DATE: 25 Nov 2006, 2:15 pm / MOOD: Other

Different Christmas Poem

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!"

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..
To the window that danced with a warm fire's light
Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."

"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at 'Pearl on a day in December,"
Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers."
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of 'Nam',
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.
I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.

Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue... an American flag.
I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall."

"So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."

LCDR Jeff Giles, SC, USN
30th Naval Construction Regiment
OIC, Logistics Cell One
Al Taqqadum, Iraq


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DATE: 17 Oct 2006, 8:42 am / MOOD: Other

"I'M GOING FISHING"
Means: "I'm going to drink myself dangerously stupid,and stand by a stream with a stick in my hand, while the fish swim by in complete safety."

IT'S A GUY THING"
Means: "There is no rational thought pattern connected with it, and you have no chance at all of making it logical".

"CAN I HELP WITH DINNER?"
Means: "Why isn't it already on the table?"

"UH HUH," "SURE, HONEY," OR "YES, DEAR..."
Means: Absolutely nothing. It's a conditioned response.

"IT WOULD TAKE TOO LONG TO EXPLAIN"
Means: "I have no idea how it works."

"I WAS LISTENING TO YOU. IT'S JUST THAT I HAVE THINGS ON MY MIND."
Means: "I was wondering if that redhead over there is wearing a bra."

"TAKE A BREAK HONEY, YOU'RE WORKING TOO HARD".
Means: "I can't hear the game over the vacuum cleaner."

"THAT'S INTERESTING, DEAR."
Means: "Are you still talking?"

"YOU KNOW HOW BAD MY MEMORY IS."
Means: "I remember the theme song to 'F Troop', the address of the first girl I ever kissed, and the vehicle identification numbers of every car I've ever owned, but I forgot your birthday."

"I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT YOU, AND GOT YOU THESE ROSES".
Means: "The girl selling them on the corner was a real babe."

"OH, DON'T FUSS, I JUST CUT MYSELF, IT'S NO BIG DEAL."
Means: "I have actually severed a limb, but will bleed to death before I admit that I'm hurt."

"HEY, I'VE GOT MY REASONS FOR WHAT I'M DOING".
Means: "And I sure hope I think of some pretty soon."

"I CAN'T FIND IT."
Means: "It didn't fall into my outstretched hands, so I'm completely
clueless."

"WHAT DID I DO THIS TIME?"
Means: "What did you catch me at?"

"I HEARD YOU."
"I haven't the foggiest clue what you just said, and am hoping desperately that I can fake it well enough so that you don't spend the next 3 days yelling at me."

"YOU KNOW I COULD NEVER LOVE ANYONE ELSE."
Means: "I am used to the way you yell at me, and realize it could be worse."

"YOU LOOK TERRIFIC."
Means: "Please don't try on one more outfit, I'm starving."

"I'M NOT LOST. I KNOW EXACTLY WHERE WE ARE."
Means: "No one will ever see us alive again."

"WE SHARE THE HOUSEWORK."
Means: "I make the messes, she cleans them up."

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DATE: 17 Oct 2006, 8:23 am / MOOD: Other

One Star Hangover (*)

No pain. No real feeling of illness. You're able to function relatively well. However, you are still parched. You can drink 5 cokes and still feel this way. For some reason, you are craving a steak & fries.

Two Star Hangover (**)

No pain, but something is definitely amiss. You may look okay, but you have the mental capacity of a staple gun. The coffee you are chugging is only increasing your rumbling gut, which is still tossing around the fruity pancake from the 3:00 AM Waffle House excursion. There is some definite havoc being wreaked upon your bowels.

Three Star Hangover (***)

Slight headache. Stomach feels crappy. You are definitely not productive. Anytime a girl walks by you gag because her perfume reminds you of the flavored schnapps shots your alcoholic friends dared you to drink. Life would be better right now if you were home in your bed watching Lucy reruns. You've had 4 cups of coffee, a gallon of water, 3 iced teas and a diet Coke--yet you haven't peed once.

Four Star Hangover (****)

Life sucks. Your head is throbbing. You can't speak too quickly or else you might puke. Your boss has already lambasted you for being late and has given you a lecture for reeking of booze. You wore nice clothes, but that can't hide the fact that you only shaved one side of your face. For the ladies, it looks like you put your make-up on while riding the bumper cars. Your eyes look like one big red vein, and even your hair hurts. Your ass is in perpetual spasm, and the first of about five shits you take during the day brings water to the eyes of everyone who enters the bathroom.

Five Star Hangover (*****)

You have a second heartbeat in your head, which is actually annoying the employee who sits in the next cube. Vodka vapor is seeping out of every pore and making you dizzy. You still have toothpaste crust in the corners of your mouth from brushing your teeth in an attempt to get the remnants of the poop fairy out. Your body has lost the ability to generate spit so your tongue is suffocating you. You don't have the foggiest idea who the hell the stranger was passed out in your bed this morning. Any attempt to take a dump results in a fire hose like discharge of alcohol-scented fluid with a rare 'Floater' thrown in. The sole purpose of this 'Floater' seems to be to splash the toilet water all over your ass. Death sounds pretty good about right now...

On a Side Note:

THINGS THAT ARE DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK:
Indubitably; Innovative; Preliminary; Proliferation; Cinnamon
*****
THINGS THAT ARE VERY DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK: Specificity; British Constitution; Passive-aggressive disorder; Loquacious; Transubstantiate
*****
THINGS THAT ARE DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK :
1.) Thanks, but I don't want to have sex.
2.) Nope, no more booze for me.
3.) Sorry, but you're not really my type.
4.) Good evening officer isn't it lovely out tonight.
5.) Oh, I just couldn't. No one wants to hear me sing.
6.) Sorry I'm being such a jackass.

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DATE: 10 Oct 2006, 9:31 pm / MOOD: Other

HOW TO SPEAK ABOUT WOMEN AND BE POLITICALLY CORRECT:

1. She is not a "BABE" or a "CHICK" - She is a "BREASTED AMERICAN."

2. She is not a "SCREAMER" or a "MOANER" - She is, "VOCALLY APPRECIATIVE."

3. She is not "EASY" - She is "HORIZONTALLY ACCESSIBLE."

4. She is not a "DUMB BLONDE" - She is a "LIGHT-HAIRED DETOUR OFF THE INFORMATION SUPERHIGHWAY."

5. She has not "BEEN AROUND" - She is a "PREVIOUSLY-ENJOYED COMPANION."

6. She is not an "AIRHEAD"! - She is "REALITY IMPAIRED."

7. She does not get "DRUNK" or "TIPSY" - She gets "CHEMICALLY INCONVENIENCED".

8. She does not have "BREAST IMPLANTS" - She is MEDICALLY ENHANCED."

9. She does not "NAG" you - She becomes "VERBALLY REPETITIVE."

10. She is not a "TRAMP" - She is "SEXUALLY EXTROVERTED."

11. She does not have "MAJOR LEAGUE HOOTERS" - She is "PICTORIALLY SUPERIOR."

12. She is not a "TWO-BIT HOOKER" - She is a "LOW COST PROVIDER."


HOW TO SPEAK ABOUT MEN AND BE POLITICALLY CORRECT:

1. He does not have a "BEER GUT" - He has developed a "LIQUID GRAIN STORAGE FACILITY."
2. He is not a "BAD DANCER" - He is "OVERLY CAUCASIAN."

3. He does not "GET LOST ALL THE TIME" - He "INVESTIGATES ALTERNATIVE DESTINATIONS."

4. He is not "BALDING" - He is in "FOLLICLE REGRESSION."

5. He is not a "CRADLE ROBBER" - He prefers "GENERATIONAL DIFFERENTIAL RELATIONSHIPS."

6. He does not get "FALLING-DOWN DRUNK" - He becomes "ACCIDENTALLY HORIZONTAL."

7. He does not act like a "TOTAL ASS" - He develops a case of RECTAL-CRANIAL INVERSION."

8. He is not a "MALE CHAUVINIST PIG" - He has "SWINE EMPATHY."

9. He is not afraid of "COMMITMENT" - He is "RELATIONSHIP CHALLENGED."

10. He is not "HORNY" - He is "SEXUALLY FOCUSED."

11. It's not his "CRACK" you see hanging out of his pants - It's "REAR CLEAVAGE"



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DATE: 08 Oct 2006, 6:19 pm / MOOD: Other

Hey Crackhead
Date: 2004-03-27, 3:36PM PST


Yes, you. You sick fucker. On Wednesday morning I emerged from my girlfriend's building by U.N. Plaza to find that you had sawed the tops off both the sparkplugs on my motorcycle. At the time, I had no idea why anyone would do that. Other than the sparkplugs, the bike was untouched. Some kind of bizarre vandalism? A fraternity prank gone awry? I had no idea. All I knew is that I looked like a huge douchebag riding the Muni to work in a padded motorcycle jacket and helmet. Because the bike was immobilized I got a $35 street sweeping ticket that night. Thursday I had it towed to the shop ($45) where they replaced the sparkplugs and the boots ($50 including labor). They explained to me that "people" - I use the term loosely here - like you break off the tops of spark plugs and use the porcelain tubes to smoke crack. As an engineer and former MacGyver fan, in a way I think this is kind of cool. But then I remember that I just paid $100 for YOUR crackpipes, and I get angry again. Crackhead, it was really good to have my bike back though. I rode home from the shop with a couple of spare sparkplugs and a smile on my face. I figured the next time I parked at my girlfriend's place overnight I would have to buy some crackpipes and tape them to my bike as a peace offering. Overall, I wasn't that upset. Despite having to ride the bus for three days and dropping a hundred bones at the shop, I had gained some fascinating knowledge, a new set of sparkplugs, and a pretty funny anecdote about how fucked up you are, and how our paths once crossed briefly in the night. But you couldn't just let sleeping dogs lie, could you Crackhead. You couldn't just stay in on Friday, watch Letterman through the window of a home electronics store and then call it a night. You couldn't rest on your laurels. Two porcelain sparkplug crackpipes just wasn't enough for you, was it Crackhead? You just had to come back for more. This morning, a scant fifteen hours after I rode it out of the shop, I found my motorcycle violated once again. This time you only took the right one - maybe you were having an off night. At least this time I had a spare sparkplug and the tools to fix it - or so I thought - having ordered a 73-piece toolset from SEARS.com last week. But no, the sparkplug socket in my new toolset was for American sparkplugs. So I had to go down to the neighborhood Ace hardware. They had an 18mm socket that would fit over my sparkplug, but it was for a 1/2" drive ratchet. My toolkit only has 1/4" and 3/8" ratchets. So I had to buy a 1/2" ratchet along with the socket. Even though the clerk took pity on me and gave me the senior citizen discount (I'm 25) it still cost me $22 all told. Now, you might say that I should have just gotten a 3/8"-to-1/2" drive adaptor instead of springing for the whole ratchet. And to that I say "Shut the hell up, Crackhead, I'm not finished. And besides, I was eventually going to buy a 1/2" ratchet anyway so it's probably not worth it to take it back now." OK, now I'm rambling. But the point is, Crackhead, that you have done me wrong. Now, I get that you love crack. That is totally understandable. I've heard it is really fun, at first, and quite addictive. What I don't understand is, YOU ARE A CRACKHEAD. WHY DON'T YOU OWN A CRACKPIPE? I am an engineer. Do you ever see me shaking down bums in the Loin for a calculator and sliderule? No, you don't. Because engineering is the main thing I do, I went and bought myself a calculator. The main thing you do is crack. How do you get by without a crackpipe? The other crackheads must clown on you non-stop. I mean, the fucking saw you used to saw off my sparkplugs is probably worth five or ten bucks. Why not sell or trade it for a crackpipe? You really haven't put much thought into this, have you? Please, Crackhead, please don't tell me you sold your crackpipe to buy crack. Even a stupid crackhead such as yourself couldn't possibly be that stupid. I've decided that taping crackpipes to my motorcycle would be tantamount to appeasement. You have crossed a line, Crackhead - specifically California Street. You have come onto my own street and you have desecrated that which I hold dear. You have stolen from me, and you have caused me to spend the last half hour writing this post instead of engineering shit, and it is concievable, if not likely, that my boss could find out about this and fire me. I am hella pissed at you dude. Here are my options as I see them: 1. Write a note saying that I have coated both of my sparkplugs in rat poison and tape it to my bike at night. You can thank Tim for that one, it was his idea. 2. Don't write a note, but just coat both sparkplugs in rat poison. This is probably closer to a punishment that would fit your despicable crime. I'm sure this is super illegal and shit, but it's not like anyone is going to miss you, Crackhead. Don't fool yourself. 3. Wait in an alley near my bike armed with my new stainless steel mirror-finish Ace Professional brand 1/2" drive socket wrench, my 18mm sparkplug socket, and my searing rage. It's pretty heavy and well balanced. I am not a large man, but I am angry. In conclusion, Crackhead, why don't you just do both of us a favor and buy yourself a crackpipe? It will both enhance your crack smoking experience and save me a lot of time and felony assault charges. Think about it. Sincerely, Matt *** If you are not the Crackhead that took my sparkplugs, please disregard this posting ***

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DATE: 08 Oct 2006, 2:43 pm / MOOD: Other

I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!

Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second, and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too.

Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In flight training, my instructors called this being behind the power curve. It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a meal, or even a gas stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up.

Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycleat least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine.

I had been banging around the roads of east Texas and as I headed back into Dallas, found myself in very heavy, high-speed traffic on the freeways. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a cage that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there!

Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awarenessall within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the freeway.

I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big residential neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty streets I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet surface streets would give me time to relax, think, and regain that edge so frequently required when riding.

Little did I suspect

As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid itit was that close.

I hate to run over animalsand I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.

Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves!

Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, Banzai! or maybe, Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum! as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the windshield and impacted me squarely in the chest.

Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!

Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quiet residential streetand in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing.

I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.

That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.

But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel.

This was an evil attack squirrel of death!

Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him!

The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.

I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it.

The engine roared as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in well I just plain screamed.

Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.

With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebodys tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little affect against the massive power of the big cruiser.

About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Scottish attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little affect on the squirrel however.

The rpms on The Dragon maxed out (I was not concerned about shifting at the moment) and her front end started to drop.

Now picture the large man on the huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn t-shirt, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 80mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrels tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.

Finally I got the upper hand I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak.

Picture the scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.

Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 80mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.

I heard screams. They weren't mine...

I managed to get the big motorcycle under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street.

I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front yard of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the patrol car. The other was standing in the street and was training a riot shotgun on the police cruiser.

So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to let the professionals handle it anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was shooting me the finger

That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car

I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood.

As for my easy and slow drive home? Screw it. Faced with a choice of 80mph cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...Ill take my chances with the freeway. Every time.

And Ill buy myself a new pair of gloves.

From the book:

Life Is a Road, the Soul Is a Motorcycle
by Daniel B. Meyer

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DATE: 08 Oct 2006, 2:43 pm / MOOD: Other

Tough Chicks are the coolest type of female around, except maybe for Tough Rich Chicks. But those are rare. All my life I've sought out Tough Chicks for hanging-out-with purposes, and it's always been extremely rewarding. I always just hated frilly, frowsy, helpless Gurly-Gurls. Southern Belles are the absolute worst type of Gurly-Gurl, by the way, and are the archetype by which the genre is defined. Avoid them like death; they're dysfunctional, whiny, clingy, deceitful, unintelligent but guileful, and generally useless. Please note also that Tough Chicks are not in any way to be confused with Hard Women, who are also must-to-avoid. While the Tough Chick may live in a trailer (almost always only a temporary condition so they can save up money to go to Cozumel or Czechoslovakia or buy a '50 Ford), they are not OF the trailer park, even though they will sometimes jokingly refer to themselves as "trailer trash." The Hard Woman doesn't understand why anyone would want to pay good money to live anyplace else. The Tough Chick knows that violence is an extremely stupid and unproductive way to handle domestic disputes; the Hard Woman will suddenly smash a beer bottle over your head without warning and claim it was for something you said two weeks ago, even though she's always too drunk to remember what happened yesterday. Hard Women are identifiable by copious quantities of blue or green eyeshadow and the stale cheap beer smell on their breath. They also tend towards cowboy boots and Camaros. For more on Hard Women and the men who love them, see MulletsGalore.com. Meanwhile, onwards:

A Tough Chick digs real men, but not macho assholes. The grease under the nails thing fits in here, but just try pinching her ass uninvited with those greasy paws and see what you get. Asshole.

A Tough Chick doesn't need you to change a tire, she can do it herself. But she appreciates the help.

A Tough Chick drinks real liquor, not some fruity pink crap or anything involving milk or blue Curacao. The only time she stoops to frozen drinks is for a lark or on a tropical vacation. Give her a bourbon and coke or a V and T and she's just fine. Then you can both sit at the bar and make fun of the dilettantes and amateur drunks with their Strawberry Margaritas and Sex On The Beaches. As a related identifier, she can hold her booze well, but if she does get a trifle smashed, she will still maintain her decorum at least somewhat and is usually a fun drunk. You will never have to bungee-cord a Tough Chick onto the back of the bike so she doesn't fall off. If she should feel inclined to expose her own personal nipples to public view at some point, she will be funny and a little sexy about it and not slutty, trashy, or over-serious. If she seems inebriated to the point of collapse, watch over her carefully - some scumball in the bar has recognized her value and has slipped her a roofie.

A Tough Chick will never have to buy all her own drinks in a bar. People will want to buy them for her, even if you're around. This doesn't necessarily mean they're trying to snake you; they just like her.

A Tough Chick doesn't mind if you look, but you better not stare, creep.

A Tough Chick is loyal. She'll stand at your back in a bar fight with a knife in one hand and the car keys in the other. The Tough Chick won't need to borrow your knife - she has her own.

A Tough Chick has the annoying yet endearing quality of being able to grab any of your hats, no matter what type, put it on herself, and instantly look way cooler than you ever did in it. She can pull off all sorts of ordinary or unusual clothing combinations with style and panache. She makes anything look good. If she wears jeans and a baby-tee, she's cute. If she wears leather jeans and a ripped-up cowboy shirt tied across her midriff, she's hot as hell. If she wears a strapless evening gown with a corsage, she's unexpectedly dazzling and radiant. You will sometimes feel like a hapless schlub next to her.

A Tough Chick knows what you mean by the term "Tough Chick" and understands that it's not meant to be in any way condescending, insulting, or slanderous, but highly complimentary. She knows it's pretty much the same as what Sinatra meant when he called a woman a "broad."

A Tough Chick takes no shit, from you or anybody else. On the other hand, she will never give you any (undeserved) shit either. Tough Chicks are not in the shit business.

A Tough Chick would do Angelina Jolie in a hot second, and doesn't care if even her mother knows it.

A Tough Chick is independent, smart, smart-assed, funny, rowdy, and resourceful. She always knows where there's a liquor store or after-hours bar open. Chances are she'll have friends who work there.

A Tough Chick likes your friends and doesn't mind hanging out with them. Likewise, her friends are always great too. Don't be surprised if one of your friends hooks up with one of her friends at some point. Be happy for them - they're both coming out on the good side.

A Tough Chick is capable of morphing into a Gurly-Gurl, but only temporarily, for brief periods in appropriate circumstances. For example, bring a puppy or kitten home as a gift for her and watch her go all teary and mushy. Likewise, if she seems giggly, she won't be annoying about it. More likely, you'll be giggling with her yourself in pretty short order.

A Tough Chick is bold and unself-conscious enough to fart audibly in public if circumstances warrant, but she's classy enough to realize that circumstances rarely if ever warrant. If for some reason they should, she will not ask for anybody's permission.

A Tough Chick may or may not have tattoos, but she likes yours.

A Tough Chick thinks Captain Picard is sexy, if she even knows who he is, which she may not.

A Tough Chick doesn't like little yappy-ass rat-dogs.

A Tough Chick thinks Jon Bon Jovi is a fucking poof. She knows Ozzy and Bon Scott rock. She gets excited over Elvis and tingly over Gene Vincent. She likes early swing and big band but probably hates Modern Jazz.

A Tough Chick will sit up with you and drunkenly discuss philosophy, religion, great books, and the wonders of WD-40 with you till the sun comes up. Then, when you go to bed, watch out: Tough Chicks are sexual dynamite. You could possibly end up seriously hurt. You will always have that painful pelvic-bone bruise the next day, and possibly claw-marks as well. They are adventurous and uninhibited. The sheets will get all sweaty and end up all wadded from all the thrashing around.

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