Army Ranger Hospitalized After Having Balls Literally Smoked-Off

Joint Base Lewis-McCord, WA – A soldier was admitted yesterday to Madigan Army Medical Center after a lengthy corrective physical training session, or “smoke session” as commonly known, went awry. The soldier was rushed into the emergency room with the crotch area of his trousers drenched in blood and his testicles in a 7-11 Big Gulp cup filled with ice.

“I’ve seen cases of women cutting off their husband’s dick after they caught them cheating,” said Dr. Richard Cox, Emergency Room Surgeon, “but I’ve never seen anything quite like this. He was literally smoked so hard that his scrotum lost its elasticity and ripped off.”

Private First Class Chris Stiff, a new Ranger with 2nd Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, was more than eager to give an interview after he awoke from his operation and immediately asked, “How long will it be before I can jerk it?”

“It was a pretty bad day,” says PFC Stiff. “I was all sorts of fucked up. First thing, I showed up to morning PT formation one minute late, unshaved, and without my reflective belt. My team leader was pissed and ripped into me during PT. Describing to me how he is going to smoke my balls off so bad that Indians—feather type— miles and miles away were going to think he was sending them smoke signals warning them that the white man cometh.”

Due to political pressure, the Army has been making it its objective to phase out hazing though there is still some cultural and traditional resistance in the combat arms.

“At 0900 we had to be at the motor pool to do PMCS [Preventive Maintenance Checks and Services] on our Strykers. My team leader found out my oil was low because I didn’t fill up the last couple of days we were training even though he told me to. That’s when he went apeshit.”

PFC Stiff then explained that he was ordered to do push ups, flutter kicks, monkey fuckers, alligators, star bursts, bear crawls, and various other physical exercises. The punishment went on for at least an hour.

“It wouldn’t stop. I was sweating, my arms were spaghetti, and I couldn’t do anymore. Then while I was doing a monkey fucker, I felt a sharp pain, like my ball sack was being pulled off. I looked down and saw blood spilling. It fucking looked like I had a fucking miscarriage.”

His team leader, Sergeant Antonio Verga, sprung into action to check out what was the matter with his soldier. PFC Stiff explained, “My vision was blurring, and I was on my knees in pain. My balls had fallen down my pants and were stuck right where I bloused my boots. I remember my team leader ordering me to calm down and applying pressure to my crotch in order to stop the bleeding.”

“I was smoking his fucking balls off for being such an incompetent piece of human waste that should have been a 60th trimester abortion. I didn’t know it was actually physically possible to smoke someones balls off,” SGT Verga says as he spit some dip into the ground “I’m kind of proud of myself.”

After SGT Verga stopped the bleeding, he then carried PFC Stiff into his truck and drove him to the hospital.

PFC Stiff balls were surgically reattached, and he is expected to make a full recovery in a few weeks.

“I can’t really blame my team leader. He’s actually good at his job and cares for us, even though he can be a dick… and I tend to fuck up a lot. Its fine though cause I get two-weeks of con-leave [Convalescent-leave] and there is a chick from back home I want to get married to before I deploy. She is turning 18 this week.”

Upon hearing of PFC Stiff’s plans when he returns back home, SGT Verga remarked, “Stupid fucking cherry privates. Well, I hope they reattached his nut sack pretty fucking good this time. I have a feeling this isn’t going to be the last time I have to smoke his balls off.”

~Raul Felix

This satirical news article was featured on Article 107 News.

Read: 3 Winning PR Strategies For Muslim Extremists
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Read: Army Rangers Talk About The Times Their Words Have Shocked Civilians

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A Day In The Life Of A Debauched Traveler

While I don’t consider myself a globetrotter yet, I’ve done my share of traveling and have established a daily pattern while on the road. While some travelers take tour packages, stay at resorts, eat local delicacies, and buy knick-knacks, I tend to stay at cheap hostels, don’t buy any souvenirs, and eat at the cheapest place I can find. I opt to invest my money in more pleasing activities such as heavily boozing and paying the local strippers to rub their tits in my face. A typical day for me goes something like this:

11:12AM:Wake up with a vicious hangover, not quite knowing where I am, with random scratches and bruises all over my body. My muscles ache and are in desperate need of potable water. My bladder is full of piss, but I am unable to gather up the motivation to move my body out of bed. I decide to sleep some more.

12:30PM: Get a rude awakening with a bladder that is ready is to explode. Run to the bathroom and release a stream that gives me pleasure equivalent to an orgasm. Enter the shower and wash the smell of disgrace from my body.

1:04PM: Decide it’s time go see some touristy shit. If it’s a travel day, I decide it’s time to ride my motorcycle 250-300 miles to my next destination.

7:00PM: Finish either traveling or seeing touristy shit. Go to hostel to shit, shower, and eat chow.

8:00PM: Begin drinking either while socializing with people at the hostel or surfing the Internet while sitting in a dark corner by myself as I brood about my loneliness and how I wish I had a beautiful chick with whom to share this magical adventure.

10:07PM: Have a good buzz going and decide it’s time to go get some pussy. Either do a solo mission or go out with people in the hostel who aren’t lame.

10:48PM: Arrive at a bar and talk to people and hit on women. Get rejected by 90-95% of them. One eventually likes me enough, but I misinterpret her kindness as her wanting my cock in or around the general vicinity of her mouth. Make bold move; get slapped.

11:42PM: Go to a different bar because that one is full of total bitches that don’t realize how much of a catch I am. Lose the people from the hostel and join a new group.

11:48PM: Order a beer and take a shot. I’m a fucking beast. Look around the bar and see a chick across the room who isn’t totally disgusting.

11:50PM: Get mediocre chick interested in me by casually dropping the “former Army Ranger” card and mentioning that I’m traveling on a motorcycle. Her panties get wet, and I’m pretty sure she wants my cock.

12:01AM: Take a shot with mediocre chick.

12:17AM: She and I form a deep emotional connection. She becomes progressively prettier as I get to know her better, and I start imagining how life would be if I were to make her my woman.

12:36AM: Make out with mediocre chick.

12:54AM: Decide to take another shot. Vomit.

1:10AM: Mediocre chick runs away because I become overly aggressive with the ass-grabbing and biting.

1:12AM: Get kicked out of the bar because I start slurring, cursing, and spilling beer all over myself.

1:21AM: Stumble into another bar while attempting to seem as sober as possible. Make small talk with fellow patron that evolves into a deep philosophical conversation.

1:40AM: Say “goodbye” to my new friend who has altered my worldview forever. Leave the bar and immediately forget everything we’ve discussed.

1:54AM: ?

4:13AM: End up making it back to my hostel room somehow. Immediately get on Facebook and try to get whatever girls are online to send me nude pics. Fail.

4:34AM: Fall asleep while jacking off to pictures of chicks that have sent me nude pictures in the past because the Internet at the hostel is fucking slow and won’t load porn quickly.

11:12AM: Wake up with a vicious hangover, not quite knowing where I am. Decide I’m still too tired and go back to sleep.

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6 Ways Women Have Rejected Me

Like all you readers who click through articles that speak to the current trend in millennial dating—or sorta-dating—I, too, am on a constant and maybe hopeless quest for love and/or pussy to feed my insatiable lust. In addition to jacking off every night while crying, I go out and attempt to catch the attention of a pretty lady or two.

Most guys go to the bar and content themselves with boozing, and maybe if things go right and she gives him enough signals, they’ll go out and talk to a chick. I go in, scan the scene, designate possible targets, and decide how I am going to go about hitting on them. Contrary to my excellent writing skills, I’m not a smooth talker whatsoever. To compensate for this and my many other shortcomings as a human being, I’ve developed a dead-reckoning philosophy for hitting on chicks.

It’s a simple two-step process:

1.

See cute chick and check for possible indicators that’s she single.

2.

Go talk to her and hope I say the right thing that leads to me ripping off her panties with my teeth in the near future.

What happens next is what separates the men from the boys. You get rejected a whole fucking lot—so much that you start to notice patterns in the ways you get rejected.

1. The One-Word Answer

This is a staple among girls who are too shy or nice to tell you they’re not interested directly. You’re trying to strike up a conversation about something—anything—in order to get the natural flow of human interaction going, but you keep hitting dead ends.

“So, what do you do for a living?”

“Secretary.”

“Uh…that’s cool. That’s a very dashing red dress you have on.”

“Thanks.”

“Have any idea of what you want to do in the future?”

“School.”

“What’s your opinion on the ISIS taking over Iraq?”

“Sad.”

“I’ve traveled quite a bit; what’s your favorite place to travel to?”

“Paris.”

You then stand there, hoping she will elaborate or maybe ask you a question, but she just sits there, looking in any direction but yours.

“OK, I can see I have failed here…I’m out.”

“Bye.”

2. The Overly Aggressive Bitch Block

The shock and awe of this tactic surprises even the most experienced of men. The usual condition: A highly attractive woman, rating an 8-plus on a scale of 10, is standing around with one or two of her chick friends. Her friends may even be attractive in their own right. You go to the group with hopeful vigor and enthusiasm at maybe hitting it off with such a beauty. You attempt to make your presence known:

“Hey ladies…how are….”

“She’s not interested!” One of the wenches interrupts you mid-sentence as she puts her arms in front of you.

You pause, not sure whether you should be a dick because fuck that rude bitch or attempt to reason with the callous creature. Whatever path you choose, it’s going to lead you through Strike-Out Junction en route to Rejectionville.

3. The New Age Hippie Rejection

You’ve been talking to this girl for a while. She’s pretty, cool, laid back, and seems to have a decent sense of humor. It’s not the deepest immediate connection you’ve had, but there may be something there. When it’s time to part ways, you ask for her number.

“Not this time. If fate has us crossing paths again, I’ll give it you.”

“How about we don’t count on fate and you give me your number now?”

“If it’s meant to be, we’ll cross paths again. You should trust in that.”

“I don’t believe in that hippie shit.”

The New Age Hippie Rejection is passive-aggressive rejection disguised as mystical false hope in order to make the girl who just shot you down seem like a compassionate human being who believes in karma, destiny, and goodwill. The truth is that if she was truly interested in your cock, she’d give you her number instead of making you seem like a gullible idiot who hopefully awaits the day when true love and fate will align and bring you two back into each other’s lives.

4. The Bait and Switch

You’re talking to a table of girls and are being quite charming for once in your life. The booze is flowing through your veins at the perfect ratio that enables you to be witty, sarcastic, and a bit debonair. They’re really receptive to you, and the one you have your eyes on is giggling to her friends. You take a seat next to her and attempt to begin a one-on-one conversation, which she humors for a little bit.

“Have you met Becky?” She then proceeds to point out her homely friend that you barely noticed before. You attempt to be as cordial as possible and ask Becky canned questions.

“You two should talk. She’s single!” The two switch places, and the glorious example of womanhood is replaced by the dud. You grudgingly talk to Becky a bit more and realize you’re not going to get anywhere with the woman you actually want. You pleasantly bid them adieu and go on your way. Your days of jumping on grenades are over, dammit!

5. The Best Friend Forever Barrier

I’ve written about the Best Friend Forever (BFF) Barrier before. It’s a simple yet highly effective method of rejecting would-be ass-grinders while dancing. Chicks have employed this technique since their first middle-school dance, so by the time they’re old enough to hit the bars, they have internalized it to the point that they might not even realize they’re doing it.

Should you be so bold as to attempt to infiltrate a group of chicks during their body-spasm ritual and go for the prettiest of them all, you may meet with the treacherous BFF Barrier. The BFF will take a disliking to you because either you’re not a dreamy heartthrob or because you dare impose on their “girls’ night out.” For committing such heinous sins, it’s of the utmost importance that they exile you swiftly.

Like clockwork, one of the BFFs will strut up to the woman of your dreams and provocatively dance with her. This is but a ruse to enable her to shrewdly snatch her friend away. While this occurs, the rest of the BFFs form a perimeter of jealousy; it’s creeper-protection to box you out. You have two choices: either stand there looking like a fool or abort.

6. The Disappearing Act

You’re in a good mood today. The previous night, you met an awesome chick and really clicked with her. Your conversation flowed effortlessly. She was educated, quick-witted, and uniquely beautiful. She gave you every signal in the book to indicate that she was as into you as you were into her. While you only got a simple kiss out of her, it was enough. Hell, she even had you call her cell number so she could have your number. And she told you to text her the next day. You know better than to get excited about getting just a number, but fuck it; you’re going to let yourself get excited.

It’s late afternoon and you decided it’s an appropriate time to text.

“Hey, it’s Raul.”

You don’t hear back from her within the hour…or day…or the next couple of days. You know that girls always have their phones glued to their hands, but you also know better than to pester them with texts. Hoping that she was just absentminded, you text her again a few days later. You hear nothing. You look at your two unacknowledged texts and shake your head. “Oh well,” you think to yourself as you delete her number, “that’s what you get for letting yourself get excited.”

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my writing at Thought Catalog.

Jumping Out of Airplanes: How It’s Really Like

My second article on Thought Catalog has gone live. People always ask me how it’s like jumping out of airplanes, and I could never quite put it. So, I took a lot of thought and I decided to tell it in the most matter fact way possible. I’m pretty proud of this one.

“There was blood upon the risers; there were brains upon the chute,
Intestines were a-dangling from his paratrooper’s suit,
He was a mess; they picked him up, and poured him from his boots,
He ain’t gonna jump no more.

Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain’t gonna jump no more!”
-Blood Upon the Risers: World War 2 American Paratrooper Song

One of the best and worst parts of being an Airborne Ranger is the airborne part. Civilian types tend to have a misconception of what jumping out of airplanes is like in the Army. When they picture it, they think of all those skydiving videos where you pleasantly enjoy the view as you have the thrill of a lifetime, screaming at the top of your lungs, and with adrenaline pumping through your system. Then you land softly and celebrate because you faced one of your fears. During the whole thing you took pictures; you then post them on Facebook, and people comment about how truly wild and crazy you are. The whole thing probably took about three or four hours.

Like everything else in the Army, it’s a longer, more painful process. I’m not particularly scared of heights, but jumping out of an airplane was one of the training events I dreaded the most during my time in uniform. The process goes as follows:

You see on the training calendar that there is a jump coming up. You wonder if there is a way you can sham your way out of it, but sadly for you, you’re unable to weasel out. Fuck it. You joined the Army to jump out of airplanes and kill people, right?

To minimize the odds of you killing or maiming yourself and your buddies, the day before, you go through sustainment training. Sustainment training is where you get repounded into your head all the proper steps and procedures for conducting airborne operations that you learned in Airborne School. This involves going through a dry run of all the things you’re supposed to do as a group when you jump into the abyss. You play out perfectly the appropriate actions when you hook-up: Hand-off the static line, jump with your legs together in a tight body position, counting to four-thousand, and feeling the opening shock of the parachute. Then you make sure to check your canopy has no holes in it by looking up; if you’re unable to put your head up it’s because your risers are twisted, you bicycle kick to untwist yourself. You keep a sharp lookout during decent, make sure to avoid other jumpers, trees, telephone wires, and other potential hazards. You then play out what you will do if you do run into any of those hazards. You then prepare to land, putting a slight bend in your knee, keeping your eyes to the horizon. You then land by hitting the balls of your feet followed by your calves, thighs, buttocks, and pull up muscle. They actually call it the pull up muscle. That’s the end of sustainment training and now you are ready for your jump.

The next day, you go to the airfield to rig up your chute, harness, weapon, and put on your 45-plus-pound rucksack. God help you if you’re a mortarman or a machine gun gunner; you have a shit-ton more weight to carry. You then get inspected by a Jump Master to make sure you didn’t rig yourself all sorts of fucked up.

This is where the fun begins. The bird is probably going to be delayed by an hour or two. Meanwhile the harness is crushing your balls, and you’re unable to move effectively because you have your heavy ass rucksack dangling from your waist. You’re sitting down, using your helmet as a support for your lower back. While you’re waiting for an unknowable amount of time, you fall asleep. Suddenly, you’re awaken, still groggy; you are told to get up. You struggle to get yourself up and fumble around like a football, until one of your buddies takes pity on you and offers you a helpful hand. As you get to your feet, you realize you have to take a piss. Too late, dick face, your 50-plus buddies are already lining up to get on the bird. You don’t really walk to the bird but instead press forward in waddle-like, hunched over fashion in order to support the weight you’re carrying.

You approach the C-17, a humongous fortress of an airplane whose size leaves you in awe. Instantly the distinct smell of jet fuel and heat of the engines hit you. You follow the men in front up the ramp of the C-17 and take a seat. The ramp goes up, the plane taxis on the run way and takes off. As the plane settles into flight, the once roaring sounds of the engines turns into a hum.

Even if it’s not your first jump, the feeling of uneasiness and fear never completely go away. This shit is fucking dangerous even with all the precautions the military takes. On my first jump in battalion, we had one of our men get his parachute tangled with two other jumpers and got killed in the horrible training accident. The other two Rangers suffered serious injuries. Broken ankles, legs, backs, and concussions occur enough to be a legitimate concern each time one rigs up their chute.

At times the flight only takes twenty minutes, at others several hours. The two side doors of the C-17 open, and your ears are consumed by the fury of the wind. It’s hard to hear anything else. You see the Jump Master give you the signal to “Hook Up,” and in unison everyone echoes the command. “Check equipment!” screams the Jump Master. You paranoialy check all your straps and hooks, making sure none of them somehow came undone. Then the soldier in the very back slaps the ass of the one in front of him while saying “Okay.” This creates an ass slapping domino effect that continues until it reaches the very first jumper who then says, “Okay Jump Master!”

You stand there with your ruck hanging between your legs waiting to jump. Its heavy, uncomfortable, and you’re hating your life. You probably should have just gone to college. Your back is cramping up; you lean to the side of the plane to help support yourself and relieve some of the stress. The plane is encountering some turbulence, and you know this jump is going to fucking suck. After being tortured by this, you’re not even scared of jumping anymore. You just want to get the fuck off the bird so you can take the goddamn ruck off from in between your legs.

“One minute,” echoes through the plane. You’re looking in front of you, eyes on the red light which will soon turn green. Finally, you’re getting off this fucking bird. “30 seconds,” the birds coming upon the drop zone, and you’re completely focused on what you’re going to do next. The Jump Master has placed the first jumper in front of the door. The light turns green and “Go!” orders the Jump Master as he slaps the first jumper’s ass signaling him to jump. With one-second spacing between them, each man proceeds after the other. Your mind goes blank as you walk towards the door, all the training kicks in and everything you’re suppose to do has become muscle memory at this point. You hand off your static line, make a right face, and jump. You count to four-thousand, keeping your body tight as you get sucked out. Your chute opens and the once deafening sound of jet engines and wind is replaced by the tranquility of the being airborne as you slowly descend to the Earth. You begin to look in all directions and see your buddies all around you. You’re hoping you don’t run into one of them. You see one is getting too close, and you pull the risers in an attempt to slip away, but they really don’t do much. He spreads-eagle and he bounces off your chute, going on his merry way.

Now you must prepare to land. You drop your ruck, grab your risers, hold them firmly, keep your eyes on the horizon, and bend your knees slightly. You hope you don’t land on thorn bushes or if you’re doing an air field seizure, on the tarmac. You hit the ground hard. It knocks the wind out of you. You lay there for a moment or two, trying to figure out if you’re hurt or have broken anything. Luckily everything seems to be fine, and you begin to perform your final point of performance: taking that piss you’ve been holding in since you got on the bird.

~Raul Felix

The Pick-Up Follies: The Dance Fiasco

Dancing is one of the most common and more effective ways to pick up a chick, slightly behind dragging her into a van. Unfortunately for me, I’m pretty shitty at it. The level of shittiness is equal to that of drunk white people at a wedding. The only thing I know how to do with some level of competence is twirling and a two-step. Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop me from incorporating it as one of the weapons in my arsenal in the grand crusade to get into a chicks’ panties.

I met up with my Ranger buddy, “Dirty Dick,” for the Old World Oktoberfest in Huntington Beach, CA. The original plan involved about six of us meeting up there and getting wrecked, but everyone flaked except for us two. He had with him his latest piece of fine ass who’s name doesn’t really matter. All that matters was his end-goal to fuck her and hoping a healthy dosage of alcohol into her system would expedite the process. We were drinking our overpriced beer, socializing, and scouting out a potential target for my irresistible charm. The pickings were slim since most of the women seemed to be with men already. I walked around and began to hit on a voluptuous Asian chick. I was quickly rejected and moved on. I hit on a thin white girl, and it was going well until she dropped the boyfriend bomb, after which I ejected myself from the conversation. I was three beers deep when I headed back to chill with Dirty Dick and his chick.

We were standing on the edge of the dance floor when we saw a decent looking chick with hipster glasses and middle aged woman dancing together. Dirty Dick pushed me to go dance with them, but I resisted because the timing didn’t feel right. Eventually, they stopped dancing and happened to stand next to me. Like a tiger on the hunt, I saw my prey, opportunity, and I pounced.

Raul: “I like your moves.” I lay out a smirk.

HipsterGlasses: “Yeah? You want to dance?”

Raul: “Let’s go.” I grab her by the hand and lead her to the dance floor.

She was a wild one. She eagerly spun underneath my hand as I twirled her again and again. She moved back and forth on the dance floor like a she-devil in heat, at times grinding up with me and them scurrying away suddenly, as if to tease me. Her plump breasts bounced, and her ass swayed lusciously. With each move, my eagerness to shove my dick so deep inside of her pussy that my semen would squirt out her mouth grew. She would aggressively dash toward me so I could twirl her. It required my full concentration and sense of balance to keep her from falling. I twirled her like a tornado.

Then she slipped from my hand, and I heard a big crash. She was on the floor screaming in pain. “Oh fuck,” I said and rushed to help her. I tried to lift her up and get her back on her feet. “Ahhh… put me down! Put me down!” she said. I complied with her request. She began to grab her ankle. Suddenly her family came over, helped her up and she hobbled away to sit down on the table. Her mother comes up to me and told me that it wasn’t my fault.

I stood there shocked for a moment, not really sure what to do. Dirty Dick and his current fling were looking at me, attempting to contain their laughter. I walked over to them.

Dirty Dick: “Did you break her?”

Raul: “I don’t fucking know. I hope not.”

Dirty Dick: “Dude, she flew across the dance floor.”

Raul: “Fuck.”

I walked over to her.

Raul: “Are you okay?”

HipsterGlasses: “No. I broke my ankle.” Someone hands her some ice and she it places on her ankle.

Raul: “Oh fuck. I’m sorry…”

HipsterGlasses: “It’s not your fault. I broke it playing soccer eight months back. Tonight was the first night I’ve been out without my cast.”

Raul: “Shit…” I’m not sure what to say or do in this situation. I still wanted to talk to her because I still had the goal of banging her, despite the current change of events.

HipsterGlasses: “You don’t have to stick around. You can go back to having fun with your friends. I’ll be okay.” Tear start forming in her eyes from the physical pain.

Raul: “Let me get you a drink. What do you want?”

HipsterGlasses: “Vodka Redbull.”

I went to buy her the Vodka Redbull and left it with her and rejoined Dirty Dick. I felt that the best play was to give her a drink and check up on her on occasion since I had no fucking idea what to talk to her about in her hindered state. About 15 minutes passed and I decided to check up on her.

Raul: “How’s the foot?”

HipsterGlasses: “Still fucked up.”

I attempted to make small talk in effort to distract her from her ankle pain and dared to dream that I still had the chance to get into her panties by playing the caring, empathetic guy. Though there was plenty of evidence toward the contrary, I gave it one last shot.

Raul: “How about you give me your number, and I take you out to make up for this?”

HipsterGlasses: “I don’t really trust you yet. Maybe if you get me another drink.”

Raul: “Sure.”

I walked away with the full intent of boozing her into forgiving me when I ran into two other girls hanging out. I completely forgot about HipsterGlasses and began to hit on them. I must have talked to them for 15 minutes when I learned the one I was targeting had a boyfriend and the other one I wasn’t really into. I went to the bar and ordered a Vodka Redbull.

Which do you think was the cute one?

Which do you think was the cute one?

By the time I got back to the dancehall, HipsterGlasses and her family were gone. I sighed and headed back to hang with Dirty Dick, who at this point was devouring the face of his female companion. There were no other single chicks to hit on, and I resigned myself to getting drunk. I was 0 for 4 for the night. Not every night can be a winner, but every night can be a learning experience. This taught me that if you break a girls ankle and are still trying to get into her panties and are going to buy her a drink to do so, don’t get distracted by other girls. Keep your eyes on the prize. Or maybe there isn’t any lesson and random shit just happens, and there is no way you could have succeeded any way.

~Raul Felix

“Do you have any other wacky adventures with the fairer sex?” Yes, of course: The Pick-Up Follies: The Gimp

The Pick-Up Follies: The Snow Fatty

I was in my seat on an airplane in between two very attractive women. Yet, I was unable to talk them. My breath stank and I reeked of booze, smoke, desperation, fat girl spit, and body odor. Normally, I would have started a little coy conversation in effort to see if there was a connection, but not this time. This time, I sat there in silence brooding on the foul odor that had been cast upon my body. God was just, I was being punished for the sins I had committed the previous night.

We had spent two weeks in late October 2008 on a training trip in Fort Bragg. After doing our military training for the day, we spent nearly every night of those two weeks getting hammered beyond reason or recourse. It was our last night in North Carolina and we decided to have one final hurrah before heading back to Washington. “Jonathan” and I tried to rally up a bunch of the guys to go out, but most rejected the idea knowing that we had an early morning flight to catch. We were able to get a humble group, “Blitzy”, “Tiburón”, “Jonathan”, and I to go out.

We rode through the mean streets of Fayetteville to a bar called Doghouse Bar & Grill. The place was refreshingly different from the typical bars you see outside military bases. The amount of high and tights with off-duty soldiers wearing their dog tags outside their t-shirts as a fashion accessory was kept to a minimum. Typical of southern bars, there was a cloud of cigarette smoke that engulfed the whole place. There was a live band playing country music, cheap beers, and a decent female to male ratio.

Since I always keep my head on a swivel looking for attractive women to hit on and promptly get rejected by, I noticed there was only one really hot chick in the whole entire place. Our drinks came and we made a toast to the good times and to 2/75. I kept my eye on the hot chick and noticed that she was eye fucking the singer the whole time. After he completed one of the songs, she went up to kiss him passionately. With that kiss, went my one percent chance at success with the only hot chick. It looked like hitting on the bountiful subpar chicks of the bar were the conditions I was going to operate under.

I was drinking my alcohol at a respectable rate in order to boost my courage levels so I could actually approach women. While these days I am able to hit on a chick like nothing, back then, I still needed a good helping of alcohol to get myself to talk to one at a bar. The alcohol began to set in, ever so gently, taking over my psyche. Liquid courage had been spliced with my blood. I targeted a table made up of fuckable, but unimpressive looking women. I went in and begun speaking to one about witty and charming subject matter that surely sparked her interest. After a couple of minutes, the rest of my buddies decided to join the table. One guy in particular, Blitzy, began to hit it off with one of a generic looking chicks. Eventually, the girls tired of me and I went back to sitting at the bar alone. Blitzy was forming a true spiritual connection with the generic chick.

All the guys except for Blitzy rejoined me at the bar and we continued toasting and drinking. A couple more drinks in, I locked eyes with a woman who was in the late stages of being a cougar and in the early stages of being a sabertooth. She smiles at me, I sat there frozen not sure what to do.

Raul: “That chick is looking at me.”

Jonathan: “Go for it.”

Raul: “But she’s really old.”

Jonathan: “So? Women like that will show you some crazy ass shit that you can only dream of.”

Raul: “Really?”

Jonathan: “Yeah man.”

I walked up to her and begun flirting with her all awkwardly because I wasn’t sure how the fuck you’re supposed to hit on an older woman. She was dirty blonde, with rough skin conditioned by many a decade spent in smokey bar, and had a cigarette in her mouth. I don’t recall what we talked about or what poor excuse of seductive language I used to get her to the point of holding my hand. She pulled me close and said:

Older Woman: “You’re really cute, you should come home with me.” She squeezes my hand and places it on her thigh.

Raul: “Uh… I can’t… I have to stay here with my buddies. They’re my ride.”

Older Woman: “I’ll make sure you won’t forget it.”

Raul: “I can’t, I’m sorry.” I gave her a hug and walked back.

I’ll make no excuses about it. I pussed out because I was really intimidated by this older woman even though she wasn’t that attractive.

I rejoined my buddies and was mocked for having fucked it up with the almost-sabertooth. While my little frolic with older temptation occurred, it seemed that Blitzy had truly formed a one a kind connection with the generic chick. He went about consummating their one in a million love by fucking her doggy-style in the back seat of the van while she stuck her head out the window vomiting.

We continued to drink and were inebriated to the point where we sung along with the band. All morals and standards were being slain by the alcohol demon. Then she appeared: a paled skinned woman, with dark hair, and humongous breasts. She was like Snow White, if Snow White was about 100 pounds heavier. I didn’t care, I walked up to her.

Raul: “Let me guess, you’re drinking a Jack and Coke?”

Snow Fatty: “No, it’s a Rum and Coke, but good guess.”

Raul: “I like rum and coke, let me have a taste,” I take a sip out her drink, “Not bad.”

I introduced her to my buddies and we’re introduced to her shady looking friend “Daringer.” I got close to her and heavily flirted, touching her here and there. Fully aware that I was way above her league, I knew it was all a matter of playing the waiting game before my dick will be slaying her orifices. Eventually, the bar begins to close and Blitzy wants to go back to the motel. I asked the Snow Fatty if she could give us a ride to the airport the next morning and she agreed to do so. Snow Fatty, Tiburón, Jonathan, and I all pile into Daringer’s shitty little sedan.

We arrived at the mobile home park she calls home. She and I immediately head to the bedroom. I do my standard operating procedure of shoving her on the bed, positioning myself on top of her, and kissing her. All the while, firmly squeezing her huge breasts. I begun to undress her and that’s when the magnitude of the situation hit me. Her clothes, albeit not well, hid how fat she truly was. I had estimated a 100 pounds overweight Snow White, not a grotesque 150 pounds overweight Snow White. I made the executive decision not to fuck her, instead opting to get my dick sucked until I nutted.

I straddled on top of her, had her support her head on the pillow, and began thrusting full force into her throat. She stops me at some point and wants to fuck. I tell her that I don’t have a condom and luckily, she doesn’t have any laying around either. I continued until I busted in her hair.

I came out the bedroom and Tiburón was passed out on the couch. Jonathan and Daringer were nowhere to be found. It was nearly 4 a.m. and our flight was to leave at 7 a.m. I called Jonathan up and he told me that he went to get some cocaine with Daringer. Since they were my only ride, I began to panic a bit, but then decided that most practical solution was to sleep until they return.

At 6:15 a.m. I was awoken by the pounding of the door and my buddies voices. I scrambled to my feet and scoured the floor for my shoes. “Felix, we have to go man! Lieutenant Snuffy keeps on calling Sergeant Tiburón and he’s fucking pissed,” yells Jonathan. Fuck! I finished getting dressed and we all piled into the car. We were about 20 minutes away from the airport as Daringer drove us as quickly as his little jalopy could take us. Every five minutes en route, Lieutenant Snuffy called Tiburón to get a status report on where the fuck we were at.

At 6:35 a.m. we arrived at the airport. We stumbled out of the car and right before we were going to run off the Snow Fatty asked me, “You’re going to come back one day right? You got my number.” I smile at her and said, “Of course,” and gave her a reassuring hug and run off to the check-in. One of our buddies was on stand by with our bags and we checked in. We got through security rather quickly and ran to the gate where we met up with Lieutenant Snuffy and the rest of the men. “I don’t want to hear any of you fucking idiots speak. I’m going to take care of this shit when we get back! Got it?” He yelled.

“Roger, Sir!” we all responded. We tried our best not smile and giggle at the events that unfolded the previous night. We headed into the boarding gate and Jonathan took out his phone and showed me a picture he took of Snow Fatty. “Ugh… that’s pretty gross,” I said with disappointment. We boarded the plane and I sat in between two lovely women. That’s when I noticed how horrible I must smell.

~Raul Felix

“Tell me more about your follies of picking up women.” Here mother fucker: The Pick-Up Follies: Sleazy E’s Revenge

The Pick-Up Follies: The Halloween Abandonment

It was Halloween 2009, I got invited to a Halloween Party held at a bar in San Juan Capristano for a network marketing (pyramid scheme) company that I was a part of. Always being one to sport funny Halloween costumes, I dressed up as Frylock from Aqua Teen Hunger Force. I arrived alone and met up with some of the people I sort of knew. I began doing what Raul Felix does best, I started drinking irresponsibly and socializing.

I made my rounds, fully confident that I had the best costume there because who the fuck is going to top dressing up as a box of french fries? I’m about three or four drinks in and I start talking to girls and flirting, but nothing is connecting. I start getting a little frustrated and drink some more in an effort to amp up my charm, which history has dictated is always a great idea.

That’s when I saw her. She was dressed up as a vampire witch thing or something. Actually, I don’t even remember what the fuck she was dressed up as but I can tell you it was seductive enough to attract my attention. Or I may have just been drunk and desperate. She was tall, blonde, had a voluptuous body, big breasts, and my ultimate weakness, a full ass. She was a cougar in her mid-forties. I positioned myself next to her, and noticed she was drinking a beer.

Raul: “Wow, a woman who knows how to drink beer, that’s rare.”

VampireWitch: “Yeah, I don’t do any of those girlie drinks… like you.” She points to the white russian I’m drinking.

Raul: “Hey, the white russian is the manliest of all drinks. The Dude from The Big Lebowski drinks them.”

VampireWitch: “I like that movie. Still though, that’s still borderline fruity. Are those cherry’s in there?”

Raul: “Yes, cherries are bad ass. They add a sweet little flavor to it. Try it.” I give her the drink and she takes a sip from it. Here is a pro tip for you: if a woman takes a drink from your drink or allows you to take a drink from hers, it means she is somewhat interested in you or at the very least not completely repulsed by you.

VampireWitch: “Not bad. You’re too handsome to be wearing that silly costume.”

Raul: “Its funny though! I’m Frylock from Aqua Teen Hunger Force.” She gave me a blank look which truly indicted how far apart our generations were.

Neither one of these girl is VampireWitch.

Neither one of these girls is VampireWitch.

Our conversation then transformed into the mindless basics and we started dancing. That’s when I felt a vibration and looked down at my cell phone. A buddy of mine just texted me to remind me to pick him up at his work so we could go to some house party he invited me to. I told VampireWitch that I needed to go, got her number, and gave her a kiss.

I picked up “LittleBean” at his work and quickly informed him that he needs to take over driving responsibilities for I planned to get shit housed. We stopped by the store, bought beer, and headed to the house party. By the time we arrived, I was a few beers away from peaking and spiraling down into the abyss.

The house party was all of his co-workers and their friends. LittleBean was the only person I knew. Since I tend to be somewhat outgoing when I drink, I started talking to people and mingling. I don’t recall the exact order of these events, but the following ensued throughout my stay there:

1. I flirted with some chick in a Little Red Riding Hood outfit and she was digging me and rubbing on me, but I ended up fucking it up somehow.

2. I smoked some pot and started becoming extremely paranoid.

3. Some dude was overprotective of his female cousin and I had a man to man talk with him about how he should let her be her own woman.

4. I took a couple of shots of whiskey.

5. I vomited in the bushes.

6. The rest of the chicks rejected my ambitious, but sloppy and misguided attempts to hit on them.

7. I got into an argument with the owner of the house and got LittleBean and myself kicked out.

I'm STILL pissed off  at myself for fucking it up this cute chick.

I’m STILL pissed off at myself for fucking it up with this cute chick.

Raul: “Fuck those mother fuckers, I’m going to call VampireWitch.” I call her up and she informs me that she is staying in Newport Beach at a friends house. She invites me over for us to have some fun. LittleBean drives my truck there and I stumbled out of the truck and VampireWitch grabs me.

VampireWitch: “You need to take that ugly costume off.” I take it off and throw it in my truck. Since VampireWitch agreed to give me a ride to pick up my truck the next day, LittleBean drives away and goes home.

I aggressively begin kissing her and grabbing her big ass. She then stops me, grabs my hand, and leads me into her friends multi-million dollar home. We sneak in, careful not to make too much noise because she didn’t want her friend to know, and go into the guest bedroom. I shove her onto the bed and get on top of her kissing her passionately. With each messy drunk movement, taking off an article of clothing. I take off her bra, releasing her big breast, and begin sucking on her nipples. I get completely naked. Then I work my way down to taking off her panties, she stops me.

VampireWitch: “Do you have a condom?”

Raul: “Yeah of course… wait… fuck! They’re in my truck!”

VampireWitch: “Are you kidding me?”

Raul: “You could suck my dick.”

VampireWitch: “Well you do have a nice cock.” She starts sucking and slobbering all over my cock. After a while I’m ready to cum and since I’m a man brought up by internet porn, I opt to cum on her face.

She cleans herself off and we are laying in bed talking and waiting for me to recharge when her phones rings.

VampireWitch: “Oh shit, it’s my husband.”

Raul: “Your husband? I didn’t know you were married.”

VampireWitch: “Yeah, it’s a weird situation. We’re about to get separated, but he still acts like we’re together.” She then begins talking to her husband on the phone, argues with him, and then…

VampireWitch: “What? You’re here? All right, I’ll come outside.” She then just leaves and to goes talk to her husband who is outside.

I lay there. I’m not really sure what I’m suppose to do in this situation. Do I wait? Do I go out there to see what’s going on? Do I just leave? I decide to just sit tight and wait.

Ten minutes. Fuck. She is not back yet. Maybe I should call her cell? No, if she is with him that would be suspicious. Fuck.

Twenty minutes. Fuck. I don’t know where the fuck I am. I should leave and call LittleBean to pick me up. I dial LittleBean and the phone goes straight to voicemail. Fuck.

Thirty minutes. Fuck. I have to piss. All the drinking has caught up to me. I have to find the bathroom in this house. My bladder is going to explode. Fuck.

I tip toe out the guest bedroom into the living room of the house. After much quiet stumbling around, I am able to find the bathroom and take a bladder emptying piss. I walk out of the bathroom and I realize, I have no idea where the guest bedroom is at. God fucking damn it. I begin walking around this huge house, trying not to make any noise. Seriously, picture this in your mind. I’m a 23 year old Mexican male, not wearing a t-shirt, reeking of booze and marijuana walking and stumbling around the house of some rich person in Newport Beach who has no idea I am there on Halloween. Yeah, how does that look like to you?

I see a swimming pool. I somehow convince myself that I must have passed a swimming pool on my way to the bathroom. I open the glass door and shut it behind me. I then realize that there was no way I passed a swimming pool. I attempt to go back in and the door won’t open. Fuck. I locked myself out. Southern California may not be Chicago or New York City, but it does get pretty cold at night in October.

I’m outside next to the swimming pool freezing my balls off for a good ten minutes. I walk around the backyard trying to figure out if I can just climb over the fence and break myself out of this house. I quickly realize there was no way to do it without making a shit ton of noise. I begin to pace back and forward trying to think of a plan and then as I looked into the house through the glass door I see a middle aged man. Oh well, here goes nothing. I tap on the glass.

He hears my tapping and looks me and is startled. Again, picture it in your mind, a 23 year old Mexican male with no t-shirt is tapping on the glass door of a mansion in Newport Beach on Halloween night at three in the morning. I’m lucky Californians are such pussies about guns. I wave at him and he walks away for a few minutes and comes back with his wife. She is holding on to a phone, probably ready to speed dial 911 and he has a baseball bat in his hand. He cracks open the glass door.

Man: “Can I help you?”

Raul: “Hey sir, I’m sorry, I was here with VampireWitch and she sort of just left me in the bedroom. I went out to take a piss and somehow ended up out here.” I said while shivering.

Man: “You were here with VampireWitch?”

Raul: “Yeah…”

Man: “Hold on a moment.”

I then hear him echo what I said to his wife. Then I hear the wife call up VampireWitch and asking her if she had some strange boy over the house. She then yells at VampireWitch for leaving me behind and bringing strangers into HER house. The Man comes back.

Man: “Your story checks out. But I don’t know who you are and you can’t stay here. You have to leave.”

Raul: “I don’t have a car right now. My friend dropped me off.”

Man: “God damn it.”

He shuts the door and comes back a few moments later with some blankets.

Man: “You can sleep here in the backyard. We’ll give you a ride home in the morning.” He hands me the blankets.

Raul: “Thank you.”

I then lay down on a lounge chair and wrap myself up in the blankets. I doze off into a very uncomfortable, shivering sleep. The bull shit a man goes through to get his dick wet.

~Raul Felix

I like reading about you failing with women. I want more: The Pick-Up Follies: Taqueria Hottie

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

The UK Border Agency Debacle

“I’m from fucking Southern California, why the fuck would I want to illegally immigrate to your shitty, cold country?” I said to the United Kingdom Border Agent as she interrogated me in a small room. I was beginning to lose my composure and my temper. My body was shaking as my veins filled with rage. My fists were clenched and I was grinding my teeth in my best effort not to say anything else stupid. I have never ever in my life been so upset at any bureaucrat that I actually had to use every ounce of willpower to keep myself from breaking their face and ending up in jail.

Throughout the month of January 2013, I was randomly traveling around Western Europe and doing the typical backpacker thing. After exploring the wonders of Amsterdam, I decided my next stop would be London, England. I got on the airplane and arrived at London Gatwick Airport and was informed I was supposed to fill out some customs paperwork. Everything was pretty standard and I filled out my occupation: government. I shuffled through and took my place in line to await the process of getting my visa. I was next, and that’s where I met my soon to be nemesis, “McCunterson.” She was a gorilla looking, big fat black woman with a mix of a Jamaican and British accent.

"Oh what pleasure."

“Oh what a pleasure.”

Raul: “Hello.”

McCunterson: “What is the purpose of your visit?”

Raul: “Just traveling around Europe randomly.”

McCunterson: “Why?”

Raul: “… because I’m on vacation.”

McCunterson: “Don’t give me attitude sir, I’m just doing my job.”

Raul: “… alright.”

McCunterson: “How long have you worked for the US Government?”

Raul: “A year and half. Actually, I just finished working with them a couple of weeks ago. I just put that cause it was my last job.”

McCunterson: “So, you’re unemployed?”

Raul: “I guess I am.”

McCunterson: “Then why did you write you were employed? You know that is lying on a legal document right?”

Raul: “I apologize.”

McCunterson: “How much luggage do you have with you?”

Raul: “Just my backpack.”

McCunterson: “That little thing?”

Raul: “Yes, I travel light.”

McCunterson: “Do you have a return flight?”

Raul: “No. I haven’t bought the ticket yet. I’m not sure how long I am going to stay. I think maybe a week or two.”

McCunterson: “Why don’t you have a return flight?”

Raul: “Because I’m not sure of how long I am going to stay, like I said.”

McCunterson: “Don’t get smart, sir. How much money do you have on you and how much do you have access to?”

Raul: “I have about 500 euro on me and I have access to $X,XXX.”

McCunterson: “You really expect me to believe you have access to $X,XXX?”

Raul: “… yes.”

McCunterson: “I’m going to need you step over there, sir.”

McCunterson pointed me to little boxed area where I would sit while other passengers were screened. I sat there wondering what the hell was going on and what I’ve done wrong. I was a bit annoyed, but confident whatever the issue was would be resolved quickly, since you know, I am god damn American Citizen. I would wait for 15 minutes and McCunterson would come by and with a tone that makes me understand why husbands beat their wives, asked me mores questions that I already told her the answer to. She would then leave and do the same thing 15 minutes later. I waited for an hour.

Another Border Agent came by and told me follow him. He lead me to a back room and I emptied out all of my stuff. He looked through everything in my backpack and jacket, closely inspecting every pocket. He then found a pamphlet of different types of marijuana that I got from Amsterdam.

Border Agent: “Why do you have this?”

Raul: “I don’t know, I thought it was cool.”

Border Agent: “You have marijuana on you?”

Raul: “No.”

Border Agent: “Are you sure! I’m going to search all of you!”

Raul: “I don’t.”

Border Agent: “Alright, turn around and put your hands out.”

He started to search the rest of my person and pockets, luckily, no anal probing. After he finished searching me and my stuff, he left. Then came in a security guard. He informed me that I am being detained and he didn’t know the details of my case. He then asked if I would like a sandwich and something to drink while I waited in the holding area. I began to get frustrated. I am being detained now, for no fucking reason.

"Fuck you and your freedom, America!" -Union Jack

“Fuck you and your freedom, America!” -Union Jack

I went to the holding area and waited for an hour. McCunterson waddled in and took me to an interrogation room. I was heavily annoyed, but was able to contain my frustration.

McCunterson: “What did you do for the government?”

Raul: “I worked in Israel.”

She then began to ask more specific questions about what I did in Israel and I gave her some of the details I was at liberty to speak about.

McCunterson: “You really expect me to believe that’s what you did for the US government?”

Raul: “um… yes. That was my job.”

McCunterson: “Oh really? Do you have any proof?” She gave me a very mocking look.

Raul: “Not on me, on my computer.”

McCunterson: “I’m not interested in seeing what’s on your computer.”

Raul: “Who the fuck just carriers that form of information on them!” My voice was raising in frustration.

McCunterson: “Watch your mouth, sir.”

I hated her. The way she spoke in that smug ass british accent with that half-frown that only fat, black women seem to have. Stupid cunt believed that just because she said “sir” it didn’t change the fact that the way she asked and said things was condescending.

Raul: “Fine.” I fantasized about punching her in the face.

Her onslaught of questions about the details of my trip and my life continued. She asked questions about where I was from, where I was born, my past employments, criminal record, my plans for London, who I knew there, amongst other things. I told her about one person I knew there and who could confirm my plans and my story. I gave McCunterson her number.

I paced back and forward in the holding area, barely being able to resist the urge to throw every piece of furniture in the room against the wall. I was being held because this incompetent cow had never seen a backpacker randomly travel around Europe before.

McCunterson finally came back two hours later and called me into the interrogation room.

McCunterson: “Mr. Raul Felix, I have decided to deny you access to the United Kingdom because I don’t believe the reasons you have stated for coming here are true since you lied about being currently employed by the US Government. I believe you are trying to stay in the United Kingdom illegally…”

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Raul: “What the fuck! I’m from fucking Southern California, why the fuck would I want to illegally immigrate to your shitty, cold country? Are you fucking kidding me?”

McCunterson: “Let me finish, sir.”

Raul: “Fuck you!” I stormed out of the interrogation room and walked out to the holding area where the security guards where.

Security Guard: “Hey! Calm down.”

Raul: “I’m fucking calm. Just let me fucking cool down.” I was trying to recompose myself and bite my tongue. I went back into the interrogation room. McCunterson continues on with her stupid, inept reasoning for not letting me into the UK and informed me that I would be deported to Amsterdam the next morning.

I was sent back to the holding area and let out big yell in frustration. I paced back and forward again, calling McCunterson every form of racial and sexiest slur I could think of to myself. I had completely lost my temper. The only thing keeping me from lashing out was the threat of going to jail for assaulting a government official.

I call my local friend on the pay phone and it takes her a while to calm me down. She informed me that McCunterson had called her up and that she asked a bunch of questions about me. The answers that I gave her matched the answers my friend gave her. I was curious to see why McCunterson still denied me entry. I asked the security guards if they could have her come by. She came by 30 minutes later.

Raul: “Ms. McCunterson, I just spoke to my friend and she said you called her. The answers she gave you matched with what I gave you. I don’t understand why I am being denied entrance.”

McCunterson: “Because I don’t believe you intend on leaving the UK. I made my decision and you’re not coming in.”

Raul: “But..”

McCunterson: “I made my decision.”

She then walked away. I stood there shocked. I couldn’t believe it. I would not see her again. I regret not having called her “retarded, incompetent, fat black cunt.”

Later, I was picked up by some other security guards to be taken to a detention facility. En route there, I expressed my hatred of the UK, its douchebag border agency, and that I hoped the whole place burned down to the ground. The security guard was actually a merry ol’ fella and expressed sympathy toward me and asked me not to judge the whole UK because of “some dumb customs asshole.” We then proceeded to have a pleasant conversation and he lightened up my mood. That was until, I got to the detention facility and was shuffled into my jail cell where I would spend the night. I was unable to quickly fall asleep. The incidents of the day kept on playing in my head. I would randomly punch my mattress in anger.

I was awoken by the sound the cell door opening. It was time for me to get deported. The same merry ol’ security guard was to escort me onto the airplane. I climbed the stairs and I was the first passenger on, with my passport and documentations given to the pilot. I sat there, dead pan, not really feeling anything anymore. Just amazed at the stupidity of the English. I really wished we didn’t save their ungrateful asses in World War 2.

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It took me a while to be able to think about the whole situation without wanting to get into a fight. While my bitterness towards the UK has subsided and I’ll probably make another attempt to visit sometime in the future, I still harbor a deep hatred toward McCunterson. I wish I could wish misery on her, but she’s a government bureaucrat, misery and incompetence is her life.

~Raul Felix

Read another European adventure: Pussy Cats and the Appreciation of Modern Technology