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August 26, 2016, 07:11:13 AM
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Author Topic: Random True Story Thread  (Read 726 times)
ER
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« Reply #15 on: July 20, 2016, 04:15:37 PM »

in 2003 a friend of mine named Rob got a little mixed-breed dog named Bow-House (a play on Bauhaus, of course) who was all shiny black and energetic and always smiling with his little fox-pointy mouth, and this dog was never tired, and he had this trick, you could hold a treat in your hands six feet above Bow-House, and he'd leap up full blast and just barely get it but he'd snatch it from your fingertips, and he could do this over and over. He had tiny little paws, minuscule on his already diminutive body, and each of them was jet black, and his fur was glossy and seemed to almost repel water, and he loved going out in the rain. He was alert and friendly and fast, so fast, moved in and out dodging like a flash. Where Rob lived there was this balcony, and Bow-House would run full speed, scaring all of us, and leap right up on the rail, like a cat, and balance there so he could see over, something I've never seen any other dog do, and didn't know dogs were capable of. That little dog was a trip....
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In the past, the future.
ER
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« Reply #16 on: July 21, 2016, 10:37:13 AM »

About a week ago my cousin-in-law, best man at our wedding, came by with his little boy to hang out while his wife was off for psychological maintenance and my husband was up the street with our son, and while my youngest was showing his toddler the sandbox, my cousin-in-law stood out in the back yard with me and fell into an expansive mood, telling me how in the second semester of his first year in college, his roommate was gay.

He said that was a little weird for a minute but he liked the roommate well enough and they got to be friends and their respective preferences never were that big of an issue, and in fact after a couple weeks my cousin-in-law got to talking with his roommate about what it was like being gay in mid-1990s America, and his roommate said in effect well if you want to know come with me.

So my then eighteen-year-old future cousin-in-law, who doesn't strike me as having a gay bone in his body, started going with his roommate to all these gay-centric places. Not just a couple times to clubs but to this notorious local park where homosexual men were always meeting in the bathrooms. He said he'd play disc golf and read graphic novels while his roommate vanished into the bathroom with various men, and once his roommate told him he was "good man bait" since guys were always checking him out and asking, "What's with the new kid?"

He did get hit on sometimes but that was it, but he said maybe once a week for a few months he kind of went along for the ride and all this was something I for sure never knew he'd done, and it was funny, him being in those sorts of places and scenarios.

He of course had to say, "But I never did anything myself..."

Which I 100% believe, but....that was just funny, him having this unguessed-at brush with gay culture.
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In the past, the future.
indianasmith
Archeologist, Theologian, Elder Scrolls Addict, and a
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A good bad movie is like popcorn for the soul!


« Reply #17 on: July 21, 2016, 03:27:45 PM »

Once there was a marvelous store chain; they rented and sold movies, music, books, memorabilia, trendy cool T-shirts, comics, and vinyl.  Their local branch was my second home; I rented movies there at a rate of several a week and sold over 400 books in the last two years, since I became an author.  The manager and all the associates were friendly and welcoming; this was my own personal "Cheers."

Now the corporation is bankrupt and our local store is being liquidated.  RIP Hastings, I will never forget you!

(For the record, this day has SUCKED all the way around!)
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"Carpe diem!" - Seize the day!  "Carpe per diem!" - Seize the daily living allowance! "Carpe carp!" - Seize the fish!
"Carpe Ngo Diem!" - Seize the South Vietnamese Dictator!
ER
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« Reply #18 on: July 22, 2016, 10:49:24 PM »

My husband had a prodigious single life and has probably told me about most of it. He started relating those types of stories beginning in the fall of 2001, back when he and I would just hang out as something between friends and haven't-seen-you-naked-yet whatevers, and his general pursuit of women was still ongoing.

Strangely my usual response for some reason was to find his escapades hilarious. I would lean back in a chair and laugh myself silly over some of them, and it was good to do that because the first year I knew him I was going through life caught up in deep sadness and didn't laugh a lot, so since his bedroom tales seemed to cheer me up for reasons he didn't quite fathom, he kept telling them.

One that amused me happened in 1996, about five years before I met him, and he was at a Borders reading, and he struck up a conversation with this hippie girl in a flower-print sundress, and after a bit they went over to the store’s cafe together and got some things and talked longer about books and the upcoming election ("Go, Bill!"), and it ended with them going back to his place.

Well fast forward to the bedroom, they wrestled around a minute, she was, he said, surprisingly strong, Womyn Power, all that, and at one point pinned his arms down and said sex wasn't about men dominating women, etc etc etc, he was like, yeah, whatever, blahblablah thinking wish she'd shut up now. So finally she pulled her sundress off over her head, and lo and behold she had hairy underarms, like furry-hairy, which he thought okay, whatever, not cool but not a deal killer, hope she keeps her arms down so I don't have to look at those, already knowing she probably wouldn’t be getting a next-day phone call, but what the hey, another notch on the bedpost was another notch on the bedpost.

But then she leaned down, being above him, nothing had really happened yet, crooked her arm at the elbow and stuck her underarm practically in his face and said, "Kiss my armpit."

He said he stopped actively trying to hoist her leg over top of him and asked, "Why?"

And he said this girl, uh, I mean Goddess-Empowered Womyn, goes, "Because I f**king said so!"

He said other times he may have done it but she was starting to put him off all the way around and she was so furry under her arms it was like being confronted by the top part of Burt from Sesame Street’s head, so he told her, "I don't want to do that."

She went, "But you're going to. " And she was trying to seriously like rub her underarm in his face, literally, so he said enough was enough and he flipped her off him and she freaked and said no she was always on top and started flailing around to get back up and she told him "You ARE going to do what I say starting now!"

He said his inner Weird Chick Alert radar went off too loud to ignore at that point, and long story short, he remembered, as the great Patrick Bateman always said, he had some urgent videos to return, and she got furiously mad that he was turning her down that far into it and she was gone in a self-righteous huff inside of another two minutes, telling him off the whole way with lots ‘n lots ‘n lots of use of the eff-word.

The moral of the story here? Even men have their limits.
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In the past, the future.
ER
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
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Karma: 451
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« Reply #19 on: July 23, 2016, 10:27:39 AM »

When I was growing up I used to spend most of every summer in Ireland, visiting my grandparents and that side of the family, and among the bevy of relations over there I had a darn cool aunt three years older than me, and a sometimes challenging but mostly all right cousin a year my elder, and most of my interacting would center on them. They were the fire and ice, the ying and yang, the Good Goofy/Bad Goofy of my summer existence, and they didn’t much like each other.

Well one July night when I was almost ten, my cousin, my aunt, and I stayed up til the wee hours watching horror films and telling scary stories, and my cousin told us the urban legend of Bloody Molly (over there known as Sanguine Sinead---okay, yes, I made that part up) and how if you go into a pitch black room and stare in a mirror while repeating, “Bloody Molly, I summon you from Hell, show me your face….” over and over with your eyes an inch from the glass, you’ll see something creepy appear in front of you, something that may or may not have been the visage of an infamous Victorian murderess damned to Hell.

After all, she swore to God, she’d heard it happened exactly like that to her neighbor’s teacher’s brother’s girlfriend’s dance instructor’s dog-groomer’s friend.

I was a little keyed up after hours of slasher flicks but I told my cousin that was probably THEE stupidest thing I’d ever heard, so she dared me to back up my boast and go try it then in the downstairs bathroom of our grandparents’ two-hundred year old house, where at least five people have died and surely many more: in the house I mean, not the bathroom, though they may have died there, too, I guess.

I suddenly did feel slightly freaked about the idea but I was more afraid of losing face in front of my Celtic relatives, so we creeped downstairs and I went in alone to this closet-sized bathroom and shut the door, didn’t turn on the light, and my cousin and aunt stood outside and my cousin said, “You have to speak the words….and we can hear you, so don’t try to cheat.”

I heard her say to our aunt under her breath, “Blood Molly probably won’t understand her ugly American accent.” (Why she failed to grasp SHE was the one with the accent I never got.)

I played by the rules of the game and leaned very close to the mirror, kept my eyes open and said over and over, “Bloody Molly, I summon you from Hell, show your face…. Bloody Molly, I summon you from Hell, show your face….”

I felt my heart kick up a gear….

“Bloody Molly, I summon you from Hell, show your face….”

My eyes adjusted to the lightless space, and I could actually see the silvery surface of the mirror appear in the shadows…

“Bloody Molly, I summon you from Hell, show your face….”

The whole thing got creepier and creepier, more and more intense…the tension built up, thirty seconds rushed by…

“Bloody Molly, I summon you from Hell, show your face…”

 …I was almost afraid to blink, and…

And
abso-friggin-lutely
nothing
happened
at
all!

Except I got bragging rights over those two the rest of the summer of 1988!
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In the past, the future.
ER
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
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Karma: 451
Posts: 2594



« Reply #20 on: July 25, 2016, 06:58:52 PM »

Back around the summer of 1996 my agnostical friend felt he had enough of life without a deity in it, so he decided to pray to the old Norse gods, and dedicate himself to their service, reasoning that not only were the Norse gods just plain frakkin’ awesome, but since they had so few followers left to distract them, maybe he’d get noticed more than he had as a Missouri Synod Lutheran.

I felt this was an odd theological choice for him to make, for while this friend did sort of have a b***hy-bad attitude sometimes, he was perhaps the least warrior-like person I knew, once getting tears in his eyes (in front of a teenage girl, no less) after he thumped his finger while nailing a 2x4 against his door to keep his mom out of his room.

Nevertheless this dude decided he’d heard the Calling, that divine Scandinavian voice bellowing through a yak horn from cruel climes of ice and midnight suns, so he sent off a membership card to a group in Denmark which regularly ran ads in gaming fanzines, and for a mere $19.95 was sent back a card that told the world he was now in good standing with the Church of the New Valhalla. He also received a genuine plastic Thor’s hammer amulet (made in China) to wear on a chain, and he took every opportunity to tell anyone who would listen that the hammer was the sign of his faith, and was known as Mjolnir. (Mule-near: and yes, we kidded him about that.)

For most of the summer this fixation lasted, he would go around and bellow out, “Odin!” at the top of his lungs, saying it was a form of prayer, and would make little vows like, “By Loki’s forked beard I swear I shall have a Mt Dew refill.”

We were all kind of like, “Uh-huh, yeah…”

But this was America, you could believe what you wanted (back then). Plus it was maybe a tad bit cool under its too-nerdy-to-be-taken-seriously overtones, someone we knew actually howling beseechment to Viking gods with names that sounded like a cross between J.R.R. Tolkien and Led Zeppelin.

He also could not wait for school to start, so that when some teacher told him to take off his “necklace” he could cite religious rights and make a big scene, maybe even sue the school district for discrimination. Gee, wouldn’t that be sweet? Perhaps he’d make the eleven o’ clock news, “Local pagan persecuted… he’s single, Goth girls.”

Thoughts of that kept him bright-eyed and cheerful all summer long, and he even strategized elaborate response plans for when the day came he found himself called to the office. “It’s my right, man!” he’d thunder. “So get use to it!”

Then there came the painful night of the first cracks in the foundation when he and a couple of us were at Taco Bell, and some guys from another town came by and saw his plastic hammer and picked a fight with him, even trying to tug it off his neck til a girl told them to stop or she’d mace them. (It was the least I could do.) As for our latter-day Viking, he kow-towed to his assailants with truly b***h-like resolve, and avoided the confrontation.

Now I thought that was essentially a sensible decision, since he couldn’t fight his way out of duct tape handcuffs, but this girl who was there with us refused to let my buddy live down the fact he was going around claiming to be some sort of modern-day Viking who chanted to Odin and lived to claim his place in Valhalla, yet he cringed his way out of a tussle. After all, chickening out of fisticuffs HAD to have been against Thor’s rules, wouldn’t you think? And didn’t that make him a….well, sinner?

So not long after that painful night of nachos thrown around Taco Bell’s dining room like Chinese stars, we noticed our friend stopped wearing the hammer, and he said he’d quit sending in his $10.00 a month dues (half his allowance) to the church in Denmark, though he said he still believed in the “Old gods” just felt like maybe religion was a more personal thing, and he shouldn’t be going around advertising his faith because it was “gross” to influence other people when it came to spirituality.

School started that August and his plot to entrap the teachers came to nothing, though by then he’d found a new way to try to shock the world: he wanted to fake his death on video…

But that’s a Random True Story for another time.
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In the past, the future.
Jim H
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« Reply #21 on: July 25, 2016, 07:03:18 PM »

One time in middle school, I had very bad headache.  I decided to say at school for some reason.  But towards the end of the day, I decided it was so bad I felt like I was going to vomit, so I asked to be excused.  Teacher let me go, but the vomit feeling kept rising.  Eventually I started sprinting to the bathroom.  Then I projectile vomited a big splash of liquid while running. 

Fortunately, none of it got on my clothes.  Unfortunately, I was running too fast to stop, slipped and flew in the air, and landed square in the middle of a puddle of my own vomit flat on my back.  I got up, and luckily was wearing a sweat shirt which absorbed most of the worst of it.  I took it off and walked home.
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indianasmith
Archeologist, Theologian, Elder Scrolls Addict, and a
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
****

Karma: 1605
Posts: 9875


A good bad movie is like popcorn for the soul!


« Reply #22 on: July 25, 2016, 07:49:49 PM »

While in the throes of fever and delirium at the ER last night, I recited the Rhyme of the One Ring in the Black Speech of Mordor and got every word right!
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"Carpe diem!" - Seize the day!  "Carpe per diem!" - Seize the daily living allowance! "Carpe carp!" - Seize the fish!
"Carpe Ngo Diem!" - Seize the South Vietnamese Dictator!
ER
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
****

Karma: 451
Posts: 2594



« Reply #23 on: July 31, 2016, 11:39:16 AM »

In the '90s I had a friend who loved to play guitar but had to sell the one she grew up with. (She'd left home at sixteen and had lived rough.) She really wanted a guitar but didn't have the money for one, but she was inventive and bold, so she wrote letters to all these female musicians out there, explaining her circumstances and saying in effect, "Do you by any chance have an old guitar you're not using? I'd take really good care of it and play it often."

A few weeks after she sent these off, she got a package, and in it was a nice acoustic guitar sent to her by a singer named Bonnie Raitt.
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In the past, the future.
ER
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema
****

Karma: 451
Posts: 2594



« Reply #24 on: August 08, 2016, 01:26:15 PM »

In this day and age when it seems like so many baby girls have their ears pierced, it's funny to think my father wouldn't let me get mine done til I was thirteen. (The man was a total tyrant; never let me do anything as a teenager.... Yes, Indy, I'm being facetious.) But finally thirteen came and I waded into the post-Christmas crushing crowd at the mall and got my ears pierced, and it was great. Trouble was, my right earlobe got inflamed that night, so I put an ice cube in a paper towel and held it there in bed, fell asleep, the ice water from the melting cube dribbled down into my ear and I got a bad infection from that. So bad in fact it formed scar tissue and to this day contributes to a partial hearing loss on that side.

Random.
True.
Story.

Next time: prom night '96, when I shaved my head, otherwise known as "adventures-in-no-this-never-actually-happened-but-I-thought-I'd-go-for-a-fake-psycho-chick-vibe-in-here."

Perhaps to be continued at a thread I'll dub:

Random.
Fake.
Story.

Pax Dei, BMDO-ers!
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In the past, the future.
alandhopewell
A NorthCoaster In Texas
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Hey....white women were in season.


WWW
« Reply #25 on: August 08, 2016, 01:27:32 PM »

     Back in the late 80's, I had a "friends with benefits" relationship with a cute redheaded Irish-Catholic girl named Brenda, about ten years my junior (I was 32 at the time of this story). One evening, we were hanging out at a gay bar across the street from the apartments where I lived; Club 1504 was convenient, and I knew the owners.

     An'hoo, we were sitting in the basement bar / dance floor area, which hadn't yet opened for the evening, as it was only seven or so. I was sippin' on a San Juan Boilermaker (a draft with a splash of Bacardi 151), and Brenda had a Coke, as we chatted with her cousin, Phil, who was DJ'ing that night.  I was asking Phil if he had this song or that, and the answer was always "no", until I mentioned "We're All Alone", by Rita Coolege

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fDdubxltL4E

    That one he had.

     The two of us are sitting there, quietly, when Phil fires up the dance floor lights, the mirrorball, and the sound system....out comes "we're All Alone". Without a word, Brenda gets up from her chair, walks over to directly under the ball, and begins to dance, a slow, sensuous, sad / beautiful movement driven by the music from without and within.

     As you can imagine, I was transfixed.

     When the song ended, Brenda walked back to the table, and sat down without a word.
Almost exactly twenty-eight years later, the moment is still as clear as now.

     Slainte', Brenda.
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If it's true what they say, that GOD created us in His image, then why should we not love creating, and why should we not continue to do so, as carefully and ethically as we can, on whatever scale we're capable of?

     The choice is simple; refuse to create, and refuse to grow, or build, with care and love.
Jim H
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« Reply #26 on: August 08, 2016, 02:52:48 PM »

I brought over some kung fu movies for my girlfriend's father - he's an elderly Chinese man. He relates to me how when he was 8, he worked on his family's farm in his village doing manual labor. In his downtime the older men trained him in kung fu. Why? Well, he explains how he doesn't know the English word for them, but there were bad men in the nearby mountains (raiders or bandits) who would come down every so often and steal everything and kill you if you resisted. At this time, the country was still devastated from World War II and the civil war, so barely any authorities anywhere other than warlords. So they had to be prepared to fight. 

These days he lives in a nice house in the suburbs, retired. 
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