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!

...it 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!

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An Easy Girl

Her name was Hailee.  She had a great body, long legs, nice ass, toned stomach and great breasts.  Unfortunately, Hailee had a face that could stop traffic.  She was in her mid-20’s but she had acne like the worst 16-year-old you’ve ever seen.  It wasn’t pretty.

I hooked up with Hailee one very drunken night when we all wound up at her place after the bar closed.  There were about a dozen people in her tiny studio apartment, playing drinking games until the wee hours of the morning.  Details are extremely hazy because I was drunker than three Indians on payday, but somehow as I was getting ready to leave I found myself making out with her.  (I think I made the first move but I honestly don’t remember.)  I took a step back into her apartment and kicked the door shut on my friends (the international sign for “get lost”) and we stumbled to her bed.

Once in bed I got her top off and discovered that her breasts were even better than they appeared under her shirt.  They were above average size for someone as skinny as she was, and so perfectly shaped I couldn’t be completely certain they were real.  (I consider myself a connoisseur of the breast augmentation business and can usually tell the difference with ease.)  And to top it all off, she had these spectacular eraser tip nipples that stuck out nearly a full inch.

I was so mesmerized by her rack that I was ready to forget about her unfortunate face and dive in… until my hand crept down inside her panties and found a string hanging out.

Sonuvabitch.

Well that sucks.  So we made out a little more, I played with her boobs a lot more.  I tried to get her to blow me but she wasn’t having any of it.  So I tried to get her to jerk me off but she was as inept at it as most girls.  So I passed out for a couple hours on her tiny bed before making the mile-plus walk of shame with no coat in the middle of December.

It might have been the coldest walk of my life.

But the story doesn’t end there.  A few weeks later a man named Blackout moved to town.  Blackout and I immediately hit it off and became drinking partners.  A few weeks into his arrival in Utah we were shitfaced at a bar and he was lamenting the lack of available females in this godforsaken wasteland we call home.

“You want some ass tonight?” I asked.  “I can deliver it to your door!”

Blackout hadn’t known me for very long, but it was long enough to know I’m no ladies man.  So he was skeptical.  But as we were piling into our designated driver’s car I pulled out my phone and shot a text to Hailee.  It took about two minutes and three texts to have her lined up.  Our sober driver swung by her place, picked her up, and dropped the three of us off at Blackout’s apartment.

Once there, I helped myself to a beer and hung out for about five minutes, just long enough to make sure everything was going smoothly.  Then I feigned like I needed to get something at my place (I lived in the same complex about a hundred yards away), said I’d be right back, and went home to bed.

The next day I asked Blackout how it went.  “Good, I think.  I don’t really remember.  Don’t think I fucked her, but you’re right, she has a great rack.”

But the story still isn’t over.

A couple weeks after that we once again found ourselves at Blackout’s apartment after a long night of drinking.  This night was an absolute trainwreck; I don’t remember where we were, who we were with, or how we wound up at home with Hailee in tow.

Here’s what I do remember.  Blackout was sitting in his recliner chair, chugging a beer.  I was on the couch chugging a beer.  Hailee was on the end of the couch, between us, chugging a beer.  It was cold out and she had on this long sweater that was almost like a dress, hanging down so low it practically covered her ass.  She had some kind of black tights on that probably would have shown off her ass quite nicely were it not for that sweater.  After the three of us had chilled for awhile, Hailee got up and went to the bathroom.  And when she came back she wasn’t wearing her tights!

I was bewildered.  Hammered and bewildered.  She slid past me on her way back to her spot on the couch, and as she did I could just see under her long sweater that she wasn’t wearing anything else.  Just a bare ass and an uncaged beaver.

So… what do you do in a situation like this?  She didn’t say a word, just sat back down between us and started drinking her beer and staring straight ahead at the TV.

Is this what you're looking for?

A million thoughts were racing through my drunken head.  What the fuck is going on?  Does she want us to take turns on her?  Does she want to get tag teamed?  Is she just totally fucked in the head???

I wanted desperately to confer with Blackout about this situation, but obviously that couldn’t be done with her sitting there.  Even worse, he was so fucked up he wasn’t even aware that she was now sitting in his living room with no pants on.  I was frantically trying to get his attention without alerting Hailee, leaning back in the couch and trying to make eye contact behind her back.

'Cause this ain't happenin'!

Now, I’m not going to say that I was down with the idea of having the wrong kind of threesome.  But I will say that I would have loved to have that conversation.  “So… you want me and Blackout to both fuck you?  At the same time?  Exactly how would you like this to work, which hole do I get?  Oh, and by the way, are you completely out of your fucking mind?!?”

But, alas, Blackout was totally out of it.  Short of me standing up and boldly announcing that there was a pants-less, classless, respect-less whore in his living room, nothing else was going to get his attention.  (In retrospect that’s exactly what I should have done.)

After what seemed like an ungodly length of time (it might have been just 5 minutes, but in my state time doesn’t have much meaning) Hailee huffed angrily, got up and stormed back into the bathroom.  The moment the door shut I whispered, “Dude!  That crazy bitch isn’t wearing any pants!  I think she wants us to run a train on her!’

Blackout stirred the tiniest bit, as if deciding whether this interested him, but then he slouched back in the chair and told me I could have her.  About that time Hailee came out of the bathroom, but instead of re-joining us in the living room she just helped herself to Blackout’s bed and passed out.

“Dude!” I whispered again, “She’s in your bed!  I think that means she wants to fuck you!”

Again, a half-stir out of Blackout, but then he shrugged and curled up in the recliner chair.  “You go for it.  I’m just gonna sleep here tonight.”

Now my bewilderment was making my head spin more than the booze.  “You want me to fuck her?  In your bed?”

“Sure.  I’ll clean the sheets tomorrow.”

To my great shame and embarrassment, I must admit I actually contemplated this.  I stood up, walked into the bedroom, as if to assess the situation.  I might have even called out to see if she was awake, I don’t remember.  But she didn’t stir, certainly didn’t say, “Oh, Single White Alcoholic, come fuck me in Blackout’s bed!”  So I decided the best course of action was to go home to bed.

The next day Blackout had no memory whatsoever of the incident.  When I recapped it for him he was just as intrigued as I had been.  “Do you think she wanted us to gangbang her?  Dude, that chick is nuts!  We should probably avoid putting anything inside her.”

“Agreed!”

The 26-Year-Old Virgin

While I’ve certainly never claimed to be a great ladies man (have you read my stories???), I’m ashamed to admit that, outside of priests who have taken a vow of celibacy, I’m probably in the absolute last percentile of how long it took me to lose my virginity.  And my first instinct is to spend the next 2000 words making excuses for why it took me so long to get my dick wet.  But that would just be whining like a little bitch, so instead I’ll steal a line from The 40-Year-Old Virgin as way of explanation:

“It just never happened.  When I was young, I tried, and it didn’t happen.  And then I got older and I got more and more nervous because it hadn’t happened yet.  And I got kind of weirded out about it.  Then it really didn’t happen.  And then, I don’t know, I just kind of stopped trying.”

Seems as good an explanation as any.  I’ll expound upon it only with this: I come from a family that doesn’t drink alcohol.  I’ve never seen my Dad have even a sip of alcohol in my life (his father dying in a drunk driving accident that he caused from the passenger seat might have had something to do with that).  I’ve seen my Mom have about three strawberry daiquiris in my whole life.  Drinking was never part of our family culture, and so my older brother never drank either.  Without good solid alcoholic role models it took me a long time to find the joys of the hooch.  I think it was senior year in college before I ever got drunk.  And it wasn’t until I moved to San Diego and met my boy Tripod that I finally became a full-blown alcoholic.  By that time I was about 24 and pretty much a wreck with the opposite sex, so it would still take another two years before I finally broke through to the promised land.

This is the story of that night.

I was out drinking with my buddy Sandpaper on a lazy Saturday night.  One of those nights where we just didn’t feel like getting all dressed up, driving out to the hot spots in town, droppin’ a wad of cash, so we opted for our neighborhood dive bar, a place called the Hearth House.  The place was a shit hole, but it was less than three blocks from our apartment and the drinks were so outrageously strong you could get shitfaced for pocket change.  (One night I ordered a double gin and tonic, just to see how strong they would actually make it.  The bartender gave me a tumbler full of gin with a few ice cubes, not even a splash of tonic.)

This was back in 2002.  You might recall that was the height of the Golden Tees craze.  I don’t like to brag, but I was pretty goddamn good at it too.  (I think never having played real golf before gave me an advantage; I would try shots no legitimate golfer could fathom on a real golf course.)  I also focused my complete attention of the game when playing.  While I would usually be drunkenly ogling hot ladies while hanging with my friends, when playing Golden Tees I was focused like the ninja.  Other than talking shit to my friends and dancing around celebrating Great Shots Points I was oblivious to the entire bar.

Maybe it’s the theory of girls going for jerks, or only wanting what they can’t have, or some such shit, but whenever I was in full-on Golden Tee mode girls would actually show interest in me.  A few times before I’d been hit on by total strangers while working my game.

But this night would be the stuff of legends.

I’m not gonna lie, she wasn’t cute.  Average height, average body, brown hair, decent rack, ass a little too big for my taste (just like her belly).  And it took me awhile to realize it, but she had a bit of a mustache too.  Not a terrible one, but the kind that women nowadays have the sense to wax because, let’s face it, NO guy likes that.

She came up behind me while I was lining up for a big approach shot on the back nine.  She started rubbing my bald head and I was nothing but annoyed as I short-armed my shot and missed the green.  I was already starting to turn and say something rude to her when Sandpaper, sensing opportunity, jumped in and started working her like a used car salesman.  Within moments he had ordered a fresh round of stiff drinks for us all, pulled her friends over (both of her friends were hotter than her), and soon it was a small party by the Golden Tees game.

I don’t remember when I actually stopped caring about the video game and started thinking about getting laid.  It was probably a couple holes after Sandpaper had stopped paying all attention to the game and I was beating him sufficiently that it wasn’t even fun to talk smack anymore.  So we started letting the girls take some shots for us, all the while plying them with more alcohol.

The girl (we’ll call her Suzy, because that was her name) was clearly into me, and after a sufficient number of Hearth House megadrinks I was starting to warm up to the idea of fucking her.  I swear to God, I actually remember the drunken rationalization that went through my head:

No, she’s not hot.

But you’re a 26-year-old virgin and you’re getting dangerously close to dying alone.

Did you think your first time would be with a supermodel?  Would you even want your first time to be with a girl you actually liked?

Oh look, she has a tongue stud.  That always looks fun in porn.

You just gotta get one out of the gate.  Get yourself in the game.  Once you’ve bagged this 4 there will be a world of 10’s ahead of you.

So I decided to go for it.  All in, balls to the wall.  With Sandpaper as my wingman we put on the full court press for the rest of the night.  By last call we were all a retarded drunken mess.  One of the girl’s boyfriends had appeared on the scene, and one of the bartenders also appeared interested in one of the girls.  (I can’t remember if it was Suzy; probably not.)  We were in the parking lot, all discussing what to do.  The girls lived at an apartment complex not too far away with a swimming pool.  But they had no booze at their place, and neither Sandpaper nor I had any swim trunks.  Conferring with Sandpaper and confirming that we were in it to win it, I told him to keep everyone there in the parking lot.  Meanwhile, I jumped in my car and careened drunkenly up the hill to our place to snag booze and swim trunks.

I came screeching back into the parking lot some ten minutes later, we rounded everyone up and headed in a caravan of vehicles for the girls’ apartment.  I don’t think there was a sober person in any of the four cars.

By this point I was approaching drunken blindness.  Details at the apartment complex are sketchy at best.  It was a huge place, and numbered in no discernible order.  I remember wandering around forever looking for their apartment, having no luck whatsoever, finally finding them at the pool and having Suzy walk me to their place so we could change into our trunks and make cocktails for everyone.  It had to be past 3 am by this time.

At this point I have to make a public and formal apology to my good friend Sandpaper.  In my haste back at our apartment I had only been able to find one pair of swim trunks.  I frantically searched the mess of my bedroom, looked through his bedroom, couldn’t find anything.  Somehow I found a pair of women’s soccer shorts.  Don’t ask me how they were in my room (this was long before I crashed and burned with the smokin’ hot women’s soccer All-American Coconut; I’ll tell that story some other time).  But however they found their way there, in my drunken state I remember holding them up, thinking to myself, “Sure, these will fit Sandpaper,” and running out the door with them.

Well, they didn’t fit Sandpaper.

The poor guy looked like an extra on the set of Hoosiers.  They were so short and uncomfortable he looked like a complete buffoon.  He was pissed at me too.  But, being the good friend that he is, he sucked it up, strode out to the pool with his moose knuckle on full display, and dove into the pool.

Again, details are sketchy because I was getting drunker by the minute, but I remember making out with Suzy in the pool for lengthy stretches of time.  I remember one of the girls went to bed, leaving only the girl with the boyfriend.  They had been fighting about something, and now the boyfriend was passed out on one of the deck chairs.  Sandpaper, meanwhile, was trying to keep the girl occupied so I could work on Suzy.  But as some point I remember him coming over to me in the pool and saying something along the lines of, “That chick just grabbed my junk!  I think she wants to fuck someone to piss off her boyfriend.  This is gonna be a great night!”

Finally, sometime around 4:30 (totally guessing here), Sandpaper and I decided it was time to head home.  I have no idea what happened to the other girl and her boyfriend.  I just remember being back in the apartment with Sandpaper and Suzy; he was rounding up our shit to leave and telling me it was time to shit or get off the pot.  So I asked Suzy if she wanted to come home with me.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“I know it’s not a good idea.  But do you want to come home with me?”

(I swear to God I actually said that.  Who knew I had that kind of asshole game in me???)

“Will you bring me back in the morning?”

“Sure.”

And that was all it took.  We piled into my car, Suzy and I getting in the backseat to make out while Sandpaper chauffeured us home. Cheers again, Sandpaper, you should be in the Wingman Hall of Fame!

Now, I should explain here that I had a crappy little Pontiac Sunbird at this time in my life.  It was about a ’94 model, had over 100,000 miles on it, and was on its last legs.  It had a 4-cylinder engine that whined when you stepped on the gas.  Sandpaper thought this was immensely entertaining, so as I was making out with Suzy in the backseat he was repeatedly stomping on the gas pedal as hard as he could to hear the engine whine.  He did that the entire ride down the highway, stomp on the gas pedal, giggle as the engine made the sound of a dying animal, then take his foot completely off the gas and coast a few seconds before doing it again.  In the back of my mind I knew this wasn’t a good idea, but since I could literally see the end of my virginity in sight I just didn’t give a fuck.  I had bigger fish to fry.

Back at our place Sandpaper went straight to his room and shut the door, making himself invisible to give me my moment.  Suzy wanted to smoke so we had to make a stop at our patio before retiring to my messy bedroom and heading straight for the bed.

It wasn’t pretty.  She wasn’t pretty.  She had a pierced nipple, which I’ve always had a thing for, but that was about it.  I have no doubt that I was one of the worst lays of her life too.  It’s not that I was too quick; this wasn’t the typical teenager getting laid for the first time and blowing his wad in 30 seconds.  No, this was a 26-year-old man who had never done ANY of the shit he’d seen in porn for the past eight years and trying to check it all off the list in one night.

I went down on her for about two minutes.  Then I asked her to blow me.  But that didn’t last long either because I desperately wanted to stick my dick in her and make it official.  I wrapped my dick up with a condom for the first time.  (Side note: I can’t even guess how many condoms I bought between the ages of 18 and 26, futilely hoping that someday I would have need for one.  Dozens?  A hundred?  God only knows.  Is there anything sadder in this world than knowing you couldn’t use a condom before it hit its expiration date?)

Once inside I rolled through all the positions I could think of.  Missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl (only to discover my dick didn’t bend quite that way, ouch!), doggie, some kind of half-spoon thing I had seen in a porn once.  She must have thought I was a hamster on crystal meth.  When I finally came I just collapsed on the bed beside her, thinking to myself:

AT LAST!!!!

By this time it was after 6 in the morning and the booze was beginning to leave my bloodstream.  I was exhausted but I figured I should try to get one more fuck in while I actually had a real live female in my bed.  She wanted to smoke first, so we went back to our patio, where she smoked while I tried to put just enough moves on her to convince her to let me bang her again.

Unfortunately, our patio faced the sunrise, and once she saw that she was enthralled.  She kept saying how beautiful it was (our patio overlooked a strip mall and a Costco, it was most definitely not the romantic sunrise you’re imagining).  Suzy made me sit and watch that fucking sunrise with her for another 20 minutes before I finally managed to coax her back into bed for round 2.

And round 2 was only mildly better than round 1.  I wasn’t quite as ADD about trying every position in the book and we actually fucked for a solid while.  But then there was a moment where it felt like the condom had come off, I freaked the fuck out, and even after pulling out and seeing I was indeed still protected the moment was lost.  It was time to take Suzy home.

Remember how Sandpaper had been fucking with my car the whole way home?  Well, as I was driving Suzy back to her apartment in the shameful light of morning, my engine started overheating.  I practically had to coast into her apartment complex.  After the obligatory kisses and promises that I would call her (I never did), that this wasn’t just a one night stand (it was), I sent her on her way and drove about half a block away from her place before I had to stop and let my engine cool down for 20 minutes before I could start making my way home again.

I had to stop three more times on the drive home.  It took over an hour to go less than five miles.  My car was fucked.

But you know what?  I didn’t care.  I had become a man!!!!!!

I got back to my place and slept until about 5pm.  Then I made Sandpaper follow me while I took my broken down car to the repair shop.  (It would end up costing me $1500 to repair.  Thanks, Sandpaper.)  While driving me home he offered me a hundred dollars to call Suzy up and have her come over that night and fuck her again.

“Nope,” I answered, “it’s time to turn the page.  That door is now closed.  I’m a new man.”

In the immortal words of Mike Gundy, "I'M A MAN!"

The Slap

My girlfriend has forbidden me to tell anymore stories about her.  But she has granted me a special exemption to tell this doozie.  (I think she felt so guilty that she figured she had to let me write it.)  So here goes…

 —

This summer we took a roadtrip from End Of The World, Utah to attend a wedding in San Diego.  Since she had never seen that part of the country we decided to drive.  With summer construction it took us a good 13 hours, and in our haste to make it and get off our asses we skipped dinner to motor through, pulling into my friends’ place (the infamous Dead Wing and Prada) around 10 or 11pm.

We promptly started drinking.  It was my girlfriend’s first time meeting Prada and Dead Wing and I had been a little nervous of how everyone would get along.  You know how it is the first time your new girlfriend meets your friends, you worry about it way more than you should and it ends up being totally fine.  Same thing here.  Dead Wing and I started knockin’ back a refreshing gin and tonic, while Prada and my girlfriend went for a bottle of wine.

Before long, they opened a second bottle of wine.  Meanwhile, on an empty stomach I was beginning to feel a little buzzed after just one oversized and overpoured G&T.  It was going to be a good night.

I should probably explain here that my girlfriend can drink with the best of ‘em.  I mean, she can put ‘em away like a champ.  We haven’t actually had a drinking competition (I’m too old for that, plus I don’t think drinking should be a challenge; as long as everyone gets fucked up everyone wins) but I’m quite certain she could outdrink me.  She does, however, have one weakness: when she gets truly hammered she blacks out completely.  I’m not talking a spotty memory like most of us.  No, her mind just goes blank.  So, she often does or says things while intoxicated that she has no memory of, and many times she amazes even herself at the shit she does (i.e. saying we might be soul mates after knowing each other less than a month).  When this happens, she refers to it as having an alter-ego.  She even has a name for her alter-ego: Trixie.

This was definitely a Trixie night.

It started when she decided to invite herself into their hot tub.  Not that anyone minded, this was a splendid idea, and it actually made me feel good that she felt comfortable enough around my friends to do so.  So we all got into our suits and piled into the hot tub, pausing only long enough to refill our drinks.

It was a warm night and before long we were all rotating back and forth from the hot tub to the refreshingly cool swimming pool.  And the girls were cracking open a third bottle of wine.  We were all having a grand time.

But Trixie doesn’t have a very long shelf life.  When she comes out to play there’s only a short window before she is completely obliterated and the night is over.  On an empty stomach and after a long day on the road she went from drunk to sloppy to obliterated in the blink of an eye.  It was time to go to bed.  So I helped her out of the pool (almost losing her into the deep end), walked her into the house (almost losing her through the screen door) and into the guest bedroom, and let her fall onto the most comfortable aerobed I’ve ever slept on.

Of course, before we could go to bed we had to get out of our wet swimsuits.  My girlfriend was no help whatsoever, so I had to untie her bikini (yes, it was the infamous Buffalo Sabres bikini) and pull it off her while she laid half passed out on the aerobed.  With that job done, all that was left was to get out of my own swim trunks and I could pass out.

Now, at this point I would like to remind everyone that I had been in the pool for some time.  You’ve all seen the Seinfeld shrinkage episode, right?  It happens.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of, everyone’s dick shrivels up when it’s cold and wet.

Well, as soon as I pulled my trunks down my girlfriend stirred and lifted her head just enough to give me a look.  Then, with a look of drunken disgust on her face, she said, “I don’t like it.  It’s small.”  As if that wasn’t insulting enough, she then reached out and slapped dismissively at my shriveled cock and balls.  Not hard, mind you, it’s not like she hurt me.  No, this was worse, because it was so dismissive, as if my penis were completely irrelevant.

I began to mutter something along the lines of Costanza’s shrinkage speech, but she was already passed out.

So, what did I do next?

Well, let me tell you.  With my pride wounded there was only one thing to do:

I fucked her.

Hard.

She was basically passed out when I climbed on top of her, but I quickly brought her back to semi-consciousness with my crude, rough, drunken advances.  I pounded away at her while she more groaned than moaned, still not entirely aware of what was going on.  I knew I was too drunk to cum but I didn’t care.  This wasn’t about pleasure.  This was about restoring my manly pride.  And after I had satisfied myself that I had proven my manhood again I rolled over and passed  the fuck out out.

The next morning she awoke with a start, half jumping out of bed.  “Why am I naked?”

Not quite sure how I felt about the previous evening yet I gave the most simple answer.  “We had sex.”

“Oh… Was it good?”

I waited about a day and a half to finally tell her what had happened.  She was horrified.  Absolutely mortified.  But she also thought it was pretty fucking hilarious.  And, to be honest, once I had gotten over the initial shock, I thought it was pretty damn funny myself.  And after she spent the next week apologizing and reassuring me that my penis was perfectly decent, we reached an understanding that we could all laugh about this, the latest of Trixie’s antics.

Guess I'll never have to read this book...

Operation: Jayhawk Down, Part 2

Chapter 2: The Julie Situation

At Tripod’s suggestion, I named this Operation: Jayhawk Down.  He felt it still had a nice military ring by referencing Black Hawk Down, but also highlighted the now infamous “Not Everything Is Flat In Kansas” shirt.

Canada steals all our jokes.

Fast forward to Senior Day at water polo.  Coach had planned a post-match reception so I used the opportunity to bring Tripod. I got all decked out in some of my most stylish clothes, and if I may say so, I looked pretty damn good.  The only problem was that I had conked my head on something at softball earlier in the day and had a good gash on my normally pristine shaved head, so I compensated by wearing a floppy hat that made me look either really cool or like a stoner.

After the game I was chatting with Becky, the heffer who had class with Prada and was no doubt passing along damning information to Julie, when Julie walked up with a big smile.  “What’s up?”

“Not much, what’s happenin’?”

“You goin’ out tonight?”

“Possibly,” I answered, trying to sound mysterious and not too overeager.  “Where’re you guys goin’?”

“There’s this new place opening downtown, The Local.”

“Downtown, huh?” I couldn’t really hide my disdain for the classy crowd downtown.

“No, it’s cool, it’s low key.  Jeans and T-shirt kinda place, not like you’re all decked out.  What’s up with that, tryin’ to impress the boss?”

“Yeah, I figured for the one game he showed up this year I should look good.”

“Yeah, no shit.”  No one really cared for the Athletic Director, and it’s always a good move to show ‘em I’m not one of the suits.

Big fan of swimmers changing in public.

One of the best things about water polo players is they have no problem changing right in front of you.  Julie threw a T-shirt on over her swimsuit so she could strip out of her suit.  Fighting every urge in my body, I politely turned away and withdrew.  (Of course I took a peak first.)  I found Tripod and gave him the lowdown.  “Let’s do it!” he said, always the loyal wingman.

But I wanted to wait.  I’m thinking it might seem a bit too much if we show up at this place just because she vaguely mentioned they’d all be there.  After discussing it, Tripod agreed; we should wait and see if there’s anymore opportunity to weasel our way in without being too obnoxious about it.  Lo and behold, five minutes later Julie came up to me and handed me an invitation for the club’s grand opening party that night.  We’re in!

After the reception I headed home to get ready.  I was ecstatic that we were going to a low key bar, because that meant I could wear my lucky shirt: my old white and blue Illinois ringer-T.  The same shirt I was wearing when I ascended into manhood last fall.  (Yes, I was 26 when I lost my virginity.  Quit laughing.  I’ll tell that story another time.)

The Local had been open for about two weeks but they were celebrating their grand opening that night.  It’s a nice place, a little small, but stylish without being too trendy.  The DJ was pumping out a variety of old and new rap/dance that had everyone bumpin’.  But the best part was that, although all the guys were all dressed down like myself, most of the women must have thought they were goin’ clubbing, because they were all decked out in their most whorish outfits.  Cookie cutter blondes everywhere.  I was like a kid in a candy store.

But I had learned a valuable lesson at Effin’s.  I didn’t want to be too sauced before Julie even arrived, so I was taking it easy on the gin & tonics.  This was made easier by the fact that the service was abysmally slow.  The waitresses, the bartenders, they all seemed to be on their own schedule.  But, like I said, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing in this case.

Before too long the girls all showed up.  What’s awesome about Julie and her friends is they do not get dressed up.  Julie’s got a natural beauty that doesn’t need any makeup or platform shoes or tight black pants.  She had on jeans, Skechers and a wife beater and looked fucking ridiculous.  I rarely see her with her hair down, and let me tell you, it was a sight to see.

Playing it cool, I laid back and let the scene settle a bit.  Julie and Co. hit the dance floor and I waited.

After a couple more drinks Tripod and I made our way to the edge of the dance floor to survey the scene.  I was starting to get sufficiently buzzed to start thinking about dancing, but I didn’t want to just wade into the crowd, I wanted to wait for her to call me out.  It didn’t happen.  She saw us and didn’t even acknowledge me; she gave me a shy little smile and a wave to Tripod, then went right back to breakin’ it down with her girlfriends.

Now I’m pissed.  I can feel the air coming out of the balloon.  So, to assuage by bitterness, I started drinking heavier.  With the slow service I resorted to the tactic of ordering a drink with the waitress, then going to the bar and ordering another.  This strategy effectively doubled my drinking capacity, and at several points I was double fisted with G&Ts.

Adding to my anger, this cute chick walked by me and said, “Illinois sucks.”  Nothing else.  She had a sweet, flirtatious smile, so I didn’t know whether she was hitting on me or not.  She was a tight little brunette with a great body and pretty eyes.  Being moderately intoxicated, I looked at her semi-bemusedly and asked, “Where are you from?”

“Illinois,” she answered.  I scoffed at her stupidity, so she said, “I don’t have anything wrong with the state, I just hate the school.”

“That’s my alma mater,” I answered and walked away.  Hot or not, nobody fucks with my Illini.

(Note, this was before they killed my mascot.)

Before too long, Becky came over and insisted Tripod and I come dance with her and some friend.  Stacking drinks on top of one another, I waded into the dance floor and started working on my specialty dance move: foot shuffle, hip sway, take a sip; foot shuffle, hip sway, take a gulp.  Julie was literally five feet from me, but separated by 180 pounds of Becky.  The booze was starting to get to me, my beer balls were getting bigger, so finally I just walked up to her, grabbed her arm and said, “You gonna do a shot with me?”

“Hell yeah!”

When in doubt, alcohol is always your best wingman.

I took her by the hand and waded through the crowd to the bar.  Here at last the slow service helped me out, as we had time to engage in lengthy conversation.  We made small talk, she put her arm around me, all seemed to be going well.  Somehow she forgot where I went to school so I pointed to my shirt and she proceeded to run her hands all over my chest.

Oy!

So in the midst of all this, standing at the bar with Julie on my right, this girl on my left started nudging me, trying to strike up a conversation.  I looked over and it was the same bitch who had been bagging on Illinois earlier!  She started nudging closer, vying for my attention, talking about some such shit I wasn’t listening to.  Finally I turned to her and said, “Aren’t you the same girl who was baggin’ on my Illini?”

She tried to look surprised.  “Oh, I’m sorry!”

“So where did you go to school?”

“UCLA.”

I laughed out loud.  “You’ve just lost your talking privileges,” and I turned back to Julie, never to acknowledge her again.  Julie was impressed.

So we were still waiting to get our order in.  I swear the nearest bartender was as slow as Rain Man.  But I didn’t mind.  We started talking sports.  She loves football.  A very good sign.

We finally got our order in and now just had to wait another ten minutes or so for Rain Man to make the drinks.  We chatted some more, got a little closer, until she says, “So who do you think is going to win the national championship this year?”

Uhh…

I was dumbfounded.  This wasn’t the sort of conversation I was expecting to get involved in with this girl.  Trying to recover, I decided to try and snowball her a little bit.  “Well, I think it’s hard to bet against the defending champs Ohio State until somebody actually beats them.”  (Like I’ve even looked at a roster for next season yet; it’s only April!)

“Yeah, but no one’s repeated since Nebraska ’95, right?”

It took every bit of self-control not to drop down on one knee and propose right on the spot.  Fortunately I was saved by the arrival of our drinks, so we promptly knocked back our shots and grabbed our fresh drinks before she pulled me back to the dance floor.

Now it’s finally my time.  We’re dancin’, grindin’, gettin’ close.  But of course, Big Becky stole the opportunity to sandwich me between them, so now it’s back to a whole group dance thing.  Nothing is ever easy around here.  I just kept drinking.

Details begin to get sketchy at this point, and I don’t really recall how or why we left the dance floor, but next thing I knew I was at the bar getting drinks when Julie and four of her friends stormed the bar and climbed up to dance on the bar Coyote Ugly style.  Bedlam ensued as rookie bartenders panicked.  The whole scene didn’t last one full song, but suddenly the place was hoppin’.  I spotted Julie getting off the bar and pulled her over for another shot.

When in doubt, alcohol is always your best wingman.

Don’t really remember what all we talked about.  I brought up the “Not Everything Is Flat In Kansas” T-shirt and told her how it is already legendary in my circle (and how big breasted Country coveted the shirt).

By around 1:30 some of her friends were just sloppy drunk.  Casey, the girl who won the drink-off at Effin’s, is so belligerently drunk she wants to get in a fight with one of the bouncers, so they all decide to take off.  Casey’s already been kicked out and the bouncer is threatening to call the cops, so what does Casey do?  She whips out her cell phone and calls the police on the bouncer.  I’m sure she called 911 too.  Classic.

There was a group of about five girls walking back to their car, so Tripod and I made the two block or so hike with them.  Tripod did yeoman’s work to keep the rest of the group a safe distance ahead while I walked with Julie.  But it was pretty near impossible to keep all those drunks, especially belligerent Casey, totally out of the picture, and they kept impeding on my moment so I couldn’t really make a good move.

Finally we got to the car, everyone started piling in, and I realized this was my last chance.  Time to step up to the plate.  I took an aggressive step to pull her aside behind a concrete pillar.  “So, you’re out of town next weekend, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“When’re you leaving?”

“Thursday.”

“Shit, so Beachcomber’s out.  What about two weeks, we’ll head on down to the ‘Comber?”

“Sounds good.”

“Now, I’m not going to see you at any more games,” I said slyly, reaching for my phone, “so I’m going to need your number.”

It’s like a lightbulb went off in her head.  Her eyes lit up and a smile crossed her face.  “Are you asking me for my number?”

“Well, yeah.”  Duh.

“Okay.”

And the mission is accomplished.  I put her in the car, watched them drive off, and gave a hoot of joy.  Then we hit a late night pizza place, grabbed some grub, and chilled in my car for about an hour until I was okay to drive.  I fired off some celebratory text messages to Prada and Country, which is really pretty sad if you think about it; yeah, I finally got a 21 year old’s phone number, I’m cool.

To Be Continued…

This picture has nothing to do with my story. I just wanted to throw it in.

A Short Story About Jesus

Back when I was in college (way back in the 20th Century), I was a nerd and a loser and I didn’t drink.  Which is probably 80% of the reason why I never got laid even once in college (don’t worry, I’ll tell that story another time).  But that doesn’t mean I didn’t go out.  On the contrary, I hit the bars every weekend, most every Thursday, and usually a night or two during the week too.  In other words, with the exception of not drinking until my eyeballs bled, I was just like every other college kid.

One night my buddy Gotham and I were standing in line to get into one of the shithole dive bars on campus.  Most of the people in line were either coming from another bar or had already started drinking in their dorm or apartment or frat house.  In other words, we were mostly a bunch of drunken belligerent fools.

So it seems like it would be a bad time for someone to try and spread the gospel of Jesus Christ.  But, for whatever reason, one of the campus Christian groups (see, there were kids dorkier than me!) had decided to make the rounds that night to save souls.

As we stood there in line, some of these happy Christians approached us.  They had a big box of hot dogs that they started handing out.  Not being a full blown alcoholic yet, I didn’t understand how hungry booze can make a man.  The drunks tore into the box of hot dogs with the intensity of a pack of rabid wolves.  It was so crazy I barely managed to score one for myself.

Ripping into the aluminum foil, the drunks began devouring the hot dogs with nary a word.  Most of the hot dogs were probably half-eaten before one drunk finally stopped to ask around a mouthful of hot dog, “Who are these from?”

The happy Christian holding the now-empty box smiled and answered, “They’re from Jesus.”

The answer from one of the drunks will live in my mind forever:

“Well, did Jesus bring any ketchup???”

Fucking priceless.

The Great Berkeley Road Trip

When I lived in San Diego and still had an alma mater, my old school came out to play Cal in football.  My buddy Manscape and I decided to make the road trip.  It was the fall of 2005…

Rest In Peace, Chief Illiniwek

We hit the road Friday morning and everything was going smooth.  My mother had just been out to visit and she left her rental car a few extra days to make the drive and not put the miles on my own piece of shit car.  More than a few people had questioned our decision not to fly, and the over/under on our drive was 9 hours with a high of 11, but I confidently predicted a 7.5 hour trek.  Traffic in L.A. was light and we cruised through the uninhabited wasteland of central California with ease.

In almost exactly seven and a half hours we were in Berkeley (thank you very much).  45 minutes after that we actually found our hotel (shut up).  Now, I must confess here that I had screwed around and not made reservations in a timely manner for this trip, so the hotel where the San Diego Illini Club and many other fellow fans were staying was filled up.  Fortunately, I had been able to secure accommodations at another venue.  This place was not only cheaper, but walking distance to both the stadium and the alumni’s hotel.  The only problem was that the place was a bed & breakfast and only offered one bed per room.  Although Manscape and I are tight, we aren’t close enough to start spooning yet.  But Manscape brought an aerobed and we were good to go.

Once we checked in we decided to take a tour of the campus and get some food. Berkeley is officially the worst campus I’ve ever seen in my life.  And I’ve seen a few.  This place is a shithole.  Homeless people, hippies who look like homeless people, people living in trees, ugly chicks, fraternity houses that don’t show even a hint of a weekend party (it’s 7 o’clock on a Friday and not a single person passed out on the lawn?  WTF?!?), just all around the worst place ever.  Walking down their main drag is like going through Tijuana.  On the light poles there were signs proclaiming the area to be a “Drug Free Zone.”  I thought that was pretty funny and decided to take a picture of the sign.  Some street vendor, a 250-pound black woman wearing a red cape, a hard hat painted like the flag of Israel and her face painted like a leopard (I am NOT making this up) thought I had taken her picture, so she gets all indignant, and as we’re walking away I hear her say, “That cracker ass white boy need to get his ass kicked!”  Manscape, who’s a pretty big guy, informed me he didn’t think we could take her so we quickened our pace.

After dinner we went back to the room to get ready to go out.  Thanks to my amazing foresight we had with us a cheap styrofoam cooler loaded with a big handle of vodka and enough Red Bull to explode an elephant’s heart.  We pounded drinks while getting ready.  I donned one of my favorite shirts, the one with Che Guevara that says “Commies Aren’t Cool,” and we walked down the street to our alumni’s hotel bar.

It’s always fun to drink with old people because they know they’re going to have to go to bed by 10 so they’re really intent on getting drunk before having to call it a night.  We, of course, get really fucked up and then keep on going.  So after the old folks went to bed a few of us younger alums hit a few more bars.  I got a lot of dirty looks for my shirt.  The bar scene in Berkeley is pretty weak, probably because of the presence of so many other mind-altering substances the kids can indulge in.  But we persevered.  We did a lot of shots, I got royally drunk and started blacking out, nothing too exciting happened and I was in bed by 2:30. 

Saturday morning I was less hung over than expected.  Manscape was hurting pretty bad and wanted to start drinking immediately to rectify the situation.  He still has a hard time accepting the fact that I won’t drink during Illini games, and tried in vain once again to convince me to tailgate with him.  I told him it wasn’t negotiable, I would be drinking nothing but water until postgame.

You guys remember Elizabeth Reid, right?  We’ve stayed more or less in touch as she’s moved about four times around the western United States.  Anyways, she rolled into Berkeley around noon and we met up at the tailgate area outside the stadium.  She was with her boyfriend and a friend who went to Berkeley.  She also knew someone who worked in the Cal athletic department and had all kinds of free food and drink coupons for the tailgate.  I hydrated and got some sustenance while everyone else worked on their pre-game buzz.

Up 17-7 at half, lost 35-20.

I’ll try not to get too lengthy with my game analysis, but to make a long story short, Illinois football sucked pretty bad back in ’05.  They played better than expected, made it competitive for three quarters, but in the end they were no match for a legitimate Division I program.  It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and we certainly didn’t expect much out of this season, so we didn’t take it too hard.  In other words, it was time to forget about football and let the drinking commence!

After the game we all went back to our lovely bed & breakfast.  The place has a sweet rooftop patio that has a view of San Francisco Bay and Alcatraz way off in the distance.  There were five of us and we started working on the vodka.  Five mere mortals would normally have trouble killing a handle of vodka, but there were three alcoholics in the group (Manscape, Elizabeth and myself), so we knocked it out in just a couple hours.  We had a riot up on the roof, shootin’ the shit, enjoying a rare nice day in the Bay Area, and generally being drunken idiots.  After we’d killed it we decided to hit the bars.

We were going down the stairs to street level when Manscape, just stupid drunk, took a fall and tumbled down the last flight of stairs, nearly taking me with him and sprawling out in the middle of the lobby with a busted ankle.  He was alternating laughing and moaning in pain.  The girl working the front desk was mortified.  I tried to help him up but he just stayed down right in front of the desk, groaning about his ankle.  I told him to suck it up and pulled him to his feet and we started off for the bars, Manscape limping like a cripple.

The first bar we came to had a patio area that was clearly marked exit only, but since Manscape was hammered and in pain he determined he was going to get in that way no matter what.  Bad idea.  The bouncer stopped him, then radioed to the bouncers at the front to be on the lookout for a belligerent limping idiot.  We got to the front and they informed us Manscape was too intoxicated to enter the bar.  Manscape was seconds away from erupting into an Incredible Hulk-like rage.  I did my best to calm him down, rounded everyone up, and we all headed for another bar.

At the next bar we settled in to drink heavily and wash away the pain of Illinois’ loss and Manscape’s busted ankle. Elizabeth was completely ignoring her boyfriend while she talked to her friend from Cal, and I could see the boyfriend getting angrier and angrier as the night wore on.  Manscape, meanwhile, was trying to drink the pain out of his ankle with vodka on the rocks and bitching non-stop about being denied access to the last bar.  Two angry drunk people, things were bound to get ugly sooner or later.

The three of us were talking football while Elizabeth was talking to the other guy, and this toolbox started lecturing me and Manscape on how little we knew about football.  It all started when I said Denny Green was one of the worst coaches in football.  The jackass actually asked me if I knew anything about football.   I calmly pointed out Denny’s losing record at Northwestern, his losing record at Stanford, and his perennial 8-8 teams at Minnesota before acquiring Randy Moss.  The boyfriend tried to go into a dissertation about how college and pro football have nothing to do with each other, and Denny Green was a masterful coach who had developed Daunte Culpepper into one of the finest QBs in the NFL.  (For the record, see Daunte’s career stats with and without Moss: 18,598 yards, 129 TDs, 74 INTs in five years with Moss; 5,555 yards, 20 TDs, 32 INTs in five years without Moss.  I rest my case.)

At some point Manscape got into the argument and the guy called him a “condescending asshole.”  Manscape just shrugged and said, “Well, I may only have one leg right now, but I’m pretty sure I can still snap you in half.”  He had a quiet, fiery intensity that told me he could explode at any point.  Knowing I had no chance of holding him back once he snapped (like I said, he’s a big dude), and not wanting to spend the night in a Berkeley jail, I did my best to diffuse the situation and was rewarded with the boyfriend not talking to anyone for the rest of the night.  He just sat and sulked.  Which freed Manscape and I to set about drinking even heavier.

The rest of our time at the bar is somewhat of a blur.  Manscape and I were drinking with reckless abandon.  I vaguely remember the lead singer of Counting Crows coming into the bar, walking by our table and acknowledging the Cal guy Elizabeth was with.  And I remember Manscape and I having an in-depth discussion on the relative merits of vodka versus gin.  (A foolish argument, I love them both!)

At last call we all parted ways.  The boyfriend was still sulking like a bitch and not speaking to anyone, so I gave Elizabeth an entirely inappropriate hug as a final parting shot, and Manscape and I stumbled off towards our bed & breakfast.

We took a couple wrong turns but eventually found our way, and we were stumbling up the stairs when we ran into this girl talking on her phone.  She stopped us and made some rude comment about our Illini shirts.  I was about to start some serious shit when Manscape somehow got hold of the girl’s phone and started talking to her friend, leaving me alone with the girl.  (He’s a clever bastard and a great wingman.)  She was in search of a lighter and we of course didn’t have one, so she left to walk down to a coffeehouse to find one.  But before she disappeared Manscape told her to stop by our room later.  She similarly invited us to join her in room 303.  She was not particularly attractive, but at 2 in the morning she seemed acceptable.

Up in our room Manscape was all over me to pay her a visit.  His logic was impeccable.  (“A hole is a hole… Pussy has no face… You’re not going to remember it anyway… I’ll never tell anyone…”)  Eventually I succumbed to his badgering and went down the hall.  Mostly I was just hoping she had some alcohol, since we had killed our handle of vodka earlier.  Alas, she wasn’t there.  I went back to our room.  But then he came up with the ingenious idea of leaving a note on her door.  We had a good laugh about it, I didn’t really think he was serious, but Manscape was once again using his ultra-persuasive arguments, and my will power was too inebriated to fight back.  I grabbed a sheet of paper and started jotting down my phone number.  It seemed like an asinine thing to do, but then Manscape had a brainstorm.  “Hey!” he slurred, “Put ‘For a good time call’ !!”

So I took the note down the hall to her room and left it there.  Went back to the room, crawled onto the inflatable bed and was just about passed out with when she called.  Manscape jerked awake and seemed more sober than he’d been in a day and a half.  “Holy shit!!  Is that her?!?”

It was indeed her.  She was out in the hallway and having trouble getting her key to work.  By this point I was so exhausted from the weekend that I wasn’t even interested, but I figured I had to play it out, so I went back down the hall to her room.  Just as I got there she got her door open and then turned to me and said, “Thanks, have a good night.”  And shut the door in my drunken face.  Guess she didn’t think the note was as funny as we did.  Bitch didn’t even have the courtesy to give me a drink for the road.  So I went back to bed and passed out.

Sunday morning we were both hung over as fuck.  We got on the road right after breakfast, stopped to fill up with gas, got some water to combat the hangover, found an ESPNRadio station for NFL updates, and we were on our way.

And that’s when it all started to fall apart.  About an hour out of Berkeley we got a flat tire.  So much for a 7.5 hour trip back.  We pulled over to the side of the road and assessed the situation.  We were officially in the middle of fucking nowhere, in the three hundred or so mile stretch of road between L.A. and the Bay Area that doesn’t have a town of any significance anywhere along it.  We popped the trunk and found that the spare was one of those worthless donuts.  So I dug out the rental information and called their roadside assistance number.  Of course, we had no idea where we actually were, so as I was calling Manscape started limping down the highway to find a mile marker.  Someone actually stopped to see if he was alright; they thought we had had an accident and he was injured and delusional, limping down the road in search of help!  Yeah, that’s how bad we looked from the weekend.

Roadside assistance was no help.  There wasn’t another rental place for at least 100 miles, so we were going to have to drive all that way on the donut.  She offered to call a tow truck to come change our tire, but it was going to take at least an hour and all they could do was put on the spare that we were more than capable of changing ourselves.  I decided to go to the absolute nearest location, even though it was well out of our way, because I didn’t want to drive 55 mph any longer than absolutely necessary.  We changed the tire and got on the road, set the cruise in the low 60’s (I would rather die in a car wreck than get passed by semi trucks).

We had to get off the interstate and drive through the end of civilization, and almost three hours later we were in Fresno.  Got a new car, hopped on the road, plugged in Manscape’s radar detector, and I started flying well in excess of 90 mph down a busy road that was most definitely not an interstate.  My hangover made me care a whole lot less about my personal safety.

We made good time due to my insanely reckless driving, and we were just hitting the northern edge of L.A. around 5, planning on being home by 7 (a little over 9 hours).  Then Manscape’s phone rang.  It was his girlfriend (the Iowa alum, Squawkeye, as I call her).  She had gone up to L.A. for the weekend, and she had just gotten into an accident as she was leaving for home.

Jesus, what else can go wrong?

We pulled out the map and quickly figured out where she was, changed course and weaved a swath through about four different L.A. highways, all the way to the other side of the valley and to the scene of the accident.

The poor girl had been rear-ended, and the mini-jeep thing she had been driving had been rammed good by an SUV.  The impact had completely shattered her rear window and shaken her up pretty good, but thankfully she was okay.  The cop was wrapping up when we arrived, so we stuck around to lend emotional support.  After half an hour or so Manscape threw his bags into her wreck and told me to take off.  Seeing there was nothing more I could do, I hit the road again, this time alone and without the radar detector.  Just my hangover to keep me company.

I finally got home around 9pm, 11-plus hours after hitting the road.  I watched the last couple minutes of the Sunday Night NFL game and passed out.

If there’s a moral to this story it would be this: