The City Paper dealt some hilarious ownage to Late Night Shots on Thursday. The reporter’s encounter with three LNS members:

Then the bearded one in the middle busts out with this: “Do you like anal sex?” I squint. I’m confused. “Do you do anal?” he repeats, head bobbing with excitement. The litany continues. Do I want to take it in the ass? Have I ever taken it in the ass? My silence is taken as an affirmative and he announces that this interview will go no further unless he receives a hand job.

I bet you these guys thought it was the funniest thing in the world to ask a reporter for anal, high-fiving each other and laughing it up for being such badasses—until she published names. Now members mentioned in the article are crying libel in the comments like little bitches.

Code words like “turbo” and “turbette” help posters maintain the site’s exclusivity. The lingo ranges from abstruse to obvious. In addition to “takedowns” and “going to poundtown” or “PT” (getting laid), there’s “big timing” (snubbing someone, often a member of the opposite sex, at a bar), “smoke” (an attractive LNS member), and “RBV” (a Red Bull with vodka, the preferred drink of many LNSers).

I guess they have to come up with new code words now that everyone knows what the cryptic “poundtown” means. Another LNS member showcases his superior game:

He says he knows people talk behind his back, but he doesn’t care. He’s rich, and that’s all that matters. “My brother and I, we do all right,” he says. “Guys with money can do whatever they want.” He grabs me again and says, “You’re kind of cute.”

He failed. Overall I found the article to be fair and balanced.

A part of me feels sorry for LNSers, especially the guys. They are just going through college withdrawal and want to be a part of a community where they can get laid with look-at-my-business-card game. As long as they keep their stripped collars and funny boat shoes in the tourist hell that is Georgetown, let them think they are special and high-brow, where nothing says class like a Red Bull and vodka.

Average Late Night Shot member → ← City Paper reporter

Two years ago I got trashed on my 26th birthday. After my friends drove me home, I stripped down to my boxers and made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, my favorite food. This video is them making fun of me while I eat my sandwich. It’s pretty embarrassing but enough time has passed that I don’t mind sharing.

Speaking of trashed, me and this guy are heading to the beach today and staying until Sunday. I’m taking my camera.

The first time I went into Grand Central with my wingman, this girl gave me a smile. She wanted me to approach but her appearance was disagreeable. Thirty minutes later she gave me another smile but I still didn’t bite. Finally she decided to take matters into her own hands when she slid up next to me at the bar. I was more intoxicated by then and open to talking to her, but no way I was having sex with her.

She gave up after a while because I kept giving one-word answers to her questions. She went to sit down next to her cuter friend, who VK took a liking too. Thirty minutes later he told me he wanted to get the friends number real quick and then we could leave. I tagged along and sat at the table.

The girl who liked me was half German and half Japanese, but unfortunately she was born in the United States so there was no flag consideration. Her face was all sorts of bad—she didn’t really have a chin and I couldn’t hold eye contact for more than three seconds. This would be like a negative notch.

I was being a good wingman until my beast said to me, “God you’re so hot I just want to kiss you.” Fellas, if a girl tells you that you’re hot, you are way out of her league. Only “cute” is acceptable. I knew this but earlier in the day I checked my budget spreadsheet and saw that my cost per notch was just above my $50 goal for the year. If I bang this beast tonight, mission accomplished. So I banged her. I put a Turkish flag on her face and did her for my Mom’s country.

After the deed was done, I looked at the clock and it was 1:30. My ride, the Metro, closed at midnight (it was a weekday) so I was stuck until the morning. I got up at 7am, looked at her face, and felt like dog shit. And I’m not being dramatic—I had to think of all the pretty girls I’ve dated to make myself feel better.

I stopped by McDonalds for a post-celebratory bang treat of a Sausage, Egg, and Cheese McGriddle. It was tasty and took my mind off the beast bang (the maple syrup is built right into the pancake buns), but I remembered why I stopped going to McDonalds during each of the three times I visited the toilet that day. I deserved loose stools after what I did. At home I couldn’t even look my little brothers in the face.

I stooped low just to say I accomplished a goal that was experimental in the first place. The only thing a low CPN proves is that you are dirty and can get one night stands. But I already knew that about myself in the first place. Getting laid on the cheap is nice, but where’s the emotional connection? Where’s the passion? Where’s the game growth? Where’s the self-respect?

My CPN for 2007 will stand for eternity at $45. Its neon yellow box has been deleted from my spreadsheet.

Continued from The Encounter.

I rolled off her onto the other side of the bed. In Spanish I said, “No me dijiste eso. No pago para el sexo” which I was hoping translated to “You did not tell me that. I don’t pay for sex.” I got on my back and stared at the ceiling. She said everything is okay and snuggled up next to me. I got the impression that she would bang anyway, but I was no longer in the mood.

I laid there motionless and quiet, stunned, reliving the past five minutes of my life, still naked with a condom on my junk. There’s the prostitute, laying next to me. She’s probably thinking about how much money she lost on me. I felt dirty, stupid. She got up from the bed and put on her clothes. I put on my boxers and walked her out to make sure she didn’t decide to grab a snack from the refrigerator and discover my money stash in the butter compartment. No more words were exchanged between us. I went to the bathroom after she left and rinsed my mouth with Listerine and brushed my teeth, a mostly symbolic cleansing for I’m sure I already have everything that could be transmitted from mouth to mouth contact.

It’s tempting to say that I should have known, but I disagree. I’ve had some experiences with American girls which come close to the Brazilian, and when you have been bombarded with messages that Brazilians are hyper-sexual beings you figure it’s just their normal way of doing things. Plus I had too many Polar Ices.

I know what I will do next time: I will make a casual reference to being short of cash. Maybe I’ll ask her if the bar accepts credit cards or I’ll say that I’m only having one more beer because I spent all my money and can’t find an ATM. If she is a prostitute, she’ll probably ditch me immediately. Short of asking her if she is a prostitute, which may kill my chances if she isn’t one, any insinuation of being broke should do. Basically what I do now with American girls.

I had a grin on my face the next morning. What a fucked up but crazy experience to have. And all it cost me was a whole lot of sand she left behind on my bed. I’m smarter and have better prostitutite-dar than before, but I’ll be surprised if I don’t cross paths with another secret prostitute again. I’m just glad I didn’t touch her vagina with anything but my fingers.

Conclusion: Sleeping With Prostitutes

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Enough time has passed where I feel comfortable sharing something that happened to me in Venezuela. The emotional wounds have healed.

It was my fifth night there and I was on Margarita Island. That night I met a couple waitresses at a restaurant who took me to a club two blocks away. I thought I was going to hook up with one of the them but that didn’t happen so I was on my own for the second half of the night.

Going through the back of the club put you directly on the beach. I dodged couples making out to sit on a sand ledge facing the ocean. The wind was strong that night, my friends. I closed my eyes and placed my hands on the sand behind me. This is the type of moment that is enhanced with a girl, I thought. Not two minutes later, a random girl I never met before did show up. She sat right next to me.

She was alright looking. Maybe a 6.5 out of 10. Cute but not hot. In bad English she asked me where I was from. I told her and then she said she was from Brazil. Then she gave me this lazy look and glanced at my lips. If you’re a guy, you know what I’m talking about. It took less than 30 seconds for us to start making out on this sand ledge. I guess all those things they say about Brazilian girls are true.

We went back inside and I bought a round of Polar Ice beers (a dollar each). This girl is dancing in front of me as I’m sitting down enjoying my beer. Then she asks me where I’m staying. I had a $50 a night apartment with its own bedroom and kitchen, luxurious by Venezuelan standards. She asked me if I wanted to go back to my place.

Now this concerned me. I’ve had girls move fast on me before but this is exceptionally fast. And she is from Brazil, a land known for its casual prostitution. I told her that I wanted to hang out at the bar a little longer because I like the music. If she saw me as a potential client, I wanted her to get discouraged and move onto easier fish. But if she wasn’t a prostitute, she wouldn’t mind hanging out for a bit longer. I got a second beer and we hung out for another 30 minutes.

Once I knew her for an hour, I concluded that she definitely was not a prostitute. I was ready. “Why don’t we go back to my place?” I said. She agreed, and we walked there. Inside I gave her a tour of the apartment that ended in my bedroom. I went to the kitchen to get some water and to put my cash in the refrigerators butter compartment—just in case she tried to rob me after I went to sleep.

Things progressed quickly in the bedroom. Within 10 minutes we were both completely naked. My condom use can best be described as a hair short of full safety compliance, but with this girl there was no fucking way I’m getting near her without one. She didn’t look that clean anyway.

I put on a condom and got ready to make big penetration. Then she said something which has been permanently etched into my brain, Brazilian accent and all.

“Pay me.”

Part 2: Live and Learn

The goal of this post is to make you feel better about your life.

My doctor prescribed me the antibiotic cefdinir because I was having sinus issues. On the eighth day of a ten day treatment, my body got itchy in multiple places at the same time. I wrote it off as crabs (the sexual kind), but the next day it got much worse. Globs of raised red skin with the itching power of a million mosquitoes moved through my body like plucky terrorist fighters. When they attack my face, I look like a burn victim. Then they go hide in their sophisticated cave system, regroup, and come out later to attack again in different places… twenty-four hours a day, for the past nine fucking days. From a skin perspective, these have been the worst of my life—and I’ve had some bad pizza-face breakouts in my day. The first couple of days were so bad that I had a scratch queue where I had to prioritize which area got attention first (balls). Anti-histamines and cortisone creams have done little. Here’s how my back looked on day two:

You’re probably wondering what that patch of hair is. Sometimes I think it’s the result of a secret government experiment (my bet is on the fluorine), though I can’t say for sure. But I do know that it is growing in size and thickness.

Anyway, my doctor said my hives would go away in 2-10 days. The welts aren’t as bad this week but the quality of my life just isn’t what it used to be—to play with myself I have to carefully time it between hive episodes. I did some googling and turns out that for some people hives stay with them for over 20 years. Since this is day nine for me, I’m happy they will suddenly disappear tomorrow, just in time for the weekend!

I ordered a tall Americano and a water at the cash register. I waited a couple minutes by the bar but the water never came. No big deal, I’ll just ask again.

“Can I get a cup of water?”

The Asian lady barista said, “Sure I’ll get it for you this time but next time can you get back in line and ask for it?” Suck deez.

That barista is actually a manager, and I’ve seen her give attitude to others and reprimand her subordinates in front of customers. After I got my water I briefly considered using my Pulitzer-worthy writing skills to write a letter to corporate headquarters, but that would take too much effort.

A large black man next to the bar sees I’m waiting for my coffee drink. “My drink is taking forever too,” he said.

We small talk for 30 seconds. I looked at the Asian barista and said to him, “You see that woman? I really hate her.”

“That’s my wife.”

“Haha yeah right.”

“No really, she is my wife.”

Self-owned!!!

“Uhhhhhhhh yeah I’m saying that because I tried to get a water but she was not very nice.” It only took five seconds for me to regress into a beta male.

“Oh she can seem tough but this store is very busy.”

Phew, he’s cool with me hating his wife. I chat a little to alleviate my guilty feelings as my intoxicating charm wins him over: he ends up introducing me to her as his “homeboy.” He told her to look out for me in the future, so talking shit to a man’s wife may actually get me free coffee. I didn’t learn a lesson from this.

Ari is a 34-year-old woman living in New York. She likes quality men but quality men do not like her, not lately anyway. Let’s take a closer look at this fascinating specimen.

I’m having one of those days where I feel I lost everything I wanted before I even mounted a battle for them. I’m not going to be a young mother. I’m not going to marry my college sweetheart. I’m not going to be a teen sensation.

Today, I feel like I’m too old to do anything I wanted or hoped to do. I can’t find a job I like. I can’t find a boy to kiss.

Women feel sorry for themselves in order to get sympathy and validation from other women who know what it’s like to feel sorry for themselves. Their goal is to get a superficial injection of happy feelings that stops the tears long enough to leave the house and purchase brand-name clothing products.

I never thought I’d be 34, unmarried, unemployed and childless. Not having a warm body to lie next to in September is nothing to think about. In December it’s reason enough to cry. I never thought, I never considered that I’d still have to be looking. I blithely assumed that my snatch would be snatched up! I mean really. I switched high schools at the start of my sophomore year. I nabbed myself a boyfriend the first damn day. We were together for three years and then intermittently throughout college. In college there were others, I never lacked for a date. Cute, eligible guys were never hard to come by until I actually wanted one. And yes, I know, you’ll never find anyone while you’re looking but I’m 34, I really can’t play coy anymore.

Who would have thought the attention she received when she was 18 would decrease to nothing almost two decades later? There has to be a high school course for teenage girls that brings out spinster speakers (with their beautiful cats) to scare them from trying to be players like men. If they can show pictures of diseased cocks and vaginas in school I see no reason why they can’t offer this reality as well.

And so, as my mom would say; I’m in a mood today. I have a date tomorrow night and I’m not all that moody by nature though so this feeling, it’s got to be fleeting, right?

Of course she’s still dating, since it has worked so well for her in the past. Because even at her age she deserves no less than a quality man who is over six feet tall, charming, a good listener, witty, in excellent shape, fashionable but not too metrosexual, not a game player, well-mannered, chivalrous, making six figures, funny but not a clown, a passionate lover, emotionally secure, drug-free, ambitious, nice but not too nice, not self-absorbed, athletic, and friendly to defenseless little animals.

Ten bucks this woman dies alone.

Almost every girl I know has told me a “Some guy at the bar put something in my drink” story. And I never believe them.

The purpose of date rape drugs is to render a girl unconscious. But to isolate the girl where he can rape her, a guy has to pick her up on his own and leave the bar or club with her. If he is already able to leave the club with a girl, he doesn’t need drugs to have sex with her because she’ll have sex with him anyway. Do girls honestly think a random dude they never met is drugging their drinks so she will pass out randomly on the dance floor, making a discreet rape impossible?

A few months ago I was with three other friends at a bar when one of them was accused by a white girl—who he didn’t exchange a word with—of putting a roofie in her drink. Even though no pill was found, the bouncer kicked him out because their policy states that the accusation alone is enough. But this only applies to men because I reverse accused the same girl of putting a roofie in my drink and she got to stay. There was a policeman there and I told him that if my friend really did that then why doesn’t he investigate and arrest someone. His response: “Get out of my face or I will arrest you.” Girls don’t hesitate to make up false accusations because they always get the benefit of the doubt (they are honest angels) and there is no punishment if they are caught lying.

“I think I was drugged” is just a convenient excuse for girls to binge drink and lose self-control. The girls you see stumbling in the bar and vomiting on the street are victims, not morons. Well now we have a study which proves these girls are not getting drugged:

Women who claim to be victims of ‘date-rape’ drugs such as Rohypnol have in fact been rendered helpless by binge-drinking, says a study by doctors.

They found no evidence that any woman seeking help from emergency doctors because their drinks were allegedly spiked had actually been given these drugs.

Around one in five tested positive for recreational drugs while two-thirds had been drinking heavily.

Next time a girl tells you she thinks she was drugged because she passed out or can’t remember anything, remind her that those are side effects of alcohol. Then watch as her face fills with contempt because you don’t agree that deep inside every man is a rapist. Women want to be seen as equals but they are not willing to shake the “I’m a helpless victim” mentality.

Postscript: Full text of “A study of patients presenting to an emergency department having had a spiked drink” published in the peer reviewed Emergency Medicine Journal. Number of girls who are going to read it: zero.

I’ve been following the Carlos Mencia–Joe Rogan drama. Rogan has been accusing Mencia of stealing other comedians’ jokes, and recently went on stage during a Mencia performance to call him out. He made a video of the confrontation which makes a pretty good case that Mencia is indeed a joke stealer. It’s 10-minutes long but worth it (look for the Amazing Racist cameo):

So The Comedy Club in L.A. banned him and his agent let him go. But not Mencia—Rogan. Because Mencia has large audiences willing to pay to see him, Rogan has pissed off the people that Mencia is helping enrich. It doesn’t matter how noble or honest your cause is—if you get in the way of the green, you will be stopped by those who have power. Lesson in this is to always have a savings account, just in case your character gets you in trouble.

—Joe Rogan’s blog