4/20's Of Yore

If you and I have anything in common, then you know the significance of April 20. No not the yearly neo-Nazi meetings, but the other thing.

The weed smoking.

I was in college when I first discovered the joys of 4/20. My freshman year, it was Easter sunday. Not many people were in town, but I found myself at a friend's house at 4:20 a.m., smoking out of a gas mask. Good times.

But it wasn't until the next year when I really made it count. Sure, I was awake at 4:20 a.m., as usual, although I think I had class at 4:20 in the afternoon. I'm pretty sure I didn't skip it, which boggles the mind, even now.

But I made up for it later. I ended up buying a quarter ounce of some okay stuff, not great, but good for rolling J's. I rolled it into about six joints.

Me and a buddy drove over to someone else's house in my 1999 White Jetta, an efficient German four-door sedan.

Two other people get in the car, we park behind their house so we can't be seen, seal all doors and windows, and we go to fucking town.

We start off with a joint for the front seat and a joint for the back seat. That is a nice start, and it gets pretty smoky in there.

The remaining four J's? Each person got one. By the time we were finished, I couldn't see the person sitting next to me. Literally.

You could hear people, the the music, but for all I knew, I was in a scene from "The Mist."

That's what it was like. It felt like every breath was like taking a bong hit. Good times, good times.

It's the first and only time I have blacked out while smoking when alcohol wasn't also involved.

I remember opening up my sunroof, and watching the smoke pour out. That's about all I remember. I don't remember leaving or going to sleep.

I was hungover the next morning. The smell was on my car for literally weeks. But it's the price you have to pay.

A Sleeping Bag Filled With Soiled Panties and Other Chicanery: Buffett Day 2009

Back again with you all, after almost a two week absence. Of course, due to the glory of timestamping, it will appear that this went up in a timely manner. Because if there's anything I stand for, it's falsehoods for the sake of appearance.

Me and a friend drove to Blacksburg, and got there around 1100. We immediately head to a bar for some drinking. We have some beers and some shots, listen to a band play, and then decide to head to an apartment party, complete with kegs and the chance for glory.

We get there, and hard drinking ensues. In my fraternity, we have a tradition where if you go up to someone and say "to the old lady" anyone within earshot who is holding an alcoholic beverage of some sort must chug it, posthaste.

One hour and about eight "to the old lady"s later, everyone is feeling good. I found myself occupied by a fella with a Chris Paul jersey, and we spent some time drunkenly talking NBA, which has becomes among my favorite non-vagina related things to do at parties.

During my hardwood-related conversation, I managed to miss a fight upstairs, which included someone dropping an n-bomb in a crowd of Afro-Americans.

Taking that as a cue to leave, I got a ride back to the fraternity house, and proceeded to get back to what my degree should say I majored in: foosball.

A brief side note: there is no greater game on this planet than foosball. I like beer pong, horseshoes, flip cup and all those assorted shenanigans, but foosball is you number one seed.

So we play some foosball, and it soon becomes apparent that it's well after midnight, and there is precious little alcohol in the house. And by precious little, I mean a box of Franzia and a few Keystone Lights.

Let's clear something up. I'm 25, on my first job out of college, in the newspaper industry in a slumping economy. So I'm no alcohol snob. But I always thought the days when I would consume Keystone Light, Natty Light, Southpaw and Beast out of cans were well past me.

Except for Beast, I would happily drink any of those out of a keg, but I draw the line somewhere. Unless some strange set of circumstances arises, the cheapest tier of beer I make my purchases from is the Bud Light/Miller Lite/Coors Lite triumvirate.

But it was that or box wine. Warm box wine, on a night where I am already shitfaced. So pour that sweet, sweet, Keystone.

I don't remember much else. I vaguely remember telling a pledge that he was going to be my own personal rimshot, for whenever I dropped a particularly good zinger, and I know I got a ride home at about 5 a.m., which was helpful.

I woke up still drunk, and deep in the hurt locker. I stumbled my way to the bathroom, and something happened there that has never happened to me before. I took a piss, gave the ol' johnson a quick shake, and then came the point where I would usually zip up and walk out.

But as I turned around, my knees buckles, and I slammed the shit out of my face on the bathroom door.

It took me another few seconds to get my balance, and I walk out of the bathroom, then I hear the dude whose couch I passed out on yell something from his bathroom:

"Dude, did you just fall in there?"

"Uhhhh...no. I head that noise too though. Weird."

I stumbled back to my couch and lay down just in time for a full-fledged wave of sweaty nausea to envelop me for a few minutes.

Then it was over, and I could get back to being hungover as shit.

I walked to find my car (it's always in the last place you look), and grabbed a Gatorade and beer for the day.

We all gather at the house, and the beer starts flowing, the horseshoes are clanging, and the cops are called as least a half dozen times. They were cool, but some cunt kept calling, so they kept coming.

Funny story: We all assumed it was this lady that was out doing gardening, and when the cops came the first time, she came over and talked to them. She was out of earshot, but we all assumed that she was talking shit.

So as she was walking away, these dudes that were even farther away started dropping c-bombs, bitches, and all sorts of things. Which would normally be hysterical.

Except for the fact that this lady came over to defend us. She had been out all day, and we weren't bothering her in the least, furthermore, she has always gotten along very well with the people who live at the house.

The rest of the day progressed as planned. We got wasted, and played a number of outdoor games.

As the sun faded away, we decided to move the party to a local sorority house, where I was promised hot sorority sluts as loose as they come.

We bought some kegs and headed over there and played some beer pong. As I was waiting my turn, another Va Tech alumni and I were talking. We were right next to the door to the stairway leading to the girls' bedrooms, and as a girl comes down the stairs, this guy gives me a look.

A look that says, "panty raid."

So I ended up keeping watch (I was not about to go up there and get caught, that's about the worst possible thing that could happen that doesn't involve death), while this gentlemen looked for a few trophies.

He got them without any issues, and then the curiosity got the better of him. One of the chicks that lived there was playing beer pong, and my friend began gently inquiring as to which room she lived in.

"Big place you got here, I bet you have a nice room."

"Oh yeah, I got the master bedroom," she replied.

"That sounds right, I bet you're the queen of this castle. Is that uh...the big room at the far end of the hall?"

She gives him quizzical look, which he is able to explain away by saying he used to live here. Nice.

So we're sitting there, waiting through the longest beer pong game in the fucking world, and some chick stumbles in, fresh from downtown on her 21st birthday.

Hoping to possibly see some titt-ays, me and the panty theif follow her and her friends in the bathroom.

She is talking about how wasted she is with two of her friends, and gradually the suggestion comes in that no 21st birthday is complete with out a good old fashioned titty-flashing.

Which she agrees too. As she is putting down her glass, another friend of mine stumbles into the kitchen like a goddam hurricane, slams into the refrigerator, knocking a stack of cups off of the top of it, and then regains his balance.

He looks around, sees this drunk chick and lets loose with a classic, "SHOW US YOUR TITS, BITCH!!!"

Needless to say, the mood was killed, and no titties were seen. Fucker.

So the night continues, people get drunker, fights break out and fizzle, and me and the panty thief are outside. We're talking about his theft, and I'm trying to convince him to give his wife those panties as a present.

He's trying to convince me that he needs to make a second run, since the two pairs he got (!!) were clean, and he wanted to head to the hamper to get a "less fresh" pair.

Eventually this leads to him confessing that his dream is to be in a zipped up sleeping bag filled with soiled panties. The next morning, we have a long running joke about holding a fun run for Panty Thief (I've made it a proper name now), where chicks could run a 5K, on Phoenix, in August, and then donate their panties they wore during the run to his sleeping bag.

Good times.

Sooner or later we all crash at various places, waking up even more hungover than the day before. I head to my friend's place where three more people are crashing, and we're sitting there, recalling the night before, and bullshitting.

One of my friend's decides the needs to take a shower. Well, we here the shower go on, and immediately spring to action looking for something to throw on him. A box of powdered NesQuik mix does the trick.

That about does it for this year's edition of Buffett Day. Not the most embarrassing for me personally, but hey, I think it provided some good laughs.

Until next time.

I Cry Your Pardon

Apologies for the lack of regular updates, I lost a lot (and I mean A LOT) of brain cells last weekend, which is good news for you once I get to writing.

What isn't good is that I'm in the midst of a hellacious week, so I'm not sure when they will get down.

What is good is that I've got a big trip coming up next weekend, with plenty of drunken shenanigans sure to ensue.

Until then...

Nobody Told Me...

Fill in the blank from the title above.

If you said, "there'd be days like these, strange days indeed." Then you are a fine American (which is ironic because it's from a John Lennon song).

If you said, "that you had a boyfriend that looks like a girlfriend, that I had in February of last year." Then you're slightly less of a fine citizen, but it's still a good tune.

Brilliant musical references aside, the first answer is more appropriate to today's post. What a shitty day. And it's only 10:56 a.m. as I write this.

You ever have one of those days when everything goes wrong from the get go?

I woke up this morning, slightly hungover, and more importantly, late as shit. I didn't set my alarm the night before, so I woke up too late to take a shower.

I don't mind not taking a shower all that much. Sometimes I sleep a little late, or my morning masturbation session runs longer than expected, so I just throw a hat on and roll.

I only wear a hat when I haven't showered and/or hungover.

So that didn't immediately ruin my day. I go to check my phone for missed calls/e-mails, and it's not working. The phone I've had for NINE FUCKING DAYS isn't working.

The touchscreen isn't responding. Super. Don't have time to go to the fucking Verizon store, until maybe this afternoon, if I'm lucky.

I head out to work, and traffic in conspiring against me right away. Look, I live in the D.C. area, I know traffic is supposed to be shitty. But it's one thing when every single slow moving vehicle finds its way in front of my car, while I'm trying to get to work, and stop for breakfast somewhere.

As I'm driving my phone start ringing. It's my boss. Since I'm supposed to be in the office in a mere 15 minutes, I figure its something pretty important, something that can't wait.

But fuck me in the ass, it's not working. I poke my fingers at the screen like a madman, but it won't pick up.

And that's when I get the feeling. That horrible feeling that it's going to just be one of those days. Then that stupid Limp Bizkit song popped in my head, and I wanted to blow my brains out, for the first, but not last time of the day.

Then, while stopped at a traffic light, I try to pour water from this gigantic gallon jug into a smaller bottle that I can take to my office. Of course, I miss, and the water puddles around my groin, making it look like I pissed myself.

If I was anywhere near a goddam bridge abutment, I would have swerved into it.

I finally get to work (late, of course), no breakfast, and we have an early meeting. We lay out the paper, and my stories are getting killed like its a fucking massacre, which I HATE. I like writing, I like my job, but I hate it when my stories get killed. Just a waste of my fucking time. Kind of like this blog.

Anyways, we have our meeting, then its back to work. I'm putting some photos on a CD for somebody, and once it's finished, I take the CD out and prepare to label it.

I reach for my trusty Sharpie, and I left the fucking cap off, and it's all dried out.

That was the last straw. My day officially blows.

I went out to 7-11, got some coffee and something greasy, put a 50 ML bottle of sweet, sweet Kentucky bourbon on the coffee cups, and let pure deliciousness take me away.

Those alcoholics, sometimes they really know the score.

Marilyn Chambers, We Hardly Knew Ye

Apparently 70's porn queen Marilyn Chambers, star of Behind the Green Door, was found dead yesterday at the age of 56.

You might be wondering why that is relevant on this here blog. After all, there are plenty of porn hotties that I love who have died in the past few years (Anna Malle, Haley Page), both of whom I've spanked it to numerous times), that I haven't mentioned.

And it's not like Chambers is a recent porn star, I didn't even know who she was until about a year ago.

Which brings me to the point. A funny story, to help you wile away the long-ass Monday.

Last year, I was interning at a local newspaper. I was doing a story about how a theater teacher was teaching at this brand-new high school and making their drama department one of the tops in the area. The lady's name was Marilyn Skipper. Well, not really, but that will do for our purposes.

She was very nice to me, I did a big feature about their upcoming play, and how the theater department was taking off there. She gave me all sorts of behind-the-scenes access, and had the cast run through a couple of scenes solely for my benefit.

So I wrote the article, and the paper came out on a Wednesday. I come into the office that afternoon (if I'm working for free, I'm sure as fuck not coming in before noon), and say hello to my editor, and she nods back. I take my seat, which happened to be right next to her desk, and prepare for my day.

About a minute later, she casually asks me a question.

"Hey, Alex, have you, uh, have you been watching a lot of porn lately."

Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows the answer to that. But my editor was a lady, so I didn't know quite how to respond. I went for the zinger.

"No. no more than usual, that is," I quipped. Nice.

Didn't get a laugh. This could be trouble.

"So what was this theater teacher's name?" she asked me.

"Skipper. Marilyn Skipper."

"Oh ok. Why don't you take a gander at page three?"

So I grab a copy of the paper, and open it. Let me tell you something about the newspaper biz. After you say someone's name once, you refer to them by last name only, unless you are doing a story featuring multiple people with the same last name.

So I actually read my story from the bottom, and I saw that the name "Skipper" was used throughout.

Then I get to my first paragraph, and I see it.

"At [High School], the play is truly the thing. Students all over the school are getting in touch with their inner thespian and drama teacher Marilyn Chambers is a big reason."

Besides the incredibly catchy lead, notice the porn star's name. Yep. Not good.

She had in fact, gone out to the store to get a copy of the paper, and that was the first thing she had seen. She didn't know who it was, but her husband did.

She wasn't upset, but she asked for us to print a retraction, which we did. I send her a long e-mail apologizing, and I never got a response.

I remember when I was writing the story, the name Marilyn Chambers was in my head. I kept changing it after typing it on the page, but I thought I had gotten them all out. I never heard of that porn star until this Little incident, and to this day, I'm not sure why the name was in my head.

Final note: While looking up the article online, so I could make sure I got the quote right, I found the article in the archive section of the newspaper's website. With the Marilyn Chambers still there.

So much for a retraction.

Monday Links: 4/13

Well, I hope you all had a pleasant Easter weekend. I know I didn't.

• I love Netflix, and I found this slide show about how it works fascinating.
• I could link to cracked.com every single week, I recommend you bookmark it. But this one is extra special, even if I don't know all of the characters.
• Those Japanese. Always one step ahead.
• For some reason, I feel that I need to move to Elmhurst, Illinois. I'm not sure why...
• I'm all about helping people. You're welcome.
  

Friday Hate: 4/10

What's that? No Friday Hate? Fine, here it is.

I hate you for not being satisfied with the five days of gold I gave you all week.

'Nuff said.

Numero Uno: 21st Birthday

It's all come down to this. Number one. Let's not beat around the bush.

The 21st birthday. The milestone of drunkenness for every red-blooded American. Our parents had the luxury of celebrating It three years earlier than we did, which meant that they could have possibly celebrated this momentous occasion during high school.

While the earlier the better is always a good thing, three extra years of illegal drinking give you some needed experience which comes in handy when you try and do the 21 shots.

My birthday is in August, at the end of the month, which is a mixed blessing. If you throw a party, you can have things outside, which is always fun. But for those college years, it often comes around the start of the Fall semester.

My freshman year, it was the day I moved into the dorms. My sophomore year, it was the Friday before classes started. My 21st Birthday, it was a Sunday, the day before classes start. Not good.

But it meant that people could come out with me on Saturday night, since it led into Sunday.

So I moved into my apartment on Friday, I spent all of Saturday drinking Gatorade (gotta stay hydrated, you know), and we threw a party Saturday night. Some people came over, and we spent the last few hours of illegality drinking beers and playing Foosball at my apartment.

When the time came, we headed down to a bar, and that's where the madness started. Shots all around, including the dreaded "Sweaty Mexican Lumberjack" One part bourbon, one part tequila, one part Yukon Jack (a sweet liquor), and one part Tabasco sauce.

While it sounds (and is) revolting, it's not as bad as a "greasy Mexican lumberjack," which contains a generous dollop of mayonnaise. No thanks.

So that was my first shot of the evening. I couldn't tell you what the other ones were, except I know one was a "prairie fire" a delectable concoction of tequila and hot sauce. The bartender recommended it. Cunt.

I remember very little about the rest of the night. I woke up with that same straight line of vomit coming out of my mouth, this time it went all the way to my loveseat. It was also the first and only time I ever threw up the next morning. I threw up straight lemon-lime Gatorade around noon. So much for the benefits of staying properly hydrated.

I turned on some DVD of the King of Queens, which as I have discussed, is a guilty pleasure of mine.

When I finally gathered myself, I headed over to my computer. There was an instant message from a friend, a guy in the fraternity, the guy who happened to move into the fraternity house as I moved out.

It started innocently enough.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Not much, feeling like absolute shit."

"Haha, yeah I bet."

Then, a shadow comes over the horizon.

"How much do you remember from last night?"

Uh oh. "Dude, I don't even remember leaving the bar."

"Oh. So you don't remember coming over last night?"

"Nope."

Uh oh. How bad could it be? Whatever you're thinking it was worse.

"Well, you came in and bashed my door down with a baseball bat, and screamed at me and my girlfriend for quite a while."

....

.....

I disgust myself. Flashes started coming back. Me, with a baseball bat. Shove the bat through the door, "Shining" style.

Him and his girlfriend, staring at me with the most pissed off, disgusted, yet disbelieving look on their faces.

And that's it.

I go over to the house, and the door is in utter wreckage. Beaten savagely off the hinges. Holes all over the place. Wood splinters everywhere.

Looks like I'm about to be the proud owner of a brand-new door.

I spent the next few days measuring, buying locks and a door, and installing it. If you don't think it was the most awkward moments of my life sitting their fixing this door, while his girlfriend was sitting there, then you're wrong.

As the door got fixed, more details came into play about that night. Apparently after my brutal attack, I started to walk home, unbeknownst to anyone else in the house. Apparently I made a call at 2:15 or so (and my call log confirmed this), saying I didn't know where I was.

I was literally a stone's throw from my house, in a Taco Bell parking lot. Of course, I couldn't see my house because I was face down on the pavement. Drowning in dignity, no doubt.

My friend finds me, and takes me back to my place, which happens to be locked. I decide to open it with my keys, and by that I mean, run into the door and fall down. I assume my friend was able to find the key and deposit me inside.

I was hungover for days, and I didn't even go to the store and buy my first thing of alcohol until almost a week later.

Although I never got pneumonia from the night, the sheer savagery of the attack on the door makes it the drunkest I've ever been. I'm usually not a mean drunk. Sure, I like to be a jackass sometimes, but I don't get in fights, and I rarely cause intentional property destruction.

This night my friends, I was angry, like an old man trying to send soup back at a deli.

Don't know why,.. nor does it matter now. And it's not like I learned anything, since most of the stories took place after that night.

But that night has yet to be topped, and probably won't until I got out Jimi Hendrix style and choke on my own puke.

Just thinking about that story makes me hungover.

Bonus Honorable Mention

Speaking of birthday drunkfests, let's go back in time to the second time I ever got drunk in my life, my seventeenth birthday.

It was the summer before my Junior year in high school, and my family had just moved. I lived in the basement, and we had literally moved three weeks before, and we still weren't all the way unpacked. In the basement was a bunch of bottles of liquor, in their own box.

My parents don't drink a whole lot, but when people came over, they would buy a bottle, or get one as a gift, and not drink much of it. As a result, they had quite a stash of barely opened bottles of all sorts of liquor.

It was this very same stash that got me in alcohol-related trouble the first time. I snuck a fifth of Stoli out, and took a sip at a friend's house. It tasted like rubbing alcohol, and I refrained from drinking for another few years.

Anyways, on this birthday, my friend stayed over, and we spent the evening going through all of these boxes, taking a sip from one old-ass bottle after the next.

I know I was pretty drunk, and it was the first time I had felt like that, like I could do anything better than anyone, and that my opinions were the most intelligent opinions anyone had ever come up with.

I had to wake up early the next morning to buy my books for school, and that was when I experienced my first hangover. My brother says he drank for a few years without a hangover, but I don't think he was drinking hard enough.

It was the first of two times I came to a high school function hungover, and the second was graduation. I had a party at my house, my parents got a keg, and I remember being late, and reeking of Bud Light. My friend also jumped off of my balcony and broke a tree. Good times.

Well, that's about it for this wee. I hope you enjoyed my tales of drunkenness as much as I enjoyed living and re-living them.

There are a lot of stories I didn't get to, but I tried to include the most notable in this list, hence the honorable mentions. 7,169 words of complete and utter failure.

And I'm sure there will be plenty more stories to come, especially with Buffett Day coming up in a week.

Good night, and go fuck yourself.

Number Two: Buffett Day 2005

Alright, now we're getting into the meat of things. The second drunkest I have ever been in my life. And this one is a doozy.

Another Buffett Day, this one in 2005. The first Buffett Day that I was 21. Not that I ever had problems getting booze, especially on a Buffett Day, but it was still nice.

This year, due to some social probation issues, we couldn't have it at the fraternity house, so we had it at someone else's place. Poor them. They ended up with a horseshoe through big glass window for their troubles. And it rained all day. (UPDATE: I was informed by a gentleman who lived at that house, that it wasn't in fact a horseshoe that broke the window, it was a beer bottle, thrown by someone at another someone. Apologies.)

The day began with a usual Buffett Day challenge, and some horseshoes. I can't remember what happened exactly (shocker), but I remember getting into an argument over a horseshoe game.

My partner tried his most eloquent, logic-based argument to prove we were right. Meaning, he threw a folding chair at the other side.

Well, I'll be a monkey's bare-assed uncle if that there folding chair didn't land right over the pole, giving my friend a ringer. Greatest fucking thing I've ever seen.

Later, it was getting dark, and more rainy, and we got bored being cooped up playing video games. So we decided to get out the Pam, and turn the people's tile kitchen floor into an ice rink. Luckily the guy who suggested it happened to live there, much to the chagrin of his roommates.

I'll admit, with the inclement weather and such, I had pretty much decided that I wasn't going to do the challenge. For shame, I know.

But a funny thing happened. 11:25 rolled around, and I only had about five to go. Let me tell you something. Anyone that says peer pressure is bullshit is a fucking moron. You try to say no to people who just want to pour delicious alcohol down your throat.

So I ended up pounding the last five beers, doing three in the last ten minutes, finishing at about 11:58. But the night wasn't over yet. Not by a fucking long shot.

We kept drinking, and I don't know what time it was, but eventually my buddy suggest we head over to his boss's place and have a drink.

My buddy wasn't in school, he was working for a landscape company full time. His boss was the biggest redneck of them all, a former marine, and one motherfucking I would never, EVER want to be on the wrong side of.

So we head over to his house, which happens to be miles outside of town, I don't remember where. I didn't drive, we actually had a sober driver, which was nice.

So we get to the house, and the boss's wife is up, and his kids are having a sleepover in the living room. Of their trailer. So we stumble up, several of us holding cans of beer.

And the redneck stops us dead in our track.

"Hold up there, boys. We don't drink that shit around here."

What? Could my buddy have been mistaken? Were we about to get gunned down in a hail of glorious redneck bullets?

"Boys, we drink this shit here." And he pulls out a handle (1.75 Liters, for those of you keeping score at home) of Jim Beam whiskey. Oh. My. God.

I woke up in my bed on my side, and the first thing I see is a straight line. A straight line coming from my mouth, across my bed, onto my carpet, and on my loveseat, which is about three feet away.

A line, made of vomit. With chunks of potatoes. For some reason.

I had puked in my sleep, only the second time I ever did that in my life (when was the first? could it have been......I guess you'll have to wait until tomorrow).

I never found out what happened that night, we were all too shitfaced, except for the driver, but he waited in the car for the hours we were there. I'm pretty sure that poor, poor handle of Beam didn't survive the night.

So, needless to say I felt like shit in the morning, which was a Sunday. I drank water all day, got blazed a few times, and took the hottest shower imaginable, and I still felt like shit.

I went to a friend's place that night to watch a movie, and I still felt like absolute shit. I took some Nyquil, passed out around 10:30.

Woke up for a 11:15 class, still felt like shit. Skipped it. Took another hot shower, still felt like shit.

And so it went, until Wednesday, when I still felt like shit, and I decided I should probably go to the doctor's.

Went to the campus health center, and got the verdict: pneumonia.

I drank myself into fucking pneumonia.

Holy fucknuts. I didn't even know that was possible.

Bonus Honorable Mention

I'm a sports fan. Basketball is my favorite sport, but I also love football and baseball.

I will never forget the fall of 2004. My beloved Red Sox come back from a 3-0 deficit to win their first World Series in 86 years.

Ironically enough, I forget a lot about the night they won.

We had been getting into the baseball playoffs the whole Yankees series, and we were at a fever pitch by the time the Sox made it into the World Series.

The Sox were up 3-0 heading into game 4, which was a Wednesday night. I didn't want to jinx it, but I called a few friends and politely informed them that, if the Sox happened to be up late in the game, that we were getting obliterated.

Come the sixth inning, the Red Sox were up 3-0, and we headed to the bar.

The same bar that was a block from my house, and happened to take the Discover card, the card that got sent to my parents' house. How nice of them to by drinks for the night.

We were the only group there, and we were getting rowdy. One of the waitresses was from Boston, so she was just as into it as we were.

As the bottom of the ninth came, we did our usual tradition for big games: a shot per out. Tequila, followed by Jager, followed by Gentleman Jack for the third and final out.

One. Two. Three. Fuck yeah.

As I made drunken calls to my parents and my friends, we ordered champagne, which probably hadn't happened in that bar since the mid 90's. They did find us a few bottle, and we drank them without hesitation.

As the celebration continued, I went to the bathroom, most likely to piss.

However, very little piss came out. Vomit, however, went everywhere. I remember walking around the bathroom, puking all over the place, getting it everywhere but the toilet.

I came out, and loudly proclaimed, "I think someone puked all over the bathroom."

Needless to say, we were soon escorted off the premises.

But getting wasted while watching the Red Sox win big games is nothing new to me. Take 2007 for instance, when the Red Sox found themselves in a 3-1 hole to the Indians in the ALCS. I watched them battle back to a decisive game 7.

For game 7, a Sunday, I went out on the town. Germantown to be exact.

Now, you might be saying, "what sort of productive member of society goes out and get hammered watching a non-championship baseball game on a Sunday night."

And I answer, not a productive member of society. At this point, I had no job, no prospects, no conceivable reason to even get up in the morning. So I had time.

And use it well, I did. I got fucked up, and even did the three shots for the last three outs thing.

I think.

I was driven home in the back of a pickup truck, and I think I tried to get out during a stop to Taco Bell.

When I got back to my friends house, I spent most of the night throwing up, and laying on his bathroom floor, begging for death.

I left my car at the bar, and lost my wallet.

Not good times.

Who am I kidding?

Good times, good times.

See you tomorrow for you grand finale. It will not disappoint, I promise.

Number Three: Summer 2003

Back with your third installment of the drunkest nights of my life. As you may come to realize, most of them involve personal humiliation and loss of dignity, and who knows, maybe some destruction of property and relationships as the week goes one.

I'm not sure if you've guessed by now, but each of these stories will involve puking in some form of another, each more humiliating than the last.

Without further ado...

Summer 2003. An innocent time. I was a smooth young lad, returning from my first year of college. My first semester was spent pledging a fraternity; my second spent smoking pot and drinking four nights a week at the fraternity house. While I was posed no danger to top 10% of my class, I was doing fairly well.

I came home with a newfound thirst for alcohol, and a newfound trust in my drinking abilities. Silly me. Exams finished up on a Wednesday, and by Friday, I was moved out of the dorms, and ready to begin my summer. While I waited to get a job (I ended up building decks for part of the summer, and as an electrician for the other part), I had nothing but time on my hands.

So on that first Friday night, a few of my buddies from high school, also home for the summer, came over to my parents house, and we made an evening of it.

I lived in the basement of my parents house, and it is out in the sticks, so it was a popular hangout, especially in the summer. My friends could come over, booze it up illegally, and no one would be any the wiser.

Before college, summer was my time for drinking. I never drank all that much during high school during the school year. I worked most weekends, and didn't have much time.

But the summers, oh the summers. The summer before my senior year of high school, me and a friend used to make it a point to get drunk once a week, and by the end of the summer, we considered ourselves full-blown alkies.

Now, I consider myself a square if I only get drunk once a week. Oh, the innocence of childhood.

Anyways, so my friends came over, and they brought with them maybe a case of beer between about five of us.

My staple back then would be a handle of Canadian Mist that I would pilfer from my parents' liquor cabinet. My mom used to buy a handle of that when my grandma came over, the two of them preferred whiskey sours. They would rarely drink more than a quarter of it, and it just sat there.

That's where I came in. And that's why I can never drink cheap Canadian whiskey again.

So we're drinking beer, playing video games, doing the occasional shot, and talking some bullshit. And as the pile of empty cans grows to fill the garbage bag I had downstairs, the shit-talking ratchets up a notch.

To the point where one of my friends says to me: "Yeah, you've been away so a year, I don't think you can really drink as much as you say you can."

Good sir, you might as well have spit on y ancestor's graves. I don't take such a slight lightly.

I don't remember what exactly led up to this (shocker), but somehow the more than half-full bottle of Canadian Mist got drawn into the mix.

And somehow it evolved (or is that devolved?) into the two of us passing the bottle back and forth between us, taking gigantic swigs of this foul-tasting rotgut. I think another one of my friends was in on it as well.

I do know the bottle was empty when I woke up. Luckily for my friends, we had a friend that didn't drink, so he served as the driver, and drive my friends home.

I woke up, felling like shit, but otherwise okay.

I think my mom called our house from work around noon, and asked how I was feeling.

Thinking nothing of it, I replied that I felt fine.

"Oh, that's good, because you guys had quite a night last night," she said.

How did this crafty wench learn of our nighttime boozing? In a more polite way, I asked her.

"Well, you, [your friend] and [your other friend] woke the entire family up, puking and screaming at each other in the backyard. I'm surprised you didn't notice that we flipped on the floodlights."

Good God.

Apparently, we went out back (where I conveniently had a porch in the back yard, allowing for easy egress and ingress. But it just so happens that every family member's bedroom also had a window that faced the backyard.

So when we went out there, apparently (that word again!), we were talking shit to each other outside, and then just started puking, loud as can be.

My parents flipped on the floodlights, and were treated to some of the Class of 2006's finest puking their guts out all around the backyard.

I'm told it lasted several minutes. With my little brother and little sister watching as well. Both of whom were too young to really understand the appeal of alcohol, so I'm sure they just thought we had a nasty case of the stomach flu.

All three of us.

That's the fourth drunkest night of my life, but it reminds me of a similar story, from the same summer.

Bonus Honorable Mention

The same group of friends came over, and one of them used to smoke weed with me a lot. Back then, this was before my parents caught me smoking (another story in and of itself), so I had all my apparatus in my room.

Well, this was getting towards the end of the summer, and the guy who I used to smoke with a lot was headed off the to Army. You can't say we're not patriotic.

Given that a drug-test is the standard part of the entrance exams to the Army, he couldn't indulge in the sweet, sweet reefer. So what was a man to do?

Well, it just so happens that I had recently purchased some opium from a friend of mine. It was only the second (and last, up through now) time I purchased opium, but I always liked to put a little bit on a bowl, to spice the whole thing up.

Since weed stays in your system from anywhere to two weeks to a month, that was out. But some diligent research on my part, I found out that opium only stays in your system for 24 to 48 hours. Golden, right?

Wrong.

Instead of putting a little bit in a bowl, I decided to pack up my gravity bong with some opium. I don't know if you know what a gravity bong is, but it basically is the most powerful way to smoke. You use a large plastic bottle that fills with smoke, and you take it all in.

I had a 2-liter bottle, so we each took 2-liters of straight opium smoke.

Yowzas.

I felt fine at first, took the hit, and sat back on my bed. Then I started getting the spins. Real bad.

I stumbled to the bathroom, and barely made it to the toilet before collapsing, breaking a towel rack in the process. I promptly deposited what remained of my dinner in the toilet.

I wake up, and my friend who partook in the opium is passed out on my couch. I go to take a piss, and there is puke EVERYWHERE. Everywhere but the toilet, that is.

Now, I could have sworn that I got all my puke in the toilet, but a drunken idiot's memories aren't always correct.

I just assumed that I did it, and I spent the next hour or so scrubbing puke from some obscure corners of the bathroom.

My friend wakes up after I finish, and he goes to take a piss. He comes out, and is like, "Man, I went to puke right after you finished, and I could have sworn I got it all over the toilet. I guess not."

Oh, the delicious irony.

Number Four: Buffett Day 2003

Here we are with day two. You'll notice another theme comes to light with today's tale: missing time. Time tends to go missing a lot when you're drinking, and those are the times when bad things happen.

What is Buffett Day, might you be asking?

It's only the single greatest day of the year. Fuck Christmas, fuck March Madness, fuck the Super Bowl. It's the greatest single day of the year.

Why, might you ask? Well, its glory resides in its simplicity. A bunch of people, drinking from noon on, trying to finish a case of beer before midnight. Not to mention it takes place in April, just when Spring brings horseshoes, sandals, outdoor beer pong and Foosball, and an assortment of Springtime glory, all at my old fraternity house, the house that booze built.

So, needless to say, it's fucking awesome.

Still don't believe me? Well, two of the top five stories on this list take place on Buffett Day. Considering I've taken place in six of them (with the seventh coming this month), that should show you the precedent this takes.

This story is about my first Buffett Day, in the Spring of 2003. Mere months before Number Four, which took place about a month and a half afterwards.

Since this was my first one, I felt pressure to take the "Buffett Day Challenge." Twenty-four cold, tasty brew-dogs from noon to midnight.

I know what you're thinking. Two an hour? That's not bad. But let me tell you something my friend, it catches up with you. Quick.

Let's say you're going at a good pace, and 3:00 rolls around, and you get hungry. So you grab some food. Next thing you know, you're a beer behind. Then you go play some volleyball, and you get a beer behind.

Now you're chugging. But in the time it takes you to chug all those beers, you missed another half hour.

If you can finish it before dark you are truly a giant among men. The best I've seen was before 6:30, and the guy spent the whole night passed out on my couch.

He is truly a national treasure.

So this was my first one. And the pressure was on.

It was good times for a few hours. Drank my beers, played some shoes, played some volleyball, and generally horse-assed it up.

It gets darker, and people start getting behind. And the blackout starts enveloping everyone around it.

I've seen pictures from that night. Blurry, blurry pictures of people wearing straw hats, people who have no business wearing straw hats.

The last thing I remember? Don't know.

The first thing I remember? Waking up on the top bunk of my dorm room, thinking I slept through Buffett Day.

As the first wave of vomit exploded out of me, down to my trash can six feet below on the floor, I remembered that I didn't miss it. Not even close. Luckily, the second thing I didn't miss was the trash can.

I threw myself off the top bunk, and grabbed the trash can, walking down the hall, puking my guts out into the trashcan as I walked.

I had finished puking by the time I got to the bathroom at the end of the hall, so I took the trashbag filled with puke, and threw it away, despite the many signs that told me only to put paper trash in the trash cans.

Later that day, I went into my small fridge to grab a bottle of water, and a surprise awaited me.
It was a bottle of Captain Morgan's Silver rum, a product I didn't even know existed.

Apparently, I was walking back to campus with a few people, when I spied a car parked along the road with an open passenger window, and this treasure awaiting me inside.

I stole it, and insisted to my companions that we not take another step until we all took deep drinks from this glorious bottle of life.

Apparently we didn't finish it, because there was enough for a few drinks. I hope to holy hell that it wasn't full when I found it, but deep down, a part of me knows that it was full.

Bonus Honorable Mention

I've had my share of blackout drunk moments at the fraternity house, and I'll share several of them with you here, since this one was a little short.

The second time I went to a party at the fraternity I eventually joined, it was at a party called Hop, Skip and Go Naked. It was named after the punch served there, called HopSkip. This delectable brew is made with beer, vodka, and lemonade mix.

Needless to say, it will catch up to you. I found myself on the lawn, puking all over myself, until someone threw me into the DD's car. Apparently I passed someone in my hall, while I was walking to campus, and I gave him a shaky thumbs up, not bad for someone who was covered in puke. It was the first time I had ever puked because of drinking.

The night I became a pledge, I blacked out, and had to get a ride home in my own car. Apparently I was screaming out the window at people on campus, and when I was trying to climb into my bunkbed, I completely demolished my bookshelf, and woke up, and had to clean mountains of books off of my laptop so I could write a paper before going to class.

A month or two into pledging, October of 2002, we had our homecoming festivities. Thursday night rolled around, and I don't remember a single thing except puking in a trash can and waking up at the house.

I later found out that I had become a little lecherous with one of our alumni's fiancees, in addition to other things.

In September of 2008, I went down to Va. Tech to see a football game. I spent all Saturday drinking, and ended up playing poker at a local watering hole. I don't remember how I did, I only remember playing with a 12-year-old girl and her dad, and I'm pretty sure she sharked me.

I was shitfaced but I thought I remembered most of the evening. Then I was talking to a friend of mine who is from Richmond, and he said "We should chill sometime."

"Sure man, anytime, you still in Richmond?" I said.

"Uhh, no, I'm living in D.C. now. Remember talking about it?"

I didn't even remember seeing him in Blacksburg.

The second-to-last time I was in Blacksburg (the latest being the beer-pong tourney), I also went to see a football game, to see Virginia Tech play Virginia for a shot to go to the ACC Title game. We won, the game was at noon, so I was plenty drunk when it was still daylight.

I remember going to a bar (the same bar will be featured in a story later this week), and meeting some alumni, one of whom was there with his wife.

I don't remember leaving the bar, but sure enough, I'm assured I made an ass out of myself around this guy's wife.

I woke up on a couch, soaking wet, and freezing cold. I ran to my car, and drove to the friends house where I was staying.

Then I had to get up at 5 a.m., to drive home to make it to the Redskins-Giants game, and tailgate and drink more there.

That is a brief rundown of my drunkest adventures in Blacksburg, not counting of course, the ones that are yet to come.

Number Five: St Patrick's Day 2009

Welcome, welcome, welcome, to a week of drunken stories, the top five drunkest night of my life. Since I'm so generous, and I have too many more drunken stories than time, I might even include a bonus honorable mention drunk story with each one.

I wrote a short piece about this the morning after, but I have since pieced together part of the evening, and what happened is not encouraging.

But let us start from the beginning. It was St. Patrick's Day.

Your drink of choice on St. Patrick's Day? The Irish Car Bomb. A delectable mix of Guinness, Irish whiskey and Irish cream, I make it my business to consume at least five every St. Patty's Day.

When I was on college, I used to buy two 12-packs of Guinness (one year it was Heineken Dark, since they were out of Guinness), a fifth of Jameson (or Powers) and a fifth of Irish Cream, and I would have a mobile Car Bomb Disposal Unit, where I would drive to various parties, bringing my dry wit and cold car bombs, and drunkenness would most certainly ensue.

The previous two years, circumstances conspired against me having a good St. Patty's Day, so I went into this one with a vengeance. That's never a good attitude to go in with.

Add that to the fact that I had nothing to eat since breakfast, save for a single hard-boiled egg when I got home from work, and we've got a recipe for disaster.

So my roommate and I, accompanied my by other roommate, who will serve as the driver for the evening, head out to a local watering hole.

We get there, and the green beer is flowing like water. Pitchers are immediately brought to the car, and we indulge. Our DD for the evening drank some of the first pitcher, than rolled home to do some work.

So we're sitting at the bar, and watching the World Baseball Classic, the Caps game, and I even got them to turn on the Mavericks-Pistons game.

So the pitchers vanish quickly, and soon several Irish Car Bombs come out. I believe four to be exact. My roommate and I alternated buying pitchers, and I think we each bought three or four.
Do the math, and we've got about seven pitchers and four car bombs each.

So we're feeling pretty good when my roommate gets a text about a party, near our house, at this hot chick's place. The beginning of the end.

So my other roommate comes and picks us up, case of beer in tow, and we get to the party.

The next thing I know, I'm waking up at 7:53 in the morning, pants off, one shoe on, and shirt on.
What happened in the meantime, I am still in the process of figuring out.

Here's what I have so far:

We get to the party, and it's in full swing. And when I say full swing, I mean a couple of dudes gathered around a beer pong table, talking about cars.

Apparently there were some hot chicks there, but I have no evidence of it, besides this picture, which I found a week after.


I don't know who these people are, but she is hot. This picture was taken at 11:10 p.m., and I was already blacked out, if that tells you anything.

So we got there, drank some beers, and apparently someone came around with a tray of Jello shooters. Green ones. With Everclear. Fucking everclear.

So I drank plenty of these shots, and at some point during the evening, I got into conversation with a fellow who, let's just say, preferred the company of men.

I sort of remember how the conversation started. We were talking about hot chicks, and this dude said, with the traditional gay lisp, "Oh yeah, I totally love poon."

And I started laughing in his face. He acted all confused, and I was like, "Come on man, we all know you're gay."

And he wouldn't admit it. So I kept badgering him, until he finally told me he was gay. Apparently (you're going to be seeing that word a lot during these stories), I didn't let it go at that. I was fascinated with this dude, and we kept talking.

I was following him around so much that his friends got concerned that I was harassing him, and my friend told them I was a reporter with the Washington Post, doing a feature about gay culture. Yikes.

Apparently (!!), I started going up to some of the more attractive ladies at the parties, and saying, "So you're telling me you'd like to suck a dick rather than fuck this hot piece of ass?"

Charming, I know. Fortunately, I think I was slurring enough that no one understood me. At least I hope so.

I'm not sure how conversation broke down with the gay fellow, but I think we parted on good terms (when I woke up pantsless, I thought for a moment that we parted on really good terms, but luckily that was not the case).

I was talking with someone else, and we happened to come upon a neglected tray of Jello shots, nearly filled to capacity. Soon enough, and I mean within minutes, they were gone.

And that's the last people saw of me for a while.

Soon, it was around 1:00 a.m., and my friends were ready to leave, and they went looking for me. They flipped on the floodlights, and there I was, passed the fuck out on the porch, on a deck chair.

But the failure doesn't end there. Oh no.

The floodlights apparently woke me from my restful slumber, and I started to wake up. In full view of everyone at the party, conveniently illuminated for all to see through big plate glass window, I began to puke all over myself.

I heard later that it was like slitting the throat of a fucking leprechaun, there was green fluid flying everywhere.

I'll always remember something a professor in college told me. "Alcohol is a poison, and the body will reject it, violently at times."

I was the epitome of that phrase. Puking everywhere, and nearby was the guy I took all those Jello shots with, apparently he was puking as well.

Some people came out to grab me after I was done expelling, and I stood up, only to drop like I had been taken out by a sniper's bullet.

I remember vaguely being carried to the car, carried into my house, and that was all she wrote.

I woke up at 7:53, and I had to be at work at 8. Yeah, not going to happen.

When I finally rolled in at 10:00, I felt like I was sweating green Bud Light through every pore. Luckily, since I had thrown up, I was nauseous (until lunchtime that is), I just felt like complete and utter shit.

I caught a bit of good fortune when I remembered that I had to cover a late game that night, so my absence during the morning wasn't all that unusual. Plus, the thing I had to cover at 8 got moved to the next day.

Damage: I lost my coat, which I eventually got back later. Also, my dignity was scarred forever, but let's be honest, at this point in my life, my dignity makes Rhianna look like a fucking picnic.

I wish my dignity looked this good.

So that's number five on the countdown of my drunkest nights. Stay tuned tomorrow for number four.

Bonus Honorable Mention:

The last time I drank Everclear.

I was mid-January, while I was in college, at two female friend's birthday party. I had been to Myrtle beach over Christmas break, and bought myself an handle of sweet, sweet, grain alcohol.

I'm sure that impressed my parents. It was on the same trip that I drank an entire fifth of rum in one night, then had a physical exam a week later, where I had elevated liver enzymes. Good times.

Anyways, I spent the evening drinking Everclear mixed with limeade. I didn't think I was that drunk until I stepped out on their porch to smoke a joint with some people, and it hit me like a fucking punch to the face.

All of a sudden I went from being buzzed to absolutely shit-housed. I remember leaving the party in a huff shortly thereafter.

Problem was, I had driven that night. So me and my friend are ready to leave, and I go to get the car. I'm waiting in the car, in the parking lot to come out, when I lean out the driver's side window, and puke all over the place.

Oh no, it's not over yet.

We're driving back, and one of us decides that we should stop at McDonald's. Well, I'm driving, so we went. I ordered at the speaker, and proceeded to drive to the window.

In between the two, I started puking out the driver's side window again. And I didn't stop. While I'm coasting through the drive-thru, I am literally puking my guts out as I get to the window.

I get to the window, and I'm still puking, head completely out the window. My friend pays the horrified cashier by reaching over me, takes the food, slaps me on the back and says "let's go."

I sit up, wipe my mouth, apologize to the cashier, and I drive off. I can only imagine what would have happened had there been a cop anywhere near there.

Next thing I know, I'm waking up literally curled around the toilet in my bathroom, and I look up to see my friend standing over me, puking into the toilet.

I shakily stand up, slap him on the back and say "good luck!" and then pass the fuck out.

Monday Links: 4/6

Back with your first edition of Monday Links for the month of April!

• I think we all know Sacha Baron Cohen is a genuis. If you don't, click that link.
• Earth hour is complete bullshit, but this photo gallery is pretty awesome. Make sure to click on the photos.
• Speaking of cool photos, these are really creepy.
• Hyporcrite much?
• This man is incredibly lucky.
  

New Cell Phone Awkwardness

A got a new cell phone the other day, a money BlackBerry storm. Now I can be among those douchebags that sit and type on their BlackBerry all day, and complain about getting e-mails at all hours of the day, even though it is my choice to sync my e-mail with my BlackBerry.

I think it will really open up my douche horizons, and that's something I'm looking forward to.

But I have rather unique needs on my cell phone. I don't text a ton, and I don't really need a camera, although I have used it a lot more since I've had this blog.

But I do browse the internet on my phone quite often, and I use the phone to write notes a lot. Many of the blog entries you've read on this here blog have originated with some drunken phrase I've typed in my phone at 3 a.m.

So when I got my new phone, I wanted to make sure the NotePad function worked. So my first test was writing down directions to a local Air Force Base in Washington, D.C., because I had to go there today to cover a basketball game.

It just so happens that I have a female friend from college with the same last name. And it just so happens that she was in town this weekend. And this led to some awkwardness of the most glorious kind.

We were out in D.C. the other night, drinking, bullshitting, catching up, doing all that awesome shit.

I was talking about my new phone, and how I was still getting used to the touchscreen. I told her how I use the notepad function on phones a lot, and I wasn't sure how this one was going to work. She asked to see it, and so I pulled up the screen.

Something new about the notepad function on the BlackBerry Storm: You have to have a title for each note. So when I was typing directions in, I tried to save it, and it wouldn't let me without a title, so I just used the name of the base as the title.

So she's looking at my notes, and she sees one that has her last name on it. And she looks at it. And finds directions from my house to this base in Washington, D.C.

"395 North to 285 South to S Capitol Street..." and so on.

Well, it just so happens that the hotel she is staying at in the city, is very close to this base.

So from her opinion, it seems as if I have her name in my phone, as well as directions to get to her hotel room. Which is all fine and good, except for the fact that she never mentioned to any of us the exact hotel she was staying at.

This would suggest some stalker-ish behavior on my part, with a girl who I am friends with.

Believe you me, not an easy thing to explain away.

Add that to the fact that in my photo album, there may or may not have been a photo of my junk, which I used to test the camera on my new phone and forgot to delete, and as Ricky Ricardo would say, I "had some splainin' to do."

Saturday Night Bonus Video

How generous am I? Not at all. But still, here's a hilarious movie trailer about Nazi Zombies. Make sure you watch past the lame first minute, and stay tuned for the slaughter, followed by laughter.

Friday Night Bonus Video

I don't think I've ever laughed as hard in my life, especially at "The Road Warrior."

Make sure you watch it until the end.

A Special Treat for Next Week

Alright kats and kittens, I'm here to introduce you to something that's going to be happening here at Fists With Your Toes next week. Something I think you'll all enjoy.

Let's face it, the best stories on this blog and in real life are about getting fucked up and doing stupid shit.

Whether its throwing up somewhere you shouldn't, hooking up with people you shouldn't, or just causing general mayhem and madness, it happens to the best of us.

Well, next week, I will be counting down the five drunkest nights (or days) of my life. I will start with number five on Monday, and lead you down the path of failure all the way to the number one drunkest night of my life, and the aftermath.

While I know you will be waiting with baited breath until then, here is a brief description of several nights that didn't make the cut:

• Four days in Boston where me and three other people drank 13 fifths of liquor, just in our rooms, not counting going out to bars, which we did every single night.
  
• Several nights where I hardly remember anything except for the first drink, then being bent over a trash can puking my guts out.
  
• A few recent trips to Blacksburg, where I've blacked out most of the day, harassed friends' wives, and had long deep conversations with people that I don't remember seeing.
  
• "Moonshine Mondays" as we used to call them back in college, that usually resulted in waking up too drunk to drive to class.
  
• A trip to the Northern Virginia Brewfest.

Some of those stories I will recap at a later date, but they didn't make the cut for one reason or another.

And as good as those ones are, you better believe the five that did make the cut are epic. Epic in both scope and failure.

So until, Monday, go fuck yourself Planet Earth.

Friday Hate: 4/3 (D.C. Edition) and Some Detective Work

This week you get an extra-long edition of Friday Hate, featuring some nifty detective work by yours truly.

I can't tell you how proud I am of myself for ignoring the possibilities of the phrase "extra-long." Or disappointed. Yeah, disappointed.

Last night I attended yet another professional sporting event in the fine District of Columbia, your nation's capital. I watched the Washington Wizards play the Cleveland Cavaliers, and it was a good time.

What I come to you today about is something specific, which is a little different from your usual Friday Hate.

Usually I rail about something generic, whether it be a group of people, a certain action, or whatever. This time, I come to you to rail about a specific person.

After the Zards game, in which I got pretty drunk there, including double fisting 24-ounce beers for the fourth quarter, since they stop selling them at the start of the fourth.

The Verizon Center, or the Phone Booth as the locals call it, happens to have a bar in one of the corners, and it's a good bar. So after the game, me and my friend decided to wait out the rush to the metro at the bar, and we head in there to watch some non-live basketball, and have a few drinks.

A few drinks quickly turned into a Jager bomb, then another, then I think one more. There might have been shots of Jameson mixed in there also, I can't be sure. And of course, the ever-present Bud Light in all of its drinkable glory was there to wash everything down.

The bar was very crowded. A big Wizards win, combined with a Thursday night, combined with a general love of alcohol in your nation's capital led to a festive mood for all. Lots of people, lots of loundess, good times all around.

But sitting at the bar was one douchebag that didn't seem into all of it. He's surrounded by big guys in LeBron James jerseys, and hot chicks ordering fancy shooters, and he's sitting at the bar, calmly, not watching TV, but reading while chaos reigns all around him.

This guy was a douchebag. I could tell right away, for reasons I'll soon get into. But first, take a look at him, and see if you can't spot some of the tell-tale signs of prickdom.


First of all, you can't see the title of the book he's reading, so let me enlighten you.

Eros and Magic in the Renaissance.

I shit you not.

He is reading this book at 11:30 in a crowded sports bar filled with rabid basketball fans in Washington, D.C. What a fucking tool.

Note the rings he's wearing. A thumb ring. Do you know anybody who isn't a complete fuckstick that would wear a thumb ring?

(Actually, I do know one. He wears a thumb ring, but his last name is Scorpio, and with a last name as awesome as that, you can wear whatever the fuck you want.)

Check out the other ring, a copper spiral on his index finger. This guy is a grade-A fuckstain, and he wants everyone to know it.

The picture doesn't do his hair justice, but it's that greasy, slicked back look of someone who reads Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan fiction. The drunker I got, the more pissed off I got at this dude.

Luckily he left before we took the second round of Jager bombs, because I was so ready to ask him something obnoxious.

But alas, I didn't. But I think I already made an ass out of myself the last time I was in D.C., so I figured I'm good for now.

So i got talking to some folks about the NBA, because there is nothing I like more than to talk basketball with people when I'm drunk.

Quick side note: Apparently the new slang term for African-Americans is "presidents." I hear it from good sources that it will soon replace the N-word as one of the more insulting racial epithets out there. You heard it here first.

Before I knew it, time had slipped away, and it was 12:30. It was then and only then that we thought it prudent to ask when the Metro closes.

The answer? Midnight.

Fuck.

Trapped in D.C. After dark.

Double fuck. (which also happens to be my favorite genre of porn)

So I call my roommate, who comes through in the clutch like Larry Bird (as long as we're sticking with the basketball theme).

A final note:

While looking for the picture I took of the prick reading, I found another photo, this one:

Looks like something pretty standard right? A mostly full bottle of Bud Light, sitting on a counter of some sort.

So, like I tend to do after several drunken nights, I played detective this morning. Fired up the ol' Photoshop at work, and did some sleuthing.

Clue #1: The shadow is my head, so I am obviously standing over the bottle, and the light s coming from behind me, meaning I'm not at the actual bar, because bars don't rest against a wall. Since it is florescent light, I am inside.

Clue #2: The surface seems to be white and shiny. There appears to be a line of caulk between the wall and the surface, suggesting an atmosphere involving moisture. Interesting.

Clue #3: The silver metal fixtures at the bottom left corner and top of the photo. They look like they could be connected in an L-shape. Hmmm...

My powers of deduction lead me to believe that it is a plumbing fixture of some sort. Since I am standing, it would have to be.......a urinal?

And that's when it all came flooding back. Where I was, why I took a picture of a seemingly innocent Bud Light bottle, and my general failure as a member of the human race.

I remember going to the bathroom. And when I got to the urinal, there was an empty bottle of Bud Light on top.

By now, you're probably saying to yourself, "but the bottle in the picture is full."

Right. Because I filled it. With my piss.

I don't know why, but for some reason, I remember thinking that it would be the funniest thing in the world to piss in this bottle, and leave it on top of the urinal. Like someone's just going to come by, see a full beer on a urinal (which is very, very warm), and just drink it.

I am a disgusting human being.

No one denies this.