Dave Bumba

I am the Worst Thief Ever

I’ve developed a terrible habit of kleptomania when I’m in that perfect state of drunk.  I will feel and overwhelming urge to steal something, especially if I have been ‘wronged’.  It can be something small and useless (like packs of Ra-men noodles and razor blades from Frat parties), or something large and typically also useless (like construction barrels).

I went to a large holiday party that was being sponsored by an old employer of mine, The Winking Lizard Tavern.  They rented out a section of the Cleveland Brown’s stadium and gave away free food and beer to about the 1500 people that were invited.

Since I was kicked out of the Winking Lizard once, I felt the need to steal something.  For revenge. So what did I decide to steal??

I decided to steal two bottles of half-used hand soap from the mens bathroom. They are fitting in my sweatshirt very awkwardly, but since I’ve been drinking, I think they are invisible to the untrained eye and that I’m a sexy genius.

We are leaving the stadium, down the large escalator, when I hear someone yell “EXCUSE ME SIR!”

I know they are talking to me, but I ignore it.  Then I’m approached by a Cleveland Sheriff.  “WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN YOUR POCKET THERE?” demands the sheriff.

Casually, I reply, “Hand Sanitizer.”  as if nothing is wrong and I look at the cop like she is crazy.  She accepts my answer and begins to walk away, but only about four seconds later, she re approaches me.

“DID YOU TAKE THAT FROM THE BATHROOM SIR?”

“Yes, I need it for my hands.  I’m a germaphobe.”

“YOU CAN’T STEAL FROM THE BATHROOM.  WE ARE GOING TO RETURN THIS TO THE BATHROOM RIGHT NOW.”

And now I’m being escorted in a locked elevator by two cops who serious lack a sense of humor (but don’t they all?).  I am escorted all the way to the bathroom.  They have not followed me into the bathroom, so I throw the soap away in the garbage.  If I can’t have the soap, then no one can.

Upon exiting the bathroom, I am again frisked by the officers.

“YOU KNOW BETTER THAN THAT AND YOU AREN’T THAT DRUNK TO BE DOING STUFF LIKE THAT.”

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s just I’m a germaphobe and I can’t afford soap because of the crashing economy.”

“WELL THATS WHY I WORK.  THAT’S NOT AN EXCUSE.  YOU ARE LUCKY WE AREN’T TAKING YOU INTO CUSTODY.”

“Yes, thank you.  Jail is a very unclean place.”

I leave.  My friend Dan is waiting at the bottom of the escalator with a big dumb grin on his face.  “I thought I was going to have to get a ride home,” he jokes.

I have been wronged and humiliated by the police.  Next time I’m at Browns Stadium, I must steal something.  Maybe toilet paper?

Interesting Stripper Stories #3

Strippers are generally a big waste of money and time.  I do not like spending money to get a hard on.  Beer is overpriced and I refused to go if I have pay a cover charge.  Yet I am still enthralled with learning about ‘stripper stories’.

You have about three minutes to get a good conversational story in before they realize you have no interest in spending money on them.

One stripper last night told me that rarely, but sometimes, during dances, the guy will nut in their pants.

But this story was the winner!

This stripper was in her mid-twenties, dark black hair, and a flashy smile.  She wore a one-piece Budwiser halter top and was actually very sexy.  At least that’s how I remember it, but it was dark and I’d been drinking.  And she approached us.

So I asked her, “Do you have any good strip club stories?”

She had an answer immediately.

“I’ve sold my piss for $450.  I peed in a cup for this guy and he drank it right in front of me, just like a shot.”

Zomfg I thought.  “Holy shit, really???  How old was this guy?”

“I dunno, about fifty.  I also sold my panties for $200.”

I was wondering what was grosser.  The fact that this girl could sell her old discharge for more money than I make in a week, or the fact that some guys have some really really screwed up sexual fetishes.

The Streak Is Over…

Over Christmas vacation in the third grade, I caught a terrible stomach flu.  I was so traumatized by the event, that I have not thrown up since.  My body literally refuses to throw up.  Even when I drink to excess, I just blackout.  This was a fifteen year streak of not throwing up!  But now its all over…

Let’s rewind.

7:30pm:  It’s a normal night out with Smashley.  We went to the Winking Lizard in Peninsula to have some high-alcohol content Belgium Ales.  These are not your everyday Bud Lights.  They are dark, thick, high alcohol content beers.  Some of them have 8-9% alcohol per beer, as much as a two to three domestics.  So I had six of them.  I’m not driving and I’m feeling pretty good.

9:20pm:  Smashley’s boyfriend gets off work is coming with us to the next bar.  I am jovial.  We sing loudly along to Mariah Carrey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” in the car.

9:30pm:  We arrive at the bar.  I have no idea where I am or what the bar is called or what city we are in.  I order a tall Pabst Blue Ribbon because it is the cheapest thing they have.  I also notice the bar has the largest game of Jenja I have ever seen in my life.  Its like a four foot tower of large Jenja blocks.  I beg strangers to play with me, and eventually one does reluctantly.

9:45pm:  Shot time.  That old terminology ‘beer before liqour’ is bullshit.  I mix all sorts of alcohol together all the time.  Alcohol cannot harm me.  I am Mario with Star Power.  I am invincible.  I do a shot of Triple Expresso Vodka.

More shots follow.  I do not pay for any of these but I believe the majority are from Smashley and her boyfriend.  I remember vodka and Grand Marnier.  There were others…but I cannot remember the exact specifications.

10:20:  I try to steal the shot glasses.

10:21:  The bartender asks me nicely to remove the shot glasses from my coat.

10:22:  I surrender all but one of my shot glasses.  I go to the bathroom and while urinating, steal the “Employees Must Wash Their Hands” Sign.

????:  Smashley’s BF drives us back to his apartment.  I fall asleep downstairs on the couch.

1:30:  I awake, still kind of drunk and disoriented.  I notice that my stomach is hurting.  I try to find Smashley and her boyfriend upstairs.  Instead, I go in the wrong bedroom and I wake up a large, angry dredlocked Polish man called “Bro” and his large, angry Alaskan Wolf-Dog, who is growling fiercely.  This guy could probably destroy me in a fair and sober fight with one hand behind his back.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?” he yells, after I startled him out of bed.  I somehow convince him not to kill me and find the correct bedroom.

They are already awake since the argument next door woke them up.  They laugh at me.  Smashley and her boyfriend tell me to go back to bed downstairs and she will give me a ride home in an hour.

2:30:  I wake them up again.  I’m really feeling sick.  I think I’m going to puke but I hold it back.  As I wait for Smashley, I am being angrily stared down by Bro, who is unable to go back to sleep after I almost gave him a heart attack.

3:00:  I am being driven back to Smashley’s, where my car is.  I feel very sick in the car.  But I will not throw up!  I just need something to settle my stomach.  Saltine Crackers.  That’s what I need.

3:20:  Back at Smashley’s, there are no Saltine Crackers.  Instead she finds Cinnamon Graham Crackers.

3:21:  I break off one quarter piece of the graham cracker and eat it.

3:22:  I run full sprint to the bathroom to puke.  These are violent, angry convulsions of puking.  The bile shoots out like an exorcism.  It is a dark brown and orange.  I think back to the shots I drank.  My eyes are tearing; I’m spitting, cursing out everyone and everything.

This is all very humorous to Smashley.  I feel much better though.

But so ends a fifteen year streak of not throwing up…almost to the day.  I guess I am a mortal after all.

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The Vegas Escort

Las Vegas was my post-fake-college-graduation trip with fellow classmates Kelly K and Ben.  While I do have many stories from Vegas, some will only be funny to us.  We stayed up so late the first night that when we drunk dialed people, they were already awake and starting their day.  And we almost got thrown out of a magic show because of our post-marijuana laughter fits.  And because I couldn’t convince birds to come inside and share our hotel room, I trashed the place in my frustration.

So I am going to break this writing up into two parts: general Vegas advice and one sexy story.

We learned quickly that alcohol is free in casinos.  Staying on any table after five minutes usually yields a free drink.  This was especially useful after paying $16 for a Long Island Iced Tea in Caesars Palace.  You can walk anywhere with alcohol too and came ever buy booze in the shopping mall.

If it sound too good to be true, it is.  Right before we discovered ‘free alcohol’, we hunted down bargains.  I think it is impossible to get drunk on 50 cent margaritas.  I think they are just frozen sour mix.  And if a sign says “$20 in free casino play”, without boring you, it’s pretty much a lie.

There are a lot of authentic-looking hobos in Vegas too, just like the ones you see on the internet.

And also on many corners are groups full of silent Mexicans handing out Porno Cards.  These are basically nudie advertisements for escorts, hookers, strippers, and other erotic services.  And the short Mexicans who hand these things out do not talk.  They simply ‘click’ the cards to get your attention.

At first they seemed ridiculous.  “No thank you, Mr. Mexican,” and would politely refuse these handouts.

This turned into, “No please get out of my way.”

The next day, this turned into, “Well, I’ll take a few, it’ll be a free and awesome souvenir…”

This turned into, “I have to collect as many of these porno cards as possible.”

On our last night in Vegas, we finally convinced Kelly K to go to the strip club with myself and Ben.  It was in downtown Vegas off of the strip.  Since I had been ducking paying for drinks all night, I agreed to pay for the first round inside.

The large black bouncer checks our IDs and informs us that entry is free with a two drink minimum.  The cocktail waitress asks us for our beer preference; Bud Light, Miller Light, Miller Light.

She comes back; “that’ll be $52.50.” FOR SIX DOMESTIC BEERS????

I realize we have to leave immediately.  Ben comes back from a short session from a stripper and realizes the same thing.  We have to leave immediately.  We escape, with the sticker-shock in our minds far outlasting the extremely brief sexual thrill.

And this is Vegas.  Sin City.  We have to do something else sexy to replace his botched episode.

That’s when I remember I have a pocket full of porno cards.

We leaf through them and find the cheapest one.  It says $35.  Ben calls from the hotel room phone.  Also, after being the last man standing on the 1^st and 2^nd night, I’m on the brink of passing out on the third.  I am barely conscious for this.

Ben is talking to operator of the escort service.  The transaction seems to be going smoothly until I hear Ben say, “But the card says $35.  I’m not paying $85.  No, I don’t want it anymore, don’t send anyone.  What?  Wh—Did you just call me a faggot??  I’m not a faggot.  No, don’t send anyone to the room.  I’m not a faggot, fuck you.  No don’t send anyone.”  Ben hangs up.

Seconds later the hotel phone rings.  It’s the escort service.  “No, don’t send anyone, and I’m not a faggot.”  Ben hangs up.  The hotel phone rings again.  This repeats several times.  The operator starts winding him down a little.  At some point, Ben unsmoothly asks, “So she’ll have sex with us for $85?”

The operator responses that prostitution is illegal in the state of Nevada, but other services can be negotiated in the room.  “Sounds expensive,” replies Ben who hangs up yet again.  And thankfully, despite her threats, no one came to the room.

So if it sounds too good to be true…

Lynzard’s Bad Night

A bunch of my friends were meeting up at a bar in Brunswick.  I told them I’d be up after I got off work.

By the time I got there, most were pretty wasted.  I wasn’t really in the mood to drink or spend money, so I just socialized.  Meanwhile, Lynzard was particularly ‘gone’, falling out of her bar stool, ready to pass out.  Her boyfriend Matt took her home, and basically had to carry her out of the bar.

However, after about fifteen minutes, the bartender realizes that Lynzard left her purse at the bar.  I tell the bartender that I’ll just drop it off after I leave, since she is a pretty good friend of mine, and because it’s on my way home anyway.  I’m not in a hurry to leave though, because I figure Lynzard is probably passed out in her bed by now.  I stayed at the bar for about an hour and left, sober.

And now I’m dropping off a purse.  What a boring night…

OR SO I THOUGHT!

I get to Lynzard’s apartment (she recently moved in with Smashley).  I pull into the apartment complex parking lot…that’s when I see Matt in the parking lot…weird, maybe he is just leaving.  I park.

“Hey, Matt, Lynzard left her purse at the bar and I…”, but he’s not really paying attention.  What’s he looking at?

It’s Lynzard.  Outside in the cold, completely shit-faced, banging down wrong apartment doors.

“What’s going on?  You guys left like an hour ago?” I said.

“Dude, it took me almost an hour to get her out of the car, and she won’t listen to me at all,” he replies.

So we both try to convince her she is at the wrong apartment.  But every time we talk to her or coax her in the right direction, she starts screaming.  Literally screaming.  Me and Matt back off every time she does this.  I mean, it looks like two creepy guys are trying to attack his poor girl in the parking lot.  We are very aware of this and don’t want to look like rapists.

We finally get Lynzard going in the right direction, until she takes a second step, misses, WHAM!!!!! and falls, as hard as she can, skull first, into the cold cement.  You can hear the slamming echo through the parking lot.  Me and Matt just look at each other, freaking out…is she ok?  Does she have a concussion?  She is sobbing on the ground.

We decide she is going to scream no matter what, and we don’t want her to get hurt.  We are just going to force her to go to the right apartment.  Once she gets up and stops crying, we each grab a shoulder and force her to the right place…but she breaks free at the last minute and runs off.

That’s when the police show up.

This is one of the few times in life where I was relieved to see a cop approach me.  I’m sober and I just want Lynzard to get to her apartment.  I give the cop a thirty second version of the story.

He convinces her fairly easily to get into the police car.  He tells Matt and I to wait a few minutes.  I’m still holding this ridiculous purse the whole time around my shoulder.  We wait.

The cop comes back.  Asks if she’s on heavy drugs or marijuana because she cannot tell him her name or address.  The cop says that he is going to issue her a citation for ‘disturbing the peace’, which is just a large fine, instead of the public intoxication she probably should have got (which means fine + jail).  The whole time he is explaining this to us, Lynzard is screaming in the back of the police car.  You can hear her muffled screams even though all the police car doors are closed.

The cop tells me to go wake up her roommate (Smashley).  I go into the apartment and I find Smashley very much asleep.  This is really awkward, how do I wake her up exactly?

“Ashley, Ashley!”  I whisper, a bit louder each time.  Eventually it gets her up.  “Bumba?”

“Um, hi.  Lynzard had a bit too much to drink and we need you to talk to the police downstairs…”

She thinks I’m messing with her, until she hears the foreigner cop voice “ASHLEY WE NEED YOU DOWN HERE, I NEED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT YOUR ROOMMATE”.

Smashley springs out of bed and goes downstairs.  The cop explains that if Lynzard gives us a hard time, call the police again and they will keep her in the drunk tank overnight.  He leaves.

We still can’t get Lynzard into bed easily.  Smashley tries to clean the blood oozing off the back Lyznard’s hair from her falls, but she is refusing.  We get her in be eventually.  Smashley and I stay up all night to make sure Lynzard stays in bed.

Lessons learned: She was so lucky.  She could have been hurt seriously and then this story wouldn’t be funny at all.  And The ticket she had to pay was $185.00

The next day, Lynzard calls me.  “OH MY GOD WHY DOES MY HEAD HURT SO MUCH???

The Patron Fence Incident

It started like a typical night-in with Smashley and Lynzard.

Lynzard had just moved into Smashley’s, and to celebrate, the three of us decided to dip into Smashley’s $55 bottle of Patron Silver Tequila.

What turned into a few beers and shots, turned eventually into A LOT of beers and shots.  Most of the bottle was destroyed, as was my sobriety.

Although it was only October, we were having our first cosmetic coating of Ohio snow.

I think in our drunken state of minds, Smashley and Lynzard were trying to convince me to try to break into our one friend’s apartment in the same complex.

But I decided I was going to do one better.  I was going to do it NAKED.

With a burst of energy, I completely stripped out of my clothes, boxers and all, and sprinted out in the middle of the night onto the snowy patio.  Lynzard and Smashley are in a coma of laughter and disbelief.

So naked, I tried to climb a tall wooden fence to get to our friend’s apartment.  Did you know how hard it is to climb a fence when you are cold and drunk and completely naked?

Instead of climbing the fence, frustrated, I just started ripping planks of the fence.  I got a nice portion of the fence destroyed before I started doing naked snow angels.

Then I stood up.  I realized two things.

1. I was fucking freezing.  My teeth were chattering and my skin was turning blue.  And more importantly…,
2. Even if I made it over the fence, I have not once been over this friend’s apartment anyway and in actually had no idea which one it was.  I was playing 1:250 odds.

Of course, once I warmed up, I tried to go out one more time.  Again freezing and lost came back in.  Passed out.

I awoke around 6 AM, alone and confused in the downstairs recliner.  Clothed.  I was fine to drive home.  I tried to go to the bathroom first but had trouble whipping my dick out.  Whatever, I finally got it.  Drove home.  Went to bed, passed out.

I awoke around noon, alone and confused in my bed.  I noticed two things.

1. My boxers were on backwards.  This explains why I had problems before trying to find the peehole of my boxers.
2. I had a giant, gaping cut on my shoulder blade.  I have no idea how I got it but it has since healed nicely.  I will post a picture soon, once I figure out how to get it off my camera phone.

A few days later I came back to survey the damage I had done.

Shot-toberfest

It was annual Berea Octoberfest.  You know, lots of old school German ladenhosen, dancing, and beer.  Lots of beer.  We came as a big group; with Lynzard, Smashley, Dustin, Jackie, Lindsay, Michelle, Jess K, Vince, and Toplek.  And the more you drink, like a horror movie, the more people from your original group you lose.

Over the next few hours of heavy consummation of almost-free alcohol, I lose everyone but Lindsay, Michelle, and Jess K.

We stumble into a German Dance Hall, with lots of old people doing waltzes.  So Michelle and I tried to create our own waltz; it was very obnoxious, drunk, sloppy, and loud.  LOUD. We got kicked out of the dance hall.

In my drunken wisdom, we decided we weren’t going to take this lying down.  Being too loud??? We’ll show you too loud!!!

Next thing we know Lindsay is running through the dance hall screaming and ringing a cowbell as loud as she could.  And no one could catch her because everyone was old.  Take that society!

Then after, came shot and shot after delicious shot.

Eventually things are shutting down, and everyone is wasted besides the responsible Jess K.  I let her drive my car, because wasted, we decide to go to another bar.

Meanwhile, Lindsay and I get into huge fight in the backseat of the car with her giant jumbo bag of popcorn.  The bag explodes and sends popcorn over every square inch of my car.

At the next bar, Jess K gets a ride home from her boyfriend.  Michelle gets a ride home from her boyfriend.  Lindsay also thinks it would be a good idea for me to drive and circle the parking over and over again so she can throw things at Michelle through my sunroof as she waits for her ride.

I pull out of the parking lot and see a cop lurking.  The sirens come on.  I almost pee myself.  I breathe deep as if somehow it will make me more sober.  I regret everything and in a flash of inspiration, realize that in my state I could have seriously hurt myself, or worse, someone innocent with my intoxicated state of driving.

The cop pulls over the person behind me.

Inspiration instantly fades.  I am invincible.  I regret nothing.  Motley Crue’s Girls Girls Girls comes on my CD player.  We are going to the strip club.  I get drunker and Lindsay sobers up.  She drives us to Steak and Shake.  I have little-to-no-memory of this.

Lindsay then drives me back to her car.  She refuses to drive me all the way home, twenty minutes in the opposite direction of her home, to my probably angry girlfriend she’s never met.  Instead, Lindsay calls Smashley so she can dump me off at her place down the street.

In My Mind. We get to Smashley’s Apartment.  I knock a few times on the door and she does not answer.  I got back to Lindsay and tell her.  Eventually Smashley answers the door.

What Really Happened, Apparently. We get to Smashley’s Apartment.  I barely even touched the door, and instant turn to Lindsay and get pissed that she’s not home.  I fall sloppily into her arms and she has to escort me inside.

In My Mind. I crawled up the landing.  My girlfriend calls me wondering where I am and if I need a ride.  I explain to her that I’m kind of drunk and I’m going to sober up then drive home.  Before I can finish my phone died.  Knowing she is already worried, immediately I tell Smashley to call her on her phone.  My girlfriend comes and picks me up.

And, Again, What Really Happened, Apparently. I crawled up the landing completely wasted.  My girlfriend calls me wondering where I am because we were supposed to meet for dinner at Applebee’s thirty minutes ago.  I tell her I’m on my way home.  Before I can finish my phone died.  Knowing she is already going to kick my ass, it takes me almost twenty minutes to realize that Smashley should call her on her phone.  In the meantime, my girlfriend calls me at leaves me several panic-striken and threatening voicemails, and calls basically anyone in her phone that might have a clue about my whereabouts.  While waiting for my ride, Smashley laughs and laughs because she knows I am going to be killed by my girlfriend.  My girlfriend arrives, orders me to my feet, and drags me to the car.  I cry, I mean, I am litterally weeping like a newborn the whole ride home and beg for her not to kill me.

Thankfully she spares my life.  In an unrelated note, can you believe that we aren’t together anymore?

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