>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf

April 4, 2007

Kevin: Nathan recently learned that the more he blows off women, the more they want him. What do you think of that, Mex?
: Women are shit, dude.
: That should be a bumper sticker.

A while back, I wrote a column about women who hate women, and a man named Kevin commented in the comment box. He liked that column so much that he emailed me. After we exchanged a few emails, we eventually got to talking on the phone and became friends. That's the internet for you: bringing people together for no viable reason I can think of.

(At least, that's one part of the internet. The internet is weird. So weird, in fact, that I am yet to understand even one one-hundredth of its oddities. Which is strange, because some could argue that I make up a small portion of the internet's weirdness, but whatever.)

Anyway, last Thursday Kevin came up to Orlando (motto: Jesus Christ, this town is lame) on business. He invited me over and I went (I live about an hour away from Orlando in Tampa Bay). Shortly after I arrived, we started drinking, and Kevin introduced me to his friend and business associate, The Mex. Mex has a real name, but I like Mex better so I'm using that.

When Kevin first introduced me to the Mex, he told me, “This man has eaten every animal on planet Earth.”

“I want you to imagine this: A beautiful, naked blonde handing me a poem while asking for my opinion on its validity.”

So I quizzed Mex on the different animals he had eaten and sure as shit, if it was on our side of the Atlantic, he had eaten it. This was pretty impressive if you ask me, but you didn't, and you probably think it's disgusting that this man has eaten cat, dog and armadillo, but I don't care and neither does the Mex.

Later, Kevin introduced me to the technical consultant for his firm, a guy named Abu (I think). His nickname was UPS because he's brown (if you don't get that, you're either foreign or you live in a cave and stumbled upon some printout of this column months after its posting—in which case, get a job you fucking bum).

After we ate a steak dinner and continued drinking heavily, my friend Brick showed up from Daytona and we all proceeded to go to a strip club, where Kevin actually convinced a stripper that I was a famous writer. Not only did she buy that, but she had the valet bring up her car so she could show me a poem of hers.

After I critiqued the poem, stole a kiss from her, and bullshitted with her a little, she gave me a free lap dance and her phone number.

Now, I want you to imagine this scene: A beautiful, naked blonde girl handing me a poem while asking for my opinion on its validity in the middle of a strip club while the patrons stared at us as if we had all pulled battery-operated portable fans from our asses while dancing in a conga line. It was a most unusual scene.

And the internet made it all happen.

Actually, the internet and Kevin, who paid for all my drinks (which were many) and my dinner (which wasn't cheap by any means) and even provided me with a hotel room. All in all, this was an awesome night (as my boss can attest to by my late arrival and piss-poor showing at work the following day).

And the best part is, none of this would have happened if I hadn't taken the time and initiative to get an internet column on PIC.

Now I ask you, could any of this have happened this quickly if Al Gore hadn't invented the internet? I say, no.

And so, to Al Gore, Kevin and the internet, I say, thanks for the fifteen or so Seven and Sevens, thanks for the good time, and thanks for the meal.

The internet may be weird, but she's alright with me.