A One-Night Stand with Sweet Lady Blacksburg

Occasionally, these vagabond shoes (Birkenstock, by the way) feel the need to roam. They feel the need to experience new and exotic locales, to drink deeply from this shallow cup of life of which we know not how deep it goes.

Basically, I wanted to get drunk in a different ZIP code.

So I decided to journey to the town where I cut my drinking teeth, Blacksburg, Va. To sweeten the pot (as if it needed sweetening, it was plenty dank already), there was a beer pong tournament going on, and I was planning on winning it.

This was just a one-night trip mind you, I left around 3 p.m. Saturday, and left Blacksburg around noon Sunday. But there was plenty of time to drink.

First stop? El Rodeo, a Mexican restaurant where the tequila flows like wine and the enchiladas are served up hot and fresh.

They have famous margaritas there, called the Jumbo Texas. You know how margaritas are generally a greenish hue? Well, these are golden-colored, the color of the finest agave fermented deliciousness.

I didn't indulge in a Jumbo Texas this night, for I wanted to stay sharp (well, as sharp as possible) for the Beer Pong Tourney, so I helped myself to the double X's.

The place was packed, as it always is. Years ago, the lackadaisical attitude when it comes to checking IDs gave the place quite the reputations, and though several ABC sanctions has made them much more active in preventing underage drinkers, it still was a hot spot.

Nearby our table was a group of African-Americans, who were doing the best they could to make everyone's dining experience all about them. There was picture taking, and screaming, and incredibly loud, obnoxious laughter.

When the Outkast song, "Hey Ya!" came over the speakers (no one said Mexicans were up to date on the latest club bangers), the entire table decided to sing along, incresibly loudly.

I felt like walking up to them and saying, "Don't you know that one of you is now in the White House? Have some respect fo yourself."

But as I said, I only had a beer or two, and my non-tequila-lubricated mouth wasn't about to cause a scene.

The dinner hits every spot except two: sweet sweet victory, and sweet sweet ejac....uh, never mind.

So we get to the house, and enter ourselves in the tournament. After a warm up game of pong, and a warm up game of foosball (you never know), it was on till the break of dawn.

The tourney was double-elimination and there were 23 teams, which meant that the winner would have to win at least five games to take home the pot (which, at half of the total collected ($10 per team) would equal about $115, or $57.50 per partner, which isn't bad for a night of free drinking), which is no small task.

My partner and I plow through the first three games like a fat kid attacking a pickup truck made of ham.

Since there are so many teams, there is often up to a half hour between games, even with three tables going. Since it's not like I am going to not drink between games, many personal beers were consumed between matches. And this is where the downfall begins...

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

In between games, me and a few people decided to play some card games. We started off with a classic entitled, "Fuck the Dealer."

Like an enema, it's simple and to the point. The dealer holds a card, the person gets two guesses as to what it is, and if the card is guessed, the dealer drinks, otherwise the guesser drinks. If three people guess wrong, the person to the dealer's left is the new dealer. As the deck is worked through, the odds become much smaller, and someone gets fucked. Good stuff.

Except we were taking the game literally. When the dealer went to go refill his beer, we looked at the cards. When he got back, we guessed every fucking card. We were smart, sometimes we did it on the first guess, sometimes the second. Needless to say, he got fucked.

Playing the game was this chick named Brandy (that's Brandy with a 'y', because, and I quote, "if it was spelled with an 'i', then I would be a slut). And this bitch decided that the game would be the perfect time to toss off some zingers.

Which is all well and good, hell, I'm as much of a fan of a good zinger as any one, except these pointed barbs were aimed at your truly.

Not that I mind that either. You've got to be able to take it if you can dish it out. At least, that's what I tell myself when I'm sitting in the fetal position naked under a cold shower, undeserving of such luxuries as hot water, wondering if I've finally hit the bottom.

But she hit where I'm most sensitive. No, not the nuts. That sort of thing only fills me with the most delightful mix of pain and pleasure that no amount of black tar heroin can match. And I've tried, believe you me.

No, she hit me in the ol' facial hair department. I've already discussed my self-loathing in this respect. So it should come to no surprise that being called "Patch Adams" was a bit much. You know, for my patchy-ass beard.

Also, and I quote, I believe this was uttered, "I would probably shoot myself in the face if I grew a beard like that."

Listen here Cunty McFaceFuck, I can't help it. In fact, I'll let your old pal Moe Szylak show you what happened next: (substitute "big ears" with "patchy beard" and the aforementioned Cunty McFaceFuck for Bart Simpson.



Needless to say, I was rattled.

What followed next was a shame spiral which included a blackout, and two straight losses in the beer pong tournament. Did that bitch have anything to do with it?

No, because I didn't remember that exchange until I checked my phone much later, and found I had written unintelligible garbage, that I decoded into the story about the chick. Who knows, it might never have happened.

So let that be a lesson to you. Don't.....uh.......don't....well, you probably shouldn't......uh....

(/eject)