Life Goals
In addition to the previously stated goals to perform a Blaine-esque stunt, popularize the terms slurpee and big gulp as euphimisms and to appear on a VH1 countdown show, I have a wide variety of life goals. Because every one knows it's important to have goals:
- To have a statue of me erected in a public place. This may or may not involve having my corpse bronzed (cause cremation's for pussies).
- To have a building named after me.
- To own a European car (Yugos need not apply).
- To be pulled on-stage by basically any band alive and touring only to discover an inexplicable and heretofore undiscovered talent for beat-boxing.
- To date women with the following traits: Named Amber, Heather, Samantha; attended an Ivy League university; has an accent; has been/is a cheerleader, dancer and/or Olympian; foreign.
- To discover a cure for Herpes (I and II).
- To foil someone's evil plan.
- To receive a championship ring (specific sport unimportant).
- To be a member of a Real World cast, specifically appearing as the boring roommate who becomes overly ludicrous when intoxicated.
- To receive the Congressional Medal of Honor.
- To receive a Senatorial Censure.
- To appear in the Olympics as Skip of the Men's Curling Team.
- To receive a Nobel Prize (field unimportant).
- To publish a manifesto with a level of influence falling somewhere between Marx and the Unabomber.
- To produce/direct/write an adult movie that receives shocking Oscar nominations for its "innovative plot structure and compelling characterizations".
- To celebrate my 123rd birthday.
- To receive an honorary degree from a historically black university.
- To have a biopic made about my life.
- To have a Behind The Music episode.
I know I have more, and perhaps I'll weigh in with them at a later date. Until then, keep dreaming, kids.
Why I Have No Respect For The American Public (Reason No. 231)
In general, I'm not a huge fan of reality shows. Sure there was that one year when I was living alone in South Bend and I watched far too much American Idol and The Bachelor (starring NFL quarterback, Jesse Palmer, cause no one needs more help finding women than professional athletes). Looking back on this now I am more than a little embarassed. I find most reality shows to be soul-crushingly vapid (except The Real World, that show kicks ass). I have no problem, however, admitting my love for VH1's "pop-culture commentary shows/countdowns". You may know these better as I Love the 80's, I Love the 80's Strikes Back, I Love the 80's 3D, etc. or 100 Greatest Albums of All Time, 100 Most Metal Moments, 100 Hottest Celebrity Bods, etc. These shows are probably most notable for employing people who would otherwise be relegated to obscure stand-up careers, bit parts on sit-coms or writing silly little articles on the internet.*
ANYWAY… This weekend I caught the tail end of the 20 Greatest Reality TV Moments. In the top five was a moment featuring the show Cheaters. Since I learned of its existence, I've thought this show was questionable in both its premise and execution. Premise: Random Dude/Dudette believes that his/her significant other is cheating and wants them exposed as a lying sack of shit (on national television, of course). Execution: cameras follow suspected "cheater" around and basically play P.I. until the denoument: the confrontation. This usually involves lots of screaming, crying and bleeping. Between the lying "cheater", the vindictive "cheatee", and the rubber-necking viewer, it's hard to tell which is the lowest segment of humanity, but I'm pretty sure it can be found somewhere in there. Ok, now that you're familiar with what we're working with here, back to the story.
The moment from Cheaters that made VH1's countdown placed somewhere in the top five. Presumably, the relatively low ranking is due to the fact that this show runs on one of those pathetic networks like UPN and about four people ever actually tune into watch. It certainly wasn't for the severity of the moment. This show's highest (lowest?) moment came when the host, in the midst of the confrontation (on a boat no less) was STABBED. That's right, f-ing stabbed in the gut!! by the "cheater".
If of course, thought this was awesome. This is a dude whose entire job is to ruin people's lives. At least on shows like Jerry Springer they have people in a controlled situation so when "My Man Cheated With His Step-Sister and My Mother" turns into a huge conflagration, it's in a (relatively) controlled environment and they try to talk things out. You know, like civilized trailer-trash. Cheaters though basically amounts to this host jumping out and yelling "Gotcha!". Let's face it: A) it's amazing it didn't happen on the very first show, B) he had it coming.
Amazingly, this was not the end of the series. This dude, after being stabbed, went back out there to film more shows. All in the name of justice…or entertainment…or something.
*It is a life goal of mine to someday appear on I Love the First Decade of the Twenty-First Century: 2006 making snide comments about David Blaine and Britney Spears's lack of parenting skills (with a touch of modern-post-modern self-flagellation for even having knowledge of such subjects, obviously).
Quick Update…
I recently posted that I'm working on bringing the terms "slurpee" and "big gulp" into the sexual euphimism lexicon. Well I've been watching season one of The Shield (awesome show by the way, I clearly suck for only learning this now. Thanks Netflix! I'll endorse you later, I promise). At one point, a character makes reference to another character "getting a slurpee". YES!! I know this show came out in like 2001, but I'll gladly take retroactive credit. It's totally catching on people. Tell your friends.
CK’s Survey Pt. I
Recently I pimped Chuck Klosterman's book, Sex, Drugs, And Cocoa Puffs. I mention this again because in the middle of this book, he puts forth a 23 question interview/survey that he purports to ask "everybody [he] meet[s] to decide if [he] can really love them". I found these questions fascinating and hilarious. So I'm going to post them here, along with my responses. Feel free to add your own answers/thoughts/etc. And just so no one decides they want to sue me, all of the portions in italics are directly reproduced from the above mentioned book, published by Scribner, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020, 2003. Once again, it's a brilliant book and I suggest you all go out and buy it immediately. Ok, here we go…
1. Let us assume you met a rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five simple tricks–he can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar vein. These are his only tricks and he can't learn any more; he can only do these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he's doing these five tricks with real magic. It's not an illusion; he can actually conjure the bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He's legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence. Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?
As far as I can tell, there's several ways to look at this. Einstein is clearly the winner in terms of scope of accomplishments, societal impact, mental abilities, etc. However, I find it hard to believe that Einstein is the only person in the grand scope of our world who could come up with Relativity and all that stuff. Once you really start researching, it turns out most scientific ideas have actually been discovered three or four times by people who aren't paying attention to what the rest of the world is working on. And the assumption here is that this magician is the only truely magical person. Ever. (Let's discount the argument that if he exists, maybe another could as well. I take this dude as a singularity). So in terms of how remarkable are this person's particular powers, magic versus being really really smart, I guess I'd have to go with the magic. At the very least he kicks the crap out of that douche David Blaine.
2. Let us assume a fully grown, completely healthy Clydesdale horse has his hooves shackled to the ground while his head is held in place with thick rope. He is conscious and standing upright, but completely immobile. And let us assume that–for some reason–every political prisoner on earth (as cited by Amnesty International) will be released from captivity if you can kick this horse to death in less than twenty minutes. You are allowed to wear steel-toed boots. Would you attempt to do this?
In a word (or two): fuck no. And not cause I'm some bleeding heart hippy either. Because A) that's gross, I've never even hit a squirrel with my car, now I'm going to kick a horse to death? and B) now that Mandela's free, quick, name me one political prisoner. Yeah, exactly. I've recently been more interested in global events, particularly the suffering in Africa, so I researched some aid groups (by which I of course mean that I checked out their websites). I wasn't too impressed by AI. I'm sure it's a worthy cause and all, but it just didn't really blow my hair back, ya know? I think the real purpose of this question is to cause liberals' heads to explode. Because the kind of people who really care about things like AI are the same sort of people who think being a vegan is cool.
3. Let us assume there are two boxes on a table. In one box, there is a relatively normal turtle; in the other, Adolf Hitler's skull. You have to select one of these items for your home. If you select the turtle, you can't give it away and you have to keep it alive for two years; if either of these parameters are not met, you will be fined $999 by the state. If you select Hitler's skull, you are required to display it in a semi-prominent location in your living room for the same amount of time, although you will be paid a stipend of $120 per month for doing so. Display of the skull must be apolitical. Which option do you select?
Too easy. Hitler's skull hands down. Turtles are dirty, and unless this turtle also happens to be between the ages of 13 and 19, genetically abnormal and trained in the martial arts, I'm not interested. Plus where do I come up with $999 if the little bastard croaks. And besides, with the apolitical bit, I don't think that "look, this is Hitler's skull" automatically equates to "hey, I hate Jews" for most people. Right?
4. Genetic engineers at Johns Hopkins University announce that they have developed a so-called "super gorilla". Though the animal cannot speak, it has a sign language lexicon of over twelve thousand words, an I.Q. of almost 85, and–most notably–a vague sense of self-awareness. Oddly, the creature (who weighs seven hundred pounds) becomes fascinated by football. The gorilla aspires to play the game at its highest level and quickly develops the rudimentary skills of a defensive end. ESPN analyst Tom Jackson speculates that this gorilla would be "borderline unblockable" and would likely average six sacks a game (although Jackson concedes the beast might be susceptible to counters and misdirection plays). Meanwhile, the gorilla has made it clear he would never intentionally injure any opponent. You are commissioner of the NFL: Would you allow this gorilla to sign with the Oakland Raiders?
No. I fucking hate the Raiders.
David Blaine: Bored to Death
So I got suckered into watching the David Blaine special all night yesterday. Let me preface this by saying a few things. 1) I think Blaine is a moron. 2) I don't generally watch specials like this. 3) If someone is possibly going to die on live national television, I would be extremely pissed off if I missed it.* That all being said, I watched the entire David Blaine: Drowned Alive special.
Where to begin? Let's start with the title. Isn't the term "drowned alive" ridiculous? If you're dead, you can't drown; if you're drowned, you can't be alive. Buried alive? Makes perfect sense. Drowned alive? Not so much. But that's a pretty minor semantic complaint.
Remember when David Blaine just marketed himself as a magician? Back before he marketed himself as a completely psychotic attention whore. Turns out he still does some magic, but it often is crossed with ridiculous stunts (e.g. eating glass). "Magic", in and of itself has never really impressed me. Partly I blame David Copperfield for douching up the whole thing, but it's also because it's all fake. There is no magic, only tricks. (And, as everyone knows, Trix are for kids. Silly magician!) At any rate, Blaine apparently decided being the weird dude who levitated wasn't good enough, he wanted to be the weird dude who was buried alive (in a box, pretty much eliminating the whole "danger" element). From there it was a natural progression to be being frozen in a block of ice (really, just buried alive but colder), and-my personal favorite-living in a box under a bridge (like a homeless guy, only with way more media coverage). The culmination was last night's stunt, holding his breath for nine minutes, beating the world record by an entire 2 seconds. Of course, leading up to this he spent 176 hours in a big goldfish bowl in the middle of Lincoln Center (buried alive, but wetter). Apparently one of the biggest inherent dangers here was that his hands were really pruny (seriously, that was a major concern).
Nine minutes, huh. That's actually pretty impressive. I think I can hold my breath for approximately forty seconds before I pass out. The real question was, the show's on from 7 to 9**: what are the other 111 minutes for?
Turns out they were for Blaine to let us all know how cool and tough he thinks he is. We got recaps of old stunts, some magicy interludes, but these were the real gems:
- Right off the bat we got a five minute montage of Blaine working out with his shirt off. And Eye of the Tiger wasn't even playing.
- At one point he interviews the dude who cut off his arm with a pocket knife in an avalanche. That was kind of interesting, but they held the interview outside, in the snow. Armless dude, whom we're supposed to be inspired by I think, was sensibly dressed in a jacket, whatever. Blaine is wandering around in a t-shirt. Cause, apparently, he's way too badass for jackets (and by extension, armless dude is a pussy). At the end of this, Blaine gives him a big hug. I guess they're kindred spirits. I mean, Blaine spends inordinate amounts of time locked in various contraptions and the other dude, used a boulder to break his bones and cut off his own arm.
- He also talks with Evel Knievel (whom I totally thought was dead, but whatever). At one point this 67 year old man seems ready to fight him, because apparently, those of us who don't engage in obscenely reckless and dangerous behavior are a bunch of pussies. The best part here? Blaine performing his five minute breath hold training exercise while the old man counted him down, while wearing his oxygen tube. Awesome.
- Countless interviews with the rescue divers and team of doctors at standby in case "something goes wrong". My favorite? The one doctor who seems to have been instructed to squirt a hypodermic needle whenever on camera.
So after all this it's stunt time. They lock him in, drain the tank so he can get a good breath and….he's under. His coach/trainer/doctor/lover(?) is talking him through the whole thing. Meanwhile, Stuart Scott is trying to give us commentary that we can't hear because ABC isn't balancing their levels. Oh. Did I forget to mention this whole she-bang is hosted by ESPN's Stu Scott? BOO-YAH!*** So he's down there, the dude's counting, he starts his "escape". Now he's been handcuffed to some chains. His dramatic escape? Unlocking the handcuffs. He is not wrapped in chains, they're just handcuffed to his wrists and he has a key. Whoo-ha, it's intense now!
Alright, chains are off, but you can see he's hurting…there are the bubbles…and DIVERS IN! His male and female duo dive in to bring him up****. Mission: (Not)Accomplished. They bring him some towels (Doctor, with much urgency: "I need more towels up here! More towels!!). The crowd seems to have some weird terry-cloth fetish, cause they go nuts for that. They do some wrap coverage, aaaaaaaaaand…we're out.
Wow. So two whole hours and not only does he not die, he doesn't set the record. I've just spent 120 minutes of my life watching someone get wet. Sweet. Man am I a sucker.
One outcome of all of this is that David Blaine, although creepy and admittedly psychotic, doubtless makes mucho cash out of this. And he's really not doing much. Seriously, living in a box suspended over a river? I'm supposed to be impressed? I could do that. So I need to come up with some ridiculous stunt quick, before he beats me to it. We're looking for something that seems vaguely dangerous, but really just requires me to live with being bored and hungry. Any suggestions would be appreciated. I'm currently thinking that hanging upside down for a record amount of time might do the trick. If I can get enough people onboard, I can pitch it to ABC and make millions! And have people post snarky things about me on the internet…
*Not because I'm some weirdo, but because it somehow seems culturally significant.
**When showing the live footage of Blaine in the bubble, ABC threw up the little LIVE tag in the corner and inexplicably included EDT. I'm sorry, isn't LIVE EDT the same as LIVE CST? I'd understand, LIVE at 8 Eastern/7 Central, but this was just "LIVE Eastern".
***At what point do the Boo-yah references die? I haven't actually heard him say it in like three years. I'll always love the SNL sketch where Tim Meadows is Stu. "Invitations read BYOB, bring your own….BOO-YAH!"
****As they're holding him up at the surface, we get some amazing shots of the vaguely attractive female diver. Let me see if I can paint this picture for you. She has her feet spread on the walk on either side of the bubble opening, leaning over to hold up Blaine. ABC decides the best angle is…right behind her. Giving multiple close-ups of her wetsuit ensconced taint. Thanks ABC, you guys rock.
JM Endorses: Chuck Klosterman
While it may be considered disingenious to so blatantly reveal my literary inspirations*, I would be remiss in not throwing a tip of the cap to Chuck Klosterman.
I first encountered Klosterman's work as a monthly contributor to Esquiremagazine. His uber-witty essays on pop culture, modern post-modern philosophy**, and the world in general. I found his writing to be wry, insightful and intelligent. Basically, he appeared to be thinking about and writing about the very things which I tried to claim that I thought about, or aspired to think about****.
At about the same time I was first being exposed to his writing, I was wandering through B&N looking for books that seemed mildly interesting when I ran across a book entitled Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs*****. I didn't immediately make the connection between the author and the Esquire columnist. More due to the fact that I wasn't paying attention than the fact that I couldn't put two and two together that these were both authored by the same Chuck Klosterman. Today I started reading this book for the fourth time or so. It's brilliant. Period. Klosterman gives a unique view of pretty universal subjects that are perfectly aimed at our generation (like how I assumed we're all of the same generation? Seriously though who else reads these things. Incidentally, what is this generation? I kind of lump all of XYZ together, late Gen Xers, Gen Y-my actual designated generation, and early Gen Z. The only ones with cool names are the Baby Boomers and Gen X. Although I don't really think that something properly descriptive like, The Douchebags or The Obnoxiously Ironic really have a good ring to them.).
I think I got somewhat sidetracked in there. The basic point of this train-wreck is that you should get this book and read it. It will make you a better person.
*By "inspirations" I clearly mean "people whose style I rip off", including the footnote gimmick, although I've been a footnote fan for a long time.
**A term I have just coined.*** Modern post-modern is not only self-aware, but takes an ironic or self-mocking angle on this self-awareness. Use it with your friends, it'll totally catch on.
***Are you allowed to footnote a footnote? At any rate, I'm also in the process of popularizing the terms "Big Gulp" and "Slurpee" as oral sex euphemisms.
****As opposed to my more common topics of deep thought: what do I want for lunch today or who do I drop from my fantasy team when Todd Helton comes off the DL.
*****Now I see why numbers are a more common footnote format, I really can't stretch it to six stars next time can I?****** What I came down here to mention thought, was that I completely judge books by their cover/title. When I'm perusing the bookshelves, how else do I know what's good? A clever or provocative title goes a long way with me.
******Apparently I can.
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.
