amazon.com.

But the most memorable gift I ever received was from none other than Matt and Shelley...although they led me to believe it was from Ms. [grotesquely fat woman]...

One day, I'm hanging out with Matt and Shelley, when Shelley informs me, "Hey, The Stan, I have something for you from Ms. [grotesquely fat woman]!"

"Ms. [grotesquely fat woman]?" I ask.

"Yeah, she tried to catch you after church the other day, but you had already left. So she wanted me to give it to you."

"What is it?"

"I don't know," said Shelley, "It's a present."

"A present?"

"Yeah, it's your birthday this week, right?"

"Yeah...but how would Ms. [grotesquely fat woman] know?"

"I don't know, but she must have known because she gave me a present to give you."

"Have you been spending a lot of time with Ms. [grotesqely fat woman], Stan?" Matt asks.

"No!" I quickly deny. "Well...I guess I talk to her every now and then...It's hard to avoid her." Matt and Shelley chuckle. "But I wouldn't say I spend a lot of time with her."

"Well, you must have made quite an impression," Shelley says as Matt tries to conceal a smile, "because she got a present for you."

"Okaaay?" I say somewhat skeptically.

"But I forgot to bring it," Shelley says, slumping her shoulders and acting disappointed. Then, she brightens and says, "But we're having a little get together at my bungalo next weekend, why don't you come?"

Well, I can't refuse an invitation like that...Shelley bungalow nights are always full of fun and merryment!

Tomorrow...the rest of the story.

The Stan

Tales From the College Years, No. 1

Once upon a time during my college years, I was roaming the halls of the music building when I noticed I was being noticed.

It felt a bit cooler than usual in Ellis Hall that morning. Probably because I was wearing my thin, tan kackis that day as opposed to my usual jeans, since I had to teach that afternoon.

Anyway, lots of looks and smiles were coming my way from some very attractive women and I suddenly felt like a stud. I stood up straighter, smiled back, and said "How's it going?" as I continued down the hall.

All morning this was happening, and I was having a such a great day.

Later, around lunch time, I walked out to my car and as I was sitting down into the driver's seat, I heard a rip. I knew what happened immediately. I could feel the rip in my pants just as I sat down.

So I reached down to survey the damage, and to my horror I realized there was no way that little rip caused my pants tear in half all the way up the butt crack.

Suddenly, understanding dawned.

The whole morning flashed before my eyes like a film in fast forward. All the "flirting" ladies weren't flirting at all...they were laughing at my butt-flap flying like a tan kacki flag in the wind, while my tighty whities mooned all of Ellis Hall.

No wonder it was so cold that morning.

Relating this story, it occurs to me that every single pair of pants I have ever owned in my entire lifetime has bitten the dust the same way: a rip in the crotch. It's as predictable as the sunrise.

I know with 100% certainty that when I buy a new pair of pants, they will go in the garbage within two years from a rip in the crotch. It's only a matter of time...and whether it happens in public or not.

Am I cursed, or something? Why does this happen to me?

It's a good thing I have a sense of humor about it, because it's just the sort of thing to cause a complex!

But I am relieved about one thing, though: I'm glad I found out about my loose butt-flap when I was safely in the car. I can only imagine the "walk of shame" all the way to my car, knowing people were staring and sniggering all the way.

The Stan

An Encounter With Molesto-Man

Inquiring reader wants to know about my encounter with molesto-man, so here goes.

It was a dark and stormy night...

Actually, it was a hot and sunny day in Houston, TX where my good friend Seth now lives.

But at the time, he was a PK (Pastor's Kid) in Springfield, MO and I was a 14-year-old freshman at Taft High School in San Antonio. I played Tenor Saxophone in the high school band and it was because of a band trip that I was in Houston.

One of our stops (besides Six Flags, where I would later loose my glasses on the Raptor ride) was this ginormous (see def. 4 in the Urban Dictionary) mall complete with a built-in hotel, ice rink, the works.

Even the bathrooms were huge. We're talking well over a dozen stalls.

But there was one thing about those bathrooms I will never understand: the stalls only had walls about 4 ft. high...and there was no door. So you could look down toward the back of the bathroom and see a row of a dozen men sitting on the john, taking a dump.

Well, I had to take a dump, too. And I couldn't wait for a more private opportunity. So despite my ambivalence, I joined the row of shitters.

So there I was taking care of some private business when this dude (I don't know, maybe he was about 30ish) stands RIGHT in front of me and just stares at me while I'm busy. (Keep in mind I'm 14 years old at the time.)

Well, I don't want this guy staring at me while I wipe myself, so I wait. And while I'm waiting, the stalls on either side of me become available. But this guy doesn't move in to take one of those stalls, he just keeps standing there, staring at me.

Finally, I decided to just get it over with and get the hell out of there because the place is suddenly starting to look a lot less populated than when I walked in and I sure as hell didn't want to be in there alone with this guy.

So I finish up my business and before I'm even out of the stall completely, this guy starts toward the toilet. I just keep walking past him and up to the sink to wash my hands. As I'm drying my hands, I look back down the row of stalls when I see this man looking straight at me.

Then he gives me this nod that says "Come over here." But I jet out of there and try my best to get lost in the crowded mall.

Fortunately, I never saw the guy again. And fortunately, I was never molested. But in my opinion, men who molest boys (or very young girls, for that matter) are the worst kind of sicko sexual offenders.

Those kind of offenders should never be allowed to roam free in society. Imagine what this man could have been capable of in a different setting. If he was so bold in a crowded restroom, what would have happened in a more private setting? Think God I never had to find out.

So the moral of the story is, my ass is still a virgin and I intend to keep it that way.

The Stan

Why "The Stan," The Stan?

Those who don't know me may think I made up "The Stan" to sound cool...sort of like "The Shermanator" in American Pie.

But actually, I've been called "The Stan" all my life. I guess with a last name like Stanley, you just can't avoid it.

I'm glad my parents didn't name me "Stanley." Some parents with first names as last names actually get a kick out of naming their kid the same as their last name. But fate was kind to me and I avoided being called "The Stan The Stan" and possibly getting beat up after school three times as often as I did.

Actually, I never got beat up in school. I got in fights. But I never got beat up. It's a benefit of being big. Even most bullies would leave me alone. It was usually the little ones who would run up and hit me, or flick my ear, or something. And then run away before I could do anything about it.

That lasted until I caught one of them and threw him against the lockers. I got in big trouble for that, but it was worth it. Nobody messed with me after that for a long time. At least until eighth grade when another "hit and run" kid sat behind me in history class. He was actually about my size and was kind of a dork.

Every day, he would flick my ears, poke me in the back with a pencil, or otherwise harrass me. Usually I'm a pretty amicable fellow. But after weeks of enduring his torments, I'd finally had enough. So I turned around, flipped this kid's desk over with him still sitting in it, and was on top of him at once, pounding his face in.

To the teacher, I just suddenly "exploded" for no reason and obviously needed counseling. For "no reason" I just started kicking this poor innocent kid's ass right in front of everyone.

Well, my parents knew what was going on and my dad was furious at the suggestion I go into counseling. So I never had to.

But no one ever messed with me after that.

Anyway, "The Stan" has always been a nickname no matter where I go or who I meet. I guess it's part of the cultural phenomenon, or something. Sort of like every William is called Bill. Or anyone from Texas with an obviously Texan accent is called "Tex."

(I happen to be from Texas, but for some reason I never picked up a strong accent. Maybe I'd be called "Tex" if I had. Or maybe I'd be called "Stan Tex," or something. And that's fortunate because "Stan Tex" sounds like a tampon. Yep...I'd have been beat up for that one, for sure.)

But although I've been called "The Stan" for most of my life, I never met anyone who insisted on using the definite article like Matt Bingham. For example, instead of saying "Hi, Stan," dropping the article like everyone else, Matt insists on using it. So for Matt, it's "Hi, The Stan."

It does put an original twist on an otherwise unoriginal moniker. And it stuck. It caught on with everyone I know in California. And so I became not just "Stan," but "THE Stan." And always "THE Stan."

And that's how The Stan became The Stan.

The Stan