The World According to Pete

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The latest in our monthly series of "shocking true tales" of Pete with which to "titillate and entertain" the readers...

= Girls Gone Wild =

So I was walking down the street. Again.

By the way, I really need to stop doing that.

But, anyway, there I was walking - just minding my own goddamn business - when a car pulled up to the curb next to me.

The passenger rolled down the window and I saw that the occupants were two transvestites.

Now I don't know about you, but I can spot a guy in a dress from fifty paces.

Sometimes it's the voice, or the hands, or the demeanor or just the way she walks. Or, if he's really really bad at it, the five o'clock shadow gives it away.

So, the transvestite said to me, "Honey, do you want a ride?"

I politely declined.

She then asked, "Do you want to party with us? We're going to buy some more beer right now."

Yeah, that's what I want to do on a Sunday afternoon: Get shit-faced with a couple of half-loaded transvestites.

That always turns out well.
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= Homeless Wisdom =

I was talking to this homeless man, when he stated matter-of-factly, "It's a thin line between caution and paranoia."

So I thanked him for sharing his profound wisdom.

And then... I killed him.
-

= Presto Change-O =

It was finally time to do something with that big jar full of spare change, so I ventured down to the local supermarket to run it all through the "Coin*Star"(tm) machine.

I'm much too lazy to roll the coins myself and the machine does pay eighty-cents on the dollar, so off I went.

After shoveling all my coinage into the "Coin*Star"(tm), it printed out a receipt for the twenty dollars I was then owed.

I took the receipt to the checkout line and after doing whatever it is cashiers do, the lady asked me how I wanted that.

"What do you mean," I said, "how do I want that?"

"Do you want a twenty dollar bill, or two tens, or what?" she replied.

"Can I get that in change?" I asked.

A roll of quarters, a roll of dimes, a couple rolls of nickels and some rolled pennies to make up the difference?
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= Lost in the Translation =

Before I get to the meat of this story, let me explain that the last time I ate at 'Tacos Mex' with my friend, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, I had ordered the chicken burrito but was brought the grilled chicken dinner instead.

So Jake's actions in the tale you're about to read weren't completely anal-retentive on his part. Not completely.

Not this time.

Ok, now that the obligatory pre-story explanation is out of the way, let's get to the "story proper", shall we?

We're at 'Tacos Mex', the home of fine traditional mexican cuisine prepared and served by actual Mexicans.

Now I've got nothing against the Hispanic people - heck, some of my best friends are messkin - but if the I.N.S. were to raid this particular establishment, chances are the dishes wouldn't be getting washed any time soon thereafter.

In any case, the first priority at 'Tacos Mex' is preparing and serving fine mexican cuisine.

Speaking english is lower on the To-Do List.

Did I mention I live in Arizona? As the little chihuahua in the Taco Bell commercials used to say, "Run for the border!"

So there you go.

Shortly after getting our complimentary chips and salsa, the waitress came to take our order.

Hoping for the best, considering my last experience, I ordered the burrito de pollo again.

Looking at me, Jake interjected, "You want the chicken burrito?"

"Yes."

"Burrito de pollo," Jake said to the waitress, as he pointed at me.

Turning to me, the waitress asked, "Arroz o frijoles?"

Now, I do have a very rudimentary working knowledge of spanish in that I'm familiar with the most important phrases: Rice or beans; or "Where is the bathroom?" ("Donde esta el bano?"), but before I could reply, Jake asked, "Rice or beans?"

"Frijoles," I said.

Then then kindly passed that on to the waitress.

After which, Jake ordered his meal. In fluent spanish, I might add.

Just before the waitress left our table, I remembered we needed some pico de gallo to go with the chips.

"Pico de gallo, por favor," I stated.

Without missing a beat, Jake looked the waitress square in the eyes and repeated, "Pico de gallo."

Yes, we wouldn't have wanted her to misunderstand that.

But "translating" a phrase that really needed none was just too much.

So I said to Jake, "Since you're so good at the translation, I was wondering... How do you say, 'Shut the fuck up already?' in spanish?"

The waitress demurely laughed at that, politely covering her mouth as she did so.

Gosh, I guess she did understand english after all.
-

= Crushing Might of Power =

Every once in a while, some chick will read my words and develop a crush. Then, once she actually meets me, not so much with the crushing anymore.

It usually takes about two weeks.

Hey, I never claimed to be easy to get along with. I think part of the problem is that I talk more or less the way I write.

Eventually, words are exchanged. Feelings get hurt. Sharp objects are pulled out.

Yadda yadda yadda.

It was Aesop who first wrote that "honesty is the best policy", as the moral to his fable 'Mercury and the Woodcutter'.

As it turns out, Aesop was nothing but a big fat dirty liar.

Moving on...

Everybody has a "superpower". Evidently, mine happens to be "the power to charm with words."

Such a superpower is a double-edged sword.

And a heck of a lot mightier.

Ruminating on this topic reminds me of something I heard recently. In 'X-Men 2', Jean Grey said (paraphrasing here), "Girls like the bad boys, but they marry the nice boys."

Mutants are obviously a wise bunch.

And, yes, I fully realize when one starts listening to relationship philosophy from fictional movie characters that's a good sign that your love life has hit rock bottom.

Kill me now.
-

= Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200 =

The other night, my friend, Jim, stopped over.

He was in quite a pickle.

It seems a friend of his was in jail and needed to be bonded out.

Since a number of Jim's belongings, including his wallet and I.D., had been stolen by a vindictive ex-girlfriend a few days earlier, he was looking for somebody WITH I.D. to go with him to do the actual bonding-out portion of that night's festivities.

So he and I went down to the Madison Street Jail - home of Sheriff Joe Arpaio, self-proclaimed "Toughest Sheriff in America." (Or, alternately, as Bill Maher once called him on 'Politically Incorrect', "America's Stupidest Sheriff". It all depends on your point of view, I suppose.)

Once there, we had to take a number. They were on number 26 when we arrived.

We pulled #90.

"This is going to be a long night," I surmised.

However, we got lucky as a woman Jim knew was there to visit her brother, and as it so happened she had an extra ticket - number 39.

About forty-five minutes later, they called #38 and, quite frankly, I was giddy at that point.

That's when the announcement came over the loudspeaker: "Attention, ladies and gentlemen, we will now be closing to clean the facility. We won't be bonding anybody else out again until 7AM tomorrow morning."

Thanks for coming but, basically, screw you.

Needless to say, we couldn't bond out Jim's friend.

But that's not really the point of the story.

No, the point of the story is this:

At some point, sitting there at the Madison Street Jail, I couldn't help but marvel that this was the first time I had been there that *I* wasn't the guy waiting to be bonded out.

And they say miracles don't happen anymore.

Peshaw, Peshaw all you of disbelief.

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(Note to ALL: I've amended my entry "Just An Old-Fashioned Love Song", see archives 6/30/03, to include a reply from a female reader. See end of entry for that.)