Surfelport.com, writing of Cory Wayne Hedgepeth

Yeah, I do. I wanna get away from your airline as fast as fucking possible.

With a Southwest Airlines flight looming only 24 hours from now, I’d like to take this opportunity to tell you that I am not printing out my boarding pass so that I can be an A. You can make an announcement at the departing gate if you like and alert the SWA faithful that I don’t have an A, therein preventing people from asking me what group and number I am in (an act I consider to fall somewhere in between Nazi Germany branding Jews and the DMV).

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Dedicated to anyone that has ever taken the time to just stop driving.

It was around noon when Gabe and I arrived in Barstow, California.  I have never had any dispositions in regards to Barstow. In fact, I have always maintained incapacity to any suggestions that Barstow was anything other than a desert holy land, a notion unrealized by manic travelers bound unscrupulously by the shallows of their destinations. I have stopped in Barstow many times, just to stare down the service roads and adore the truck stop motels. The world, sans places such as Barstow, is completely dysfunctional: as opposed to mostly dysfunctional. I consider the idea of passing through Barstow inhibited strictly with the cosmetic-flat-line of Vegas or Los Angeles on your mind to be that of criminal. But that’s just how I feel about it, and I don’t make the laws, I am just a simple writer that believes in places such as Barstow.  And I am not a criminal.  That makes me feel ok about things.
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So last Saturday morning, my friend Mark and I are cruising down Santa Monica blvd in route to Mark’s West Hollywood pad.  We had big plans that night in Hollywood. I had one of those feelings that everything would be great, which typically is a sure sign that things are going to be total shit. Nevertheless, I call up StevePP and tell him it’s game on time.

“Steve, we need something hot tonight.”

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I like to think that my blog touches girls. It’s my Internet penis. Yes, I’m that creepy. Nevertheless, check out this response to my dating rider I found while digging through my referrer links. I think I want to bang this girl now. I feel obsessed.

Only thing, her savvy attempt to get to hang out with me when I go to Hooters doesn’t fly….though the effort deserves some credit.

Click Here for Article.

By the way, the Make Up Artist that signed the afformentioned rider last weekend broke up with me through text message. Yes, I am serious. I didn’t know we were even dating. Shit like this really fucks with my text messaging plan. I’m not made of fucking infinite texting, bitch! When I was talking about “rolling over,” I meant you, not my fucking phone plan. Goddamn!

It seems like over the past five or so years, there has been this growing trend of dating “cool chicks.” I am sure you have heard things such as this before:

“Dude, my chick is so cool, she loves watching football with me.”

“Bro, my girl never cares if we go to Hooters.”

“My chick never cares if I watch NFL Sundays, she is so cool she watches it with me!”

Please fuck off with all this.

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My friend Penny Flame decided to set me up with her friend, the Make Up Artist. I pre-screened for pictures, turns out she’s hot. And of course, that’s pretty much what I look for in chicks.

Anyways, the past couple of years have been a total dating debacle. I have literally found the worst of the worst. So I have decided to take a new approach to dating, basically, run it like a business.

So this weekend, when Penny and The Makeup Artist showed up, I handed The Makeup Artist the following documents for her to sign.

I really think this is the new way to go. Just put it out there, you know?

Anyways, she signed. And date ensued.

The following is inspired by the real events surrounding the Costa Rican International Hostage Crisis of February 23rd, 2006.

In early November of 2005, my friend, whom will be called DH, called me at our company’s Los Angeles offices. He proposed that in February, we rent a cruise ship and take our mutual clients out in the open waters of Costa Rica. He also proposed we have a pirate theme. We ordered a variety of pirate costumes, signed a contract with a 3rd party provider for the boat and transportation to-and-from the boat, and we sent out client invites.

What ended up happening is one of the most bizarre and surreal situations I have ever been a part of. I have waited years to write this.

Dedicated to The Mexican Translator.

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My mental being has always been one tinged with fatalist ideas. I am always one fantastic soaring flaming descending mush of metal and twisted wires fantasy away from my last walk on earth. I am a sex addict, embalmed in a constant flaring of erotic storylines: detailed, precise and wicked. I am of suffering, repetitively checking my locked door handles and dodging cracks on the sidewalk over and over with grueling effort. I am needy, insecure, pained and manic. I am sleepless. I am a former drug binger and constant addict. Sometimes I talk to myself or to a hotel room wall because I am lonely. But mostly, I am a writer and a social observer. I find you interesting. It’s effortless. It’s a mainline needle path ending in psychotropic perception. It’s the better side of the world. It’s free of the impoverished, the conventionalist and the traditionalist. And when I pass, it will be the only thing that ever really mattered. It will be the only thing that couldn’t be bought. It’s not for sale.

These are the conversations with a psychopath.

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So while I was in Vegas, I met this chick named Megan Satan and took a liking to her. She’s hot, something I find is always a plus with a chick. And come to find out, she lives in the Valley. In case you are wondering, the Valley is where vampires and evil-doers live, so this should have made sense. But it didn’t.

I live about 45 minutes south in Orange County. I have a penis. She has a vagina. I have a car that can transport my penis to her vagina. Clearly, this would be a match made in heaven.

Or so you might think.

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