Nascar Tattoos and Other Dumb Shit that Goes Down in the Home State

Nascar Tattoos and Other Dumb Shit that Goes Down in the Home State

If you, like me, are a grown adult who has chosen to live your adult life many miles, and, occasionally, time zones away from the place you grew up, then you already know that going back to your childhood home can do weird shit to you.  And if you aren't, let me just tell you. It can. It does. It always will. 

My parent's house is located in the great state of North Carolina (which, if it could just go ahead and stop doing embarrassing bassackwards shit for like, a solid 6 months, that would be dope), which was a pretty ok place to grow up I guess, but one I was glad to abandon for college, convinced there was a whole lot more world to see out there. This I achieved by shipping myself to New York for undergrad, and Spain for a Master's. 

However, in a turn of events that was simply shocking to 23 year old me, but I predict will shock you precisely zero, I discovered it was not super easy to get a job fresh out of school, with no experience, in my dream location of New York City, where I had no address, all the while zipping resumes across the Atlantic over email. So back to North Carolina I went, for what I imagined would be a few months, but turned into a few years.  

Which means I can't even legitimately claim the visiting-home excuse for the dumb shit you are about to read, because these events unfolded, at some point during the 4 years I was effectively again a resident of my home state, between grad school and moving to DC, although thankfully at no point during this period was I residing inside my parent's actual house. 

In any event, when I got home from Grad School abroad, I still had a fair crew of friends to roll with, through whom I met even more new and exciting humans. One of these, Ginger Eggplant, became one of my best friends, and remains one of my best bad influences.

So one evening I am out with GE at the downtown hometown bars, when a shortish, blondeish, stocky young Eggplant (i.e. not what usually gets my motors running) saunters over to me and strikes up a conversation. I do not remember being SUPER impressed with him, but he must have at least done enough to convince me he wasn't DUMB, because nothing will kill my lady boner quicker than a dumb dumb, no matter how pretty he may be. 

Suffice it to say things are going, you know, okay, when I notice he has a tattoo (I love tattoos) of the number 44 (which was a big thing at my university) and so I point to it (or stroke it probably, this was a long time ago, ok?)  and purr something to him about why he chose this particular tattoo. 

then he tells me its for car 44 in NASCAR

And I am left speechless, which you will be unsurprised to hear is an infrequent occurrence.

Sidebar: I was about to type that the 44 was for "Dale Earnhardt Jr." but then course I couldn't remember, because who the fuck gives a shit about NASCAR, so I Googled it, and apparently Dale Jr. didn't ever drive the 44 car, and during in the time this would've happened it was Terry Labonte driving it or some shit? I dunno, who cares,

Summary: homeboy was all, "I like NASCAR enough to ink it permanently on my body" and instead of mounting my nopercycle and nopeing my way on out of there, like a normal person would've done, I just twirled my swizzle stick, and was all, cool story bro, tell me more about that. 

Ginger Eggplant is watching all this and at some point when NASCAR Eggplant goes to the bathroom or to get a drink, or who knows what the hell, he scampers over. I give him the rundown, mention the goddamn tattoo and everything, and GE just giggles and tells me to "get it girl." 

So. I can only assume I was trying to be non-judgemental and broaden my horizons (I was VERY into that at the time), as well as attempting to follow the instructions issued to me by my terrible influence of a friend, and maybe also explore what it would've been like if I had gone to college here at home, or I don't even know what all, because not only did I not immediately flee from this human (who was actually very nice, and quite into me as I recall) by grabbing Ginger Eggplant uncerimoniously by the sleeve and peacing out to another bar, but in fact I wave goodbye to Ginger Eggplant, who shoots me a thumbs up, and allow this NASCAR lover to take me home. 

And this is where shit goes to all hell, because

when we get back to his ramshackle, slovenly, college dude apartment, and he gets his dick out,

I’m all:

The fuck is that?

Because it is muy small my people. Like, MUY.  Like we are talking maybe the size of my ring finger. Tops.

I know women who say they would've pulled their jeans back up and walked right out upon seeing such an....appendage. BUT as I have said before and will say again, it is just cruel to take someone home and then tell them to put their pants back on and get out of your house (especially if you are at their house) just because the dick is not to your preferred specifications.

So I prepare myself for a mediocre and possibly (but not necessarily, although, in fact it was) unsatisfying evening and we proceed. 

I leave in the morning feeling bummed I took a chance on something that only worked out meh, but in general at peace with things, considering at least it would make a good story. 

It’s not till I go to the bathroom that I discover the condom still inside me.

I immediately call NASCAR Eggplant, to chew him a new asshole he can use to fuck himself with, and become EVEN MORE IRATE when THIS motherfucker insists that he doesn't know what I'm talking about and he couldn't have alerted me the condom fell off, because he had a condom on the whole time. 

I am left to conclude that homeboy's tackle is so tiny he never fucking felt the condom slip off (which, maybe fair, I never really felt him inside of me either) but you cannot TELL me he didn't know he was supposed to take a condom OFF his miniature dick when he was done doing whatever it was he was doing down there in my vaginal region.

So I hang up the phone and immediately fly on my witch’s broom of rage and indignation down to the pharmacy to purchase me a dose of Plan B.

Which is really fucking expensive btw. It should be less.

Anyways, I crack open the packet in the parking lot, dry swallow the first pill, and eventually call Ginger Eggplant and Bestie Eggplant to report the whole story and demand an emergency brunch and day of distractions. 

They naturally spend most of the day making fun of me mercilessly, but they do feed me eggs, and bacon, and take me to a movie some hours later. 

11 hours later in fact. 

Fun fact: plan b is two pills that must be taken 12 hours apart.

so when the little alarm I set on my phone goes off I scruffle around in my purse, produce my second pill, take a giant sip of the enormous diet coke we are sharing, and drink it down. Which they both see me do, and take the opportunity to point and laugh at me again, assholes.  

Bestie Eggplant, though, is laughing, LOUD, and cannot stop. Like, he's about to pee his pants, and I am like, ok, I can take a joke and all but this is a little extra right here, so I give him a whole "what the fuck is wrong with you, reel it in a bit, maybe, and also we are in a movie" mean mug, and he just looks back at me and whispers, "I'm sorry, it's just...so appropriate..." and gestures broadly at the screen. 

Which is playing Baby Mamma

A movie about a rednecky woman who accidentally gets knocked up, then decides to allow Tina Fey to adopt her baby.  She was probably wearing a NASCAR jersey or something at the moment of pill poppage too, just to add extra insult to injury. Not that I remember exactly.

But probably.

Because my life is dope, and I do dope shit

Sigh.

Moral: Beware the wrath of the tiny penis, lest it disappoint you in additional, creative, and unexpected ways.

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