Do it the ROSSMAN way!!  Don't do it the Jimmy Jammer way.
The Do's and Don'ts of Hawaii

For my vacation this summer I decided to visit a good friend of mine who moved to Hawaii last year (in which the feelings of abandonment and and pure jealousy have never fully resolved themselves). He had been living the island crazy life for over 13 months and I just had to find out what was so good about it. Yeah, I kinda figured that the exotic Polynesian womens, the vast expanses of warm and wavy beaches and all the cheap touristy bars had something to do with all the hoopla, but I just had to find out for sure. I also decided to bring the MegaPlayboy along for the ride cause he's the perfect drinking buddy (he loves those little, fancy umbrella's in his drinks)... Unfortunately he had to bring along a friend of his (Spike) who also brought a friend (Harry). Don't get me wrong, they're cool guys. It's just that they're a bit too competitive, and always over the wrong things.

So without any further ado, I bring to you the Rossman Sanctioned "Do's and Don'ts of Hawaii", where-in I will tell you which of the 50th State's many kooky and sexy attractions are worth partaking in and which you can chuck into an active volcano like a diseased whore who can't even fold her legs behind her head without a sick *snapping* sound.

Me, Rossman.  This, my jungle home.  Where my jungle Jane?

I had finally made it! The isle of jade! The estate of ecstasy! The land of the little people!!!...... HAWAII! Or "Hawai'i". Or even "Havaii'ii". You can pronounce it or spell it any way you want to, it's still Heaven on Earth.

Even though I never even saw one leprechaun or even one midget I must say without a doubt that this was one helluva place to go wild and INSANE! I did go wild, but I missed out on the insanity. Or was it the other way around? I did everything that was legally possible in my short stay in paradise, and even some things that Uncle Sam might frown upon... But never the islanders. Nope. They would never even think of stopping me for having a little patented Rossman nookie and spanky-spanky time. God bless 'em!

First of all, let's start with the plane ride. For most of us we have to "do" it. There's no "don't" involved. But as I learned the hard way, 12 hours in a cramped coach seat is not good. Therefore, the only "do" I can recommend for the flight to the volcano state is to travel in first class. You get 12 hours (from the East coast) of pampering. Free booze, unlimited peanuts and pretzels, big comfy chairs and the headphones are on the house. Also bring a book. Actually, make it two. Howard Stern's Private Part Parts and Howard Stern's Miss America saved my ass from boredom and shut the old bitty next to me the hell up. Occasionally she'd turn to me and start up a one way conversation about how her hemorrhoids were actually caused by spider bites and how she liked to eat pudding in the bath tub, but then I would start quoting some of Howie's passages and his immortal thoughts on lesbians and strippers and she'd hiss like a vampire exposed to a cross and pull her blanket over her head to save her from the evil of Stern. That could have been a messy flight if I was forced to kill her with her own knitting needles.

Once you make it to the island, the next "do" is to have a buddy pick you up at the airport. Yes, Oahu is a pretty small island (44 miles long and 30 miles wide), but it's easy to get lost and or confused on your own... and cabbies tend to take you around the whole damn island and charge you $5,000 (not including tip) to get you to your hotel, which is located at most 5 miles from the airport. Luckily I had the MegaPlayboy to pick me up. He had actually arrived a few days before me for some of that tropical freaky-freaky action, and he had gotten to know the lei of the land rather well. Therefore I was able to take the time and ogle the beautiful and gorgeous and fuckable womens the entire ride to Waikiki and our hotel (by the way, scoping out the luscious island women is another "do" I'll get to soon enough).

Here you can see me doing my best "David Hasselhoff" Bay Watch impression. Honestly though, no David Hasselhoff impression is a good one, which would make this item a "don't". Funny story: It was at dusk when I posed for this shot and the lifeguard on duty was passed out in the sand in front of his post due to the high amounts of "Baby's Luvin" that I shared with him in exchange for tips on how to feel up women in the surf undetected. Anyway, somebody started drowning or was being attacked by a Snork or something around 20 yards out. That gave me the great idea to pretend that I was keeping an eye out for trouble like I was Notch Johnson and this was my beach. So after about 15 minutes of setting up the shot and getting the pose perfect I noticed that the asshole out in the water was nowhere to be found and I lost my motivation. We just took the picture and left feeling a bit insulted. Up there on the steps it appeared as if ALL the girlies were running in slow motion.

MegaPlayboy here. I just wanted to make sure that I got the word out on the biggest "Don't" that there is on that there isle in the blue. Don't, I repeat, DO NOT try to look all smooth and stylin' with any of that retarded gangsta rap, especially if you're an islander native. Trust me, my bitches, you don't look fly and high. You mostly look stye and Sly (as in Sly Stallone... and not in his Rocky days but in his Copland physique).

All those homie wannabees are drivin' around in those semi-pimped out and totally sad Civics and Volkswagons as if they were the biggest, baddest, and stinkiest shit in the toilet when they couldn't even scare the black off of rice. They be trolling down Kuhio Avenue lookin' for all that fine Polynesian ass thinkin' that they Magnum fuckin' P.I. in his Ferrari when they really look like Don Knotts in that Herbie Goes Bananas movie. Then they got all that "Death to Whitey" musak blastin' outta their totally un-posh stereos as they bob their heads up and down like a broken chihuahua dashboard toy. I had to kill at least 12 of those freaky island pussies and steal their ladies all for my lonesome. That was one helluva exotic gang bang that night. Barely every girlie even made it onto the bed!!

Rossman back here. One "do" that is most definitely a MUST is to go tourist bar hopping. This means going to places like Duke's and... well Duke's (there was so much drunk sorority girl action going on there that we never had to leave. Nor could we if we wanted to since most of the hotties were in nice and tight island wear or 2 piece bathing suits and we couldn't even stand up). The only "don't" part of bar hopping is bringing your friend's friends with you. Spike and Harry are kinda cool guys to hang out with when sober (despite Spike being the biggest know-it-all [who when pressed for answers actually knows only jack and shit], a worse fucking driver than a Chinese crack whore, and a Shaggy from Scooby Doo clone right down to his cheese-fest goatee). But get them drunk and within 2 minutes of their intoxication you will be prone to looking for a giant sea shell or sharp chunk of volcanic rock to smash in their faces with.

They both started out okay, but I found out pretty early on that either would sell their own mothers into white slavery for the chance to get laid with even the skankiest she-male at any given club. And what's even sadder is that neither of them ever got any the entire time we were in town. Harry even struck out with a 35 year old mom from New Jersey who was recently divorced, horny as hell and about 45 pounds overweight. Then there was that time that we went to Spinners after getting plowed at Duke's and Harry and I watched Spike "put the moves" on a 4'11" dwarf girl with a scrunched in bitter-beer face who was already with an even scarier loser-boy. Spike put up a good fight and he even got the guy who was hitting on Broomhilda first to leave the scene, but after a few minutes she said she had to use the loo and never came back. Spike waited 20 minutes thinking was was going to get some ugly sex that night.

The bitch slapping was good, I just didn't appreciate the stepping on my man-jewels until they squished like grapes. This is a picture of me and my waitress, Jennifer, at the Hard Rock in Honolulu. She asked me what I felt like for lunch, I replied "Your sweet ass all buttered up on my plate with a side of extra rare ta-tas," and she tenderized my face into calamari. We partied that night after she found out that I wasn't into sex with fish (looooong story) and she beat me up again when I proved to her that I could remove her underwear in less that 30 seconds and that she wouldn't feel me doing it. The rave turned into a huge "Stomp the Rossman Till He's Flat" jam though when everybody in the warehouse began imitating my Hard Rockin' beauty's moves.
My ribs are almost healed, but my heart will never mend completely. :(

>>Continue forward. Don't relive the past Page 2>>

Or go to the EXAMINER Homepage