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.