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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!
Pufer Story time
MultiQuote
#2
- Patriot
-
- Group: Members
- Posts: 3,012
- Joined: 24-May 06
- Location:Republic of Cascadia
Posted 01 March 2008 - 09:34 PM
Do not for any reason sit on that man's lap.
"I view it [The Columbia River] as the germ of a great, free and independent empire on that side of our continent, and that liberty and self-government spreading from that as well as this side, will ensure their complete establishment over the whole."
-Thomas Jefferson
-Thomas Jefferson
#3
- Ehhhhh...no?
-
- Group: Members
- Posts: 3,501
- Joined: 10-February 02
- Location:Anytown, Anystate, USA
Posted 02 March 2008 - 12:32 AM
Don't stroke his beard either. You have no idea where that thing's been.
"For a writing to be a writing it must continue to 'act' and to be readable even when what is called the author of the writing no longer answers for what he has written..."
Jacques Derrida, "Signature Event Context"
Jacques Derrida, "Signature Event Context"
#4
- Deadpan Orator
-
- Group: Members
- Posts: 13,878
- Joined: 03-August 02
- Gender:Male
- Location:DC
Posted 02 March 2008 - 03:55 AM
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 s### 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.
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 s### 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.
Spoiler