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La Gloria Cubana plus a contest.
#11
I was sitting in my local cigar lounge last October/November at about noon... It was just the owner and myself having a good time BSing... Well, we have these two women walk into the shop, one is a decent looking brunette and the other a blonde who kind of scared me in part because was covered in makeup.

The owner of the shop helps them pick out some sticks and asks them if they wanted to smoke them now. They said yes so he offered them a glass of wine which was dropped off by a local winery... They were both excited and sat down. By this time I had decided that the blonde was from Russia. She just had that very distinct sound that made me sure she wasn't from anywhere else in the region. So, being the curious guy that I am I asked, "So are you both from around here?"

The Brunette said she was from a nearby town and the Blonde said she was visiting from France. Deciding to push it a little further to decide if I was correct or not I said, "Your accent makes me think you're originally from Russia". She said, “Yes!! I moved to France when I was 16!!! Almost no one ever knows I’m from Russia! Everyone always says I look czech". Being pleased with myself at having correctly identified yet another Ruskie I just grinned. I honestly couldn't help it; yet, looking back I think that the grin was taken as a smile and some degree of flirtation.

Being the good sport that I am, and not wanting any awkward moments of silence I asked them if they wanted a cut and light. They accepted so I used a punch cutter on both sticks, toasted the brunette's first, had her take her first couple puff's, etc.. As I'm toasting this blonde Russian chick's cigar her friend starts to talk about how she likes the hole in the stick and how it looks like a nice sized... Errr... Stick. They're both laughing their asses off. Me, I don’t know wtf to say. The Russian then looks at me and says, "I bet you have a nice stick too"...

At this point, the owner of the shop comes back into the lounge with two glasses of wine and hands them to these women... He just says, "Well, it sounds like you three are having fun... What are we laughing about?". The Russian says, "We're just talking about long, hard, sticks... (She turns to look at me) My dear, you're really blushing."

I seriously didn't know what to say... Don't get me wrong, had the Russian been at least decent looking, I would have responded back with something pushing me in the direction of getting laid. That said, she looked scary... Like, might even sell your organs on the black market scary, like no amount of makeup in the world could make her look less scary... Like, she could have been some kind of Russian experiment to make guys just run away scary… Like, I thought that I seriously could potentially catch something just being in the same room as her. I’m seriously not trying to me mean, but to say she looked like an middle-aged skank or whore does a gross injustice to skanks and whore’s around the world.

The conversation goes all over the place for about an hour... Finally, they both asked where the restroom was... I told them it was in the back and on the left. They ask if I could show them and being fearful of being alone in the back of the shop with no exits for about 30ft... I hit the vibrate button on my phone (On my phone if I hit the down ringer button and its already on vibrate, it makes it make a vibrating noise) and quickly acted like I had to take the call and told them the owner could do it. He gave me this look like, "You f**ker..."

I guess while they were in the back the two women told the owner that they were artists and were asking about the storefront next to him because they wanted to open an art gallery. He tells them how much it is and gives them the number of the landlord... At this point I sit back down and can hear them in the back. I hear the Russian ask if the owner of the shop would pay for half of the rent for the gallery if she sleeps with him... I hear him say, "No way... Sorry... I'm in a relationship"... Her friend goes, “What If we both f*** you as often as you want”… Again, he turns them down… They started to ask something about me and someone walked into the shop which broke my concentration on what was being said. ---Looking back, I should have ran immediately.

The owner of the shop goes to help this guy who just walked in just as the Russian sits down right next to me, she was no sh*t almost on top of me... I went into panic mode so I said, "I'll be right back.. I need another cigar!" With a smile she says, "We could go into the back with your cigar and see where I can hide it" I gave my best attempt at a laugh considering the circumstances and got up. I go into the Humidor & the owner follows me in... I'm like, "Dude we got to get rid of them..." He goes, "Yeah but I get the feeling there's going to be a huge scene if we don’t do it right" I said, "I completely agree... These birds could go straight bat shit crazy-bunny boiler style on our asses right quick" I get my cigar and we both leave the humidor.

Now, My entire strategy with getting another cigar was to move off the couch and end back up in one of the semi-retro reclining chairs. I figured at least that way I won’t have her hands all over me anymore, won’t have be inches from her freaking face anymore, and won’t have her pushing her t*ts into my face. At first it worked, I put some distance between us and I thought I was in the clear. She starts asking me what I do for a living that allows me to be hanging out at a cigar lounge in the afternoon during the week. I said, "Ehh... This and that"... I could tell the owner was getting a little freaked out being so near her and spilt the beans about how I do different kinds of freelance work in IT.

She then gets up and sits in the chair next to me and goes right into asking me if I wanted to see her p*$$y. Before I could tell her that I'd rather pass, she turned all the way towards me, spread her legs wide open, and placed a hand on her inner thigh. What was before my eyes still causes a certain level of pain. All I could say was, "F**K!!"... I swear... It was like I was paralyzed... I couldn't even close my eyes because the pain was so bad... She says, "You Americans! What's the problem with not wearing any panties? They just cost money and restrict access". Next thing I know she starts asking me If I wanted to f**k her... I said, "You’re not my type..." She says, "That’s okay... We can still f**k." I said, "I'll pass."

Apparently at this point I'm starting to turn red... That’s just what i was told after the fact. My mind is racing because this Russian is between me and the door. I felt like we were about to have a cold war style incident. I didn't know what to do. My goal just became to get the f**k home as soon as possible without a) this woman or her friend to end up in my pants or b) either one of them following me home. She then starts asking me if I wanted her to tie up me and tells me I've got to try it... She's trying to convince me that totally losing control is the best experience ever. I said, "I'm really not big on the idea of letting you tie me up." She says, “It’s okay… I’ll be really gentle. I know how to treat a man...” her friend then says, “What if I’m there? Would you feel comfortable with it then?”… The worst part of this entire thing was how calm and serious they were. I can tell 100% of the time if a woman is just messing with me, and this was unfortunately NOT one of those times.

She then gets up from her chair and clearly and intentionally falls right towards my lap. Fearing that she'll try to grab my package I used my fastest reflexes to jump out of the chair and get out of the way as fast as possible. She catches herself just says, "Why didn't you catch me? I can do things for you that no American girl could ever do. You’ll love it, I promise"

With her finally out of my way and no longer between me and the door I just said, "I gotta go!"... I even half spoke over the last part of what she was saying because I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

I was told afterwards that the owner had to kick them out, but the regulars I talked to later said that they wouldn't stop talking about sleeping with me. I think everyone was freaked out by the entire incident. The worst part was everything I’d seen… But, I feel lucky. I keep telling myself it could have been worse. Had I met those women at a bar or had been drinking anything; they could have, and probably would have drugged me. I could have had who knows what done to me. At least then maybe I wouldn’t have remembered.
Yeah, I tell myself I was lucky… But was I really? The things I’ve seen.

The entire experience has destroyed my love for Russian women... I can’t even stand to hear them speak anymore. I had a hard time looking at any blonde for at least 3 months. Even now, I've yet to fully recover. No amount of eye bleach has helped.... And, it’s turned into the story that everyone at the shop likes to tell themselves anytime the topic of women comes up. Needless to say, it's brought up at least twice a day and it’s been almost a year.

Was I really lucky? I don’t know… I’ve had permanent psychological damage done. What’s worse... I now have a string of almost a dozen stories about crazy women I’ve met ever since. Everything from a crazy bible thumper TO one who handed me a screwdriver in the morning (no warning about the vodka). My friends are starting to say that I’m now attracting crazy’s one after another.

At the time I didn't think it was funny... But, Looking back and considering the frequency at which its been told for the last year... Yes, I guess it’s a funny story...
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#12
Tech, o my God..
They call me The Mum - Jimmie the Mum
Viva Mumcero - Mahk 12/4/2010 - http://www.stogiechat.com/forum/thread-20737.html
Honorary Shield Brother
Weak people seek Revenge, Strong people Forgive, Intelligent people Ignore
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#13
I don't even know what to say. Can I call that a "great" story?
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#14
Did she tell you to stop "Stalin" and go in back with her?

Ba-dum-dum...

Great story.... Dustin's new forum handle should be Babushka... Big Grin







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#15

An oldie but a goodie... I'm glad this was not me...


A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.

It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been pa$$ed in batches right at the table without too much concern.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

Entering the bathroom, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good $hit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a $hit. I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my a$$ was reaching Biblical proportions. I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that cannot be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position one’s a$$ toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of $hit at the exact same second that one’s a$$ is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even
a$$ures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the pi$$ stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.

In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over $hit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your a$$. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since $hitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my a$$ exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed in Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of $hit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my a$$.

But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The $hit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the $hit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of $hit remaining on about one third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon. Now, back to the vomit...

While all the $hitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles. In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in $hit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid $hit. All while thick $hit was spread all over my a$$ in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no fucking toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably a$$uming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably a$$umed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing.

She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he a$$ured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above.

At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and pa$$ed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the stall, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door. The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.







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#16
M-M
At that one ... I'm speechless.
“Evil is sweet in the beginning, but bitter in the end.”
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#17
OMG.... I was laughing so hard I had to take breaks in between sentences/paragraphs......
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#18
I heard this one before. I think from skipper?
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#19
Owww....owwww.......my face hurts from smiling & laughing so much !!!! Great story !!!!!
When I die, I'm leaving my body to science fiction.
Steven Wright
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#20
(09-16-2012, 08:16 AM)NickDrista Wrote: I heard this one before. I think from skipper?

It has been around for quite some time around the internets - I first saw it a few years back on a private forum I am a member of... I kept a copy and bring it out every once in a while for special occasions... Wink

Last time I posted it here was back in 2008.








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