Jesse Helms Has Passed Away, and I am Left Wondering

When I was 14 years old, my parents let me take a day off from school so I could work the polling places and pass out literature at the very last moment before a person went and cast their vote. Living in a county that was 65% African American, you can see the irony of this if you knew ol’ Jess. I didn’t. At the time of the election, I was uninformed (we didn’t have the internet). So it was always a question to me why so many of the African American voters laughed at me or gave me a strange look. Turns out, ol’ Jess was something of a bigot and a sexist. Go figure.

Six years later, I met this guy who I worked with who spent hours and hours interning for Jesse for free on his campaign. Being that I was more informed and less naive about politics because I was now a mature 20 years old and knew it all, I asked him, “Why would you back a racist, sexist, mean old man like Jesse?” His answer made sense. . . sort of. He said,”I have travelled with him all over this state and he truly loves North Carolina. He really wants the people of this state to succeed.” Sure, I thought, as long as you’re white and male. If you can’t tell, as I grew up and got to know my elected officials and the system better, I became jaded with the whole show.

My freind also told me about how christian Jesse Helms was. Jesse’s political virtues were deeply rooted in his religious foundation. I never gave it much thought, I was always more secular anyway. But, I just read the news of his passing a few days ago and it made me question the man I had once campaigned for. Like, did he ever recieve felatio?

This was a guy who referred to homosexuals as “sodomites.” On an intellectual level, I have to disagree with that usage. First, Sodomites were people who liked to party and sought alternatives to vaginal intercourse. They also wanted to gang bang the angels staying over at Lott’s place. That didn’t necessarily make them gay. My last serious girlfriend referred to the act as “special birthday sex.” Does it make me gay that I enjoyed it? But seriously, did he ever indulge in the pleasures of the flesh with his wife of decades? Or, was sex a chore that needed to be done from time to time so as to procreate and nothing else?

For that matter, do any hardcore christians engage in foreplay that involves more than just kissing on the cheek and groping each others’ arms? I mean, I consider myself something of a lax catholic because I like to drink on Sundays. Hey, if God intended for me to relax, and our savior made wine on command, why not? But I digress. What I want to know, is what is christian sex really like? Is it dirty and sweaty? Is it like I do it, you know, where me and my partner role-play like monkeys, slinging poo and all?

I want to know about the lady who home-schools her kids and reads “Left Behind” and swears that’s how it’s going to happen. Does she ever get nasty and work her man’s junk like a pepper grinder? My thoughts are negative on this one. I’ve seen the christian websites about how to please your husband. They say stuff like, “Make him a fantastic meal;” or “Give him a nice backrub.” A backrub? Give your man a BJ if you want to help him unwind.

Recently, a pastor from a local church was busted for child porn in Plano, TX. Catholic priests around the country have been charged and tried for the same. When you repress youself to the point where indulgence becomes sin and you can’t forgive yourself for enjoying the acts of love, you become a deviant inside. You have to sneak out, go to the Adult Video store, get your coins for the adult arcade, watch and hope no one sees you, go home to your wife, and pretend you are normal. Years go by, and now you’re into beastiality and “shaizer” videos. Hey, I like a good poo joke, but that’s gross.

So what I’m really wondering is since I don’t get the unabridged version of his memoirs, di ol’ Jess ever get freaky? Was he a deviant in bed with a ready supply of candle wax and dog collars? Did he like hookers? Does anybody else ever wonder stuff like this, or am I the only one?

The PooPoo Prank

Being that Chad and I were best friends, it was a requirement, nay, an honor. . . to destroy his property, desecrate his workspace, allow him no sleep, and give him rides across town when he needed the latest Star Wars action figure. Now, Chad was an all around great guy, and truly didn’t deserve half of what I put him through, and being the great guy I have always been, I didn’t deserve any of what he did to me. However, it’s hard to resist the kind of opportunity presented when your best friend goes off to Nat’l Guard weekend duty. Wackiness ensues. . . (not for the weak of stomach)

The story begins when I went over to my old roommate’s house to pick up some stuff I was too lazy to move previously. Now, it must be said that my former roommate Ronnie was an excellent chef who also owned his own catering company. Being as good as he was, I was shocked to find an entire flourless chocolate cake sitting on his counter apparently left over from an event he had catered the night before. He offered me a piece, and it was delicious. But, it was extremely rich, and I could see why it wasn’t a big hit with 6,000 calories a slice. Long story short, he offered me the rest and I took it with me.

Story seems pretty normal so far, right? Guy goes to old place, picks up forgotten stuff, caterer / former roommate offers flourless chocolate cake. . .  Well you forget that I have a perverted sense of humor. Don’t worry, babies. . . daddy’s gonna feed you. Some of you probably even see where this is going. And if you think you know how this ends, you’re wrong. It’s much worse.

So Chad and I are hanging out before he has to go away for the weekend and he sees me eating a piece of cake and says “Hey, I want some cake.” Me:”Sure, go get yerself some.” Chad:”Dude, this is thick, it looks like a turd.” Me:”Yeah, but it tastes like brilliance.” Chad:”You’re gay, don’t ever talk to me like that again.”

So we eat cake and dring beer for a couple hours until he leaves to go to his unit, I continue to drink until I pass out. A day goes by, and I spend it hanging with my other friends, get drunk, eat more cake, pass out and wake up on top of a piece I forgot I was eating when the beer put me down. As I wake up, I look down at my shirt, wipe off the larger clumps with my hand and eat them. They are still delicious even with the lint and food crumbs from the couch stuck to them. I go into the bathroom and as I wash my hands I can’t help but notice the mirror and the reflection of my shirt. It looks like I had been in the woods and couldn’t find any leaves. I mean, it looks like I’m wearing toilet paper. Just disgusting, but still tasted great. And that’s when it hits me.

I cut three pieces of cake, roll them in my hands into oblong, cylindrical shapes, and proceed to Chad’s bathroom. I drop the first piece directly into the bowl. The second piece I carefully lay on the porcelain above the water and make sure it smears at a downward angle. The third piece I lay ever so carefully so that it hangs off the rim into the bowl. I proceed to clean my hands with toilet paper and rest that in the bowl and throw the last piece of paper on the floor for good measure. Looking at my creation I realize it is art, but a work in progress. It’s missing something. What could it be? Oh yeah. . . piss. So I put on some shoes, run down to the corner store, and buy some bottled lemonade.

Again, I look at my master work and am still critical. It just doesn’t look, well, shitty enough. I can’t think of what else I can do, so I decide to look in Chad’s room for inspiration. And boy do I find it! On his desk is a pot of . . . pudding! I’m serious, I couldn’t have made it up if I were trying. There is a pot of pudding Chad had made from his military MRE (he loved to eat those things). And it’s got a fork sticking out of it. So gues what I do? If you guessed I ate some of it, you’re not smart enough to read the rest of this. But if you guessed that I took said pot into the bathroom and used to fork to dab and splatter pudding randomly, you’re exactly right.

Now my masterpiece was done. Well, no, there was still something else missing. Something didn’t feel right. No, something didn’t. . . SMELL right. That’s it, I hadn’t gotten the smell. What to do? I mean I couldn’t just fart and close the door, not for something so visually stunning. I had to finish strong. Back to the corner store. I aske the guy if he had any stink bombs. I wanted the kind in the glass vial, but I was actually amazed he had anything close to it in the first place. Again, I’m not making this up, the store guy actually had stink bombs. The only other place I could think to get them were the novelty stores at South of the Border in S. Carolina. But the fates were smiling and wanted me to pull this prank off.

The stink bombs the guy sold me were duds, though. Oh, they stank, but the smell was like wet cat and lasted about 3 minutes. He had enough to sell me three and I wanted to test the first one. Now that I knew the effect, I had two left and I wanted to use one for a test run. So I went and got Karl from one of the other apartments. Poor Karl, he never saw it coming. But to his credit, he did the most wonderful thing I could have never thought of.

Me:”Karl, I think we had som bums break in!! (this really happened a few times) Hurry, man, you gotta see this. All I know is I’m not cleaning it up.” Karl:”What? What are you talking about?” Me:”Dude, you just gotta see for yourself. Oh man, I think I’m gonna be sick.” Karl:”Just tell me, and quit. . . ” Me:”NO! You need to see this.”

So Karl, who obviously doesn’t trust me, follows anyway. Again, he never saw this coming. One word: Priceless. As we make it upstairs and walk towardds Chad’s bathroom, I can smell the wet cat. In my mind, I am laughing hysterically, but my face is one of disgust and horror. I push open the door, but have placed myself in his line of sight of the carnage. I say “Karl, I can’t believe this.” I move out of the way, Karl looks down, immediately takes a step back and heaves. “Look at this Karl, can you believe this?” And as the last word comes out of my mouth, I reach down and point at the “poo,” but oops, I got some on my finger. Karl looks at my stained fingertip and a light sweat breaks out on his forehead. I look disgusted as I hold the finger up between us. I let out a small shriek. Our eyes meet. I put my finger in my mouth. Karl throws up on the bathroom floor.

There it is. The “Piece De Resistance.” Actual, real, painful, acidic, putrid. Vomit. I have outdone myself. Karl flees. I laugh like it’s the last time. I go downstairs and watch TV. Over the next few hours, Karl comes back and I explain what had just happened. He was upset at first, until he realised the genius of his upchuck. We relax and settle down so we don’t look guilty when Chad gets home. I heard his ride drop him off and ran to his bathroom to set off the final wet cat bomb. Chad came into the TV room and hung out for a few minutes. We chat about the weekend, mostly idle talk. Then he went upstairs.

Chad:”Mike, get the hell up here.” Me:”What is it Chad. . .Oh My God!!” Chad:”Call the police.” Me:”Chad, they can’t do anything now.” Chad:”No man, there’s some bum out there that’s severely dehydrated and we need to find him.” Me:”My god, I’m going to be sick.” Chad:”Suck it up, we have to go helpthat guy. Now, go call the police.”

I agree and turn to walk down the stairs. I take two steps and feel a punch to the back of the head. Only it wasn’t a punch. It was a wad of chocolate cake. I look at Chad. He calls me an asshole and tells me to clean up the mess. Then he asks me, “What the hell smells like wet cat? Did you buy a stink bomb from the beer store? I already tried those and they suck.”

I hate you, Chad.

The Day Chad And I Almost Died: Or Un-Intended Consequences Of Foreign Substances

I have to start by saying that Chad was one of the most influential friends in my young adult life. I say this because I have more memories of drunken debauchery and foolish shenanigans with this one individual than anyone else. That being said, the following is absolutely a true story:

Tuesdays were the easiest days of the semester because I only had one class, so I wound up getting drunk on Mondays because I could, and blowing off said class because I only had to study for the tests. It was one of those courses where the prof didn’t really care because he had better things to do and usually sent a grad student to teach for him. I often wondered how many students actually attended. Anyway, I digress.

Chad had found me and since he didn’t have a car, I immediately assumed he needed a ride. Chad:”I need a ride.” Me:”So what? I needa blowjob.” Chad:”Dude, do you know what Androstenodione is?” Me:”Does it involve lips around my manhood?” Chad:”No, it’s like the next best thing to steriods, only it’s legal.” Me:”That’s great, Chad. When do this become you giving me head?” Chad:”I’m not gay, you know that.”

All the witty banter aside, Chad eventually convinced me I needed to drive to Cary to the Gold’s Gym to get this wonder drug. I mean, I liked to work out, and sure I wanted to get bigger (’cause chicks dig muscle dudes), so why not? So we jump into the Batmobile that is my Subaru Loyale and head off int the direction of Highway 440. When you’re in college and have a car, you have instant sex appeal, everyone is your friend, and your ride gets a cool name which makes you feel more manly (my buddy Jason’s white 1983 station wagon was affectionately known as the space shuttle).

Things are as you would expect on a short half hour drive to the next town over to get “legal” steriods from some personal trainer you don’t know at a gym because you can’t buy them at a real store. But Chad has the overwhelming urge to provide entertainment. Entertainment being him straddling himself in the passenger seat and contorting in such a way as to allow himself to keep the seatbelt on (for saftey), whilst allowing the flexibility to hold a lighter to his anal area as to ignite the methane he is about to spew into our shared air supply. Seriously, though, I am laughing my ass off while Chad sends a blue flame into the glove compartment. He loses his self control and starts to laugh as if he’s at a Don Rickles concert as well. Eventually, the tears drain from our eyes and we settle down, only because we weren’t aware of the consequences of fire in an encapsulated space.

Chad must not have noticed, and neither had I, for I don’t make it a habit of looking at another man’s crotch, but he had a hole in his pants, and in that area the frizzies from said hole had somehow managed to catch fire. We had been laughing so hard that neither had noticed the smoke that remained after the blue flame.

Chad began to scream like a 6 year old while I stopped paying attention to the road so that I could slap him in the balls to extinguish said flame in my car. Chad, not taking kindly to my help, begins punching me in my arm. Me, not taking kindly to being punched in the arm, decide to punch Chad in the arm while he slaps his own balls to extinguish what at this point is merely ash in his crotch (because of my superior Smoky The Bear fire preventing skills). While all of this is going on, I had somehow done a U-turn and was descending onto the highway via the off ramp, meaning I was going the wrong way heading into 70 mph traffic. I begin to scream, Chad looks up from putting out the remaining embers, suddenly caring more for his life than his proginy, and begins to scream, as we are heading straight into oncoming traffic.

Now, the next moment was a frantic blur of me turning the wheel hard to the left, Chad grabbing the wheel pulling it right, me covering my face in fear, Chad and I embracing in a manly hug whilst crying, a jump over a curb while crossing over a four lane road leading to the highway, jumping yet another curb, and somehow landing in the parking lot of Gold’s Gym. . . parked perfectly between two white stripes of a parking space with the only casualty being a bush along the road. 

We had come to a complete stop and I could tell by the rearview mirror that I was white as a ghost. I looked at Chad who looked equally flushed and we both sat there motionless for a full 3 minutes. Finally I said “I don’t know why or how, but we made it here.”

Chad, who finally calmed down, reverted to the Chad I knew and pulled out his wallet. He said:”Hey, man, do you mind going in there and asking for Tony? He’s got the pills we need.” Me:”Why don’t you go? You were the one who wanted to come here in the first place.” Chad:”Yeah, but, well, I shit myself.”

And that was what I told my mom when she asked how I got that stain on my passenger seat when seh flew up to drive back to Texas with me. I love you, mom!

The Helium Articles: 3 – Who Are The BellyDance SuperStars?

I felt guilty after writing this one. I mean, the person who wrote this article from a serious point of view was the only other person to contribute. When you read about the BDSS, you got their article, or mine. Let’s hope they read the other one first . . .

 

I got home on Friday night and all I could think of was drinking my first 3 beers. I couldn’t drink too much, because my boss Shawn had somehow erased all the accounts payable information for the first quarter which meant I would be working Saturday so he could go to the Sweet Sixteen in Houston. I’m thinking, great, I get to work to clean up his mess while he gets drunk and watches a game he knows nothing about. Anyway, as I pull up to my apartment, I could already taste that sweet nectar that is Bud Light.

I open the door, and almost vomit because of the crime scene in front of me. My roommate Ken is gyrating in a way that has to be criminal. He is standing in the center of the living room, couch and table pushed out of the way and moving his lard infested mid section in a way I didn’t think fat boys could. I mean, hairy, pasty stomach rippling and opening and closing in a way that looks as if it would consume small children or midgets if they dared wander too close.

I’m like, “Dude, what the hell?” He turns and looks at me like I don’t know the secret and says “Hey,man. I’m practicing up on my belly dancing.” So I take the chance and ask why.

“Dude, have you ever heard of the BellyDance SuperStars? It’s this international dance troupe that does innovative bellydancing around the world.”

I’m still shocked at the sight of my roommate undulating in his boxers and all I can think to say is “What?”

“Seriously, this guy Miles Copeland started this dance thing in Europe or something and now they have groups all over the place. I found this video of them at my sister’s house yesterday and I think I got what it takes. This is the next Riverdance.”

I ignore Ken for as long as I can and just start pounding back the Bud Light until the day becomes a fog and I stop caring about tomorrow’s impending workload a la Shawn. Ken meanwhile continues to make me uncomfortable as he shakes and contorts in ways a fat man shouldn’t. So I ask him another question, “Isn’t this a dance style for women?” and he says “Dude, don’t be sexist. Belly dancing is a great form of exercise and has always been unisexual.” So I’m like “Why are there only girls in the video?” and he says “Why would I want to watch a dude do a belly dance?”

Ken, truer words have never been spoken.

The Helium Articles: 2 – Do Organsims Always Evolve Into More Complex Forms?

Yet another article where people take themselves too seriously. . . The writers took sides and went at it. A lot of religion vs. science vs. whacko vs. ME . . . I won!

 

Last Thursday, I got home from another fruitless day at the office working out another accounting error for end of year taxes. My boss had decided that his math was better than the excel spreadsheet designed to minimize flaws, only because he got promoted by knowing the right drinking buddy and not because he knew what he was doing. Anyway, my room mate Ken was on the couch in his boxers staring at the TV, and I asked what he was watching. “Discovery Channel,” and I said “Cool, any animal fights?”

Turns out he was watching some show on evolution and what not. I was more interested in opening the first bottle of bud light, my week night beer, and playing some X-Box, but he was all into this show. I was pretty beat, so I didn’t mind sitting on the far end of the couch since Ken was in his boxers and scratching more than usual. That’s when Ken goes “Hey man, when I was in college, I took this biology class and it was like Darwin and stuff.” Now, I went to college, and I’m smarter than Ken, and I felt like kicking someone around. Who better than my unemployed, non-graduated, alcoholic room mate? “Sure, Ken. Darwin had some great ideas that led us in new directions.”

That’s when Ken floored me. “Mike, it’s like this. Evolution doesn’t occur over time, it occurs over generations. There was a moth in England around the time of the industrial age that lived on tree bark. The bark was brown, but as soot settled on the trees over a few years and turned the bark gray, the moths began to turn gray, too. This happened over 20 years, but really over about 50 generations.” I was impressed that Ken could remember anything from his alcohol infused random class attendance, but he kept going. “Dude, this show was saying that evolution doesn’t make a species stronger, but makes a species more able to cope with environmental conditions.” I was into my second bottle by this point and not really arguing the way I thought I would. Ken was actually into this. “Ken, how much have you had to drink today?” I asked. He said he had been holding off because he saw the commercial for this show last night and didn’t want to pass out before it came on.

Now, Ken has never been any stranger to an afternoon buzz, but for him to actually make an effort to stay sober for a whole afternoon was impressive. “Biologists believe we are constantly evolving. Every time we step into the sun, the radiation mutates our skin cells. We never notice, because the effect is so small, but over several generations our progeny develops more melanin in its skin.” That was it, now I was up for beer 3 of the night and really starting to enjoy a side of Ken I never see. I mean, I didn’t think Ken knew what progeny meant. I moved closer to him on the couch and he sat up straight ready to explain more. I didn’t even mind that his sitting up had created a gap between his boxers and his leg and I could see his junk, I just didn’t pay attention. “Mike, evolution takes place constantly, and can occur quickly in a species, over a few generations. Americans who have several generations of ancestors are taller than other people from other nations because we had more protein in our diets. This occurred over 300 years, but really it occurred over 12 generations.”

I am no biologist, but Ken had a point. And he was clearly making it. In the case of my roommate, there is evidence to suggest that a species can evolve quickly and become more complex. Ken was able to hold off drinking, and carry a quasi-intelligent conversation. All I could think of was when Professor X had mentioned that sometimes evolution takes a leap forward. It was clear that Ken had evolved in a single day, and he was certainly more complex than I had ever seen him. I got up and went to the kitchen for beer number 4, when Ken said “Oh man, I almost forgot,” and he changed the channel. I was like “What’s up, I thought you were into that,” and he goes “yeah, but Campbell Brown is on CNN. She reminds me of my eighth grade English teacher. Man, was I hot for her. . .  Dude, grab me a beer.”

The Helium Articles: 1 – How much detail of your past relationship should you tell your partner?

While the rest of the world chose to give advice or tell their sob story, I thought best to over-dramatize and embelish. Enjoy . . . (I still love you, Ken)

 

Last Wednesday, I met this hot chick from HR on the third floor. I had never seen her before and decided that it couldn’t hurt to check her out. I was up on the third floor because my boss had screwed up the accounts payable software and I knew that if he found me, I would have to spend hours fixing his mess while still keeping up with my own workload.

Anyway, I was hanging out on the third floor and saw this chick wearing a shirt that I have only seen on strippers before I paid them. I walked over to her cube to catch a peek at her blouse and she looks up and catches me and says “May I help you?” in the most unsexy way she could. She looked like she was about to kick me in the shin for having the nerve to appreciate how dirty she looked, so I used my most charming line and said,” What’s your name?” and she said “Carla. . . did you need something?” Again, not so sexy. “Are you new here?” I asked. She said she was and had just moved to the area and what did I want? I caught the tension so I just shrugged my shoulders and figured girls like guys who tell them the truth. “I just thought you were pretty and wanted to see if you wanted to go out for some drinks after work.”

Turns out she wasn’t expecting the invitation or the compliment, and she said tonight was no good. “I have plans to have drinks with my roommate and I wouldn’t want her to feel left out.” I said “Cool,” and that I was going to hang out with my roommate, Ken, and we were going to go out. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I immediately regretted them, because she said the worst thing possible. “Hey, why don’t you and your roommate and me and mine meet at Rocky’s bar, then? Say about 8 o’clock?” I’m like, “Yeah, sounds great,” but really all I can think is how stupid I was for even mentioning my roommate.

If you’ve never met Ken, he is your drinking buddy. He is the guy you fart around because he thinks it’s funny, too. He is also unemployed and sits around in his underwear all day drinking my beer. I mean I love the guy like a brother, but he has no control of himself or his bodily functions.

Anyway, I get home and am like “Dude, I am trying to hook up with this chick from work. She invited me out for drinks as long as I bring a friend for her friend. I need you to play wingman for about 2 hours and then bail.” He’s all excited and says “Dude, what’s her friend look like? Does she have nice boobs?” And I say “I don’t know, just don’t screw this up. I’m going to try to get some play before midnight.” He jumps up all excited and goes to put some clothes on while I open the first beer of the evening to loosen up and bring out the “A” game. Ken, meanwhile, spends about 20 minutes picking up random shirts off the floor inspecting them for spaghetti sauce and funk. Finally, after deciding to wear his best Vote For Pedro t-shirt, we head out around 7:30.

We got to the bar, and unknown to me, Ken was already a six pack into the night. In retrospect, I think I missed the keg smell of his breath because it’s the only one I’ve smelled on him for the last 2 years. He’s at the bar telling the bartender how he’s going to be getting some and that I’m here to play wingman for him. I pretty much just tolerate it because even the alcoholic and unemployed need some self esteem. So I’m like, okay Ken, whatever, you’re so cool, when Carla walked in. Now I want to be clear that Carla was hot, but when her roommate came in right after she did, I almost hit the floor. She was smoking hot and had a body that belonged in soft porn, or at least a good R rated rental.

Carla sees me and walks over with her roommate. We said hello and she introduced me to Stephanie and I introduced them both to Ken. Ken just looked back and forth between Carla’s and Stephanie’s boobs while drinking whatever bourbon cocktail the bartender was going to throw out because the guy he made it for didn’t like it. I started the conversation by asking where Carla moved from and what Stephanie did and normal pre-drunk make-out conversation. But Ken couldn’t help himself. He was asking Stephanie obnoxious questions, like “Are they real? or “Can I be the judge of that?” At one point he asked Stephanie if she had ever made out with Carla.

Stephanie seemed to be having fun and was playing along with Ken, while Carla and I tried to have an adult conversation. At about 9:23, things were going pretty well. Except for Ken and his classic fart jokes, I felt pretty good about my chances of copping a feel by 10:00. That’s when everything went south. Carla asked, “So, do you pick up a lot of girls from work?” I knew she was playing coy, but Ken thought I would be too shy to announce my workplace conquests. “Mike? Yeah, he’s pulled a lot of tail from his office. Hey, Mike? Who was that girl you were with last weekend? Wasn’t she one of your interns?” All I could think of was lighting a napkin on fire and placing it on Ken’s lap, but I didn’t have a lighter.

Stephanie thought all of this was funny, and how charming and cute Ken was. That’s when Ken leaned over and whispered “Hey man, I’m going to bail with Stephanie, I think I got a shot at this.” Which left me at the bar with Carla. She just looked at me and said she was ready to leave, and by the look on her face, leaving was the end of the night and not the beginning. I took her home, because Stephanie drove and she was with Ken somewhere, hopefully not back at our place.

No such luck. Even worse, the walls in our apartment are thin and I had to fall asleep to the sounds of love from Ken’s room. All I could think of was kicking in his door and tossing cups full of ice water at them, but at least one of us got some play. The next morning, he was up and as I was getting ready to leave for work, he asked “So, how did everything go with what’s her name?” I told him some jerk had told her about all the tail I had hooked up with at my office. Ken looked genuinely upset. He looked me in the eye and offered the best friendly advice he could. “Dude,” he said, “you need to find out who it was, and take a knife to his tires.” That’s great, Ken. . . you don’t have a car