My First Overnighter

I awaken on the cold, wet concrete floor of a jail cell. My head is pounding, my body is completely dehydrated, and I’m shivering. The bright lights of the cell are too much for me to handle and I squint like a gook. “What the fuck?” I mutter to myself as I try to comprehend my current whereabouts. I take a quick sniff at myself, I reek of booze and failure. I stand up and walk around my jail cell and notice how the whole floor is covered with water. Nothing clicks in my head. I hear the noise of the jail cell unlocking and a jailer comes in. She tells me to put my hands in my pockets and I follow her orders.

“You had quite a night,” she deadpans.

“What did I do?” I inquired.

“You made quite a mess of things. I would almost feel sorry for you, except you flooded your jail cell.”

My mind begins to connect the dots. As I am being lead to finger printing, images from the night fill my head.

I was placed in the jail cell and followed the orders given to me by the jailers. As they shut the door, I stood there attempting to analyze the situation. Hatred intensely filled my very core. I was in jail and I was going to make it known that I did not approve of this. Plan A, verbal protest. I’ll use my finely honed diplomatic skills to get my freedom back. “This is America! Call my aunt you mother fuckers! What crime did I commit? I want my human rights!” my booming voice echoed through the hallways. My tantrum was being ignored and I acknowledge that it would not yield any results.

Plan B, escape. Like a retarded monkey in a zoo, I begin to look around the jail for something to use to escape. There was nothing. Fuck it. I run to the walls and try to climb them. Surprisingly, it was unsuccessful. I then sprint at the door in an attempt to kick it down. I’m lucky I didn’t break my leg. I give up this valiant, but misguided effort. I then notice the toilet in the cell. Inspiration beckons.

Plan C, political protest. My mindset shifted. I was not a criminal, in fact, I was a political prisoner taken in by the fascist, Gestapo-esque state of we lived in. Civil disobedience was the answer to my woes. I walk over to the high pressure toilet, grab a roll of toilet paper, and shoved it down the drain. I flush the first time, the toilet fills up to the rim. I smile deviously. I flush once again, the toilet begins to overflow. I’m gitty and begin laughing like an evil genius who’s diabolical plan is going perfectly. I flush as fast I can. The water begins to accumulate on the floor. I then see a lot of it is going down the drain in middle of cell. No problem, I take off my shirt and clog that drain also. Water continues to flow out of the toilet, underneath the cell door, and into the hallway of the jail. I feel powerful as I’m sticking it to the man and letting him know you can’t detain Raul Felix without there being repercussions. I continue flushing for about 15 minutes.

The toilet stops flushing. The fascists shut off the water to my cell. Fucking high-knee bastards. They squashed my flooding ambitions, but the destruction had been done. I look outside my jail cell and see the jailers walking around in the water. Also, two women from the females prison begin to mop up my mess. I yell obscenities that I don’t recall at them. They ignore me.

Up in the corner of the ceiling was a camera protected by shatter proof glass. I decide I want to break it. I pick up my drenched shirt and begin throwing it at the camera. Direct hits have no effect in destroying the glass. On my third throw, my shirt wraps itself around the camera and stays there. I stand there, stunned and with a fractured morale. My protest against the man is over and I decide to go to sleep.

The jailer finishes taking my finger prints and then lines me up for my mug shot. Even though, I was able to remember what I did the previous night in my cell, I have no idea how I ended up there to begin with. I get my wallet and sandals back, sign some release forms, and am made aware of my court date. My charges: Drunk and Disorderly Conduct.

I enjoy the sweet taste of liberation as I leave the Huntington Beach Police Station. I then realize that I am a long ways from my cousins place. I begin to walk. I have no shirt or cell phone as I walk myself up Main Street towards Beach Boulevard. I giggle to myself at the insanity of it all. An old, Greek man whose out on his morning walk begins to walk next to me and notices how disheveled I appear. “Rough night?” he says in a friendly manner.

“Yes, sir, I have no idea how I ended up in jail. Trying to figure it out.” He laughs out loud and begins to tell me stories of his youthful, drunken shenanigans and some of the women he fucked in his glory days. I’m entertained by him and enjoy his company. We then have to part ways as he made a turn to his home. We shook hands and he wished me the best of luck.

I finish my three mile trek of shame to my cousins house. I knock on the door and he opens up. “What the hell happened to you?” he asks.

“I got arrested and spent the night in jail,” I say with a shit eating grin.

“God damn it. I knew it was either that or you fucked some chick when you didn’t come home last night.”

For the next few days, I couldn’t figure out what I did to end up in jail. Nothing came to mind at all and it was a total conundrum for my Neanderthal mind. That was until I picked up my police report which rattled my mind enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

I had pre-partied at my cousins apartment while hanging with him and his wife. I was nine beers deep and had the urge to go out. There was a bar called Tumble Weeds at the strip mall next to his apartments. I walked over there on a solo mission for pussy and good times. I used my alcohol amplified social skills to quickly make new friends to drink with. Some tattooed chick was eyeing me and I thought she was very pretty. We flirted heavily and then began to hook up. I alternated between kissing her, drinking heavily, and socializing with her friends. They all liked me. Last call was announced and I left with the tattooed chicks number written on a piece of paper. Though victorious with the tattooed chick, I still wanted to get more shit housed. As I walked back to my cousins apartment, I noticed that there was an apartment on the third story with its door open and the distinctive sound of people having a good time. I walk up the stairs and decide to invite myself to the party.

I'm even drunk enough to do the shameful duck face.

I’m even drunk enough to do the shameful duck face.

“Hey guys, I’m Raul and I’m one of your neighbors. I was wondering if I can party you guys?” I lie. They warmly invite me to join them and offer me a shot of whiskey. After this point, my mind goes blank. I am unable to remember what occurred in that apartment that caused me to have an argument with the people who lived there. Though, taking an educated guess based on personal history would suggest that my overly cocky, smart ass Raul Felix shit bomb personality took firm hold. With this, all semblance of human decency and social grace disappears from my being and I transform into an insufferable baboon. I’m sure I got into a fight.

My next clear memory, I am running around the apartment complex’s parking lot, knocking on windows, running on the hoods of cars, and yelling ungentlemanly things. Security is called and attempts to calm me down. I promptly tell the rent a cop to “Go fuck yourself.” I continue on my drunk rampage unchallenged. My drunken dominance was about to be crushed. I see the red and blue lights behind me. The cops have been called. I contemplate running, but look down and realize I have sandals. In quite possibly the most rational decision a drunk person could make, I put my hands up.

The police officer bombards me with questions my drunk mind is barely able to make sense of. I fall over. The police officer picks me up. “How much have you had to drink?” he asks.

“I refuse to disclose that,” I respond in a professional manner. I fall over again.

The police officer decides I’m too drunk and places me under arrest. He puts my hands behind my back, stomps my foot, and hand cuffs me. I scream out in pain as his boot crushes my ill protected foot. I am then placed in the back of the police car. On my way to jail, I sit there, wondering what crime I committed in order to be taken in by the secret police.

POST SCRIPT: At some point during the whole fiasco, I lost the tattooed chicks number, something that truly pissed me off because I really liked her. I also hired a lawyer and had my case dismissed, but it did cost me a pretty penny.

~Raul Felix

More stories you say? You’re lucky I have another to spare: The Pick-Up Follies: Sleazy-E’s Revenge

OMG, This One Time My Friend Becky and I…

A lot of woman lack the ability of effective and memorable funny drunk story telling. What they constitute as a life changing event that everyone would be sure to think is amazing and hilarious is actually a rather mundane and tedious dive into details that really don’t add anything to the listeners day. Let’s take for example, what a woman thinks is a crazy drunk story that is sure to make people slap their knees in laughter.

Her unbelievably crazy story goes painfully like this: “Oh my god… this one time my friend Becky and I got really drunk and stuff. You know like, we were really wasted. We must have drunk like four beers each! Like, oh my god, it was crazy because we started laughing and stumbling all over the place. It got so crazy that she and I danced on the bar. On the bar! Like SO many people were looking at us. Then I got dizzy and I went to the bathroom and vomited. Becky was holding my hair. It was so crazy.”

If you’re a person who has had any real experience with making poor decisions with alcohol, you will realize that there is nothing “crazy” about that story. None of those events are something to be noted and discussed. It’s far too common of an occurrence and it’s on par with talking about your shit of the day. Unless of course, it was real intestine emptier weighing at least 8.6 courics. Same principle applies with your stories, they must be truly unique and outlandish, and not typical drunky fall down.

The fact of the matter is, what constitutes a wild drunk night for most women, is a mellow Tuesday night for us men. Its simple biology, because women weigh less and thus are able to consume less alcohol and thus pass out sooner. Also, women are physically weaker so they’re less of a destructive force when they turn chaotic. The lack of testosterone in their veins makes them less physically aggressive and less likely to get into fight or confrontation, though they are bigger shit talkers behind backs.

While men can tell tomes about their stupid, drunk glory days, what can a woman talk about that will make her nearly as interesting? Female writers, such as Chelsea Handler, have made themselves known by focusing on this area of life that women tend to have ridiculous misadventures in: sex.

Women probably have as many, if not more, whorish behavior stories then men have drunk, idiot stories. The thing is you never quite hear about them. Most females will hint at their sexual promiscuity, but very few will be so bold to speak about the time she behaved like total slut and fucked five guys at the same time and then went to her boyfriend’s and fucked him too. Or how she met some random guy at a concert and sucked his cock inside the porter potty after talking to him for five minutes. This is something they only tell to their close female friends and not something they blurt out at a party.

Perhaps we men are to blame for this. Even in this era of rising feminism and equality, we tend to have a problem with hearing a woman openly talk about her sex life. We really don’t want to hear about or acknowledge the dozens of cocks that have passed through a woman’s orifices. But hot damn, doesn’t it make for some good reading? It’s far more interesting to hear about your sexual high jinks, then your pathetic excuse of a drunk story. Yet, in a catch-22, the thing that will make you more interesting, will also make us less likely to take you seriously as a potential partner. Sure, we’ll fuck your brains out and use you for your body. But make you a girlfriend or wife after learning about all cocks you’ve catered to? I bet a vast majority of men will take issue with it, though there are plenty who couldn’t care either way.

Of course there is more to story telling than talking about drinking and fucking, and there are plenty of female speakers and writers who are damn good at being funny without talking about those subjects. The real complaint is that very few woman’s drunk debauchery stories can hold a candle to a man’s drunk debauchery stories. It’s like being forced to a watch a little league baseball game when you really want to watch a major league baseball game. If you want to speak about a “really crazy night” tell us about that time you fucked the entire football team and then showed up to church the next morning reeking of booze and semen. Oh my god, now that’s crazy.

~Raul Felix

A Non-Bullshit Story: The Gay Meth Story

Influences: Maddox, Tucker Max, APB, TC Luoma

Every person who is worth a damn has had people who have inspired and influenced them. It can take the form of direct one on one lessons or through reading and watching. Either way, these mentors helped develop their actions and mindset for better or worse. It doesn’t matter whether you’re seeking to become an underwater basket weaver, stripper, rocket surgeon, or a writer on a self-named blog with hopes that it will get you hot blog groupies after they see how funny and clever your writing is and thus crave your cock; there are mentors out there for you. For my writing ambitions, dark sense of humor, and my mindset on life, the following four internet writers are my biggest influences.


Quite possibly the first true internet satirists. Maddox has had his page, The Best Page in the Universe, online since 1997. His headline: “This page is about me and why everything I like is great. If you disagree with anything you find on this page, you are wrong,” kicks you right in the taint and lets you know that your little dip shit opinion doesn’t matter. So much so that he even has a link to his hate mail and his responses to said hate mail, exposing the logical fallacies of its sender.

Maddox writes about beating your kids, killing yourself in very awesome ways, heavily criticizes little kids on their shitty art, and how big his balls are. He rants about minor and major things that annoy him everyday life. He portrays himself as the essence of manliness and his writing bursts with testosterone. So much so, in fact, that he wrote a book called The Alphabet of Manliness that became an instant New York Times Best Seller.

Careful ladies, this book will turn your clit into a dick.

Careful ladies, this book will turn your clit into a dick.

I discovered Maddox in 2003 when I was 15 years old. Though I’ve seen and read many funny stuff by that time, his complete disregard for what is appropriate to write about and what isn’t laid the framework for my humor. I found myself reading his whole entire archive in one night and eagerly awaiting updates for his next article. I would share them with my friends, some liked it and some hated it. I learned through his writing that humor really has no limits, to stand by ones writing, and never try to please anyone. He states that his site started with fewer than 5 readers a month and got to the point of a million readers a month through a lot of hardwork and not bitching and moaning people to link to him.

Tucker Max

The most famous name on this list. With his infamous introduction, “My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole.” Tucker Max sets the stage for the internet phenomena known as The Tucker Max Stories. These are epic and wonderfully crafted tales of drunkenness, sexual promiscuity, and highly inappropriate and outlandish behavior. Mostly occurring when he was 20-28, he writes about having anal sex for the first time, the first midget he fucked, and the ego crushing knowledge that he may not be the only man a woman has fucked that day.

What makes it shocking to prudes with no real sense of reality, is that The Tucker Max stories are real. These events actually occurred and he has fucked all these moronic whores, caused all this havoc, and called out all the losers that he detailed in his stories. He has done all of this and still is with us today. People call his life surreal and over-exaggerated (because their idiots), but he even claims that he hasn’t really done anything that isn’t out of the ordinary. Guys have fucked sluts and gotten drunk since the beginning of time, he was just the first to write about it.

This man is the reason I have lost faith in womankind. Thanks Tucker!

This man is the reason I have lost faith in womankind. Thanks Tucker!

The unique thing about Tucker Max’s writing is that underneath the comedy and shenanigans, there are many life lessons to be had. When I first started reading his work at age 19, I was in a more innocent frame of mind about women and their whorish mannerisms. So when I read his stories, I was a bit shocked that women would go for a guy like this. I kept on reading on and discovered why. As much of an asshole as Tucker was, he had confidence in himself and didn’t take shit from anybody. He had the balls to approach and get rejected. He would call out women on their bull shit and they either loved him or hated him. One thing he wasn’t though, was a carpet to for them to walk over. Women don’t respect a man they can walk all over, much less fuck him. It started to make sense why those girls I wanted before wouldn’t have me and fucked some other asshole. Because I was nice. So I began to apply those lessons to my life, stopped being nice, and became more aggressive. My success with women steadily improved and compounded.

Angry Patriotic Bastard

In a time when there were too many apologetic Americans complaining about the evil empire that we have become, came along Angry Patriotic Bastard. Even though his blog was short-lived and he hasn’t written in over seven years, his message stayed with me. APB loved to talk shit on the pussification that has come of American culture. Having absolutely no qualms about calling out the things he truly hated, he would write blog post after blog post of politically incorrect rhetoric attacking hippies, bicyclists, muslims, and Florida rednecks.

No one was above the scrutiny of APB’s political mind set. He believed in an America where we are on top of the food chain and every nation bowed to our powerful, raging cock of freedom. In his mindset, like it or not, America dominates the world. If we don’t’ control you economically, we control you with our pop culture. How many of you are using products designed by Americans and made by little slave Chinese kids? You’re damn right it’s not going to be little slave American kids making that shit. They’re too busy being molested by their step-father.



His writing style is very aggressive and hellbent on offending you, pulling it off in a masterful way. While I personally try to avoid political subjects in my writing, because I find it exhausting to keep up with and it becomes irrelevant a couple of weeks or months later, he was able to create timeless political writing that if you read it today, still applies and will make you laugh your ass off.

TC Luoma

On the calmer side of the spectrum comes TC Luoma. He writes for the bodybuilding website, T-Nation in his series called The Atomic Dog, later renamed The Testosterone Principles. The main theme is becoming a better man. Better yet, not being a pussified modern man that feminism(stupid cunts) has pushed onto us. Instead become a man who embraces his testosterone, who shamelessly pursues the good things in life: women, beer, working out, meat, and sex.

As shallow as those subject matters sound, his writing always has an underlying tone of taking accountability and responsibility for your life. To pursue a life of constant learning, reading, and improving over all. Whether it’s chasing your dream to become poker player or getting out of the rat race that is the norm of our society.

He hates how our society has become more feminine and estrogen centered, and how testosterone gets a bad name for being seen as too aggressive and ape like. He points out that testosterone is the reason behind all that drive us as humans. Men with higher testosterone are smarter, stronger, have a higher libido, and are more ambitious than men of lower testosterone levels. Men with low testosterone tend to be fucking slobs, losers, scrawny, or overweights sacks of shit.

And his hair is glorious.

And his hair is glorious.

Through his writings, I’ve learned to embrace my manhood unapologetically. I’m a man and I will act like one. I expect my woman to act like a woman and be feminine. Fuck that politically correct bull shit.

Their writing is low-brow, unacademic, and not meant for those who suffer from having sand in their vagina. But these men have had more of an influence on the development of my mind than any school, teacher, or professor.

~Raul Felix

You like that? Good! Check out: Four Things You Didn’t Think of Before Joining the Army.

Inch by Inch

Sitting alone in his home, draped in darkness, save for the gentle blue glow of his computer monitor, he sips his drink. He neither asked for company nor would accept any, for he is working on his craft. Tonight is for imbibing in his favorite drink and going deep into the labyrinth of his mind and put to words the events, people, and philosophies that occupy it. He is unable to fully think of such things in a sober state, so he turns to his glorious alcoholic vice.

His drink of choice varies, whether it be the sweet and rough kisses of Lady Liquor or the obvious teases and delayed gratifications of the tramp Beer. Tonight, he decides, he’ll tango with the tramp. He hopes her little flirtations will ignite something deep within him and just maybe, he will write something destined for greatness.

He’s typing away, struggling to manifest his thoughts. A clever sentence here, a snarky remark there, a too worthy sentence that is executed the moment it’s completed. It’s a messy little dance. He grows excited when the words pour out and frustrated when they stagnate. As he takes another swig and walks around his home in anxiousness, he wonders if anymore words will come to him. Or is he finished? Is he through? Is he just a fucking drunk pretending to be a writer?

The thought of being a nobody infuriates him. His mind is bursting with idea’s. He has stories, jokes, and social commentary to disperse. Yet, it feels like every word typed is an inch by inch uphill battle. Then a revelation, recalling Al Pacino’s half-time speech from Any Given Sunday:

You find out life’s this game of inches, so is football. Because in either game – life or football – the margin for error is so small. I mean, one half a step too late or too early and you don’t quite make it. One half second too slow, too fast and you don’t quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They’re in every break of the game, every minute, every second. On this team we fight for that inch. On this team we tear ourselves and everyone else around us to pieces for that inch. We claw with our fingernails for that inch. Because we know when add up all those inches, that’s gonna make the fucking difference between winning and losing!

Writing, he thinks, is the same way. It’s fighting for that inch, for that word, for that sentence. Digging deep, fighting self-doubt, word by word. Tearing cynicism to pieces, sentence by sentence. A word placed wrong, you don’t quite communicate it. A sentence structured incorrectly, you don’t quite express it. A writer must be willing to pour all he has, tooth and nail, for those words and sentences. Because he knows that when he adds up all those hard fought for words and sentences it’s the fucking difference between greatness and obscurity.

He smiles as he realizes that the struggle is part of the craft. It’s not supposed to be easy and it’s not supposed to be fast. Its about perseverance, worth ethic, inches, and exhausting yourself for your dream. “Now quit your bitching,” he says out loud, “Get back to work and fight for that inch.”

~Raul Felix


I wrote the following in May 2007 while in my barracks room, lonely and drunk. It inspired the first part of Inch by Inch. Though I’m kind of embarrassed of it right now, it shows my evolution as a writer. I’m leaving it unedited, but I think it’s not too bad for a drunk, dumbass 20 year old.

On Drinking Alone

Very few things show that a man has arrived to maturity than the act of drinking alone. The act of facing whatever hidden demons the lack of alcohol has hidden from him. A man who drinks alone, is a brave man. He does something that many would consider to do only in comfortable presence of loved ones and acquaintance. Since so many people fear to lurk into those dark places of their minds without some companionship.

The Lone Drinker is often considered to be disturbed, an alcoholic, and as the name implies… a loner. No, the Lone Drinker is the enlightened man who knows how to enjoy the sweet and rough kisses of lady Liquor and the obvious teases and delayed gratifications of the tramp Beer. The Lone Drinker doesn’t need the reassurance of others to enjoy what is truly fine in life. He doesn’t drink because he wants to impress others, he drinks for the pure love of alcohol. He finishes off more drinks than drinks have finished off him.

He is very misunderstood. He not as well respected as he should be. Some might pity him. But, those who do, don’t have the balls to be like him. Because inside of them, there is a fear that they are not strong enough. Or the thought that they are better than that. Maybe they think that are too good to drink alone. So, they must seek that party that allows them the chance to drink. So let me ask… who is more powerful… the uncertain people who only drink when it’s appropriate or the lone drinker? The man who controls when he drinks, how much he drinks, and whether or not he has other make the choice for him.

~Raul Felix

A Gathering of Fools

You have your best friends in the world gathered around you at your favorite local bar. These grimy son of a bitches you knew since high school and the military. You love and care for them; yet, you will never say it. The simple fact that you’re still in touch enough to know each others occupation and have a semi-decent idea of what chick(s) they’re banging, whether it be a random sluts and/or trophy wives, is enough. You’re here to enjoy a long night of heavy drinking and poor decisions. Ever since you’ve all become pseudo-adults, it seems to have been impossible to get all of you together. Even tonight you’re missing your fat Jap best friend whose off in Japan doing whatever the fuck Japanese people do in Japan; math and jerking off to hentai.

No matter. You buy the first round of beers with shots. You make a witty toast to days long past and drink your whiskey. One of two things happens with that shot; it goes down smooth and you realize you’ve become a world class alcoholic, or it goes down harsh and you realize you’ve become a world class pussy. Either way, you show no emotion cause you’re still the fucking legend you used to be, in your heart at least.

The exchange of stories begins. The first tells you about a Thai hooker who turned out to be a lady boy and ended up stealing his wallet. Another tells you about the time he was double penetrating this girl with his friend and at one of the thrusts, he pulled out too far and ended up shoving his dick in the other guys nuts. One sits there in silence, realizing how boring his life has become ever since he married a JAP (Jewish American Princess.) The fourth tells you about how he got so drunk in Mexico that he got into fight with five Mexicans, managed to get away, had the police arrest him and had his mom bribe the cops with $50 from his own wallet.

Struggling to breath from laughter as you listen to these grand tales of misadventure and defiance of social norms, it’s your turn again to order round number six. Crossing the threshold from buzzed to inebriated. You slur out a tale about when you were going through Airborne School. Desperate and lacking any form of female companionship, you went on a phone dating line called Lava Life. There you talked to this black chick who claimed to be “slightly chubby and curvy, not fat.” You sent her a message and got something set up. You go to meet her in a motel. You don’t see a Georgia Peach, but rather, a Georgia Pumpkin. Her breasts are bigger than your head, not the glorious defying gravity sort, rather, nipples touching her knees type. Her definition of slightly chubby meant 300+ pounds and curvy meant looking like Jabba The Hut. You stare at her in disbelief. You were expecting to really lower your standards, but not to rock bottom. You say your hellos and start making mindless small talk. Maybe I can get a blowjob you think to yourself. You kiss her, hoping that bitter taste in her mouth is a salty sandwich and not another mans semen. You work your way down, taking her bra off and exposing nipples with the circumference of your hand. You notice her gut is over her pussy. You lift the gut up, and reveal a penile abyss. You stare blankly, the utter horror of this dawns on you. You can’t do this. Without a word, you drop her belly, put your jeans on, and run out the motel.

Your friends hung on to every word of your epic. Making sounds in disgust and laughter at the key points. They laugh at you and you laugh at yourself. The thought of that woman still disgusts you. You drink. The night wears on, more stories are exchanged, and the scouting and approaching of chicks commences. You make several attempts to hit on chicks and promptly get rejected. Oh well. It can’t get you down, you’re with your boys and you’re happy. You don’t get to have these nights with these guys like you used to. You love every moment of this; the shit talk, the laughter, the drinking, the memories, and for tonight forgetting your real-person life.

A couple of your friends are hitting it off with some chicks and wave you over. Irish Car Bombs are ordered. Maybe this will turn out to be one of those nights you talk about a few years down the line. You drop your Baileys into your Guinness and begin to chug.

~Raul Felix