Gas Sucks
So a couple days ago I'm cruising through The Sure (Hampshire for the unenlightened) and the local BP is selling standard (crappy level) gas for 2.969/gal. That's insane! Yet somehow, no one (happy, Andrew?) is screaming about this. A couple summers ago, when Chicago area gas prices were spiralling out of control (gasp! 2.50?!?) the Illinois Legislature temporarily repealed the state sales tax on gasoline. Haven't heard much about that lately. But I digress…
So as I drive by the gas station lamenting the obscene prices, I pass some asshole in a 60 foot RV towing…a Hummer (distinguished from the oral sex act by capital H…and the lack of an appropriate orifice). Are you f-ing kidding me?!? This guy has to invest about 500 bucks in gas just to get to freaking Wisconsin (why people continue to go there is beyond me, but it continues to be a popular weekend destination. Baffling.).
Let me proclaim right here and now that no one. NO ONE needs a Hummer. Unless your weekend excursions include storming one of Sadaam's old palaces, the Hummer is an utterly frivolous vehicle. It's not even like people take these things off-road. Have you ever seen a dirty Hummer? Aren't they all sparkling? Because clearly if you can afford a sixty-thousand dollar ego boost and to spend 200 dollars on a gas a week then there's no problem paying a bunch of minimum wage immigrants and drop-outs to wax your vehicle every week. At any rate, there is no need for you to waste ridiculous amounts of gas, take up five parking spaces and be a general annoyance on the roads as you tool around suburbia. Or even worse, downtown. We get it. You wish your dick was bigger. Buy a f-ing Jaguar. It's the ridiculous demand for gas created by these types of vehicles that is at least partially responsible for gas prices being what they are today. Supply and demand. (Incidentally, on the supply side, it's a darn good thing we fought that "war for oil" isn't it. Either the hawks were dumb for expecting oil to shoot out our asses once Sadaam was out or the doves were dumb for really thinking that was a motivation. I of course feel that the psychos on both sides are assholes.)
My solution (outside of drastically heightening the "gas guzzler" tax, giving a larger credit to those buying and producing alternative energy cars and shooting everyone who drives a Hummer)? Teleportation. I hate driving/flying everywhere anyway. So let's go science. I now have a cell phone that doubles as an mp3, camera, video recorder, tv, personal gaming system and, oh right, communications device. Where's the laser guns and teleportation devices? And while you're at it, maybe some viable alternative energy sources that don't make cars all douchey (cause seriously, would you drive a Prius?).
Bill Walton Is A F-ing Idiot
"There's nothing more pathetic than an aging hipster." ~Dr. Evil*
So as I was watching tonight's encouragingly close Bulls-Heat game**, I was subjected to 48 straight minutes (game time, we're talking over 90 minutes real time) of Bill Walton's commentating. Granted, there are a lot of bad color guys out there, but Walton is easily and beyond any shadow of the doubt, the worst (since Magic got out the biz, at least). Here's just a few of the atrocities I witnessed tonight:
1) Discussing Scott Skiles, "He realized that he had to wake up and smell the roses." Thanks for the double whammy cliche and mixed metaphor.
2) Throughout the first 8 minutes of the third quarter, Walton noted every time the Heat took possession that Shaq hadn't been "fed the ball down low in the half court offense", not only pushing the bounds of repetition for effect, but completely unaware of the fact that this was patently untrue!! Shaq had gotten the ball at least twice, once taking a shot and shooting free throws upon which Walton commented! What were the side effects of long term marijuana use? I can't remember…
3) In the fourth, Walton started getting on the Bulls. Never mind the fact that the seventh seed was down only two points and playing their asses off. Props to Steve "Snapper" Jones for noting this.
4) Walton then accused the Bulls of suffering from "shrinkage". At this point Snapper jumped in to ask exactly what kind of shrinkage Walton would be referring to.***
5) It was noted that Alonzo Mourning can't take anti-inflammatory medication for his calf injury (presumably due to his kidney disease). Walton's response? "With that book Game of Shadows and the whole Barry Bonds thing, it's clear that Alonzo, or any athlete wants to stay away from that kind of stuff." Either we had a steroid alert that I totally missed or Walton is worried someone will test positive for Aleve.
6) I laughed out loud for a good minute on this one. Dwyane (yes, that's the proper spelling) Wade left the game with a cramp. Let's kick it over to Walt for his take. "The lack of V-8 being drank in this league is absolutely appalling." Snapper, who's completely given up on the whole "unwritten rules" garbage: "So out of all the people in all the professional sports, you're the one who's figured that out [or you're completely full of crap you damn dirty hippy]?"****
Is there even anything else left for me to say?
*Quoting Austin Powers isn't really my style, but it was just too appropriate here.
**Quick note on this game: early in the second quarter, Udonis Haslem objected to a non-call by referee Joe Crawford and to register his disapproval threw his mouthgard at the ref. Of course he was immediately doubled t-ed and booted from the game (most likely a fine and possible suspension are imminent). How dumb do you have to be to throw your mouthgard, or anything for that matter?? Especially at a guy who's officiated more playoff basketball games than anyone in NBA history. Smoove, Udonis. Very smoove indeed.
***There's an unwritten broadcasting rule that no matter how inane, untrue or ridiculous the comment a guy makes, the rest of the teams ignores it or clarifies it subtly. At this point in the game, after making a valiant effort to work with Walton, Jones was clearly starting to lose it.
**** Now may be a good time to note that I do not own TIVO so all of these quotes are paraphrased.
My First Blackout
If it seems like a lot of these flashbacks involve the consumption of alcoholic beverages, well…what can I tell you? And for the kids out there, let it be officially stated that I do not support underage drinking. (Unofficially? Oh, unofficially, I'm all for it.) At any rate, there are many events in your life that you'll remember forever, your first kiss, your first concert, your first car accident, the first time you wake up in bed with a stranger of the same sex… And then there are the firsts which you'll never fully remember, but have them retold to you by those witness who were there, laughing their asses off, at the time. This is one of the latter. For the true ironic twist, a little pre-info: I had recently (like a week before this occured) lamented the fact that my short drinking history included no instances of lapsed consciousness. This recounts the night I lost my blackout virginity (not the same thing as passing out and being gang-raped, thankfully. I'm sorry, is gang-rape not funny? Would being tea-bagged be the better joke there? Help me out.)
One random Friday way back whence sophomore year of college, my roommate and I were bored. It was a beautiful spring day, classes were done for the week, the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, it was clear what had to be done. It was time to start binge drinking.* I mean, shoot, what else was there to do at four in the afternoon at Valpo? So we recruited random friend #1 (hereby referred to as RF1, partly because I totally can't remember his name) and token-hot-chick-my-roommate-totally-could-have-nailed-if-he-didn't-have-a-girlfriend,-the-loser (hereby referred to as Hot Girl, cause I want to write THCMRTCHNIHDHAGTL even less than you want to read it). Because I'd never tried it, we decided to attempt to join the "Century Club".**
Now, if you've never tried it, Century Club (the man's version of the ever-popular Power Hour) is much more difficult than it sounds. Beer, or, I would imagine, any carbonated beverage is not well suited to shot form (any game that involves strategic burping is not easy). Our beer of choice, Red Dog, is really not well suited to drinking in any form, but hey, three cans for a buck-that's value. You don't believe me, I know. Next time you're drinking, drink your beer in large gulps, once a minute. Good. Now do it again. And again. And again. How're you feeling? That's what I thought. Now never doubt me again! Jackass. Where was I?
Ok, so roommate, RF1 and I were going to attempt the Century Club and Hot Girl was going to be our designated pourer. Aaaaand, we're off. Things are going well. We've got the Dave playing in the background, we're shooting the shit, we're shooting beer on the minute… At some point I say something stupid (surprise!!) and Hot Girl assigns me a Penalty Shot. Let it be known that there is no such thing as a Penalty Shot in Century Club. This is not hockey, here. But hey, when Hot Girl tells you to drink, you drink (man rule #239). She finds this inexplicably hilarious, and I'm doubling up for about ten minutes straight.
We're cruising past the 30 minute mark, holding strong, feeling good…well, as good as you can with thirty shots of Red Dog in you…
40 minutes roll by and Roommate is starting to slow down…RF1 is going strong…Hot Girl is looking hot…I'm not doing to bad…
As we roll past the 50 minute mark, Roommate makes the dreaded bolt for the bathroom…RF1, no problems…Hot Girl, you guessed it, still hot…me, starting to feel it…
At 53 or so, Roommate returns…he has battled the beer gods and lost, he's out-the pussy…RF1 is kicking some Red Dog ass…Hot Girl, you're sick of hearing about and she no longer matters to the story, but she is still pouring…I'm really hurting…and whoops, there I go for the bathroom…
I return around the 60 minute mark. The wise thing to do here is to follow Roommate's lead and bag it, rehydrate and get ready for the rest of the evening (remember, it's about five thirty at this point…in the afternoon). However, upon seeing that RF1 is still alive and kicking, and not wanting to puss out like Roommate, I decide that the proper thing to do is "puke and rally". So, not wanting an unfair advantage I do five shots in a minute to catch up from my bathroom break. This is the last thing I really remember. From here on out, this story has been reconstructed by the other characters present.
Apparently, I held out until about 80 or so at which point I gave up and slumped in our stolen lounge chair(now that I think about it, we stole a lounge chair freshman year and sophomore year we placed one of our room-supplied lounge chairs in the actual lounge because we didn't have room for it, but I digress), semi-conscious. At some point I bolted upright from the chair, wandered across the room and face planted into my open closet (imagine the image of a tree falling in a forest, complete keel-over).
So there I am, head buried in my laundry basket (into which I, miraculously, merely dry-heaved). After chilling out there for a while, I somehow made it across the room and curled up on the floor half under my desk. I believe that seemed like a good idea because the garbage can seemed like a much more apt vomit receptacle than the laundry basket. You know, just in case.
At some point, I hauled myself into bed (the top bunk no less!) to "sleep it off". At around nine (PM, these events have transpired over one afternoon, the night is still young here), Roommate busts in asking me if I want to go to some off-campus party. I rouse myself enough to notice that it is, in fact only nine o'clock and that I am, most definitely, already hung over. I tell him, predictably, to shove it and "fall back asleep" (or pass back out, your call).***
The next day, Roommate and I debriefed and I finally had it. My first blackout story.
*"Binge drinking" is a term almost exclusively reserved for the context of "in a study on underage binge drinking". I have never heard any exchange such as, "Want to drink?" "Screw that, let's binge drink!" Or, "Man, it's totally time to start binge drinking." I think part of this is due to the fact that, at least in college, to refer to drinking as binge drinking is pure redundancy.
**One hundred shots of beer in one hundred minutes.
***This party ended with Roommate sprinting back to our room in the middle of the night, completely wasted and telling me one of the best stories ever. One which I am, most unfortunately, not allowed to repeat. It was obviously pretty good since he ran about four miles at two in the morning, bombed off his ass. And now you all hate me for not telling you. Sorry.
Pick-Up Line Hall Of Fame Candidate
A couple of notes before we begin. This category (Oh…Memories…) is a spot for me to place old musings and funny stories from “back in the day”. The category title is much funnier for the about four of you who may read this that are actually familiar with the obscure song My Kristen by the uber-obscure artist Shwa Losben.* Alright, on with the show.
This particular story revolves around the events of our Halloween party held at the inimitable Locust Ct Apartment (phone number, I kid you not: 464-FUNK). This party included such highlights as my Rapper-in-the-style-of-Nelly costume. As with any proper college party, or you know, random Tuesday night, there was alcohol involved. I was, needless to say, slightly…inebriated.**
At one point a group of us were gathered around the coffee table “playing” circle of death. (I was mostly annoying people with the fact that I was completely oblivious to such minor details as when it was my turn, what the rules were, etc.) Sitting next to me on the couch was a member of the opposite sex with whom I was acquainted, but not terribly familiar (name withheld). At some point during this rousing game, she either laughed or leaned over to pick something up, or possibly didn’t move at all and brought her head somewhere vaguely in the vicinity of my knee. At this point I let loose with a line that will forever live in infamy, the, as titled, ”pick up line” in question: “If you were trying to go down on me, you missed“.
Now, aside from the fact that this line is ridiculous, completely offensive and uncalled for, it’s amusing in and of itself. But what truly puts this line over the top is that it worked. This co-ed in question and myself would end up “hooking up”*** and subsequently dating for a while. Later, upon discussing when the attraction started, she would refer to the party in question. Whether this all came about because of or despite my oh-so-suave line is for you to judge.
*Lyrics for My Kristen by Shwa Losben:
My Kristen, I realize that we only went on twelve dates / But I kind of wish you’d acknowledge my existence / but oh, that’s just me / And hey I like to not return phone calls, as much as the next guy / but you hold the record for 1999 / congratu-fuckin-lations, you make me sick / and oh, it’s gotta be because I’m Jewish / My Kristen, do you remember that night at the Pike party / when you were grinding with three random guys / and the you pretended like you didn’t even know me / oh…memories… / and yes yes and I don’t know and yes and never again / is that her, and did she see you, and why didn’t she acknowledge you / and do you feel like a douchebag and when are you gonna call her again? / ….lick my nutsack.
Brilliance, look him up. My other favorite? My Cock Is Known As a Nation That Harbors Terrorists.
**This party also produced the following exchange the next morning:
Me: Man, I’m so proud of myself!
Roommate: Why’s that?
Me: I didn’t fall down once last night! (Something I am even more prone to do when intoxicated).
Roommate: Dude, you fell down like ten times.
Me: Oh.
***Of course, in my case, “hooking up” is best defined as “clandestinely kissing while half asleep watching tv at three in the morning”. Why? How do you define it….slut.
