Tailgatin'!

Nom nom!

The Camoflage Paradox

Can you see this?

Only the dead can see camo.

1994 job application cover letter

To the surprise of many, I never received money or gifts from agents or recruiters in high school. With the determining growth spurt still months away, I had to find cash where I could find it. The following fall, after the fortuitous spurt, I would earn the starting QB position on the high school football team. You all know the rest of the story. 

excerpt from Chimi's Resume (1995)

Big Budget Film Project Screenplay (Outline - Untitled 1995)

I:  Circle-beat the shit out of guy

II:  Credits

III:  Woman driver

IV:  Taco Bell

V:  Driving Cuts

VI:  PArcade

VII:  Vik's house--xmanis

VIII:  Basketball--Vik's house

IX:  Dream I-chasing rico

X:  Rico on drugs

XI:  Rico dream II----fire and lady

XII:  Jesus and Duke

XIII:  Parcade-end scene

XIV:  suicide dream

XV:  Cats

XVI:  Beer

Minus Five Week Got You Down?

my Candace

Asia is gross!

I was looking at maps today with Champ and an anthropologist who specializes in skulls or something. The anthropologist is a friend of my old trainer with the Falcons. He's not much of a football fan, but he has nice connections in northern Thailand, where Champ and I happen to be. Anyways, buried near some skulls (a kind of monkey, I think), we also found a parchment with old maps. Maybe from an explorer many years back - who knows or cares? When you're drunk, horny, and surrounded by sexy gals 20 hours a day, you don't really have time to dwell.

My favorite map:

Minus Five Week

Some cats celebrate Minus Five by laying with dogs:

More Muscleman and Flexopolis

Chimi Meats the Troll

So we all know that limos are not the safest places. Sometimes the drivers like to spy on you or take you on longer routes. Sometimes there are ugly girls waiting inside. Sometimes the ice is melted. Frankly, at this point in my life, I find it more convenient to avoid limos altogether.

Lately, I’ve even started riding a bicycle. I got the idea after drinking one afternoon with these random dudes at a bar. They were graduate students celebrating someone’s something or something and probably didn’t expect to see a former all star in the local watering hole.

They were my people. Loud. Shots were flowing. Jean shorts. Polo shirts. We were rolling.

And then I was off the bike, falling into a lump of sheets and limbs. Rolling. Bleeding. I rode into a tent. A camouflage tent.

Rolling and bleeding. I rolled and bleeded from the pedal cutting my million-dollar legs.

Who sets up a camouflage tent in the city? That is crazy. And the fact that people were making love in this invisible sanctuary only made it worse.

I freed myself and quickly got to my bungalow. There I sprinkled the yeast around the entrance of each door and window, so no trolls could enter. And they tried to enter. And I watched as they tried to enter.

Little troll. Big troll. Short troll. Fat troll. Old troll. Sexy teenage troll. I quickly cleared the yeast boundary so that last troll could enter and then re-set the yeast line, and me and the troll humped all night.

If I hadn’t won that bet with Falcor, a troll I met in my youth, I wouldn’t have received that magical yeast, and my night would not have ended so well.

Still, who erects a camouflage tent in the city? Are you crazy?

More Friends, Bad Habits, Enemies (plus a sexy)

Friends

Bad Habits

Enemies

Plus a Sexy

I Sex in Color

In the offseason before my final year in the NFL, at least final year I played regular season games, I met this group of people at a fair. I’m not sure what it was, but everything about them was perfect. A little naughty, a little wholesome, a lot of sexy. We partied and it was good, so I kept things going. At some point after the trolls left with their magic yeast, a wiccan priestess arrived and we all participated in a harvest-bond marriage ceremony. It was a wild, sex-fueled set of months. 

And then the regular season arrived. You should have seen the look on my teammates’ faces when I had my wives decorate the locker room. It quickly evolved into a body-paint fusion tribal rave. Picture it: dozens of 350-pound naked linemen covered in pink and purple glow. The glitter. The scent. Flashing lights. Champagne and shower water. Even Bacchus blushed. 

And then something happened.

It all ended.

Chimi's Getting a Vespa!

I'm not sure whether I want to fuck the man or the machine. I suppose that is the point of the ad. In any case, this is how I imagine advertising after the singularity, where people only function to arouse machines or machine-powered people. 

Perhaps the machines are right. That world looks better than ours.

Blow-Up Pt. 2

My brother (from another mother) Champion told me he happend to be an extra on a TV show the other day. I tuned in knowing this would be one of the few times he'd be on TV in a non-sporting capacity (like his big bro), and I found something amazing when I blew up the image. Although the show was about some stupid and sexy cops who solve a murder, there was a murder taking place in real life in the audience.

Here is Champion:

Now we "blow up":

An eccentric French woman just arrived and we made love and ran playfully through the studio before I had a chance to "blow up" again:

See the guy with the beard - there is a disturbance in the frame right below his shoulder. I wonder what will happen if I "blow up" again?

OK, something is about to happen. BLOW UP!

Yes! It's a murder! That's what I call a blow up!  Watch Hawaii-5-0 on Mondays to see more blow jobs.

Friends, Bad Habits, Enemies

Friends

Bad Habits

Enemies

Wild Nights

I don't normally go to clubs because if I want dancing ladies, sex, and house music, it comes to me. But tonight at the Akmani, they had a Chimi jersey night, where drinks were half off for anyone wearing my football jersey. I suppose the owners of the club thought my presence would add to the excitement, so I arrived and things quickly got weird...

These ladies showed up and tried to get some love...

This lady didn't have my jersey on, so she didn't get free drinks...

This guy was wearing my jersey but he wanted to drink milk...

And then the robots...

And then I left, taking all these women home.  An hour later I was texted an image of the Akmani after I left. Not a pretty sight...

Sometimes I can't believe life is real. Reality is quite shocking. Maybe I should get back into the league and leave my academic aspirations behind.

The Bagel Man Cometh

OH YEAH!!!

Me like what me sees!

Boioioioioioing!

I'm breathless...

Bananas!

So, I found myself tending bar one night in the hottest club in Borneo. It was a typical night for Chimi - the house music pumping, ladies' clothes falling, and the tropical drinks blending - at least until we ran out of bananas.

So what do you do if you're a retired former NFL all star who refuses to play football unless its in all star games doing ethnographic work on the power of his own sex healing on the women of Tortuga and the club runs out of banans? You find a shit-ton of bananas!

Boing!