In Part 2 of the Tampa Trilogy, I encountered a 4-foot-9ish female employee at the Coyote Ugly bar. She was unbelievably hot, and I dubbed her Tyrion's Girlfriend. Charlie and I saw that she had two sugar daddies at the bar - one shady-looking character with a goatee and one who resembled the villain from CBS' Person of Interest. I was also hit on by at least one (possibly two) black dudes, one of whom invited me to smoke cigarettes with him.
And now we move on to Part 4 of the Tampa Trilogy. What? Trilogies can't have a fourth part? Says who? I'll never understand why everyone believes that there can only be three installments in a trilogy. People who refuse to open up to the idea of a fourth part are very narrow-minded, and I'm ashamed to even be associated with them.
At any rate, the fourth part begins with another attempt at a beach day in Clearwater...
Saturday: Clearwater Attempt No. 2
This trip to Clearwater proved to be more fruitful than yesterday's. There were barely any clouds in the sky. The water was a bit chillier than it was on Thursday, but it was still relatively warm (about 83 degrees or so).
Charlie, Amanda and I were swimming around in the bay when a chubby guy in his early 20s floated near us on his tube. He overheard us talking about sharks and forced himself into the conversation with a surprisingly high-pitched voice.
Chubby Guy: You know what the trick is with sharks, right?
Me: No, what?
Chubby Guy: Stand absolutely still and don't do anything, and then they'll swim away.
Me: I'll remember that the next time I'm attacked by a shark.
Chubby Guy: Not if you're bleeding though! If you're bleeding, they'll try to eat you! And if you try to swim away, they'll eat you too!
I had the urge to say, "Thanks, Discovery Channel," when he pointed to a pair of jet skis that were parked on the beach.
Chubby Guy: You guys wouldn't happen to have a can of spray paint, would you?
Charlie: No, why?
Chubby Guy: I could spray paint those jet skis and then start the engine. We could take them and the owners wouldn't know they were theirs because they'd be different colors.
Me: Haha that's funny.
Chubby Guy: No, it would really work. I'm telling you. All we have to do is buy some cans of spray paint and then everyone will believe that they are ours!
Me: Oh, you're actually being serious?
Chubby Guy: Yes! Let's do it, guys!
Amanda: So, no one will get suspicious when we're just spray painting a pair of jet skis?
Chubby Guy: Two of us could spray paint, and the other two could distract everyone!
Chubby Guy eventually got the sense that we weren't particularly enthused by the idea, so he floated away to harass someone else. He was ultimately unsuccessful in his jet ski-stealing escapade; minutes after he left, two dudes hopped onto those jet skis. One of them drove by me and shouted, "Wanna race!?" and then sped away. I'm not sure what that was all about, but I regret not stealing those jet skis now. Meh, maybe Discovery Channel's plan could've worked.
About an hour later, Charlie and I decided to take a walk down the beach while Amanda remained in our spot with her poodle. We saw some interesting things like a blonde kicking a soccer ball in her bikini (hot) and two girls, one in a purple bikini, who was placing sand on the stomach of a girl in a white top and peach bottoms who was lying on the sand (even hotter).
The most noteworthy incident, however, had to do with me. You see, I bought this spray-on suntan lotion prior to flying to Tampa. I made the mistake of just spraying certain parts of my body and not rubbing the lotion all over. By nightfall, my entire upper torso was burnt, save for the few spots I sprayed. I looked like a burn victim.
This made sleeping uncomfortable that night - even after rubbing my body with aloe - but there was a crazy incident that occurred before going to bed. This was Trampa Bay, after all...
Saturday: The Woman Who Wanted to Give Me Head
Charlie and I went to a restaurant that evening to meet up with a well-known sportswriter, who also happened to be in Tampa for vacation. Upon arriving, I noticed this unbelievably beautiful woman. She had blond hair and blue eyes. She was wearing a striped shirt that was hiding her giant breasts and a short, black skirt that revealed her incredible legs. I fell in love at that very moment.
No, she's not the one who wanted to give me head.
Charlie, the sportswriter and I sat down outside and talked football while having some beers. A University of South Florida college student joined us later on. He was introduced to me and his eyes looked like they nearly popped out of his sockets when he learned who I was.
"You're THE Walter Football!?!?" he exclaimed. That was pretty cool. I eventually had equal admiration for him when I learned the super-hot blonde happened to be his girlfriend. I nearly shouted, "You're THE boyfriend of that amazingly hot woman!?"
Apparently, she was originally from North Dakota, but moved down to Tampa to join him as he pursued his accounting degree and potential sports-writing career. Well done, lad. Well done.
Some people eventually came out from inside the restaurant. Among them was an attractive brunette wearing a white tank top. She asked this European guy for a cigarette, and he jokingly asked to see her ID so he could verify that she was 18. The sportswriter joked, "I don't think the cigarette is the only reason he's seeing if she's 18." She turned out to be 22. Score! Now if only I could talk to her...
No, she's not the one who wanted to give me head either.
Dinner was being served for a party the sportswriter was attending, but they let me and Charlie have some food. I scooped some meat lasagna onto my plate and wasted no time stuffing it into my mouth. My gods. It was the best lasagna I had ever tasted. Tears of joy were pouring out of my eyes. To illustrate how delicious it was, the aforementioned hot blonde sat down a couple of seats away from me, but I didn't creepily stare at her a single time because I was too busy scarfing down the lasagna.
We talked some more after dinner. Charlie and I learned some interesting things about some of the NFL teams that I can't repeat right now. We were actually discussing the Jaguars when a 70-year-old woman walked over to our table. Clearly intoxicated, she hugged the sportswriter because she has known him for a while. She then sat down and began talking. She was so hammered she revealed that her husband doesn't want to have sex with her anymore because "he prefers young, Polish girls."
And yes, she's the one who wanted to give me head.
As the old woman was talking to the sportswriter, Charlie showed me a text he received from the sportswriter: "$20 if you ask her how long she hasn't had sex with her husband. It's been 13 years."
Charlie then slyly discussed wanting to stay in great shape for as long as possible so that his wife is physically interested in him when he reaches his 60s and 70s as a way to get the old woman talking about her sexual issues with her husband. This worked perfectly because she came right out and said it.
Old Woman: I haven't had sex with my husband for... 13 years now!
All of Us: Wow! (Feigning surprise)
Old Woman: I'm tellin' ya, nothin's worked. He even got these Viagra pills that I mashed up into his salad, but he still don't wanna have sex with me! He just watches porn all day. All day! He watches porn for three hours every day!
Me: Whoa? Three hours?
Sportswriter: I guess the Viagra's really working then.
Old Woman: It's workin', but he don't wanna have sex with me! He just wants to jerk off to them young Polish girls! What do they have that I don't? I still look good, don't I?
No one really said anything, though someone may have mumbled, "not bad for 70." The old woman went on to tell us about how she's cheating on her husband with another guy. She said she didn't consider it cheating because her husband hasn't touched her in 13 years, and I agreed with her.
Charlie eventually excused himself to go to the bathroom. That's when the old woman focused her attention on me.
Old Woman: How old are ya, hun? I'm guessing 22, 23?
Me: I'm going to be 31 next month.
Old Woman: Oh, you look gorgeous.
Me: Oh, thanks...
Old Woman: You married, hun?
Me: No, I actually just got out of a long relationship.
Old Woman: Oh, sorry to hear that. Guy or girl?
Me: Wait... what?
Old Woman: You're not gay, are ya hun?
Sportswriter: Does he look like he's gay!?
Old Woman: I'm just makin' sure, hun. You never know these days. So what do you do, hun?
Sportswriter: This is Walter Football. He owns a Web site. He's Charlie's boss.
Old Woman: Oh, a powerful boss and a gorgeous one at that! You've got everything going for ya. Are you sure you're not gay, hun?
Me: I'm sure I'm not gay.
Old Woman: How old are ya, hun? I'm guessing 22, 23?
Me: No... Going to be 31 next month...
Old Woman: You're gorgeous, hun...
The old woman spent the next hour drinking her wine, winking at me, rubbing my arm and asking how old I was. She mentioned something about "loving blow jobs," and I got the feeling that she was hinting that she wanted to give me head in the bathroom. She kept nodding her head toward the bathroom and sticking her tongue into her cheek all while rubbing my arm. As I later told Charlie, "I think I'd have the same problem as her husband if she tried to do anything with me in the bathroom."
Luckily, the old woman's daughter walked into the restaurant. She was a 50-year-old former Seahawks' cheerleader who was advertised to look like a 30-year-old. She was a slight disappointment, but her presence was necessary because she dragged her mom away.
The old woman returned briefly after that to suggest that one of us sportswriters publish a book about her life story.
Hmm... the old woman who wants to give BJs in restaurant bathrooms and has a husband who hasn't banged her in 13 years because he's watching pornos of young, Polish girls... I don't know about you, but that sounds like a best-seller to me.
Sunday: Returning Home
We all went out again Saturday night, but nothing crazy happened because we were all too beat to do anything besides drink a couple of beers. I was on the verge of passing out, so I was glad to go back to Charlie's house early.
Charlie and Amanda drove me to the airport Sunday morning (my flight was at noon). I thanked them for letting me crash at their house for four nights, and then went into the security line. There was a fat lady checking everyone's boarding pass and ID card. She asked everyone how their trip was - until I stepped up to her desk. She said nothing and frowned at me, and then yelled "next!" after she was done checking my identification.
What is up with these airport people not liking me at all? The chubby Asian guy from Wednesday wouldn't tell me that he was experiencing numbness in his arm, while this obese woman didn't seem to give a damn whether I had a nice trip or not. I was devising a plan to get even with these scumbags when my thought process was interrupted. A cute girl was approaching me, but she looked extremely familiar. Had I creepily stared at her at the beach? No... She... Oh wow, it was my friend from Penn State!
This girl and I took several journalism classes together and hung out at bars on occasion. I always recount a story in which we had to give an oral presentation in our news ethics class, only I was so hung over that I was on the verge of puking, while she was still completely intoxicated from night before because she had celebrated her 21st birthday. I'll go into more detail in my Jerks of College Years (Jerks on My Floor) book, which I'm hoping to publish soon.
Anyway, I sounded like a complete idiot in front of this girl because despite telling me that she now lived in Pittsburgh, I said, "I'm sure we're on the same flight." Derp. No. She's going to Pittsburgh, and I'm going to Philly. She looked at me strangely and then said goodbye. I was on my own again.
I bought some food, took a long piss and waited for boarding time. As it arrived, people flooded the gate despite it not being their turn to board. Once again, my PSA from Part 1 of the Tampa Trilogy: If it's not your time to board, just stay seated. There's no reason to stand around the gate when it's not your time to get on the plane. You're not going to magically miss your flight by remaining in your seat.
Of course, I say this without any confidence that people know how boarding works. There was a couple in front of me that was turned away because, as the airport employee said, "Sorry, you're Zone 3. We're seating Preferred Access now. Zone 1 and 2 after that. Then, it'll be your turn." Derp dee derp! Derp dee derpittee derpee derp!
I boarded, sat down and once again prayed for a hot chick to sit next to me. This super-hot brunette wearing a white tank top and blue shorts walked toward my aisle... nope. A cute blonde with a nose ring came onboard about a minute later... nope. An attractive brunette wearing a gray tank top followed her... nope. A pretty, tan brunette was next... nope. A guy with coffee in his hands with a heavy woman with a mustache... of course.
As the couple prepared to sit next to me, the guy spilled coffee on the seat next to mine. Some of the coffee splashed onto my arm. I then had to smell the coffee the entire plane ride. It wasn't bad at first, but it got pretty monotonous. I thought this was extremely rude. If he wanted coffee so badly, why not drink it before he boarded the plane so he wouldn't have to annoy the other passengers? Making matters worse, he left the cup in the back of the seat in front of him, so someone was going to have to clean that up. What an inconsiderate POS. I wanted to tell him, "Have fun banging your fat, mustachioed wife, a**hole," but doing this on a plane wouldn't have been a good idea.
Coffee A**hole wasn't even the rudest person on the plane. Someone behind me brought their dog onboard. I didn't even know this was possible - I figured the dogs were caged in the cargo area - yet that person's pet continuously barked throughout the entire flight because it saw another dog come onto the plane. This dog was better-behaved, as it belonged to a man in an Air Force uniform. All the dog did was lie down under the military person's seat, but this didn't stop one guy from freaking out. This man, who wore thick glasses and looked like Mr. Magoo, constantly stared at the dog nervously. He looked like he wanted to s*** himself. So, between the coffee and Mr. Magoo's feces, it was a pretty smelly flight.
It took us a while to get off because there was something wrong with the wing - couldn't they just have let us off and then fixed it? - but I eventually made my way down to baggage claim. It took them about 10 minutes to funnel our bags through, but the conveyer belt eventually started. I thought I saw my suitcase coming toward me. It was red and big, just like mine. I grabbed it, but almost instantly saw that the zippers weren't in the right places. That's when I felt someone pull on it. The blonde with the nose ring grabbed the bag and yanked it out of my hands, shouting, "Give that to me!"
Wow. OK, weirdo. Yeah, that's why I took a freaking flight from Tampa to Philly, just so I could nab someone else's luggage.
I eventually retrieved my suitcase and walked outside, where I waited for my ride. I "found" myself standing next to the aforementioned hot brunette with the white tank top and blue shorts (by "found," I mean I walked to her and stood there.) I then decided to make my move.
Me: I think it's hotter here than it was in Tampa.
Hot Brunette: Yeah.
Me: Being on the beach was nice though.
Hot Brunette: Yeah.
Me: Which beach did you go to?
Hot Brunette: I didn't go.
And just like that, Hot Brunette walked away from me and stood somewhere else. I'm not completely sure, but I'm guessing she wasn't too interested in me.
Oh well. At least I know that if I go back to Tampa, I can get some action with a 70-year-old woman.