I don’t have a lot of romantic Valentine’s Day stories. That’s because I usually try to break-up with girlfriends around birthdays and holidays.

Hey, don’t laugh. I’ve managed to save a ton of money over the years using this method. And by save, I mean blew at the track.

But one year in college I met this girl right before the lover’s holiday. She seemed normal. You know, except for the Rick Springfield posters plastered on every square inch of her dorm room wall.

Anyway, I invited her over for a VD dinner. I baked some pre-packaged chicken cordon bleu, complimented with two bottles of Mad Dog 20/20.

Classy.

What’s even better is I passed the entrée off as homemade, and poured the Mad Dog into an empty bottle of a more desirable wine. I think it was Riunite.

Don’t judge. Just let me finish. That’s what she said.

“I had no idea you were such a great cook,” she said during dinner.

“Oh, it was nothing, but thanks. More wine?”

“Yes, please. This wine is wonderful.”

I’m not going to say what was served for desert. But I’m glad I had added whipped cream to the shopping list.

Fast forward three days…

I was able to avoid contact by ignoring phone calls, and not going near her dorm.

I know – what a dick. Did I mention the Rick Springfield posters?

And then later that night – BAM! There she was – standing on my doorstep.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” she asked.

“Sure, come in.” I replied.

We walked into my bedroom where she began to cry.

“Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”

“I’ve been busy studying for a couple of tests, and working on a computer lab project.”

Liar, liar, penis on fire.

“Well, I need to tell you something,” she mumbled in between sobs.

“What is it?”

“I had a miscarriage.”

Okay, let me stop right here. I’m no vagina doctor, but I’m pretty sure women can’t get pregnant and then lose a baby – in 3 days!

In addition, I’m 99% certain my boys can’t swim. Either that or I’m the luckiest SOB to ever walk a college campus.

I just gave her a big hug, and told her I was sorry. And then I walked her crazy ass to the door.

What a whack job.

Hey, remind me to tell you about the time a chick shredded my Bon Jovi cassette tape into little pieces – and then threw it on my porch with an evil note.

Never mind. I’ll remember.

You need coolin’. Baby I’m not foolin’. I’m gonna send ya, back to schoolin’.

Shop at Sam’s Club much?

I want to thank Tom d G for hosting the Super Bowl Party this year – and for supplying the endless amount of vodka and Jaeger shots.

Needless to say, I didn’t pay close attention to the game. Shit, I had to get on the internet the next day to check the box score.

Drink – I said box.

Now we gear up for the trip to California in March to visit King’s crew. Developing…

I had dinner last night with a college buddy who was in town on business. It’s funny how people remember a story about you that you have no memory of ever happening.

“You going to drop acid on dead day again this year?” he asked.

“What are you talking about?” I replied.

“Don’t you remember the night before finals when you took a hit of acid in the back of that truck?”

“No, but that might explain why I couldn’t find my Economics class the next morning.”

“Well, maybe it wasn’t acid. You might have eaten some mushrooms.”

“I’m pretty sure the type of hallucinogenic is irrelevant.”

“How did you do on that test?”

“Funny Bone has open mic nights on Tuesdays. You should come back into town and give it a try.”

Lysergic acid diethylamide is the scientific name for LSD. I learned that in chemistry lab. Wink.

You’re bringing up times I can’t recall. And I’m sure they made your point. But I just can’t seem to remember, yeah.

This looks like a pretty good ice breaker.

A couple of things tonight…first I want to go over the relationship advice I received from Issac.

I don’t want to go into a lot of detail, but last weekend I puked on a woman’s area rug. Now, I’ve dated some women for years, some for months, and others for weeks. Shit, I’ve even dated a few for minutes. Wink.

But I’ve never had a relationship turn from good to bad in such a short period of time. A week has gone by, and she has agreed to give us a fresh start.

Now for the advice from Issac – “You should tell her that she overreacted. That’s all.”

“Okay, let me get this straight. I puked on the woman’s rug. She watched me do it, and was completely disgusted. She spent hours cleaning it. She has agreed to give me another chance. And you think I should tell her that she just overreacted. Is that right?”

“Yep.”

“That is quite possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m just saying.”

The other item on my plate tonight is the cab ride I had on Wednesday. I was over-served once again, and asked the bartender to call me a cab.

The guy arrived in about a half hour, and I got into the back seat. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Westport. Just take the Page Extension to Bennington, and go left,” I replied.

“Where exactly are you going?”

“Westport.”

“What’s the address?”

“You know what? – Just drop me off at the YMCA at the top of the hill. Is that good enough for you?”

He took off, and I started popping off jokes about Tiger. “How many swings did Tiger’s wife take at him? She said, ‘I’m not really sure. Put me down for a five.’”

He mumbled something about me being a racist, and I guess that’s when I passed out.

I woke up to find this jack-off driving me through the streets of North St. Louis City.

“Are you smoking crack?” I asked.

“Hey, you didn’t tell me where you wanted to go, so I’m just driving.”

“I told you to take me to Westport; not the f’n hood you dumb fuck.”

When we made it onto Broadway, I told him to pull over. “I see the meter says I owe you $65,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s still running.”

“You are out of your f’n mind if you think I’m paying you.” And then I got out of the cab and slammed the door.

The mf’er didn’t come after me, but I found myself walking the streets of downtown at 1:30 in the morning.

Thankfully, I was able to find another cab on The Landing. “Can you take me to Westport?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I prayed the entire way home. I finally felt safe when we passed the airport. And the other cab driver better pray I never run into his punk ass again.

But it’s too late to say you’re sorry. How would I know, why should I care? Please don’t bother trying to find her. She’s not there.

Back when I was dating Doggie Style (DS) – around ‘96 or ‘97 – we spent Thanksgiving at my parents’ house.

After dinner, me and my brothers were in the kitchen doing dishes. My mom had delegated this chore in exchange for our meals. I don’t think she trusted our cleaning habits, though, because she stayed to supervise.

My dad was taking a nap in his recliner. My grandma was watching TV with DS, who was rocking my 1-year old niece to sleep.

My dad had one of those huge satellite dishes that got every channel on the planet. I guess DS didn’t like the program they were watching, so she began to surf through the channels.

All of a sudden I heard a scream, and rushed into the living room to see what was going on. My dad was waking up from his nap. My grandma’s eyes were glued to the television, and DS was begging me to pick up the remote on the floor, while she clutched my niece.

I looked at the TV to find a naked chick on all-fours getting every hole filled by a cock. I’m mean, this was a straight-up gang bang she had stumbled upon.

I quickly grabbed the remote, and turned off the TV.

But I never forgave DS for that day. Not because she had subjected my grandma to hardcore porn – but because my dad put a password on the porn channels after we left.

Get yourself an egg and beat it.

Who has more street cred?

Some days have more meaning than others, especially after you’ve lost someone close to you. But it’s important to remember the good times, and let the bad ones go.

Here, let me give you an example:

Dad

Good Time:

Our family met in Panama City Beach a month before he passed away. Late one Saturday afternoon, he told me and Lil’ Bro that he wanted to go fishing.

Middle Bro already had the boat out on the ocean. Dad called his cell phone, and told him to meet us at the marina in an hour.

We headed out – Lil’ Bro was driving – I was riding shotgun – and dad was in the back.

The silence was broken when the guy in the back said, “Daddy’s drunk.”

“How did you get drunk? You were with mom by the pool all day. And she’d kick your ass if she knew you were drinking,” I replied.

“I spent most of my day drinking beer with the guys. What? Did you think we were actually grilling something over there?”

“Well, that explains why you didn’t kiss her good-bye.”

“Hey, stop by the store! We need some bait!” he yelled from the back seat.

And by bait, he meant beer.

When we finally made it to the marina, Middle Bro was waiting for us.

“Where have you guys been?” he asked.

“Ask dad,” I replied.

Once we were out on the water, Middle Bro explained how he had taken a shit over the side of the boat.

“No, you didn’t,” I told him.

“Do you see my socks?”

Seriously.

Bad Time:

Dad came home from work to find me chasing Lil’ Bro around the house. Oh, and Lil’ Bro was clutching his piggy bank.

You see, back when ESPN first hit the airwaves, they would replay college basketball games the following afternoon.

Lil’ Bro was unaware of the programming lineup – so we would bet on the games – and I’d always give him just a couple of points less than he needed to cover the spread.

When his greenbacks finally ran out, I had to strong-arm his ass to pay up. That’s when dad walked in. He grounded me for a week, and made me give back the money.

That night at dinner, Lil’ Bro just smirked at me across the table, while shoveling tuna casserole into his mouth.

I wonder who he likes tonight.

So many things I wanna say to him. But I just placed a rose on his grave, and I talk to the wind.

The Dentist with a Guinness

I met some buddies at Trainwreck last week, and ran into JR – Dentist to the Stars (of Branson).

I think being a dentist in the Ozarks would be a pretty sweet gig. I mean, most of your patients only have a few teeth, so cleanings would be a breeze. And you might get paid in moonshine on occasion. Sweet.

There was another guy there I see about once a year. For his safety, let’s just call him Bob.

You see, years ago, I was on the way to bet the Kentucky Derby. I knew Bob went to school about 45 minutes off the beaten path, so I stopped by campus.

After looking for almost an hour, I found his dorm and called his room from the lobby.

“WTF are you doing?” he asked.

“We’re going to bet the derby,” I replied.

“We’re not going anywhere. I’m hungover. But have fun.”

Long story short – we left about fifteen minutes later.

We never made it to the horse races because the dog track had a matinee card – Hello – and was a lot closer.

Don’t worry about the derby. I called my bookie, and bet $20 across the board on the eventual winner.

Anyway, we were over-served at the dog track, and made a foolish decision to drive home. Actually, that decision was made by me.

I got pulled over by the po-po on the way home. Now let me say here, I don’t condone drinking and driving. I was young and stupid back then. But the lure of cheap beer and trifecta boxes had clouded my judgment.

The state trooper asked me to get out of the car, and put me through some field sobriety tests.

“You seem intoxicated to me,” he said.

“Well, that can’t be good,” I responded.

“Has your buddy been drinking?”

I looked at Bob sitting shit-faced in the passenger seat, and said, “No.”

“Why are you driving if you’ve been drinking, and he hasn’t?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, I’ll let you guys go if he drives.”

“Thanks.”

I walked back to the car and said, “Don’t say a word. Just get in the driver’s seat, and we’re out of here.”

“I’m not driving,” he replied.

The trooper was staring at us. I just smiled and waved.

“He doesn’t think you’ve been drinking.”

“You are unbelievable.”

Bob walked around the front of the car, and also waved to the cop. The cop waved back, and off we went.

Apparently Bob didn’t have much experience driving a fine automobile like a 5-speed Ford Escort. He had a little trouble getting her out of 1st and 2nd gear, but we were mobile.

He pulled off at the next exit after watching the patrol car turn around in the rear-view mirror.

“You take it from here.”

“Okee dokee.”

Here’s where the story gets a little fuzzy. I don’t remember this – shocker – but we went to a party on campus when we got back. Bob was dating this cute little redhead, who was with us.

I swear I could pass a polygraph, but he claims I was hitting on her. To make matters worse, I allegedly told her that our romantic tryst came with Bob’s blessing.

“Did you say it was okay if Benny slept with me?”

This story seems a little far-fetched to me. But, hey, like I said, I was young and stupid back then.

And if I remember correctly, she was pretty hot.

I . . . Who took the money? Who took the money away? I . . . It’s always show time. Here at the edge of the stage.

That last post was pretty lame because (a) I was using Gina Party’s new $350 Facebook Machine and she was rushing me so she could look at her wall, and (b) I didn’t tell the reason behind what I wrote.

You see, the “ex”-girlfriend noticed I had removed her as a friend on Facebook. And she wasn’t too happy when she found out. In my defense, I did it in an effort to move on. I could have kept her on the list, and followed what she did everyday. But that’s called stalking.

Gina didn’t understand it either when I told her. But her views on dating and relationships are somewhat skewed. She’s doesn’t play by the same set of rules as the rest of us. Most people don’t know this, but she watches nothing but drama shows – mostly on the Lifetime. You would think that someone with so much drama in her real life would need a little comedy relief. I think it just adds fuel to her fire.

I gave in to the pressure, though, and added the “ex” back as a friend. I think that’s the right thing to do, you know, since I’ve peed on her a few times, and all.

I was on a float trip with Lil’ Bro’s friends a few years ago. For those of you not in Missouri, we think it’s fun spending a day drinking beer in a canoe. Anyway, we had stopped on a landing to take a break. I had to relieve myself, so I walked away from the group and disappeared behind a tree.

I noticed one of the wives walking towards me with a camera. I knew what she was doing, so I quickly began fluffing myself.

“Can I take a picture of it?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied as I turned around with my dick cupped in my hand.

“Oh, my,” she said.

Click.

She looked at the camera to make sure she had gotten the shot, and walked away.

A couple of weeks later, the picture was passed around a party. The ladies looked in amazement, and a legend was born. Let this be a lesson to every guy – Never let someone take a picture of your dick unless it’s standing at half-staff.

Drink – I said staff.

- One week left to vote for The Summer of Benny as Best Blog in the Riverfront Times – Best of St. Louis 2009.

Got me the strangest woman. Believe me this trick’s no cinch. But I really get her going, when I whip out my big 10 inch.