My dinner with…

Last night I had dinner with Stoogepie of stoogepie.com. 

One of the best things to come from blogging is that I have gotten to meet so many people that I wouldn’t have known otherwise.  Including people who, like Stoogepie, if not already on a sexual predator list. probably will be someday.  You see, Stoogepie is some kind of pervert madman writer and artist.  It was with some anticipation and trepidation that I met the famous, or infamous, Mr. Stoogepie.  I took Mr. Dingo with me.  And left detailed information with family and friends if I did not text, Tweet, or call the next day.

The point of this meeting was to witness the choice of the winner of Stoogepie’s Nude MILF Sweepstakes.  Yesterday, the winners of the Blogger’s Choice Awards were chosen, so the contest ended.  Crissy won the Hottest Mommy Blogger category!  She won with 578 votes, beating Dooce by 86 votes!  Fantabulous! Oh yeah!  Who’s your Hottest Mommy Blogger?  Say her name…say it!

Stoogepie had to select a winner for better than $1,250 worth of camera gear.  And, because the asshats at Blogger’s Choice decided not to show the votes, Stoogepie needed a witness to demonstrate that he picked the winner fairly.  When I got the e-mail from Stoogepie asking me to play Heidi Klum to his Tim Gunn, I almost deleted it as spam.  The message was from Stoogepie but the subject line said something like, “Night of XXXtacy.” I opened it with hesitation – meaning I opened it at work just in case there was a virus attached – and was delighted to discover that he wanted my assistance in choosing the winner of the camera package.  Apparently, I have mentioned on my blog that I used to be a lawyer but I suspect I was also chosen for this perilous assignment because I am also anonymous and happen to live within walking distance of Stoogepie.  Then again, I’ve also mentioned that I have great ta-tas.  No, no, it’s not that; I’m convinced Stoogepie loves me for my mind.

We were supposed to meet October 16th because he expected the winners to have been announced by then.  Because that’s what the website said.  But, again, the asshats at Blogger’s Choice messed up that plan by announcing the winners after midnight.  So, Stoogepie cancelled and rescheduled for last night.

So, I waited on a street corner with a shivering Mr. Dingo.  It really wasn’t all that cold, but Mr. Dingo had been given a crash course in stoogieness the day before via Stoogepie’s latest barfably disgusting post.  I think he was a little worried.  Mr. Dingo has never been worried about my blogger meet-ups before but, for some reason, he really wanted to go on this one.  I think he was concerned that steak was not the only meat on Stoogepie’s menu for the evening.

Stoogepie approached me and I immediately knew it was him.  He didn’t say anything.  He didn’t say “hello.” He didn’t say, “Dingo!” He circled me a few times, and I could almost see a Mister Shorts style balloon over his head saying, “Well, I’ve got a contest in my shorts I’d like for you to monitor,” or something similar.  He did not look like his cartoon.  His hair is shorter and darker and his features are sharper.  Brookem, I think you have your next HOH.  He’s thin but muscular, and was wearing a gray coat so long that it looked like it had been stolen from the set of the Matrix.  In other words, he’s delish.  In that bad boy type of way.  Not a poser bad boy but a REAL bad boy.  The kind of bad boy that you just know is going to break your heart but that you will gladly wait in line for the privilege.  I’m paraphrasing a little, but he finally said, “Dingo!  You’re different from what I was expecting.  All I got right in my mind were the boots and the tits.” Then he turned to Mr. DIngo and said, “I didn’t really have a picture of you at all.  I’m Stoogepie.”

We then went to his apartment, which was-oh-my-fucking-god: spacious, lots of art, lots of books, a fireplace in the living room and the kitchen (yes, I asked to see the kitchen), and the most beautiful coffee table I have ever seen.  I tried not to gape like a tourist in Times Square.  Sadly, I didn’t see the Stoogepie pig.  Or his cat for that matter.  He also had the biggest flat-screen computer monitor I have ever seen.  And given from what Stoogepie has said about his extracurricular activities, it was notably free of, ahem, let’s say, debris. Mr. Dingo’s monitor envy was thinly concealed.  Stoogepie said something like, “Well, you know what they say about dudes with big monitors....” Mr. Dingo laughed nervously.  Mr. Dingo has a 17” monitor.  The whole night was like that.

Stoogepie wanted to get right down to business.  There were 578 votes cast.  He went to random.org and chose a number between 1 and 578.  The number was 277.  He had printouts of the first eighteen pages of votes, so he flipped to page 14 and the winner was Soapbox.  (If it had not been in the first eighteen pages, he would have had a problem, but intended to email to Blogger’s Choice to ask them to tell him the username.) So, we had chosen a winner and it was all perfectly legal.  It was easy.  But the night was still young and the wine was flowing.

For dinner, we went to Uncle Jack’s in Midtown, a fancy schmancy steakhouse, but Stoogepie was treating. Gun running and drug smuggling must be really lucrative.  We each ordered a steak and then Stoogepie ordered stuff for the table, including wine and seafood and Kobe beef.  I had never had Kobe beef before.  It’s ridiculously expensive and I have to admit, it tasted like hamburger to me.  It’s tender all right, so it had the consistency of potted meat food product and it disintegrated in your mouth.  It had the texture of Spam that had been put in a blender and then pushed through a sieve.  Mr. Dingo, however, liked it and, overall, the food was great.  The wine was great, too, and I had way, way too much.  Not enough to enter Ben’s contest perhaps—because, as NPW and blakspring can tell you, I’m a lightweight—but enough so that being with Stoogepie while also feeling like a rich kid’s birthday piñata might have been a mistake. Because Stoogepie, in case you don’t follow his website, can be nauseatingly explicit.

Truth is, Stoogepie is really funny in person, especially after a little wine.  After about the first bottle, he looked across the table at Mr. Dingo and said, “This is always awkward.  Do I raise the possibility of a threesome now, while you have time to mull it over, or do I wait until you get to know me better, but forcing you to make a snap decision?” Mr. Dingo just stared past him blankly, his mouth agape, Kobe beef semi-dissolved, until I started to laugh.  I think Mr. Dingo shaved about a year off his life just then, though.  Then Stoogepie proceeded to shave a year off mine.

I consider myself a pretty well-rounded person, and I don’t mean just my ass.  But Stoogepie is positively a fount of disturbingly funny knowledge.  About bondage. And domination. And bizarre sexual practices. And pornography and biblical tales of people killing other people so they could collect their foreskins.  For instance, did any of you know that Sir Henry Norris, alleged lover of Anne Boleyn who was executed with her by Henry VIII, was also royal groom of the stool?  And did you know that the groom of the stool’s job was to wipe the king’s ass?  Yes, look it up.  I did after dinner.  According to Stoogepie, “I would kill my wife if she screwed the dude who wiped my ass, too.  Show a little discrimination!  At least screw around with the royal piss aimer or the royal wanker.” The Kobe beef was tasting nastier and nastier.  And Stoogepie carries a little notebook with him, often illustrating these glorious stories as he goes.  It was like a game of Pricktionary.  Not everything he says is dirty.  We did talk a good deal about politics.  If you haven’t read his political posts because the sex and blasphemy posts have gotten your internet privileges banned at work, find a computer in a library somewhere and read President Sarah Palin, Modern War Toys, and No Country for Young Men.  Warning:  Electoral Buttplugs may get your ass banned from the library.  Politically we agree on most everything, but Stoogepie had his own take on some things:  “People really need to think about what a Palin presidency would look like, because McCain is at that age when dying does not even qualify as a turn of events.”

Really, I haven’t felt like talking much since dinner.  Mr. Dingo and I have hardly anything left to talk about.  We covered it all.

Stoogepie never did cough up his real name but the waiter happened to let it slip when he returned Stoogepie’s credit card.  “Thank you, Mr. ____,” he said.  I just about flipped out.  That’s like knowing James Bond’s real name!  Oh wait, James Bond is 007’S real name, isn’t it?  Anyway, I am sworn to secrecy or Stoogepie will kill me.  And I’ve seen Stoogepie’s collection of play toys.  There will be no killing me softly.  As a result, that’s all I have to say about my dinner with Stoogepie.

Oh, wait!  One more thing.  He didn’t advertise it or promote it in any way but Stoogepie won second place as the Hottest Celebrity Blogger in the 2008 Blogger’s Choice Awards!  He got beat by some woman named Rosie O’Donnell.  Who the hell is that?