I’m a Superior Asshole

I’m an asshole! A nice one. I’ll be polite and smiling the whole time I have you bent over. I don’t intend to be one; it’s just the way I am (I guess).

I have a superiority complex. If I am talking about something; I know more about it than you (I am a genius, after all). If I’m playing a game against you; I will win! I am just better and will tell you about it, at times. If I lose; either I am entertaining a friends ego, or I am practicing so I can one day humiliate you at your best/favorite game!

I quit playing football in high school, because I was an under-sized, mediocre player, to run track. I wasn’t the fastest person but could run all day. Cross-country and the two-mile run were my specialties. If it came to a sprint; I was dead in the water. But, when you have a 200 yard lead with 400 yards to go; you don’t worry about the sprint.

The same applies today. I play good darts and dominate the action at my favorite waterin’ hole. If someone comes along that is better; I’m going to practice like hell so that I can kick their ass, too. Most people don’t like to play me. The one’s who do are good players that are trying to get better and beat the best. But the better the competition; the better I play, as well.

I play better than most at poker. I can drink you under the table. If you are competing against me in business; I will know more about my customers, market, and product than would fit in your head. I’m just superior than you in all ways that count, to me.

I don’t talk alot of shit unless the person I just beat has been talking trash; and only after I have taken their money. Something about my whole superior attitude just tends to piss people off without me having to say a word.

I don’t take complements well. I expect to be close to perfect no matter what I am doing. I take the old saying: “If it’s worth doing; do it well”, to new extremes. If I’m not living up to my own expectations and a complement is thrown my way; I usually reply (without thinking first): “I’ve been better.”, or something to that effect.

Luckily, I have a few good friends who can see past my BS. I am really an overly nice person. Polite. You just have to look beyond my superiority (even when I’m correcting a mistake you just made) to find that person.

If you meet me and I seem rude, remember; it’s nothing personal. I’m just a superior asshole! (But I will try to be nice about it).

Patrick’s Birthday Outing

November 1st was my best friends birthday. He worked all day, came home to an empty house, cooked himself dinner and was in bed by 9:30pm. Is that any way to celebrate a birthday? Fast forward to Monday night. Patrick is off on Tuesday so its time to party!

The evening begins with watching a little football on the big screen and knocking a few back at his house. The game quickly became a joke and we were headed to the waterin’ hole before we had planned. Do the Raven’s suck or what?

When we arrived at Marty’s, the place was pretty quiet. I guess the usual Monday nighters had gotten bored with the game, as well. Patrick brought along his flask, filled with Crown (This is a beer bar, no hard liquor served) and I had a 16oz (aluminum bottle) Bud that I carried in. Most places would never allow you to bring a beer into their establishment, but this is Marty’s and that is another reason I like the place. They know that when I finish the one in my hand that I’ll be buying plenty more.

We order a couple of beers and set back to watch some more of the boring (unless you’re a Steeler’s fan) MNF game. Glancing around the room I see “Big Bob” (all 480 lbs of him) sitting in an over-sized Budweiser folding chair. I’m not a small man but this thing could hold me and two petite young ladies comfortably. It’s about the right size for Bob. John, the “Mountain Dew King”, is across the bar from us doing the dew. He doesn’t drink beer, but comes to the bar every night to drink Mountain Dew, smoke cigarettes (for some reason he doesn’t smoke at home) and hang with the peeps there. Only one female in the bar and it’s the bar-maid.

Patrick is hitting his flask and chasing it with beer, beginning to get drunk. He’s flirting and sharing some with the beer-tender while her boyfriend watches from across the bar. I’m just sippin’ a beer, watching the tube and listening to the jukebox. I’ve got a slight buzz going on, but nothing more. Perfect darts throwing state for me. In walks a mark.

I’ve played this kid a couple of times. He’s a decent darts slinger, but not near as good as he thinks he is. The money is usually right when he wants to play, but I turned him down when he asked for a game.
“Maybe later” I said.
No audience of fine females to impress and I know that I’m going to win, so what’s the point in taking his money when he just walked through the door.

A while later Gloria comes strolling in half-lit, already. Big Bob had waddled his way out of the bar a short time earlier, but left his giant chair behind. Gloria sits down in it and refuses to move again. I retrieve her cigarettes from her purse on the bar for her as I’m heading to the restroom. The bartender has to come out from behind the bar to serve her; she’s in heaven.

“Darts?”, the kid asks.
“Not yet” I reply.

As I’m heading back to ‘my side’ of the bar, two young trollops, Summer and Morgain, come stumbling in. Summer is not exactly my type (I know her mother very well and it would be almost like flirting with one of my nieces) (Patrick thinks she’s hot) but Morgain (5′3″, 110lbs, brunette, very cute, former cheerleader, body to die for) is someone I could get in trouble with. Time to show off.

“Ready, kid?” I ask. He is.
The money is right. The audience has finally arrived. Time to show off.

I bet your thinking about right now that I’m going to tell you how I blew it. Lost my money. Embarrassed myself in front of the lovely Morgain. WRONG!
I threw a 12 dart 501 game (if you’re not a dart player this is very good and you will win more than 95% of the time, even against a pro) and left the boy with over 300 points on the board. He paid me, said: “no more” and was out the door.

Was Morgain impressed? Hell, I don’t think she watched that closely, to tell the truth. But it’s always good to have inspiration when you throw. She inspires me in all of the wrong ways.

Patrick was totally drunk by this time. He staggered to the corner of the bar where the girls and I were chatting and began some subtle flirting with Summer. I know she likes him, but they had a bad experience together, once, and I really thought she was not that interested, anymore. The night ended with big hugs from Morgain for me and from Summer for Patrick.

Did I forget to mention that Patrick is a man-whore?

On the way back to his house, Patrick says: “I’ll bet you a 30 pack that Summer ends up at my house before the night’s over.”

I’m on my way to deliver beer right now.

I Am A Blogger

Some say that I am a writer. No. I am a blogger. A writer is an artist with words. Me? I’m just an old hack with a laptop and a sense of humor.

I like blogging. There are no editors to say what does or does not fit. I can write what I want, how I want, when I want. No deadlines (even though I do feel pressure for something new from some of my more devoted readers, at times). I can entertain, enlighten or enrage the reader. The realm of topics: infinite.

I can take on the powers that be or poke fun at my own life and you read. I get drunk and ramble; still you read. I inflate my own ego and self-worth and there you are, reading again.

I’ve been called many things by fans and haters, alike. One of my favorite comments, ever (and I’ve been blogging for more than three years), came from Gayle:
“I have to admit that you’re the strangest person I’ve met on Yuwie – flippant, sarcastic, narcissistic, enigmatic, etc. I love that in a person so naturally I love you.“
She is a very busy lady who devotes her life to helping those that cannot speak for themselves: animals. As busy as she is with her causes; she takes time out of her day to read my words. Thanks, Gayle.

Me? I’m just happy to write about life on my own terms. I won’t be bothered with editors, deadlines and censorship. You’ll probably never read an autobiography of me, because I am not a writer.

I AM A BLOGGER!

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