Remember the Mantra. Remember the MANTRA!

There are oh so many things to talk about, but we'll stick with last Saturday and why I made up David's Rule #4 (or was it 3?). Anyway, for those of you who are familiar with Columbus, the Gallery Hop was last weekend. Rather than sit at home and be bored to tears, I decided to hit the Short North. After a workout and dinner, of course.

The workout went well. 1 hour of cardio and 35 minutes of weights. Sat in the steam room for about an hour or so (thank GOD they turned down the heat in there). Dinner was at the Union Station (where else?). Flirted with Michael and Howie for about an hour or so, then left for the galleries.

It was rather blah. The only thing that was exciting was at the Mahan Gallery. They had several artists who did paintings on different phobias. Very cool. Unfortunately, there was no one dancing in the window of the Full Monty. Usually there is at least one hot studly gyrating his hips and trying to entice passerbys to come in.

Anyway, after an hour I make it back to the Union Station and found a seat at the bar next to this guy. As soon as I sit down, he starts chatting me up. Now, rule #4 (or was it 3) goes something like: "Thou shall not pick up bar or street trash". Well, guess who forgot. Stupid me, I told him I'd take him home (he'd ridden the bus) and began to buy him beer.

About midnight the fucker (I wish) went out for a smoke. When he came back in he started hitting on everyone (guy, girl, lezzie). I saw him take at least one shot of tequila. At that point I left the bar and headed out. I had every intention of leaving him there, but my concious got the better of me. Damn councious. Damn me for saying I'd make sure he got home okay. I went back and got him.

It was on the way back to the truck that he turned into a sloppy drunk. Whining and crying and carrying on how bad his life was. Then, all of a sudden, he doesn't want to go home, he wants to go back to my place. Uh, I don't think so. So, off to the bath house we go.

When we got there my friend Robert (he works there) looks at Tim and I can see it in his eye: bar trash. Then he looks at me with: what are you doing with bar trash?

So, I got him straightened out, sobered up, then took him home. And it only took about 5 hours.

Later that day (obviously, it's now Sunday) I'm telling my friend Gary about it and he say's, "Um, Tim? That guy is 6 different kinds of trouble. You're lucky you weren't shot." Uh....

SO, remember my mantra: NO BAR TRASH, NO STREET TRASH. NO BAR TRASH, NO STREET TRASH. NO BAR TRASH, NO STREET TRASH. NO BAR TRASH, NO STREET TRASH. NO BAR TRASH, NO STREET TRASH. NO BAR TRASH, NO STREET TRASH. NO BAR TRASH, NO STREET TRASH.

Unless, of course, they are too cute to pass up, like last night.

Long story short, I was sorta kinda too drunk to get home (thanks Kyle!) so I head to the bath house. While I'm there I see this hottie from the bar. If you've been reading my posts, he's the guy that wore the toga last Autumn. Tall, thin, dark hair, dark eyes, and totally delectible. Mmmmm. Well, fantasy turned to reality. No, I didn't do him. I wanted to, but he was sooo drunk. I have to admit, he was a lot hotter without clothes than with them.

I was showering off, getting ready to leave, when I saw him in the hot tub. Mmmm. Now there is nothing left to the imagination. That boy is hung, with a capitol HUNG! It was kinda scary, watching the dirty old men sitting there, staring at him, drool dripping off their chins, hands under their towels stroking themselves off. I honestly hoped the hottie had a room to retreat to so that he could get away from the perverts.

I really need to get myself a hot boyfriend. Sucks to be me!