Chris Walker Vs. Virginity (Is Something You Can’t Get Back)

I’ve got a couple “friends” who read this site. I put friends in quotation marks because they’re not actual friends, they’re lazy assholes I’ve grown to hate. The kind of shit-heads who find it difficult to venture into daylight for reasons other than Del Taco but always have the time to make witty, fuck remarks about anything I say in a public forum. Last time I went to Vegas I had to get so blackout drunk just to tolerate these cock-licks I ended up with tourettes.

One of these guys completely sucks at life. He lost his job when a friend moved back to Vegas because, evidently, at age 25, a 13 hour bender on a weekday is more important than a paycheck. But he thinks I’m pathetic for looking for authentic street tacos in Guadalajara. The other has a superiority complex, believes he’s better than everyone else because he took the time to interpret the meaning of every word in Finnegans Wake, but has never applied his literary prowess to anything other than commenting on my site and is so passive aggressive he pisses in a shared sink instead of telling his bathroom-mate he’s sick of beard hair. But I’m the one with trivial interests because I write about the state of the modern man, the obesity epidemic, and the absurdity of the American diet.

I wouldn’t mind their shit-talking if they actually did something; anyone who knows me knows I love a good “fuck you”. Problem is, they don’t do anything. Not anything productive. A real friend of mine and I recently discussed this, the fact our “friends” are some of the smartest people in the world, capable of doing the most creative, artistic things but, oh, wait, a new Futurama DVD just came out, so nevermind, grab me a Keystone Light, it’s time to watch the Hypnotoad. In the beginning I even thought their remarks were funny. When they created a fake blog mocking mine I was flattered. At least they were applying their creativity to something. But now, after over a year of being scoffed at by go-nowhere, do-nothing losers I feel like it’s time to call a spade a spade.

Perhaps that’s the same reason I feel so compelled to voice my disdain for the stupidity going on in America. At first I found topics like obesity funny but nowadays this stuff just makes me livid. When I read an article about women who think they can become born-again virgins I just about lost my mind. How can any rational person keep their cool after reading that? Born-again virgins! Have you ever heard of anything so asinine? I cannot contain myself.

Born-Again Virgins Claim To Rewrite The Past

I know women aren’t inherently insane. I make unreasonable statements like that because then, after some humorless feminist, unable to recognize a joke, reads it and feels the need to lambaste me, or “teach me a lesson,” I get to point at them and laugh. But honestly, ladies, with this born-again virginity nonsense you’re really testing the limits of everyone. Do yourself a favor: rise up as one and quell these morons before it gets completely out of hand. You owe it to yourselves.

At the beginning of the born-again virgin article, there is a woman in Canton, Ohio with two children. Even though she likes her kids she’s always felt guilty about having premarital sex. “She wished she could step back in time and recapture her lost virginity,” writes author Brian Alexander. So, she did a whole lot of praying and — poof! – she’s a virgin again, renewed. Sounds great, I know, but imagine this scenario:

Gwendolyn: “Hey Fredrick, I just wanted you to know I’m a born-again virgin.”
Fredrick: “A what?”
Gwendolyn: “A born-again virgin. My future husband deserves to have me for the first time so, I don’t acknowledge my previous sexual encounters. I’m a virgin again.”
Fredrick: “That’s the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard.”
Gwendolyn: “Well, it’s real. I’ve prayed really hard and I’m getting this surgery –”
Fredrick: “But I used to fuck you, like, three times a day.”
Gwendolyn: “That’s inappropriate. I have to go to bible study now and –”
Fredrick: “We must’ve had sex in a million positions, like, a million times.”
Gwendolyn: “Oh, hail Mary, full of grace –”
Fredrick: “You used to beg me to shoot my load on your face! I tag-teamed you with my best friend!”
Gwendolyn: “Jesus, take the wheel!”

See how it just doesn’t work out? The only place a “sexual do-over” exists is in a woman’s maladjusted mind. Unless you’re an actual virgin, there’s always going to be some guy out there who can say he had sex with you, no matter what you tell yourself. And what does the woman from Ohio tell her kids when they ask where they came from? Mommy never had sex; you came from a stork? Her children should be taken by child services; she should be committed.

I think born-again virginity says a lot about the delusional nature of the Christian church, in all of its denominations. Reading through the article, I found they’re big promoters of the born-again virgin practice and couldn’t help but notice how similar the term is to the church’s other ridiculous term: born-again Christian. (Obviously.) Born-again Christian essentially means: out of control drug / porn / alcohol / sex addict replacing their old addiction with the new addiction of religion. Born-again virgin essentially means: super-whores ashamed by their previous promiscuous behavior looking for a way to feel better about themselves. Pretty close, except for one thing: virginity is physical. When you lose it, it’s gone. No argument. No debate. You can turn your life around and embrace Jesus if you want but you can’t change the fact a penis was inside your vagina at one point in time.

Okay. Tell you what, I’ll accept the practice of renewed virginity if I can become a born-again T-Ball player. I sucked at sports as a kid, and I’m still haunted by the embarrassment. I want to go back and play T-Ball so I can reverse the fact I was a shitty athlete. I think if women can get an operation that tightens up their vaginas so they can claim virgin status, I can get a plaque that reads: CHRIS WALKER: T-BALL NEVADA STATE CHAMPION 2008. See you on the elementary school playground.

Chris Walker Vs. Dining WIth Women

However cruel and crassly judgmental I seem on this site, I typically give people the benefit of the doubt. I think things like, people know how to dine at restaurants, people know how to tip; people aren’t that stupid. It’s only when I leave my home, join society, and observe the common man that I realize I am wrong.

I’m sorry, did I say common man? I meant to say: common woman.

Women are inherently insane, we all know that. They ruin friendships, credit, and department store dressing rooms, just to start with. But forget those factual tidbits. Perhaps woman’s greatest crime — aside from parseltongue and eating verboten produce — is the fact they are the worst diners in the world.

Go in, sit down, eat, pay, leave. Those are the standard rules for dining. Not for women. Women, ever difficult, have a completely different canon. Here’s how it starts:

Madeline [spotting a pretend friend in Macy’s]: “Oh my goodness, Gertrude, how are you?”
Gertrude [trying on yet another pair of shoes she’ll never wear]: “Madeline! So nice to see you, how’ve you been?”
Madeline: “Oh, Stan left me for the Puerto Rican gardener… but I’ve been great! I’m wonderful!
Gertrude: “That’s so tragic. We should get together and do dinner!”
Madeline: “What a splendid idea! I’ll call up Wanda and Beatrice!”
Gertrude: “Wonderful! We’ll make it a girl’s night!”

The following weekend those four “girlfriends” are at a restaurant, with their handbags and oneupsmanship, prattling on about topics no rational human being cares about. After ordering wine by-the-glass, they bother the server with questions like, “Is the salad dressing fat free?” and “Can you just put the sauce on the side?” On top of nitpicking, ordering the cheapest items on the menu, sending perfectly good food back to the kitchen, not appreciating, and overall being raging bitches, they have the audacity to ask the server, “Can you just split the check four ways?” When the server begrudgingly does so, each one scans their check like a law student studying for the bar exam, trying to figure out who got charged the extra cent. Unaware of how insufferable they are to everyone around them, they each tip the server somewhere around 2 percent — which is ridiculous considering how much shit the server has to put up with — while simultaneously commenting on how the food and service is just as good, if not better, at Applebee’s. And then, AND THEN! they proceed to sit around for an hour, if not longer, chit-chatting about their mundane lives while drinking water.

Fucking preposterous.

Think I’m exaggerating? Fuck you, I’ve seen it. And not just once. Not just twice. Countless times. The amount of women doesn’t matter; it can be two, three, god forbid five, they all dine the exact same way: miserable questions, splitting bills, tipping horribly, occupying valuable restaurant real estate while they sip their waters.

A girl friend of mine went to one of my favorite Italian restaurants with a group of her friends. Next time I saw her I asked her how the food was. She replied, “I had the minestrone, it wasn’t very good.” Minestrone is, of course, the cheapest thing on the menu. The next time I went in I intentionally ordered the minestrone, just to see if it was bad. Guess what? It was delicious.

I went to sushi with two girl friends. I think I was drinking Sapporo with dinner, or had ordered a bottle of Sake, whatever. When we were done eating I paid my bill and continued conversing while I finished my drink. When my drink was finished the conversation continued. Five minutes later we were still talking. All that was left was water. The girls were totally oblivious. Finally, I said, “Listen, we can continue this conversation but let’s take it to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink if I have to but there are people who could use these seats.” If I hadn’t spoken up we might still be sitting there.

Finally, I took Pockets out to a nice restaurant the other weekend. When we arrived at our table there was a group of four women seated next to us, just getting their checks. Pockets and I had cocktails before dinner; we ordered wine during dinner; we each had three courses; we shared dessert, taking our time, and I finished the night with a grappa. When Pockets and I were done eating, getting up from our table, putting on our coats, THE FOUR WOMEN WERE STILL AT THE TABLE DRINKING WATER! I wanted to smother each one of them with the tablecloth and kick them all in their tits.

While I’ve done some rather grueling labor in my lifetime, I’ve never worked as a server in a restaurant so I went to some of my friends in the industry, just to make sure I had my facts straight. As soon as I said the words “groups of women,” their eyes rolled and some form of “Oh, god,” came out of their mouths. It is a fact: women dining in groups are the most hated thing in restaurants. Next time you’re at a restaurant ask your server, “Which would you rather have happen: your father dies of AIDS or you have to serve nothing but women?” I guarantee you “father dies of AIDS” is their answer.

Maybe it all goes back to Eve eating the forbidden fruit: women have always behaved absurdly around food. If only the stories in the bible were real. Come to think of it, what is the parable behind Eve getting her and Adam kicked out of Eden, anyway? Is it that men should eternally hate women for getting kicked out of paradise? Or that women always want what they’re not supposed to have? I don’t know; anyway, going out to eat is a lot like drugs, ladies: don’t do it if you can’t afford it.

Chris Walker Vs. Summer Boozing, Revisited

“I decided to stop drinking with creeps. I decided to drink only with friends. I’ve lost 30 pounds.”
- Ernest Hemingway

“A well-made Martini or Gibson, correctly chilled and nicely served, has been more often my true friend than any two-legged creature.”
- M.F.K. Fisher

Last May my favorite cocktail cohort, Dong Wang, wrote a piece called “Summer Boozing” in which he recalled his younger drinking days, cataloged an array of amateurish two-part cocktails, and topped it off with an assessment of the basic bar written by Washington Post spirits columnist, Jason Wilson. Dong Wang also took the time to bash me in piece, quipping, “having a bunch of random alcohol collecting dust above you refrigerator does not count [as a well stocked bar].”

Indeed, my alcohol “collection” consisted of dust-laden, 3/4 full bottles, clusterfucked above my chilled goods. That was when I still thought the vodka “martini” was a good idea. I’ve since seen the error of my ways. Like a born-again Christian I’ve done a complete 180, renouncing the evils of vodka, embracing my savior: gin and ice. I also realized, if I am going to continue my cocktail tirades, lambasting alcoholic mediocrity, I ought to have a decent bar. So, I started a proper collection.

THE STANDARDS

GIN
Beefeater: A classic. Highly underrated.

Hendrick’s: One of my favorite gins. I love the subtle hint of cucumber. Although I’ve never tried it straight in a martini, I’ve mixed, ordered, and enjoyed many a cocktail with it.

Bombay Sapphire: I actually picked this up special for Dong Wang’s alter ego, Sean “Sapphire” Dennison. And, to be honest, it makes for a great martini.

VODKA
Level: As Duncan Mitchell, owner of Chapel Tavern (my favorite bar on the West Coast) told me, vodka is good for “tempering the flavors of other alcohol.” I think tempering is a much nicer term than the one I’ve been using: diluting. When making a Vesper, or Gary Regan’s “Dreamy Dorini Smoking Martini,” vodka can come in handy. While Wilson – from Dong Wang’s piece – preferred Stoli, I went with Absolut’s Level. It’s made with winter wheat; it’s heavy enough to temper other alcohols without crow-baring in it’s own flavor. And it’s not fucking Grey Goose.

BOURBON WHISKEY
Maker’s Mark: “Three fingers, neat,” is how my friend Brian Johnson orders it. You can make worthwhile Manhattans and Old Fashioneds with it. And it’s good by itself, obviously. A winner, all around.

TEQUILA
Ever-changing. Probably my favorite of the standards. I treat tequila like a good single-malt, meant for sipping rather than slamming. While Don Julio Anejo is my typical go-to, as it’s almost always available, my export travel thankfully keeps my stable of tequilas in constant rotation. Tequilas are good for margaritas, of course, or all by themselves. Or accompanying a Budweiser. Or Pabst Blue Ribbon.

PISCO
Alto del Carmen: Paulius Nasvytis, owner of the Velvet Tango Room in Cleveland, Ohio (my favorite bar on the East Coast), makes the best Pisco Sour in the US, possibly the world. If you’re ever there, ask for one while you’re picking the next cocktail you’re going to love. You can also mix Pisco with Coke, if you’re lazy (which, sometimes I am).

THE MIXERS / APERITIFS

Angostura Bitters: A dash or two of this stuff goes a long way in a Manhattan. Another essential.

Cointreau: You’re familiar with the bottle, probably not familiar with the orange taste. Use it in margaritas, the Sappho, and more.

Vya Sweet & Dry Vermouth: Essential for martinis, Manhattans, and other quality cocktails. Buy a bottle of each and you can throw out all your other vermouths except for…

Carpano Antica Formula: This was just given to me as a gift last night. I’d never heard of it but I’m told it’s incredible. I’ll be using it this weekend, I’m sure.

Campari: Essential for the Negroni, another favorite of mine. ‘Nuff said.

Lillet Blanc: I picked this up purely because of my obsession with it and the Vesper cocktail. I’m learning new recipes to use it in but it’s quickly becoming apparent that the Vesper is my favorite cocktail.

Luxardo: Maraschino liqueur from Italy. Great for adding new character to classics like Manhattans.

Orange Flower Water: I can’t remember for the life of me why I have this. I think Pockets actually might’ve bought it.

Pernod: When there is no absinthe to be had, go with Pernod: the best of the anise flavored liqueurs. Forget Sambuca, forget Ouzo, Pernod is “the stuff.”

Pimms No. 1: Two words: Pimm’s Cup. A perfect summertime cocktail; a perfect anytime cocktail. If you haven’t enjoyed one yet, you need to.

Chartreuse: Not essential by any means, a vanity pick. A wonderful herb liqueur, Chartreuse is a a gift from the monks of the Grande Chartreuse monastery and proof that not all bad comes out of organized religion. There are green and yellow variations; I went with green as most of the drink recipes I have call for it.

Dong Wang, along with our good friend Lentzy, is coming into town tomorrow. Should he write a “Summer Boozing ’08” he’ll not be so easily able to bash my alcoholic ensemble. Not to mention, both of them will get to reap the benefits because, in the words of English author H.S. Leigh, there’s nothing better than, “[t]he rapturous, wild, and ineffable pleasure of drinking at somebody else’s expense.”