Stripper Bocce

My buddy Manscape introduced me to this game and I owe him mightily for it.  It is perhaps the greatest bar game ever invented.  We call it Stripper Bocce!

Those of you who aren’t familiar with regular bocce ball or lawn bowling (I know, I know, the two aren’t exactly the same, but for simple Midwestern drunkards like myself they’re close enough), the most simple way to explain the rules is this: You have a target and everyone tries to get their ball closest to the target.  This can be done either by throwing your own ball closest or by knocking your opponent’s ball away from the target.

Stripper Bocce takes this game out of the field and into everyone’s favorite place, the strip club!  Instead of balls, you throw wadded up one-dollar bills.  Your target is the stripper pole.  And the stripper?  Well, she’s part of the field of play.  If she kicks your perfectly thrown dollar bill across the stage, well, them’s the breaks.

The best way to play this game is with a lot of friends and a lot of alcohol.  Typically, each person gets one throw per performance (typically two songs, or 5-6 minutes), and then you pay the winner another dollar bill after each round.  So it costs you $2 for each round, but with the potential of winning a chunk of your money back when you win.

Now, you might think strippers would take offense at this game, but just remember, they’re getting paid!  All those bills you throw at them go into their pocket, and they aren’t even subjected to the typical sleazo strip club patron who insists on slipping the dollar into their thong while lewdly feeling them up.  So really, it’s a win-win for everyone.

A few tips I’ve learned in my short time playing this game:

-Wait til the back end of the stripper’s performance to make your throw.  The longer your bill is laying on the ground, the greater the chance the stripper will kick it out of play.

-Control your emotions.  We’re all competitive, we all like to win, and we all like to drink and hoot and holler with the guys.  But be careful.  When your perfectly placed dollar bill is inadvertently kicked away by a stripper doing the splits, it’s best not to gasp or scream or jump out of your chair like you’ve just seen a horror movie.  Strippers tend to think you’re reacting to them and might just freak out thinking there’s something wrong with their hoo-ha.

-Women are more than welcome to play Stripper Bocce, but I would highly recommend making special rules that they cannot befriend the strippers.  I’ve seen plenty of collusion, where the girls make friends with the strippers and encourage them to not-so-subtly kick the guys’ bills out of play and give an unfair advantage to the girls.

-While everybody loves a great strip bar, Stripper Bocce makes even shitty strip clubs worthwhile.  Let’s be honest, there are few things worse than a bad strip club (see my story Palm Springs- Where Strippers Go To Die), when you find yourself staring at girls that just shouldn’t be taking their clothes off for money (or taking their clothes off at all, ever).  But with the added excitement of gambling, even ugly strippers can become a source of entertainment!

-And lastly, if a stripper should happen to slip and fall on your dollar bill, run for the hills and never look back.



The Almost Threesome

Writer’s block is finally gone!  Enjoy!

One night in Vegas I almost had a threesome.

But it wasn’t the right kind of threesome.  If you know what I mean.

Alright, perhaps I should explain.  My buddy Tripod and I were at this bar off The Strip called The Beach.  The Beach was my favorite spot in Vegas until it closed down a few years ago.  It was a solid mix of tourists and locals, so it wasn’t a total tourist trap but there were still enough young out-of-town girls looking to make some poor decisions.  The staff at The Beach were all bikini-clad girls and board shorts-clad guys, so there was eye candy for all.  It had a giant dance floor right in the middle, with the entire upper level surrounding and overlooking the floor so you could ogle the girls if you didn’t feel like wading in.

The dance floor itself was hot and steamy, with a constant supply of bar napkins being hurled into the air and fluttering down upon the crowd.  The bikini girls behind the bar and working the beer tubs were also available for “body shots,” which consisted of them spraying dabs of whipped cream on their ass, stomach and cleavage, followed by a test tube full of weak liquor between their boobs.  It was nothing short of a hedonistic delight.

(On my first-ever trip to The Beach I was so drunk from drinking triple gin and tonics –known to the rest of the world as gin on the rocks– that when they announced a limbo contest on the dance floor I immediately volunteered.  I made it through the first round because I’m pretty sure the bar was still higher than my head.  The second round though, with the bar around my nose, I was so hammered that when I tried to lower myself six inches I somehow managed to fall flat on my face.  And so began my love affair with this magical place.)

On this night, Tripod and I were already well sauced when we got to The Beach around 9.  Like most Vegas bars, it really didn’t get busy until after 11, so for two hours we didn’t do much but drink and stare at the bikini girls.  But soon the place started filling up, and we quickly found out that there was a big NASCAR race in town that weekend.  I’m not a NASCAR fan myself, I have too many teeth to be accepted into that club, but surprisingly we found a couple of NASCAR girls that weren’t bad looking at all.  There were two of them, both blonde, and Tripod pounced upon them as only he can.  Unfortunately, we discovered they were there with two guys.  Two very NASCAR-y guys.  Shirts, hats, chew in the back pocket of their Wranglers, the works.  These guys couldn’t have been older than mid-20’s, but they were well on their way to being the stereotypical middle-aged NASCAR redneck.

Tripod was undaunted though.  He waded into the fray, chumming it up with the guys (I’m fairly certain neither of them had ever spoken with a Mexican before, and absolutely certain they’d never done shots with a 4’4”, 240-pound Mexican).  In short order Tripod discovered that one of the girls was indeed dating one of the guys, but the other (the hotter one) was single, although it was pretty clear that the second guy was very interested in her.  Retreating for a quick strategy session, it was determined that I should run interference on the guy while Tripod tried to work on the single girl.

And I tried.  Swear to God, I really tried.  But I could barely understand what these guys were saying.  Now, I’m no snob, I grew up in the Midwest, and I’m proud to say I’m a product of the “flyover states.”  But these guys were at a whole ‘nother level of redneckedness.  They said things like “fixin’” and “You better don’t.”  And they were utterly clueless when it came to football, which was really my only hope of distracting them.  (I had been looking forward to a heated debate of SEC versus Big 10 football.)

Eventually I realized I had little hope of distracting him, so I moved to Plan B.  Acting like I was stupid drunk (not much of a stretch) I stood between where Tripod and the girl were sitting and where the NASCAR guy was sitting.  Then I swayed and staggered, shifting from side to side in order to block his view while Tripod worked his game on the girl.  The guy would lean to one side to try and look around me, I’d pretend to drunkenly stagger a step or two in that direction to block his vision.  It was fun.  And effective.

But at some point the alcohol got the better of me and I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on, because the next thing I knew Tripod was telling me the four NASCAR people were heading to a strip club and he was going to tag along with them.  “I think I can nail her,” he said.

I may have been shitfaced, but I knew this was a bad idea.

“Dude, you can’t go off with them, you may never come back.”

Tripod assured me it was cool, the girl wanted him to come with them.  I told him that was irrelevant, the jealous guy and his friend may just decide to beat his ass and leave him in the desert.  But Tripod was adamant.  Details are sketchy, but I think I refused to go in hopes it would deter Tripod from going.  But that failed miserably and soon I was all by myself at the bar while Tripod was off in a cab to the strip club.

Alone at the best bar in Vegas, I proceeded to drink even more and stumble around the place to check out the girls.  And did I mention I kept drinking?

It was sometime after 3 in the morning when I met a girl at the main bar, nursing a drink by herself.  She wasn’t anything special, skinny but without much shape, brunette with a cute face but a bad set of teeth.  But she had a couple tattoos poking out of her black tank top, which I always take as a sign of sluttiness.  I bought her a drink and we chatted for a while.  I discovered she was a stripper at a place I had never heard of in Vegas (which is to say, not one of the better strip clubs), but as I had never banged a stripper before I thought this would be a great opportunity.  I mean, twenty years down the road when I tell people “I banged a Las Vegas stripper,”  people aren’t going to interrogate me on how hot she was, they’re just going to be in awe of my prowess.

At last call I felt like things were still going well, and being in Vegas (where there are no rules) and being utterly hammered, I just went right in for the kill.  “So, you wanna go back to your place?”

“Maybe,” she answered.  I thought she was just being coy.

But then she dropped the bomb.

“I just have to check with my boyfriend first.”

A long, drunken pause as my mind tried to process this.  “Your boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he’s the DJ here, I’m waiting for him to get off.”

The look on my face must have been more confusion than disappointment.  She elaborated, “It’s cool, we have an open relationship.  I just need to see what he’s up to tonight, but I’m sure you can come back with us.”

Now, there aren’t many moments in my life where I regret drinking as much as I do (other than the hangovers), but this is definitely one of them.  My gin-soaked mind simply couldn’t process where exactly this was heading.

Does she want me to fuck her in front of her boyfriend?  Does she want him to join us?  Does she want to be double teamed?  Or does she want to double team me?

Had I been less hammered or had she been more hot I might have explored this further, asked the questions to ascertain what exactly was on the table.  But I wasn’t sober and she wasn’t that hot, so I quickly extricated from the situation.

And just as I was walking for the door, I got a call from Tripod.  He was in a cab, by himself, and so drunk he couldn’t remember what hotel we were staying at.  I told him, but then he admitted he also had no money to pay the cabbie.  “Well,” I sighed, “just have him come here and pick me up and I’ll cover it.”

A perfect end to a perfect night.  Tripod struck out, I struck out, and we went to bed alone.

Not all Vegas stories have happy endings.

Still Suffering From Writer’s Block

Hopefully something will kick it free soon.  Like some political rantings maybe:

Or sports.  Football is a long ways off and all my hockey teams are out of the playoffs (although I have a small amount of love for the poor Phoenix Coyotes), but Team USA is doing well in the World Championships.  They buried defending champs and host Finland 5-0 over the weekend:

If all else fails there’s always boobs:

I have a feeling alcohol has in some way been responsible for my total brain shutdown, but maybe more alcohol can jump start it again:

And if all else fails, try the boobs again!

Or maybe a little ass just to mix it up:

Something’s gotta work sooner or later.  Bear with me.

Based on a True Story

This is a tough story to write.  Not because it’s embarrassing like most of my stories, but because I have to be very careful to protect the identity of my friend, for reasons that will become obvious soon.  As such, I’m going to have to be really creative in changing names, dates, locations and cast of characters.

So, I can’t tell you how old I was when this story took place.  I can’t tell you if I was living in Champaign, Illinois; or San Diego, California; or End Of The World, Utah.  I can’t tell you why I was getting on a plane the next morning, because the sporting event I was heading to would make it too obvious.  I even have to give aliases to my aliases so no one can piece together who was involved in the story.

In other words, I can’t promise you that any of this story is actually “true.”  I’ve changed so many things it could probably best be described as “Based on a True Story.”

About all I can tell you is that it was my birthday, and I was catching a 7am flight the next morning.  Now, I’ve never been a big fan of my own birthday.  But, I’ve learned over the years that if I try to do nothing for my birthday, someone invariably tries to plan something on my behalf and it ends up sucking.  So I’ve started taking matters into my own hands and planning my own birthday party.  And by “party” I mean telling people what bar I’ll be getting drunk at.  If they want to come and buy me drinks, great; if not, that’s fine too.

So for this particular birthday I chose my local sports bar.  It was a weeknight so I didn’t feel compelled to go to some cool bar or club, and the waitresses and bartenders at this bar were hotter than anything we were likely to find out in the middle of the week.

My buddy Top Gun and I headed out early and started drinking probably about 6.  We flirted with the waitresses and watched whatever sporting event was on TV while drinking heavily.  I was knockin’ back my old standby, gin and tonic, while Top Gun was drinking either vodka tonics or red bull and vodka (sorry, my memory is a little hazy).  I thought we had an understanding that we would hold off on the shots for a couple hours, until other people started showing up.

Apparently Top Gun had no such understanding.

Top Gun was in the midst of trying to break up with his girlfriend of several years.  This had been going on for about two months.  He had had “The Talk” with her on at least two occasions, and both times she had completely lost it, crying and wailing and begging and fucking his brains out until he was powerless to go through with it.  A couple weekends before he had broken up with her on a Friday night, thought he was a free man, but as we were coming back from grabbing dinner and beers as prelude to his first Saturday as a free man, his roommate called to tell him the ex?girlfriend had been sitting on the front porch waiting for him for the better part of an hour.  We changed routes, headed to a bar to grab a drink and wait her out, but after another hour she was still waiting on the porch, crying, and Top Gun didn’t have the heart to put her through it anymore.  We went to his place, they fought, made up, fucked, fought some more, cried some more, fucked some more, and by Sunday morning he was more or less back with her. And I was out a wingman.

Now, Top Gun was a stand-up guy and hadn’t cheated on his ex?girlfriend through any of this, but he was at the end of his rope by now.  He wanted out.  Further complicating matters, there was a girl (we’ll call her Sweet Tits) he worked with who had been sniffing around him for several weeks.  Sweet Tits had invited herself out with us a couple times, gotten rip-roaring drunk with us, and then proceeded to throw herself at him.  To Top Gun’s credit, he had stayed faithful to the ex?girlfriend despite the new girl being hot and extremely available.

Sweet Tits had been texting him while we were drinking, and about the time a few more friends started showing up, she came strolling through the door looking smokin’ hot in a tight little dress.

Things were about to get interesting.

My friend Captain Caveman was on the scene now, and he was a fiend for shots.  We were knocking them back at an alarming rate.  Marlboro Men, Washington Apples, Sicilian Kisses, Jagerbombs, some other things I can’t remember.  I was quickly becoming a mess and it wasn’t even 9 o’clock yet.  And then Buddha showed up and ordered tequila, my old nemesis.

Bad news.

I have to be honest, there’s very little I remember about the rest of our stay at the bar.  I don’t know who was there, I don’t remember what girl I was trying to sleep with at the time that undoubtedly shot me down.  But here’s what I do remember:

At some point in the evening, after ogling Sweet Tits’ sweet tits for awhile, I leaned over and drunkenly draped my arm around Top Gun.  He was no doubt afraid I was about to become one of those emotional drunks that starts telling everyone what a good friend they are and how much I love him.  Not me.

“You know what I want for my birthday?” I said to him in my quietest drunk voice (which is probably just slightly below a roar).  “I want you to fuck the shit out of Sweet Tits!”

Top Gun looked at me quizzically, like this was the oddest request he’d ever heard in his life.  But then he shrugged, smiled, and just said, “Okay.”

A little while later, after Buddha and Captain Caveman had very nearly made me puke with their endless parade of shots, Top Gun appeared by my side with a shit eating grin on his face.  “Done,” was all he said.

It took a moment for it to register with me.  “Wait… what? … You mean? … No! … You didn’t! … You fucked her?!? … In the parking lot?!? … No!  Get the fuck outta here! … You fucked her?!?  Just now?!? … No fuckin’ way! … You really did it???”

I was babbling incoherently, and then I was high fiving and hugging him and dancing around like a fool celebrating a touchdown.  “That’s fucking great!”  I looked across the bar and saw Sweet Tits checking her makeup while she waited for a drink.  “That is the greatest birthday present ever!” I hollered, forcing Top Gun to tell me to keep it down.  “So you’re a free man now!  I’ve got my wingman back!  This is the best birthday ever!!!”

But the night didn’t end there.  Inspired by my friend’s bold parking lot fornication, I decided I needed to get laid myself.  Somewhere between wasted and blacked out, I decided it would be an outstanding idea to drunk text my ex-girlfriend, who lived about 45 minutes away.  I can’t actually remember the conversation that transpired, but here’s a rough simulation:

SWASS- Hey, it’s my birthday!  Wanna fuck???

Ex-GF- Now?

SWASS- Yeah!  It’s my birthday and I miss you!

Ex-GF- Really?

SWASS- Hell yeah!

Ex-GF- Where are you?


Ex-GF- That’s like 45 min away!  I’m already in my PJ’s!

SWASS- Don’t worry, I’ll find a ride up there.  But can you take me to the airport in the morning?

Ex-GF- What time?


Ex-GF- WTF?  Are you kidding me???

SWASS-  But it’s my birthday!  And I miss you!

As long as we're "based on a true story," we'll say my ex looked like this

And it went on like this for some time, only with a lot more misspellings on my part.  When she finally relented I pulled the birthday card on Buddha and made him drive me all the way up to her place.

I’m pretty sure I passed out on the way up to her place, because I really don’t remember anything about the drive.  Buddha was a true friend and got me up there, waited patiently while I had to call her for the specific directions to her place, and finally dropped me off with an apology to my ex.  By this time it was close to 2 in the morning.  That meant two things: First, I had been drinking for somewhere near 8 hours.  And second, I needed to get up in about three hours for my flight.

So, not wasting anytime, I tried to get busy with her on a park bench outside her apartment.  When she refused me that we stumbled up to her apartment and went straight to bed.

Now, I’m sure you have all experienced Whiskey Dick before.  Well, this was Whiskey Dick’s evil cousin, Super Dick.  That’s when you’re hard as a rock but can’t climax.  Super Dick sounds like a great thing (“Hey, I can fuck all night!”).  But in reality, when you’re stupid blind drunk all you really want to do is cum and pass out.  It’s a cruel irony; you never last as long as you want when you’re sober, but when you’re drunk you’re like a machine.

I pounded on the ex forever.  It was the best cardio workout I’d had in weeks.  But there was no way I was going to cum.  The ex was moaning and groaning (she had to be faking it), telling me how much she missed me.  Finally, after an eternity, and when I felt like I might just puke if I exerted myself anymore, I faked my orgasm.

That’s right, I faked it.

Take that, ladies!

I rolled off her, told her how great she was, and before passing out set my alarm for 4:45.  Fifteen minutes before we technically needed to get on the road for the airport.

It’s amazing what two hours of sleep can do when you’re shitfaced.  I was still drunk when I woke up, but no longer a total trainwreck.  So, confident that Super Dick had passed, I nudged the ex awake, rolled back on top of her, and went at it again.

It couldn’t have taken me more than three minutes to cum.

In retrospect I feel a little bad, because even though it had lasted longer the night before I seriously doubt my performance had been anything to write home about.  But oh well.

So then the ex, bless her heart, drove my ass all the way back to my place to grab my bag, then drove me to the airport.  And all she got out of it was a beautiful sunrise.

In the aftermath of this epic night, the ex got the crazy idea in her head that we might get back together.  Thankfully I was gone for about a week so that helped a bit.

But the real story was Top Gun.  I think he felt guilty about finally cheating on his ex?girlfriend, even if it was barely more than a technicality.  He broke up with her, and almost immediately started dating Sweet Tits.

They were married a few years later.

Now isn’t that a happy ending?  And it was all because of me!  Of course, Sweet Tits has no idea about any of this, so we’ll have to keep it our little secret.

Who says I’m not a romantic???

A Quick Shout Out

I have a new favorite TV show.  It’s called Drinking Made Easy.

It’s a little hard to find, airing on the HDNet Channel.  If you have Direct TV it’s on channel 306; if you have Dish Network I think it’s channel 362; if you have something else you’ll have to check and see if you have it.

Basically, these guys Zane Lamprey and Steve McKenna drive around the country visiting different cities and taking in the different drinking cultures.  But this isn’t high-brow and sophisticated stuff; nope, it always ends up in the guys (especially McKenna) getting wasted.  Along the way they introduce the viewer to unique drinks and engage in juvenile games and pranks.

But the best part of the show is Pleepleus.  Here’s the official write-up on the show’s mascot:

Pleepleus is a stuffed monkey and Zane’s main travel companion so he does not have to drink alone…

The easiest way to turn Drinking Made Easy into a drinking game is to look for Pleepleus.  Either the life size costume, or the stuffed monkey (the hardest one to find, as they hide him), or if you really want to get wasted, Pleepleus logos on clothing.

There’s a list of other drinking rules on the website if you want to make it really challenging.  Or, if you just want to see some different places in the country and get some ideas for new drinks (the Scorpion at the Peppermill Casino in Las Vegas would be a perfect addition to Hookers And Booze’s Girlie Drink of the Week) you can skip the drinking game and just watch the show.

But what fun would that be?

My Only San Diego Story Where I Don’t Get Drunk

San Diego- It's not just a whale's vagina...

When I worked at the school in San Diego that shall remain nameless (I’ll give you a hint: they just joined the Big East) it was basically four straight years of drunken debauchery.  8 years after I left I’m still paying off credit card bills from the bar tabs I ran up 5-6 nights a week.  But I don’t regret any of it (well, maybe I wish I had a little more game and could’ve nailed a few more of those lovely SoCal girls).  This story, however, is one of the few stories I have that doesn’t involve me winding up shitfaced drunk.  But don’t worry, I promise it’s still worth reading! also has one of the more beautiful skylines in America.

It was Friday morning, the day before our first home football game.  You’d think I’d be excited when I woke up, but instead I was still hurting from the night before.  Not hungover or anything, I took it fairly easy, but it was a long night nonetheless.  We had a birthday party for Country  and there were about six of my students out, all of them but Tripod looking hot.  There were also people from work, including Wayne The Mormon and some girl that had been throwing herself at him for a couple weeks.  On top of all that, there were maybe twenty athletes there, which made my presence very inappropriate.

But this isn’t going to be one of my typical stories of drunken debauchery.  Like I said, I didn’t drink that much, but I did have to deal with Country getting severely intoxicated; Tripod and one of my new employees getting freaky on the dance floor; and my student G-Man showing up shitfaced and getting into it with his ex-girlfriend/varsity swimmer/my friend Erica.  So after we closed the bar down at 2, I was trying to round everyone up to figure out who shouldn’t be driving, while Erica hung on my arm about to cry because G-Man was being a drunken asshole (I love that guy), when all of a sudden G-Man wants to talk to her.  I tried to dissuade him, told him to sober up and call her tomorrow, but he insisted, and the dumb girl sent her friends home so she could go with him.  To make a long story short, I ended up driving Tripod, G-Man and his three roommates, and Erica across the beach to G-Man’s place, where we had one more drink, everyone else started breaking out the pot, G-Man and Erica disappeared back to his room to “talk” (not to be seen again), and I didn’t get home until after 3.

So I rolled into work about 9:30 and the day begins.  Won’t bore you with details, but this is a very stressful time.  Normally, the day before a football game we take a crew down to the stadium and we all put in about four or five hours doing stuff so Saturday will be an easier day.  Well, the Padres were playing this night, so we couldn’t do that, which means we’re already behind schedule.  And to top it all off, someone decided to schedule our annual cross country meet and a soccer game on the same day.  At a BCS school that wouldn’t be a big deal, but since it takes our entire workforce to run a football game it poses a major problem.

It was quickly becoming a miserable day with all of us running in different directions, and it’s not helping that my coworker Joe (Eddie Munster we call him, because that’s exactly what he looks like) is a complete moron.  He fucked up about four things (including my lunch order) before I finally just blew up at him in the office.  It was classic.  He was whining about how late he was going to be working and I said (in front of about eight people), “No, you’re going to go home early tonight and get some rest, because if you pull any of this shit tomorrow I’ll fucking kill you.”  A hush fell over the entire office as people stopped to see if I was joking.  I wasn’t.

Again, won’t bore you with details, but thanks to Joe’s fuck-ups we were hours behind on everything.  Had to go down to Balboa Park (a notorious gay spot in San Diego) to set up for the cross country meet.  It was very disturbing (I swear I heard two guys fucking in the bushes) and we were there until dark, so I was getting pretty livid.  Plus I still had laundry to do for tomorrow’s game, and I was starving due to the aforementioned lunch debacle.  We finally got back to campus after 8pm and had a quick bite to eat.  My boss went home because he was getting up at 3am to run the cross country meet, leaving just me and Joe.  I started loading all our vans for the trip down to the stadium in the morning (actually I was shifting contents from one van to another because of another of Joe’s fuckups).

Finally got home after midnight and had to do a quick load of laundry before going to bed just after 2.

Imagine driving this at 5 in the morning with drunks flying past you at 60+ mph...

Let me tell you, my 4:30am alarm was not met with a smile.  I stumbled out of bed cursing, threw on some clothes and drove to campus.  There I picked up our department’s new prized toy, an electric car.  These carts are really nothing more than glorified golf carts.  They go 25 mph (with a governor on them so they can’t go faster) and are legal on all streets with a speed limit of 35 or less, but they’re open and flimsy like golf carts so they’re not what you would call safe.  So at 5 in the morning, with the dawn just barely breaking, I’m driving one of these carts the five miles or so to Qualcomm Stadium on a road with a speed limit of 45.  Drunks were flying by me at 60+ and I was seriously thinking I was going to die.  I made it to the stadium a little after 5:30 and started my day.

With my boss at the cross country meet I was the man in charge until about 1pm, and we were scrambling from the get-go.  But I persevered, providing fearless leadership to my army of hot girls dressed in short shorts and tight tank tops.  Things went so well that, despite the fact that the field wasn’t even painted for a football game until after 2:00, we had all our shit pretty much wired except for a few minor glitches.

The game was a shootout.  We lacked depth and our defense sucked, but goddamn our offense was exciting.  Before the day was done our QB had passed for over 500 yards, we had one receiver with 296 and another with 150-some.  Unfortunately, after jumping out to a 22-0 lead we faltered and ran out of gas and lost 39-28.  But it sure was exciting.

So postgame cleanup began about 10:45.  This is always a tedious process since everyone is tired after a very long day, pissed off after another demoralizing loss, and generally wondering why they’re here when they could be out getting drunk.  I was doing surprisingly well considering I’d been working for 17 hours straight and awake roughly 35 of the last 37 hours.

We got cleaned up in near record time and were out just a little before 1am.  I still had to drive that damn cart back to campus but I was determined to make last call.  So I grabbed what I needed out of my bag and stuffed it in the glove box (the only secure area of the cart) and left the rest of my stuff (change of clothes, etc.) in one of the vans for Monday.  Tripod and I piled into the cart and we rolled down the hill to the bar.  We pulled into the parking lot and the drunks started hollering at us, making fun of our cart.  We found a parking spot and dashed in just in time for last call.  Some of the department staff were there commiserating the loss, and Wayne The Mormon said the first round was on him, so of course I ordered a double gin & tonic.  It was oh-so-fucking-good, and although I still didn’t feel tired I was so deliriously punch drunk that I might as well have been hammered.  I was shamelessly ogling girls, spewing profanities about all the people that had pissed me off in the past two days (some of whom were still in the bar), and generally making a total ass out of myself.

We finally got kicked out at 2 (after I had managed just two drinks) and I headed for the cart to drive back to campus.

And it was only then that I realized that when I grabbed my stuff I had forgotten one vital thing: my keys.  So my car was sitting on campus and I couldn’t get in it.  And I couldn’t get into my apartment either.  Son of a bitch.  Must have been more tired than I thought.  I got someone to give Tripod a ride home and started the 9 mile journey home in the electric cart.  I had to drive right through campus, and it was utter chaos.  Frat parties and drunk people all over the streets.  They were screaming at me as I cruised past in my electric cart, and more than once some shitfaced kid tried to run into the street and jump into the cart, so I was weaving down the street like an obstacle course.  It was madness.

I finally made it home about 3.  Pulled the cart around the side of the building, scraping bushes as I go, until I was right under my second-floor patio.  Climbed on top of the cart, jumped up to grasp the rails of my patio, hauled myself up, busted the screen door open, and entered my apartment.  Then I had to go out the front door and park the cart before going back inside.

By this time I was starving.  I don’t think I had eaten for at least ten hours.  So I popped a frozen dinner in the microwave.  When it was ready I settled into bed to watch a little Sportscenter while my dinner cooled down…

Imagine waking up next to this 10 hours after it came out of the microwave.

…I woke around 8 in the morning, my head laying next to my untouched microwave dinner.  I’m lucky I didn’t fall asleep in it.  It was disgusting.  I set it on my nightstand and went back to bed until the Bears game started at 10.

And that’s the story of my 23-hour day.  Roughly 40 hours of work in a span of just over 42 hours.  (I was getting paid for 30 hours a week at the time.)  Needless to say, I got drunk six straight days the next week!

Operation: Jayhawk Down, Part 3

**Part 3 of one of the sadder failures of my life.  Sometimes all you can do is shake your head at my younger self’s stupidity.**

I gave Julie a call the Monday after their tournament and left a message and she called the next night.  We talked for about five minutes (I adhered to Maxim Magazine’s advice that you should never talk to a girl longer than you can have sex with her).  It went pretty well and we agreed on a Beachcomber rendezvous Thursday night.  Finally we would be on my home turf.

Wednesday night Prada gave me a call around 11.  You’ll remember she’s friends with Big Becky.  She said during class, acting like a 15-year-old, Becky leaned over and asked her, “Have you talked to [Single White Alcoholic] lately?”

I had worked long and hard with Prada to teach her how to properly handle these situations and not make me look like an idiot, so she played along and gave a “No, what’s up?”

“He called Julie.”

“Oh really?”

According to Becky, Julie didn’t think I would call her, so she was duly impressed when I did.  Julie thought I was “a cool guy,” and wanted to get to know me better.  Becky then started pressing Prada for details.  Is he really cool?  Would you date him?  Prada came through big time, saying that it wasn’t an option since she worked for me, but under other circumstances she could definitely see herself dating me.  (What a great friend, lying through her teeth like that.)

Now, if all this sounds like something out of junior high school, well, it did to me too.  But, I must admit, it was amusing and entertaining in its own weird way.  Kind of like mixing the nostalgia of youth with the rampant alcoholism of my modern day life.

Kevin Garnett.  My favorite basketball player ever.Thursday night Tripod, Prada and I met up for dinner and the Lakers-T’wolves playoff game (I’m not a big NBA fan but Kevin Garnett is one of my favorite athletes ever) before heading to the ‘Comber.  Since the game ran late there was a long line at the door, so we went to the back door and used our connections to get in.

We grabbed a drink at the back bar and made a lap around the bar.  The place was packed.  We were at the front door talking to the doormen when Prada spotted the girls.  There were like ten of them at a table right by the entrance.  They had already spotted us and a junior high giggle session was beginning.  Prada said, “You’ve been spotted, you better go say hi.”

So I cruised over and it was all eyes on me.  Julie was right next to Becky, so I had to give the big girl a big hug before I could even say hi to my target.  It was awkward for both of us with everyone standing right there, and since I had just arrived I didn’t have the proper buzz to loosen myself up.  But we made the best of the situation.  I put my arm around her waist in a non-threatening-yet-slightly-threatening way to say hi.  She gave me some grief about my T’wolves, and I played the disappointed-yet-gracious-in-defeat role to perfection if I may say so myself.

Their table was right on the edge of the dance floor, which was spreading like an amoeba, so one of the bouncers came in and hauled the table off, and suddenly we were all standing right in the middle of a budding dance floor.  The girls were just starting to get the dance bug, but I still didn’t have enough alcohol in my bloodstream.  I was talking to Julie when Kenny, the assistant coach and only guy in the group, came up to console me on the T’wolves.  We talked playoffs for a minute before he suddenly said, “Sorry, dude, I’m fuckin’ up your game,” and disappeared.  I’m pretty sure she heard him.


Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” started up and the girls went nuts.  (Don’t all girls do that when that song comes on?)  I watched bemused as they started dancing.  Prada appeared at my side and started berating me, “You need to make a move!”  I explained that I needed more alcohol before I could break it down, plus I didn’t need to be hanging on her hip every second.  A little distance isn’t a bad thing.  The night was young, and my game is strictly ball control; no wide-open spread offenses here.  “But you need to flirt more,” she insisted.  I told her in no uncertain terms that I had it all under control.  (I didn’t, but her critiquing my every move wasn’t helping.)

About that time Hot Hippie and Will The Mormon both started calling, saying they were outside in line.  I sent them around back and worked my magic to get them in.  (I love the ‘Comber, it’s the only place I’ve ever felt like a big shot.)  We talked for a bit and I was about to head back towards the dance floor when I saw the girls heading our way.  I got Hot Hippie and Julie together, and it was a touching moment since they hadn’t seen each other in years.  The problem, though, was that Hot Hippie was supposed to be there to help my game; instead, she monopolized Julie’s time for a good 20 minutes as they caught up.  I tried to make myself look busy, social butterfly that I am, cruising from group to group (my students Beer Slut and Smurfette, both smokin’ hot, were there by then, and of course I had to hug and ogle them).

Eventually they migrated back towards the dance floor, and after getting myself a fresh gin and tonic I decided to make my move.  I waded into the crowded dance floor, not really sure where she was.  Kenny saw me, grabbed me, pointed her out, and pushed me through the crowd with a “Do your thing, dude!”

She was kind of in the corner of the dance floor by the DJ booth, so I was able to corner her for some serious grinding.  I kept close and intimate, making my intentions clear.  But the problem was Becky.  She kept trying to worm her way in, like she was trying to cockblock me or something.  I wasn’t happy, but I couldn’t be a dick to her so I had to take it.  Tripod, of course, was nowhere to be found to help deflect her (he was busy with some girl who would eventually give him a lap dance on a bar stool, but that’s another story altogether).  Will The Mormon was busy flirting with Hot Hippie and the other girls, so he was no help either.

Eventually, someone mentioned doing shots and I jumped at the opportunity to withdraw from the three way dance circle.  I took Julie, Becky and another friend to the bar for kamikazes.  (And I sent one across the bar to Callie, Julie’s best friend who hated the ‘Comber and didn’t seem to like me too much.)  Julie thanked me and gave me a little kiss.

Oh yeah, closin’ in for the kill.

At some point I headed for the bathroom and ran into Kenny.  While we were urinating he said, “Dude, you got Julie in the bag, dude.”  He was utterly hammered.  I pressed him for details but all he would say is, “Dude, just go work your magic.”

We went back and danced a little bit more, but Julie was fading fast.  I knew she was drunk, but didn’t realize how bad.  After a while she just disappeared.  I went to the bathroom and the bar for drinks and when I came back she was gone.  Prada and I did a lap and couldn’t find her.  We asked her friends and no one seemed to know.  Stranger still, nobody seemed particularly concerned.  Where I come from, you keep track of your friends when they’re drunk.  Especially girls.  I was concerned, and not just because I was hoping to get laid.

Prada was ready to head home, and everyone had parked in the same lot, so I decided to walk Prada to her car about two blocks away and take a look around.  Sure enough, I saw a form sitting on the curb of a little tree island in the middle of the parking lot.  I sent Prada off and went over to check on her.  Julie had her head buried in her arms between her drawn up knees.  I tried to initiate conversation but couldn’t get anything more out of her than “uh huh” or “uh uh.”  So I just sat down beside her and rubbed her back until her friends finally showed up.

No sex for me tonight.

When Callie pulled the car up and I pulled her to her feet she promptly started puking.  Hanging off the back of the car, just spewing her guts out.  That started a conversation as to when the last time anyone could remember seeing Julie puke.  The general consensus was freshman year.  I did my best to keep her hair out of the way as I witnessed history and her friends made fun of her.

Then the dumb girls realized they had left one of their friends back at the bar, so most of them piled into one car to drive back and find her.  That left just Julie, me, and Kenny and his girlfriend.  Kenny was smashed by now, leaning sideways and slurring almost incoherently.  But he was still intent on helping me out.  He told his girlfriend they had to leave right now, then came over and gave me a breath mint and said, “Do your work, dude.”

Really?  Right after she’s puked?

They drove off, leaving us alone again.  She was cold so I gave her my shirt (I had a T-shirt on underneath; I’m not that generous!) and put it over her shoulders.  It was near closing time when Tripod called me.  “Where you at?”

“In the parking lot.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there.”

“No,” I said, “take your time, dude.”

“Well,” Tripod said, sounding somewhat aggravated, “I’ve pretty much struck out here so I’ll be right there.”

“No,” I said more forcefully, “take your time.  Know what I mean?”  (Hint, hint.)

“Ohhhhh.  If you want me to stay just say ‘yes.’”


“Alright, dude, call me when you’re ready.”

So we got a few more minutes of semi-intimate comatose time before the girls showed back up.  Their little tiny two-door Honda already had five people in it.  Callie hopped out and popped the trunk, grabbed a couple grocery bags and made a “double lined puke bag” for Julie.  Then we loaded her in the front seat on top of another girl and I sent them on their way.  Everyone except Callie thanked me for taking good care of her, saying such annoying things as “You’re such a great guy,” and “You’re so sweet.”

Ugh, not a good sign.

As they drove off I realized Julie still had my shirt.  Then I quickly realized that was a good thing; now I’d have to get it back from her.

Sometimes I amaze even myself.

I rounded up Tripod and we headed home.  Going into the night I had had two goals: 1) To ask her out on an actual date and 2) to make friends with Callie, because I thought she’d have to endorse me for this whole thing to work.  Neither goal was actually achieved, but I felt pretty good about things nonetheless.  During the drive back I gameplanned with Tripod; we agreed it would be a good idea to call the next day just to see how she was feeling.  How long should you wait to call someone after they’ve puked?  When I vomit I’m pretty much out of commission for a solid 12 hours, so I figured about 1 or 2 in the afternoon would be good.  We also agreed that I needed to start drinking a lot more.

When she answered the phone the next day she just started laughing.  “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it,” I responded, “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“I’m okay now.  This morning I wasn’t doing too well.  I barely made it to class.”

(Class?  My God, I would never even think of going to class the day after a binge drinking session.)  “What time was class?”

“Nine.  I barely woke up at 8:30.”

“Jesus, girl, you’re a fuckin’ trooper!”

She was on the road to Lake Havasu for a weekend of drunken debauchery in the desert, and after about five minutes she lost reception in the desert.  I left her a message saying I’d call when she got back in town.