Cruisin' with Susan
August 5, 2003
Love is in the air alright. Like clove cigarette smoke at your very first kegger.
As I sit here watching the day crawl by at Big Screen Video, my thoughts turn to that lovely lady who has recently stolen, pawned, and then gone back and shoplifted my heart. So, in honor of Susan, I hereby present
Pat Freestoneís Top 5 Most Romantic Movie Lines of All Time
5. "I love the smell of napalm in the morning..." Apocalypse Now
4. "I want you to hold it between your legs" Five Easy Pieces
3. "Get the butter" Last Tango In Paris
2. "Oh, Billy..." Midnight Express
1. "You had me at hello." Top Gun
August 6-7, 2003
How do I love Susan? Let me count the ways in
Pat Freestoneís Top 5 Things I Like to Do That Remind Me of Susan
1. Collecting and displaying little ethnic stereotypes carved out of coconuts.
August 8, 2003
As I have ahead of me a very busy weekend of pining, longing, and creating various maudlin expressions and moans, I must leave this entry short.
So I'll just leave you with this little advice my mother, dear old Maybelline Freestone gave me when I was a small child.
"Pat," she used to say, "get your motherfucking elbows off my goddamn table before I snap those puny arms of yours right off and feed them to the horrible monster that lives under your bed."
Have a great weekend!
August 11, 2003
I might as well face it. Iím addicted to love.
I went over to Susanís apartment on Saturday night and surprised her with flowers and a large, family-sized jug of Cuervo Gold. Despite her frazzled hair, lack of makeup and oversized pink and purple warm-up suit, she looked positively angelic. But I was like a demon. A sex-starved hellion from the underworld who sat poised and drooling at the edge of the carnal apocalypse.
With passions enflamed, I took Susan by the hand, led her into the bathroom and forced her up against the shower door. "You know what I want," I breathed into her ear, catching my eyeglasses slightly on her pink plastic TJ Max hooped earrings.
She responded, and tore open the medicine cabinet to reveal two pert, perfectly shaped bottles of Viagra and Rohypnol. Greedily, I ran my hands over them, twisting their lids between my fingers as Susan moaned with desire. I put four of each into my mouth, rolling them around on my tongue, and then swallowed hard as Susan pulled the bottle of Cuervo from my sack. She put it into her mouth, slurping and sucking at it like a wild woman, and then pulled me down towards the bathroom floor.
She slid the bottle onto my lips and let the sweet warm liquid run down my throat as I reached down between her legs and grabbed the four-pack of Charmin that was behind her, so I could use it for a pillow. Then, I leaned back, closed my eyes and eventually drifted off into what was probably an earth-shattering climax.
On Sunday, we awoke late and cuddled on the cool tile floor for awhile before I was able to get up and escape. As I ran down Winkle Street with my heart and head pounding, my mind drifted over every moment of heated ecstasy that I had just slept through, and it made me want to turn around and run back to Susan and be with her while I was not really there all over again.
Have you ever felt that way about someone?
August 12, 2003
I got some more last night, and it was some of the hottest, wildest, most passionate lovemaking Iíve ever had. Or so I am told.
The wonderful thing about having sex with Susan, besides the fact that I get to be unconscious the entire time, is that she is so creative in the sack. Sometimes I wake up naked with ligature marks around my angles and wrists. Sometimes I wake up in a rubber suit, with a gag ball in my mouth and Nutella on my feet. Occasionally, Iíll awaken with freshly waxed thighs and the slight smell of Collie in the air. But itís always an adventure with my Lady.
At least thatís what I gather.
August 13, 2003
Now that Iím in a committed, monogamous, long term relationship, there are a few behavior patterns that Iíll need to adjust. Iím not just talking about lifting the toilet seat now and againóIím referring to the big stuff.
First of all, Susan, like most women, is not a fan of deer hunting. Therefore, I will try to limit my deer hunting to only certain times of the year. And I will avoid gutting and draining my kills in the bathtub, if I know Susan might be coming over to spend the night.
Iíll also try to be more open with my feelings. If I am upset, rather than sulk, or drink, or become hostile towards her, I will simply stab myself in the stomach.
I will not use the "c-word" in her presence, unless I am using it as a term of endearment, or to describe a particular shape, aroma or weather condition.
And, Iíve gotten rid of a few things from my bachelor daysólike those Miller Genuine Draft wet T-shirt posters, that Three Stooges toaster cozy, and my "All Women Are Whores" shower curtain. The spittoons might have to go as well, or I could make them into flower pots. Iím still on the fence.
Itís the least I can do.
August 14, 2003
To permanently commemorate my undying eternal love for Susan, I have decided to do something bold. Something wild. Something that says, "look at me, worldóI am a unique individual." Itís time for Pat Freestone to get a tattoo.
"Now Pat," you might ask, "arenít tattoos only appropriate for sailors, bikers, gangsters, firemen, circus performers, rock stars, waitresses, students, teenagers, vegetarians, dental assistants, librarians, office managers, cub scouts, marketing associates, lawyers, line cooks, babysitters, bank tellers, flight attendants, secretaries, retail clerks, veterinarians, television executives, computer programmers, media buyers, union delegates, plastic surgeons, dressmakers, schoolteachers, postal workers, salespeople, pilates instructors, democrats, barristas, basketball players and homosexuals?"
You might be right. But love makes a person do crazy things.
August 18, 2003
Now, where was I? Oh yesótattoos.
To properly demonstrate my love for Susan to the world, I have decided to permanently ink various words and/or symbols pertaining to her directly into my skin. Over the weekend, I browsed through several tattoo periodicals at the local newsstand, hoping to find some inspiration. Did I ever.
With the help of a local tattoo artist by the name of Zeus, I created this tattoo design in the very popular "Asian" style. I have yet to decide where exactly on my body this tattoo will be placed, but I am fairly certain it will be either on my right forearm or directly above my upper lip. That way, if I ever break up with Susan, I can simply wear long sleeves or grow a mustache. For clarity, and against Zeusí professional opinion, I insisted that the tattoo be subtitled in English. Otherwise, whatís the point?
Me love you long time,
August 19, 2003
As much as I admire the mystery and wisdom of the Asian-style tattoo design I showed you yesterday, I must admit that itís just not me. So yesterday afternoon, I brought a print-out of Susanís picture to Zeusí tattoo shop and asked him to draw up a prototype of her face that could then be painfully injected onto my back and buttocks. I think youíll agree, he did one heck of a job.
August 20, 2003
Although Zeus successfully captured every detail and nuance of Susanís beauty, Iím starting to think that his rendering might be a little too girly for a manís tattoo. So last night I sat down with Zeusís original sketch and revamped it to give it a more masculine feel.
Unfortunately, I also gave it more of a "this sucks" feel.
Back to the drawing board,
August 22, 2003
I ink, therefore I am.
I finally came up with the perfect tattoo that combines the symmetry of a tribal pattern, the macho toughness of the armband style, and the aesthetic wonder of Susanís unparalleled beauty. Go aheadóadmire it, and wish with all your heart that you could just for one moment be me.
Unfortunately, in the sixty or seventy times I went into Zeusí tattoo parlor this week in search of free advice, I somehow managed to annoy him. Now, before he will even consider touching his needle to my skin, he insists that I prove my worth by doing him a favor next Wednesday. Itís nothing majoróhe just wants me to fly up to Canada and pick up a few hundred grams of methamphetamines for him.
Whatís the worst that could happen?
See you Monday.
August 26, 2003
Tomorrow I shall prove to Zeus the tattoo artist that I am worthy of his ink by flying to Toronto, picking up 145 grams of high-grade methamphetamine from members of a biker gang, divvying the load up into several dozen balloons, and then swallowing the entire stash before boarding the red-eye back to LaGuardia.
The big question on my mind right now is: should I order the vegetarian meal?
August 27, 2003
Like Henry Hill's frenzied final drug deal in the movie Goodfellas,
my next 24 hours will be a series of complex and calculated moves as I
juggle my love life, my professional career, and a large quantity of illegal
First, I'll need to receive and unpack the Goobers and Raisinettes that are
being delivered to Big Screen Video in the afternoon. Then, after my shift
is over, I'll run over to Susan's and pick up my overnight bag. She'll try
to have sex with me, but since I want the tattoo I'm getting to be a
surprise, I'll have to tell her I'm going out of town because my mother died
Then, it's off to LaGuardia, where I'll catch the 8:07 flight to Toronto,
pick up a rental car, and head over to the outlaw biker gang's hideout where
I'm supposed to pick up the dope. On the way, I'll find a Hallmark store
and pick up a bag of balloons to pack the drugs in, and maybe a card for
Susan if I have time.
Once I have received the methamphetamines from my biker contact, I'll
carefully split up the bag and load it into the balloons. I'll swallow
them, along with a light, high-fiber snack and a few bottles of Moosehead,
return the rental car, and catch the last flight out to New York City. Once
I clear airport security, I'll take a cab to Susan's and let her have sex
with my unconscious body all night. Then, at dawn, I'll wake up and take a
monster dump on a towel.
I'll spare you the details of what happens after that.
Keep stirring the sauce for me,
August 28, 2003
Another perfectly good relationship destroyed by a hole in the rubber.
Iím assuming it was a hole--if not a complete rupture--in one of the methamphetamine-filled balloons resting somewhere in my colon that allowed a hefty bump of speed to seep out into my bloodstream at the most inopportune time and give old Pat Freestone a wakeup call from the front desk of the Heartbreak Hotel.
Let me explain.
Yesterday evening, I picked up the 145 grams of high-grade crank as planned and loaded it into exactly fourteen "I ♥ N Y" balloons that I had procured earlier from the airport newsstand at LaGuardia. After swallowing the load, I left Toronto on schedule, and successfully re-entered the United States without a hitch. I called Susan to make sure she was home, and then headed straight to her place in a taxi. That was where the hand of fate reached in and prepared to pimp-slap me.
Susan had my usual pre-lovemaking cocktail of Viagra, Rohypnol, and Jose Cuervo ready to go when I walked in the door. Within twenty minutes, I was blissfully comatose, relieved of the stress of drug-muling and presumably making sweet love to my woman. Then, about an hour and a half later, the leaking speed hit me like an atomic wiffleball bat.
I awoke to find two rather haggardly-looking nude women tag-teaming my private area like two starving Japanese tourists at a Coney Island hot-dog eating contest. Several bright lights were blasting into my face, and when I tried to shield my eyes, I could feel that someone had put sunglasses and a fake moustache on me. An obese gray-haired man stood in a corner of the room shouting obscene directions at the women. Then I saw the cameraman. I could clearly see the white tape along the side of his camera with the title of the production hastily scrawled across it in grease pencil.
Thatís when I realized that Pat Freestone was making his motion picture debut in Fluff Stuff Filmís much-anticipated straight-to-video smash, WEEKEND AT BONERíS #2."
I play the dead guy.
August 29, 2003
Imagine what it must feel like to wake up and find out that you have been betrayed by the person in whom you have bestowed all your trust!
There I was, naked and vulnerable, being sexually molested by total strangers while a crew of perverts videotaped the entire humiliating event for all to see. Susan had sold my heart to the highest bidderóand soon it would be packed into an oversized box and stacked on the shelves of smut shops on every sleazy corner of the planet. One minute, I was happily sitting on the couch with the love of my life; in the next, I was being used as a sex prop in a two-bit spank flick, acting out a few feats of carnal degradation for our jaded, godless world. I could hardly believe how quickly my luck had changed.
So I closed my eyes and played dead until they were done shooting the scene. For I am a professional.
September 2, 2003
I spent the entire Labor Day weekend trying to mend my broken heart--and trying to find the thirteen balloons of crystal meth in my poo.
Now I must begin the long, slow process of healing. Part of me wants to get right back out there and start dating again. Part of me wants to curl up on the couch with a pint of Cherry Garcia and cry during television commercials. And yet, thereís still that part of me that canít stop humming that last Beyonce song.
That is one catchy damn song!