Down Goes Frasier… pt. 1…

11 11 2009

I’ve been trying to write this bad boy for the last couple days. Just a simple blog. Sum up my feelings of the events of last week. However I haven’t been able to. You see, for the last 3 days I’ve been hung over. My mind has been shot. Creative juices. Zero. Motor skills. Non-existent.

(This brings me to my next point… I would like to remind my audience that if there are any spelling, or grammatical errors in the next few paragraphs, it is indeed because I am still drunk. As are most of these post here at Sarcasm.)

For those of you who don’t already know, I was in Las Vegas for the last weekend and apparently tried to commit suicide via drinking as much booze as my poor little liver and kidneys could handle.

It all started when my friend JDub informed me that her work was providing her with a hotel suite at the Mirage hotel in Las Vegas for one week. She was to work a show and be done Friday afternoon and have nothing to do the remainder of the weekend. So the logical choice was to ask me and a number of other friends to join her for some much need binge drinkingrest and relaxation. I immediately agreed for the thought of some time away from The Gym got me all giddy inside. Although the invite was extended to a many of peoples, the one confirmed attendee would be none other than Mr. Thompson.

Mr. Thompson and I go way back to our radio days. We worked very hard on a radio show being awesome and funny. No seriously. Awesome and funny. We were like John Stockton and Karl Malone(minus the short shorts). Or Rob and Big. Or Sammy Davis Jr. (minus the eye thing) and Frank Sinatra (or any of the other white dudes in the Rat Pack.) Basically what I’m trying to get at is we were the perfect tag team comedy show and qualified for equal opportunity employment.

It’s also worth noting, that before my friend Mr. Thompson moved to LA, he, JDub and I had formed a coalition of sorts. This coalition of sorts, was based around the three alcoholic beverages that we so gladly devoured and worshiped. Mine, was, and still is to this day, Mr. Jack Daniels. Mr. Thompson’s was Crown Royal. (it’s changed) and JDub’s was none other than Jose Cuervo. There may actually be a picture of the three of us chugging straight from the bottles of these fine spirits on one of my birthdays. The Coalition was a force to be reckoned with (and a driving force in sales of said liquors. Mr. Thompson and I had been known to get black out drunk Wed-Sundays. Ahhh radio.)

So we were destined to meet in the City of Sin.

I flew all by myself (a point that shall be very important later on) Mr. Thompson drove in from LA, and JDub was already there. As I was the second to arrive I made the executive decision to purchase the first bottle of booze on the trip. It was indeed JD and it was glorious. JDub still needed some to finish up the event, so I took it upon myself to sit and watch Leave it to Lamas in my bathrobe. And get drunk.

Mr. Thompson arrived and the decision we all came up with was to go to Pure at Caesars Palace. We got ourselves dolled up, and there was an actual conversation between Mr. Thompson and I regarding pant length, shoe choice, and which shirt looked best. I believe there were numerous comments from the JDub camp regarding our sexuality, to which we decided to ignore and continue said conversations until we looked smashing!

We made our way to Pure and upon paying a ridiculous amount to get in found our way to an open spot on the dance floor. Were we got our groove on to many of today’s hottest hits. At one point, some dude was grinding on a honey in front of me when I noticed a giant eagle on his back that reflected off the lights in the club. I quickly took it upon myself to start the Napoleon Dynamite Happy Hands club motion behind him in a mocking maneuver. To which the nice Asian lady to the right of our group saw, and began to giggle. Pretty sure there was a mental high five given, and received.

The night wore on, as did our intense drinking. At one point, Mr. Thompson was getting the eye from a classy girl dressed in a Zebra print dress standing in the VIP. Somehow or another, she got Mr. Thompson into the VIP area, which he in turn got me, which she in turn got JDub. So there we were, all in VIP. Having a good time, not buying bottle service. Not buying drinks from the bar, and in actuality, having drinks spilled all over my pants. Like ALL over. Right in front. Pretty much where my junk was. It was also very awesome of the bouncer to flash his flashlight right on my crotch. Allowing everyone in VIP to see my junk, and that it looked very much like I’d wet myself. Awesome.

During our time in VIP I learned that Zebra, was just a girl looking to make it big in Sin City. She moved out here from Arizona, and was just hanging with a group of her “friends” in the VIP area. Indeed her friends were dressed as “classy” as she was, and things began to dawn on JDub and I. Mr Thompson had moved his attentions away from Zebra to some dude I believe he met in the VIP area. I’m not sure what the exchange was all about, however Mr. Thompson was the only one who left the VIP area with a number.

It must be said, that while Mr. Thompson did leave the club with a number, it was JDub that could have left with much much more. After we all stopped paying attention to Zebra, she moved on to a new group of gentlemen. We decided that VIP was not our “scene” so we luckily enough were able to retrieve our previous spot on the dance floor and “posted up.” While posting up, we made it out to the dance floor a number of times to dance to a delightful ditty or two. On one said ditty, JDub were out there busting some moves and generally making people jealous of our awesomeness. So jealous that a bouncer came up to JDub grabbed her arm, and escorted away from me. Mid-Maneuver!! In most cases, I probably would have been concerned and been all what the fuck! where are you taking her. However Jack had indeed been invited and was beginning to take over the party. So instead of getting indignant and protective, I merely said… meh.

Apparently, Mickey, one of PURE’s finest bouncer, took a liking to our friend JDub. So much so, that he removed her form the dance floor and took her up to a stage area, where low and behold, only females were up there dancing. With one exception. Chris Angel was also up on said stage and there were throngs of women around him. Including our own little JDub. Mr. Thompson and I knew it was only a matter of minutes before America’s Douchiest Man got wind of our JDub and would be Mindfreaking her all night long. It was at that moment, we decided to act. And act fast we did. Mr. Thompson and I put our minds together, and worked out an ingenious plan. We pushed our way through the crowd, got as close as we could….. and ordered another round!

The night wore on, JDub got away from Mickey’s evil clutches, I was essentially blacked out, and Mr. Thompson had gotten a dudes phone number in the VIP of PURE. We decided to call it a night and began the walk back to our hotel room where some much needed sleep was in order. However, along the way, as we walked past the tall bushes that line the front of Caesars Palace for some reason or another, I fell into the bushes. Which actually prompted Mr. Thompson to start sprinting down Las Vegas Blvd. beacuase he didn’t want to be caught by the cops. Of course, as JDub described that next afternoon, “walking home with you guys was like trying to herd wild cats.” Mr. Thompson and I high fived. Excellent.

The next afternoon, we all awoke de-hydrated and damn near dead. Some of us were worse for wear. I, because of my alcoholism, looked at the half bottle of Jack Daniels left in the room, and realized, “I’m not hung over. I can’t remember many of the events from last night. Half a bottle of Jack is gone… maybe now would be a good time to address actually having a problem.” Little did I know that that statement would come much later in the trip. Upon everyone waking up, we had a little chat about the nights previous events. Mr. Thompson and I began a dazzling display of insults and jabs directed at JDub about her time with Chris Angel.

Mr Thompson or I: “JDub how did it feel getting Mindfreaked?!?”
JDub: “I didn’t get Mindfreaked!
Mr. Thompson: “We saw you inching your way toward him! It was impressive.”
JDub: “I don’t even like Chris Angel. He’s a douche…”
Me: “No way, I saw you put the head bob, fling the hair, jazz hands move on him.”
Mr. Thompson: “mmmmmhmmm.”
JDub “You guys, stop. I did not get Mindfreaked.”
Me: “Mr. Thompson, guess what the best thing about getting Mindfreaked is….”
Mr. Thompson: “What?”
Me: “You don’t even know it’s happening so when you get up the next day, you can tell all your friends you met Chris Angel but didn’t get Mindfreaked…”
JDub: “I. DID. NOT. GET. MINDFREAKED*!!
Mr. Thompson and I: *laughter*
JDub: FINE! You guys want to do this!?!?! What about you Mr. Thompson getting worked over by a HOOKER!?!
Mr. Thompson: “WHAAAAA?!?!”
(*At some point, we stopped saying Mindfreaked, and started saying “done in the ass.” We figure a douche like Chris Angel would do something like that. If you re-read this exchange, I’m pretty sure it’s funnier with “done in the ass.” However here at Sarcasm, I at least attempt to show some tact and class in the beginning.)

The mere mention of the Hooker brought Mr. Thompson on the defensive. “What hooker?!?” “There was no hooker!”And then JDub and I began replaying the nights events out loud. The more and more we described a hooker, the more and more Mr. Thompson got defensive.

Mr. Thompson: “She was not a hooker! She was just a small town girl trying to make it big in the city.”
Me: “Dude, she was a hooker. Even “I” knew that. (This statement was indeed powerful because on one of my trips to Vegas, I got to know a nice young lady, only to find out she was a hooker by some friends the next day. I just thought she was being polite.)
JDub: “Mr. Thompson, she was totally working you. She got you into VIP hoping you’d buy shit and the club would get a percentage.”
Mr. Thompson: “No way, she just knew the bouncers. She said she goes there all the time.”
Me: “Dude.”
JDub: “Did you not see her with her friends? They were hookers too!”
Mr. Thompson: “It was just girls night.”
Me: “Duuude.”
JDub: “And PLEASE! You know of ANY classy girls that rock a short ass Zebra dress into the VIP?!?”
Mr. Thompson: “Maybe Forever 21 was just having a sale.”
Me: “DUDE!”
JDub: “She moved on to the next dude, who bought shit, after you stopped paying attention to her!”
Mr. Thompson: “She felt dejected after I turned her down.”
Me: “Dude. Seriously. Hook. Er.”
Mr. Thompson: “She wasn’t a hooker. She was a nice girl.”
Me: “Hooker man.”
Mr. Thompson: “I don’t believe you.”

The best part of this whole interaction is through out the rest of the day, at random times, Mr. Thompson would just say “She wasn’t a hooker.” Which made both JDub and I laugh a bit, and repeat, Dude, she was a hooker. The battle was finally given up later that evening after Mr. Thompson had a conversation with his sister. To which she replied, that she would have had to have seen the girl, and other details before she could make and informed decision, however…. it was most likely a hooker.

To Be Continued…

Until Next Time…

Email Me…
SarcasmAsAWeapon@gmail.com

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Adventures In Babysitting…

20 10 2009

When last we saw our hero he had just gotten a promotion at work and was coaching high school soccer at the same time. Both of them have been mentally draining and left him with a little creativity. And, not much will to live. But that’s another story.

Not that I need to get into too many details, but our soccer team has performed, a little less admirably than I’d like to admit. But since I’ve already brought it up (and following the Sienfeld guidelines, that once you start you have to finish) I’ll have you know that our team has pretty much sucked this season. In league play we have 0 wins to go along with our 0 goals. I’d take that a little more personally had our team not crumbled before our eyes.

Lets look at some season stats…
3 Broken legs
1 Broken Collar bone
1 Pulled hamstring
1 ingrown toenail that has the kid’s white sock red at the end of the game
1 pulled calf muscle
1 Outdoor sitting bench falling on a kids leg
2 kids who’ve just decided to not let anyone know where they are
220 cases of Swine Flu at the school (Now, they’re not exactly swine flu, and our own team didn’t have 220 cases, however, last Monday there were 220 students out of school for sickness. Yes, some were from our team.)

I’m not going to lie. In all my years of coaching that’s an impressive stat sheet. Like REALLY impressive. We’d love for us to have the ability to pull up some players from JV, however, they started with 22 and are down to 12. As the kids continue to drop left and right, I’m less and less inclined to believe my coaching abilities are what’s driving the team down and that the soccer gods pretty much just have it out for me for some odd reason.

Awesome. Season.

So, coaching has been a bit rough.

However, while coaching has been rough, the whole working thing has really began to suck the life outta me.

I was moved up into a “managing” position that is in charge of our reception area and our Kids club facility. You know, where over zealous parents can drop their spawn off for a little more TV babysitting so they can get their 30 minutes of cardio in.

Our front desk staff (which I was previously apart of) is generally of the same idea that our job, while not difficult, is the most boring job in the world. Standing for six hours at a time, while scanning cards so people can use the gym isn’t mentally challenging, it’s actually a mental assault on your brain that I believe, without any scientific proof, that makes you dumber. In fact, I’m really afraid that if the Gym in question put some time and money into training monkeys, we’d be replaced in a matter of minutes.

Alas, I have risen above this mental assault on my mind to be reminded, that indeed, the mental assault of dullness and stupidity DOES NOT end there. The aforementioned Kids Club is under my domain. I am in charge of the hiring and firing of all that enter that room, and all that are responsible for caring for the spawns of Satans that partake of the gyms services. Once I received my promotion, it was indeed my first priority to find someone to fill the spot of one of the girls leaving. Of course, the manager before me gave me a sweet 2 day window of finding someone.

I’m not sure if you know how corporate America works, but hiring someone in 2 days is damn near impossible. But, I did my best. I got another young lady who had previous experience working with today’s youth and had her fill out paperwork as fast as possible. I called around to some other clubs to see if they would be able to spare a couple of their Kids Club attendants to help out for a bit. For the most part all was covered and I felt pretty good about the situation.

Until the day of reckoning came upon our hero. (Still me.) One of the girls, informed me that she had an emergency and was unable to work one of the following days. I tried in vain to find suitable coverage for the Kids Club but to no real avail. Then the plan crept into my head, “just have one of the female personal trainers do it. She needs the hours.” I looked at her availability and noticed that she indeed was free most of the hours I needed covered. With her track record in having clients cancel on her, I figured she could cover, considering we only get one or two kids in the morning anyway. She agreed, and my life again was seamless and I was an awesome manager.

The thing about planning, is usually it gets fucked up. As is the case in this story. Apparently, our Personal Trainer had her client come in, and unusually we had two infants show up to be “watched” after. Seeing as how I was the new manager, it was now my duty to go back and watch these young children.

I got back to Kids Club, and to my delight the two children were calm and unresponsive. Of course, the minute their mothers left this all changed. Boy Baby decided to freak the fuck out and start crying uncontrollably. This prompted Girl Baby to start freaking out. Based on my extensive non-verbal communication classes in college, I deduced that this young Girl Baby was indeed freaked out by males and was having NONE OF THIS! She would shudder and shy away and begin crying. Well, this just egged on Boy Baby, and before I knew it had a fucking stereo crying contest in my ear.

This isn’t even the best part. As mom of Boy Baby was leaving, she left me with one little detail of her sons life that she felt I needed to know. Her son was in fact teething. Fucking awesome.

I come from a large family, and I’ve had my siblings go through teething. It’s not their fault they cry constantly without end keeping you up all hours of the day and night, shit hurts, I get it. I mean your gums are getting ripped up and all you’ve got is this fucking binky(pacifier). If it was cool to give them booze, I bet not one kid would complain about teething.

Boy Baby was in hysterics, as I held him in my massive arms trying to comfort him. As the pain got to him, I couldn’t help but notice that his mouth was wide open (along with his nostrils) and not only did I have baby slobber running down my shirt and onto my arm, but I believe it was a mixture of snot and slobber creeping down his face. As I got a tissue to try and stop the massive flow of snot from the Boy Baby’s nose, I feel as if I angered the beast even more. He wailed out mostly in pain, but mostly because he, along with myself, no longer wanted to be at the gym. It was fucking nap time, and for the love of all that is good an holy, he was letting me know.

It was about this point in the story that I called the front desk to get the mothers of these children. I did my best. I’ve taken care of my brothers and sister many times. I called upon this prior experience to try and soothe the raging beast. My options were not working. I did all I could, save for having boobs, and breastfeeding.

The mothers came, and retrieved their spawns, and apologized because “they’re usually not like this.” I said, no mam, it was my apologies they couldn’t get a full workout in. As the mothers left with their respective spawns I took it upon myself to find the nearest Hand Sanitizer station and proceed to take a bath. However, looking upon this Hand Sanitizer station, I came to notice one fact about hand Sanitizers. They ONLY kill 99.9 percent of all germs.

99.9 percent.

Which means, that that little Snot Nosed/Drool Machine Germ Host that I had cradled in my arms to comfort was carrying the .1% of germs in the world that was probably going to either make me sick, or indeed kill me.

Toss up.

It also clued me into another realization of my life…

I’m going to be an “awesome” dad.

Until next time…

Email Me
SarcasmAsAWeapon@gmail.com





Baby Seals…

4 10 2009

I know it’s been a very long time since I’ve posted anything. And I know that makes me a terrible person. I understand. I know some of you may be really pissed. Then again, I know most of you could care less. It’s not like I’ve gotten an angry, “dude, why haven’t you posted in a long time” email. But then again I’m not angry at myself. I’m just disappointed.

It seems as if my life has been pretty busy. I would like to tell you guys how fulfilling my life has been right now with travel all over the world, or a new girl that I spend all my time with, or about the research I’ve been doing on curing cancer, or all the volunteer firefighting I’ve been doing. However, if I were to do this, I would be lying. Turns out, my life is pretty much the same as it has been. Although two developments have kept me pretty busy.

The first development is that I’ve been “promoted” at work. You see I use the term loosely. I mean, I did get more money. I do now have a staff that works beneath me (that’s what she said! Can i do that on my own blog?) I get to hire and fire. And let it be known, I will go Ari Gold style when I get to do my first firing. Now, the downside to this promotion, is I actually have responsibilities. As of late at The Gym I’d been doign a night shift which consisted of me turning off the TV’s, locking the doors and going home. It was pretty glorious, aside from closing at 11pm every night. I even kinda became a book worm. It was nice being able to sit at the front desk, scan a card, and sit back down and read my books. Not bad for a days work.

While work is plodding along the biggest thing that is taking up my time is coaching High School soccer. In my vain attempt to be a lot more cool with the Europeans I decided to start coaching some soccer. (The attempt for raising my status with Europeans came when one so lovingly commented on one of my previous posts. So I vowed to become more hip as it were with Europe.) (Of course, this isn’t exactly all true, because I’ve been coaching soccer for over 8 years now. And if it were any REAL attempt to raise my status in Europe, I’d start calling it futbol, but that as we all know would make me sound pretentious. And I can’t have that.)

I’ve been coaching at my current school for nearly 5 years. Enough time to see freshman grow up (use the term loosely) and become seniors and go on to play some college soccer. I’ve also seen kids grow up and completely waste their lives on drugs and failed attempts and being porn stars. (the second half of that statement isn’t true.) However, regardless of talent, or regardless of life’s offerings after high school, one thing they all have in common is soccer, and our annual beach trip.

I get excited for the beach trip every year. I really do look forward to a weekend, molding young minds and continually getting bigger laughs for “that’s what she said jokes” than with my current group of friends. If anything this trip essentially feeds my ego, and indeed reminds me how cool I am. Not that I’m looking for that from high school students, it’s just kinda cool. That’s all.

The make up of this team is a bit different than in years past. In years past this team of athletes was made up of predominantly white students. However, as years have gone by and the socio-economics of our neighborhood have changed so has the student base. Now, our team is probably 90% Hispanic. Which is fine. It’s good to be exposed to different cultures. As I was on the hour long trip to the beach. We as coaches are given the task of driving a van load of students to the beach. It just so happened, I was given a van load of all Hispanic kids. And like most kids this day and age, they have iPods and wanted to listen to it. I’m pretty hip and cool so I felt that I may know some of the songs they would play. However, they all had an inside joke, and for the first 20 minutes of our trip, a mariachi band was seated in all six speakers of the van. They thought this was funnier than I did.

After our drive, and trip to the pizza joint, the boys were all fed, and ready for some chillen at the house. And by this I mean, eating all sorts of crap, and seeing who could burp the longest/loudest/special words. We have little control over this, because were in the other room going over individual goals one at a time. (This year was indeed really tame, as we got reports after the fact that one group started playing strip poker one year.)

The next day we focus on team bonding and generally trying not to talk too much about soccer. The coaches start up a bbq, and lament on the fact we have no booze. Sometimes we’ll walk by a bar with outdoor seating, and sling curse words at the people enjoying a frothy beverage. Our blood pressure and stress level also rises during these months of coaching. After a day spent, surfing, watching college football, visiting some bumper cars, we settled on the beach for a bon fire and s’mores.

Two of the boys, decided it was a cool idea to dig a “hole.” That’s right. Just a hole. For no apparent reason. It reminded me of the Friends episode where Joey digs a hole. However his hole would be used for medical purposes when Monica was stung by a jellyfish. We had no jelly fish stings on our trip. However we did have some need for medical attention.

Youth of today are rumored to always stay inside and never venture out and enjoy life. This is obviously not true for my group of soccer students. Apparently they play a game called Fugitive. It’s fairly simple in it’s premise. One group defends a location. The other attempts to get to that location. If you get tagged, you’re mission was unsuccessful, and you have been “caught.” We decided that after it got dark we would play Fugitive on the sand dunes and attempt to get back to the house.

My team, it was determined, would be attempting to get back to the house. As the leader I dubbed them the Navy Seals. Now I’m not sure if one of my Hispanic players didn’t hear me, understand me, or just plain wanted to piss me off, for he insisted on calling all of us Baby Seals. “Lets go Baby Seals.” Baby Seals! I’ve got a plan.” His all time classic quote came after discussing the boundaries. “Yo, Baby Seals, I got one thing to say about the boundaries… FUCK THE BOUNDARIES!” This quote brought me great joy, in seeing as this particular player is all of 5’3, and possibly 100 pounds. We all had a good laugh.

As darkness surrounded the playing field I got my team into position as we made our assault on the house. All of us began creeping quietly toward the house in silence. If I didn’t know any better I’d say I had a team full of silent assassins moving in for the kill. However I had my team, and I knew at some point they’d fuck up.

As it turns out, I waited patiently in the sand dunes and crept slowly toward the street. It must have been 10 minutes I slowly crept up patiently awaiting any sign of movement or sounds. As I inched closer to the street I heard a member of the opposing team coming my way. As he got closer he heard a twig snap beneath my feet. We both took off running.

About 40 minutes before the game began the head coach stated, maybe we should just play in the streets because that would be safer. This idea was quickly shot down because the dunes around the ocean were hilly and provided some cool cover for all of us. One of the other coaches, actually suggested, lets keep it in the sand dunes because running around the streets at night is not safe for anyone. Especially kids wearing all black trying not to be seen. As our head coach realized he had been out voted, he opted not to play but been the man guarding the aforementioned boundaries.

I wish I had listened to the head coach. As I took off in a dead sprint, I quickly came to realize, that not only was someone chasing me, but this ground was not level by any means. I felt that if I could make it to a certain point I could crawl down and he would zip right past me. I was running at full speed, reeds of grass whipping by my waist and the footsteps of a faster man behind me.

And then it happened. I placed my right foot where I thought land would be. Turns out it wasn’t. Apparently there had been a rock pit about 20 yards from my initial mad dash and I had found it. I landed on a rock knee first, and came to a crashing halt of rocks flying everywhere. Most of them were the size of flat rocks you might use to garden with. Regardless, I was in the middle of it on my back. You would have thought, my first thought was “man I hope I’m alright.” It wasn’t. It was however “man, if I lay still enough, maybe he’ll run right past me and I can still make the house.” Apparently he didn’t run right past me, but he had indeed heard me hit the rock pile. He had caught someone and he knew it. As he approached I could hear him say “I so got you!” But to his dismay, he hadn’t gotten any of his teammates. Just one of his coaches. Laying motionless in a rock pit. Wounded like a trapped Rhino on an African poaching show. He stood over me, looked down in disgust and said…. “oh. Its you.” and walked off.

Later on that night I regained myself and made it back to the house. There was the assailant with a broad smile and a package of fruit snacks in his lap. Victory was his.

As I sat there in the house, with an ice bag on my knee I realized that not only did he not ask if I was ok and left me to die, he in fact had NOT actually tagged me. A thought, that I kept to myself, as I was safely inside the house.

Victory was mine.

Until Next Time…

SarcasmAsAWeapon@gmail.com





Irish Wake Style… Pt.2

1 09 2009

If you haven’t done so already make sure to check out the first installment of this 2 part series.

Now, where did we leave off. Oh that’s right our faithful hero had made it home after a very long night of drinking, and had his manliness insulted.

I awoke early afternoon and RPG had already headed off to work. Luckily enough because of my extensive pre-game preparations before I headed out to Boston, I was indeed not hung-over. Some may say that this is a glorious turn of events, and other that know me really well might say that drinking excess amounts of Jack Daniels and not having a hang-over may actually be a sign of alcoholism.

Jury’s still out.

I got a call from RPG roughly around 1 something seeing if I wanted to get some lunch. Of course I hadn’t eaten, nor really done anything, so I agreed. He left work a bit early and we rolled to Coolidge Corner Clubhouse. Not going to lie, this was one of my favorite places on the trip to Boston. We enjoyed some jack and cokes in pint glasses, and some delicious huge sandwiches, and then some more Jack and cokes. It was a glorious place. I probably could have stayed there all day and night, but we had things we needed to do.

We headed home and began to do work. And by doing work I mean pouring Jack Daniels into flasks and taking shots before heading to Fenway park. the greatest place on earth. Seriously.

We headed to La Verdad, a bar outside Fenway, to meet up with RPG’s roommate. Probably my favorite sub pot/side story of the whole weekend that I wasn’t really able to exploit much was that RPG’s roommate happens to be moving out near the beginning of September.

I was wondering if any of you remember the theatrical performance Riverdance? You know Michael Flatley who’s feet look as if they are moving independently of his body? Well, as it happens if you thought Riverdance was no more, you my friends are 100% wrong. Riverdance is alive and well AND touring the country come this September. How do I know this you may ask?

Apparently, RPG’s roomate is indeed a dancer in Riverdance! That’s right, lets let that marinate for a bit.

Riverdance. My mind was immediately filled with questions. Have you met Michael Flatley? Can you move up the ranks and become lord of the dance yourself? Are you coming to Portland? What accent do you have? Oh, Australian? Cool.

So let me get this straight. You’re a dancer. You’re Australian. You dance for Riverdance. And I’m the one giving out the gay vibe?!?! Gotta love Boston.

We finished a couple of beers then headed into Fenway for what was going to be a glorious night of baseball. After picking up two bottles of Coke RPG and I found our way to our seats. Upon finding them I couldn’t help but notice that we had gotten seats in the Ted Williams era of Fenway park. You know the time many years ago that man was built like teacup Yorkshire Terriers. Turns out, RPG and I are not built like teacup Yorkshire terriers. We’re men. And were larger than the original designers of Fenway had in mind. We crouched in like sardines only to look down and see the wirey frame of Riverdance sitting comfortably in his seat, all sprawled out enjoying the copious amounts of space allotted to him. Gotta be something said for being a dancer.

The game began as did our drinking of the Jack Daniels. We had both managed to pour our entire flasks into a 1 liter bottle of coke. We sat there and watched as things began to get ugly. The Sox were facing the Yankees from the North in what was a pretty important game. The Yanks jump out to an early lead (like the first couple pitches) and I had thought to myself, maybe I’m going to be in for a long night. I was right.

At one point in the 5th inning I believe, I had finished my Jack and Coke and moved on to beer. The 5th inning had taken so long because we were getting ROCKED. Like bad. I thought maybe I could drown my sorrows in a Fenway Frank (the only hot dog I’ll eat in this world) but to no avail. Nothing was working. The Yankees began pouring on runs and I sat looking on more and more defeated. It was about this point in the game where things took a real turn for the worse. I looked over at RPG and said..
ME: “This is getting really ugly. I’m not sure I can handle much more.”
RPG: “I know. Maybe you shouldn’t come to Fenway anymore.”
ME: “Is it sad that I was just thinking the same thing.”
RPG: “I’m being serious.”
ME: “No, really. I know.”
RPG: “This sucks.”
ME: “Man, fuck this. I’m not going out like this. There will be no mourning. From here on out I’m celebrating this Irish Wake Style!”
RPG: “Fuck.”

(sidebar: I’ve never actually been to an Irish Wake, but on TV they always show people drinking a lot. RPG lived with me through college and had seen me celebrate Irish Wake style many times. I just felt that with America’s foundation being built on some of the Irish’s decisions to immigrate here, I would indeed honor them the best way I knew how. Even if it was stereotypical, and completely false.)

And with my last statement it was indeed “on.” I left my seat for another Fenway Frank, and to procure two more beers. One was in fact for RPG, but unbeknown to me, RPG had also gotten up after me to procure some beers. When I returned to my seat he was nowhere to be found. I focused on my beer for it was my only solace for what was happening on the field. RPG returned with two beers in his hand. Apparently he had gotten the same idea, and gotten another beer for me. So there we were. In our tiny seats. Dropping back beers like our Irish grandma twice removed had just passed. And to be honest. Life was good. We moved down a bit after Fenway had starting clearing up a bit. I told RPG, no matter how bad it got, we weren’t leaving till Sweet Caroline. I flew across this damn country for some all American baseball at one of America’s most beloved ballparks, god dammit, I’m not leaving till I sing Sweet Caroline, sung by none other than one of America’s most beloved artists, Mr. Neil Diamond!


(sidebar again: I was drunk at this point.)
(another sidebar: Not my video. For reason to be explained)

The 8th inning came and went. We left Fenway and it was 18-10 or something god awful. I will say this. Yankee fans sure have become a little more tame in recent years. Years past, I would have been getting an earful from Yankee fans that traveled to Fenway. Not so much. Smart Yankee fans (oxymoron) know that while they may have overall dominance in the world of baseball, we have indeed handed their ass to them for the last 10 years. So, the walk from Fenway to the Cask N’ Flagon was indeed delightful. Aside from not having any booze.

We got inside the Cask, and I proceeded with my declaration of Irish Wake style celebrations. We ordered up 2 more Jack and Cokes, and watched as the sluts made there way inside the bar. Now, typically, this would make me a very happy person. Sluts, jack and coke, and being in Boston. However, while we were at the Cask, they still were showing the last couple bits of the game. Just enough for my poor eyes to witness, another 2 run home run! That was it. Couldn’t take it anymore. Two more Jack and Cokes were ordered and devoured.

It was about this point that I had realized my iPhone battery had died. I figured no big deal. I’ll miss all my friends texting me from their drunken nights back home, and just text them tomorrow. I was excited because I had gotten a number of great pictures, and video of everyone singing Sweet Caroline. Life was good.

At about 2 something am, we decided it was all said and done. We took a cab home to sleep off our depression of losing that last game. We got outta the cab, walked up stairs to RPG’s apartment and began to settle in, when I realized something. I was missing my phone. I searched all 12 of my pockets (I was wearing cargo shorts.) and it was nowhere to be found. I searched high and low beliving that it could be somewhere in the apartment already. No luck. We went outside and searched the area between being dropped off, and the apartment. No luck. The phone was gone. Like Ben Afflecks directorial debut, Gone Baby Gone. (which was also set in Boston. But this was about some kid, not exactly a phone. However, I feel that if anyone had lost an iphone, the feeling is similar right? too far?)

We walked upstairs defeated. Now what happens next depends on who you ask. If you ask me, in my hazy state I went upstairs and passed out in a deep depression. However, if you ask RPG, we went upstairs I grabbed the bottle of Jack and began chugging from the bottle. And then went to bed. Toss up. I’m not sure who to believe.

The rest of the trip was a bit sad. I had lost my iPhone, and we had only been together for 6 days. She was good to me. And so I was sad to have lost her. I’d like to think she found someone who was better than me. A Lawyer, a doctor, maybe even a Red Sox/Celtic, but who knows. It’s difficult to see your life without someone you love. Especially if you think she left you in a cab to be with the driver.

RPG and I killed our day be reliving college and not getting up from the couches for a good 6-8 hours. We rallied after a stunning win by our beloved Red Sox that night, and met up with some more wonderful friends of RPG. The night indeed wasn’t as taxing on my body as the other, but drinks were had, as were laughs and good times. I concluded my Boston trip by flying out 715 am with just enough booze on my breath for the mother with a 3 month old sitting next to me, to give me a dirty look. The look was returned for having a 3 month old sitting next to me. Touche lady.

I made it home safely. Exhausted. Hung over. A bit depressed. But that was one of the greatest vacations I’ve had in a long time. I love me some Boston. I look forward to my next trip.

Until Next Time…

email me
SarcasmAsAWeapon@gmail.com





Irish Wake Style… Pt. 1.

26 08 2009

It had occurred to me that I haven’t written in quite some time. I knew that most of that has been because I haven’t had much to write about. It was also because I knew that I would be headed to the wonderful city of Boston later on this month.

It started on the day of my birthday, where I had won a lottery to buy Red Sox tickets online. I called up my old college roommate RPG, and took the plunge. After literally waiting online in the queue for 45 minutes I was finally in. I had gotten 4 tickets for a Friday night game in August. I was all set.

However, after using my Target credit card, I realized that with my current income it would be difficult to purchase some airfare. So I waited.

I plugged away at the Gym, hoping and trying to find ways to come up with some money. Airfare wasn’t cheap either at the time. At one point, a friend of mine from radio contacted me and asked if I would be interested in a part time gig. I was a bit intrigued and asked for some info. Apparently it was a gig to DJ at a new 18 and up strip club that was being opened up. He mentioned it would have been an extra 200-250 a weekend. I can’t say I actually didn’t contemplate this current career choice. But I stuck with my morals and still kept the streak alive.

So my income was low, and I made an executive decision to buy a plane ticket anyway. And of course, I did it the American way… on credit.

So I was committed. There was no stopping me. I was headed to Boston. The next part of this blog, is dedicated to bringing the truth of these events to light. To expose the myths and rumors of such events. The names have been changed, but, if you know me, this probably won’t matter anyway.

I had decided that in order to enjoy this trip and to eliminate carrying extra electronic devices, I would indeed decided to buy a brand new iPhone 3gs. I had planned on tons of mobile uploads to facebook, and twitter updates, along with new videos, and a photo collection to rival Annie Leibovitz, minus 15 year old slut pictures.

I had gotten up at 5:30 am to board my plane early Thursday morning to make it into Boston early enough to enjoy Happy Hour. I slept for a portion of the plane ride, then delved into the book Bowerman, that JDub had let me borrow. Before I knew it, I was touching down in Boston.

I grabbed my one carry-on bag and bolted out to the pick-up area for RPG to come get me. Now, I had lived on the East Coast for some time, and had known exactly how the summers where out there. However, it had been such a long time since I had been out there that I had forgotten one key element, humidity.

It was a nice 80 something degrees when touching down, but getting outside the terminal I had almost immediately began to sweat. It didn’t help I was wearing my hooded sweatshirt. I was disgusted. I cannot stand being hot, and being hot and sweaty is just down right Devil like.

RPG arrived shortly and I was saved by his blasting air conditioning of his jeep. We drove to his apartment where we quickly started with the festivities. And by festivities I mean drinking.

I had prepared my liver, and other internal organs, by constantly reminding them that they would indeed be under pressure this coming weekend. They knew it was coming, so there would be no excuses during this trip. RPG had put two options for the night on the table. One, we would drive to Gillette Stadium and take in a Patriots game. Two, we go downtown and drink our faces off. I asked him to find out how much it would cost to hit up the Pats game and we’d take it from there. Turns out, the game would be at LEAST 70 bucks for some pre-season games.

It was quickly decided to “fuck that” for 70 bucks was money that could be well spent elsewhere (Read:Booze) So downtown we went. RPG informed we would be meeting up with some of his good buddies from around town. Nothing could prepare me for what was to happen next.

We sat down and got some drinks at a wonderful bar called Rattlesnakes. RPG’s friend B showed up and informed us that his girlfriend JP would be a bit late and that she had a funny story for us.

Initially when I meet new people I hold out a bit, turns out I tend to judge people. And, I generally don’t like new people. However B and JP had a story that made me instant friends for life. They had been walking down the street when they ran into Derek Jeter and Jorge Posada. (For those that don’t know they play for the Yankees.) They were in town early for the game and apparently were walking amongst the common folk of Boston. I would also like to point out they were hand and hand with each other, and Jeter was carrying Posadas Bed, Bath, and Beyond bag. (I may have embellished this part. Creative privileges) Anyway, so they notice Jeter and Posada coming close, and Jeter looks to JP and asks “Hey do you know where the Mandarin Hotel is?” To which my new friend JP looks at him and says, “Like I’d tell you.”

New. Best. Friend.

As I got to know my new two best friends it was revealed to me that not only does JP love to watch 90210 (like me) she also loves my blog (like me. I showed her on my iPhone) but also her and B were in the processes of creating a company that would sell granola clusters. I told them of the hippy-ness that is the Pacific Northwest, especially Oregon, and how that would be an instant hit. Of course, this is not entirely true, because I for one, hate hippies, and I’m not that big a fan of granola. However, I’m a huge fan of Honey Bunches of Oats, and the giant clusters in that cereal and if they are anything like this, consider me sold! You can check the website here… and help out my new best friends!

RPG, JP, B, and I had done some pretty sweet damage at the bar because we were pretty wasted. It was decided we’d make one last stop and call it a night. Apparently some people had jobs the next day and it wasn’t cool to be hung-over. (JP was in the most trouble for not only was she 105 pounds I’m pretty sure she drank her weight in Sangria, Tequilas Shots, and pitchers of margaritas.)

We boarded the T and were on our way to a bar close to home. JP and B said they were along for the ride, and at the very last second they snuck out of the T like Ninjas! It was up to RPG and me to carry on! Apparently JP and B have never been in the Army, because they obviously don’t believe in the motto leave no man behind. It’s cool, keep your jobs.

RPG and I had made it to one last bar. We were about 20 minutes into our second drinks and having a lovely debate that we usually end up having when something strange happened.

Minding our own business, a nice young lady decided to come up and strike up a conversation between her and me. It went a little something like this.

(By the way, she just came up to us and interrupted our conversation)

Girl: So you think you’re hot? (looking directly at me)
Me: Uh, um, like temperature wise, or like attractive?
Girl: Like you think you’re really good looking?
Me: Well, I mean, I don’t think I’m particularly ugly.
Girl: But like you think you’re really hot.
Me: Are we talking overall, or just in this bar?
Girl: In this bar, you think you’re really hot!
Me: Um, I mean, I may give myself top 5. I guess.
Girl: You’re definitely top 2. Top 2 for sure.
Me: Is Tom Brady over there beating me out for number one? (It wasn’t actually Tom Brady; it was indeed some dude wearing a Brady jersey.)
Girl: Hahaha… you’re funny.
Me: Thanks?

And with that she left. That was it.

Until another 20 minutes passed and she made another approach. I figured someone hotter had rolled into the bar and she wanted to tell me that I had been indeed knocked down to number 3, but that wasn’t the case. Turns out, she had an even more important line of questioning.

Girl: So you’re not gay?
Me: Excuse me?
Girl: You’re not gay? You’re straight?
Me: Yeah, I’m straight!
Girl: Oh I just really thought you were gay.
Me: Am I really giving off that big of a “I’m gay” vibe?
Girl: I dunno, I just figured you like really gay.
Me: Wait, so am I still top 2 hottest in the bar?
Girl: Yeah totally!
Me: Nice. I’ll take that.

After RPG had come up from air from laughing so hard, we decided it was probably time to go. We finished up our drinks and made the trek back to RPG’s place for some much needed sleep. Friday, was going to be a long day.

To Be Continued…

Until Next Time

Email me
SarcasmAsAWeapon@gmail.com





Chivalry Is Dead…

4 08 2009

If you’ve been keeping up with me, you’ll have read my last post about putting Olivia Munn into my top 5 list.

I can proudly say that she indeed won the popular vote and has taken her rightful place in my top 5 crushes.

Playboy July Issue

Playboy July Issue

So I can thank all my faithful readers for helping me out on that one.

Now to some other pressing issues.

This past weekend I was lucky enough to attend Big P’s wedding on the Oregon coast. You may remember Big P from I’m Still A Virgin which I wrote a couple weeks back. It was a beautiful wedding with the Pacific Ocean as the backdrop, but more on that later.

I had prepared for this wedding knowing full well that Big P and his wife met at the Best Buy that we all worked at. During this time of employment we all became friends as we were all struggling college students and we all worked for the Man.

I knew that there would be a couple of people attending the wedding from Best Buy, and my secret hope was a couple of them would have been the High School Sluts that ran the cash registers at the front.

Before you go getting all indignant about my previous slut statement, let me give you some background. You see, our hiring manager at the time could easily be explained as a dirty old man that like to surround himself with attractive women. Seeing as I was in college I have no real problem with this theory or this practice. I mean, one can only hang out in computers with computer geeks for so long. So the Cashiers were a welcome change to a huge building filled with Computer Geeks and people who frequented Porn Conventions. Regularly. (I wish I was kidding about this.)

As it turned out most of these high school girls not only had low ambitions, but also lower morals. Bingo!

Now, as I am indeed much older than I was back then, it was my hope that indeed these high school girls would also be older, which would negate the creepy factor of me hitting on them.

In preparations for my weekend I believe I hit an all time low. I was getting ready and gathering all the things I would/could possibly need for this jaunt to the coast including condoms. Better to be safe than a dad. I always say. (no offense to dads.) So in my vain attempt to find some condoms in a Mormon household I began to give up the futile search. Then it dawned on me. I had kept a box of them in a travel bag hidden somewhere in my room.

So I began my search and came across the box tucked away in a safe place. I was delighted. If it came down to it, I would indeed be making smart decisions. (Obviously after I made poor ones.)

And then it hit me….

Upon closer inspection of the condoms I realized that these condoms were expired. A whole entire box (minus two I may or may not have used) expired. This is a depressing feeling. Knowing at one point in my life I thought to myself, “dude, you’re getting tons of sex. You should totally get the box” and then having them finding them years later dusty and unused and having to throw them away because they were expired is quite the depressing realization. There is no greater indication as to how your sex life is going, then having to throw out an entire box of condoms.

It goes to show you guys, never get the box. Never. Get. The. Box.

However, I moved on. I had packed my backs loaded the iPod and made the 2 hour drive out the coast to partake in Big P’s wedding. I wasn’t in the wedding so the need for me to be there early was not necessary. I pulled into my hotel and immediately cranked on the AC. You see, I LOVE a cold hotel room. I mean that. I’m not just trying to say that for some sort of literary symbolism (although now that I mention it, my life is a cold hotel room. Empty, cold, and there is never anything on tv. Son of a bitch) I just really love when my hotel is like 62 degrees. It’s bliss.

I began preparations by pouring myself a Jack Daniels on the rocks. Broke out the ironing board, and decided to take a shower. I’m not sure how many of you know this, but drinking and then immersing yourself in any type of hot water tends to accelerate the drunken process on the way.

In my near drunken state I had a breakdown of sorts. I couldn’t decide whether or not I should wear shoes or flip-flops with my khaki’s, shirt, and tie. I decided to ask my friends on Twitter for a quick response, and was told (by ladies) it was indeed ok to wear flip-flops to a beach wedding. Whew.

I was lucky enough to get a hotel room that was essentially right across the street from the reception hall. This would allow for quite some stumbling to my room a great deal later that night. I walked to the reception hall where the hosts were providing drinks for the guests. One of the guests happened to be my ex-girlfriends best friend from college. She was there as a date of one of the groomsmen, so while he was away fulfilling duties, we hung out and became Date-Non-Date friends.

After sometime we were ushered outside, and boarded a private train that took us up to the beach where the wedding would take place. It was an amazing ride, and Gibbs was on board to show me the exotic locales of the Oregon Coast in which he grew up. It was a lovely trip but one couldn’t help notice that the sun had been quickly replaced by cloud cover and a bit of a chill.

We enjoyed a wonderful ceremony and found ourselves back on the train. The cold air had indeed stuck around, and made a certain girl with a blue low cut dress sitting across from me visibly chilled. Which I noticed. A lot. The same girl, I had noticed came with another nice young lady that was sporting a nice white blazer. It was deduced by me and Date-Non-Date that they were indeed a lesbian couple, to which I leaned over to DND and said, “shouldn’t she offer the lady her jacket? Obviously chivalry is dead in the lesbian community.” DND broke into some chuckles and we both had a great laugh.

For some reason, I couldn’t help but think I knew cute lesbian girl. (the one with the low cute dress not the blazer.) Turns out, she knew Big P from back in his cheerleading Power-Stunting days. It instantly clicked. Big P had met this girl Stunting, and brought her to our house one day. It was after practice and she showed up in our house still sporting her cheerleader uniform.

Anyone who knows me, knows that cheerleaders are somewhat Kryptonite to me. I don’t know what it is. But there she was, abs of steel, cute smile, and a cheerleader outfit. However, she was either just out of high school or still in. Either way, I let that one go as just another cute girl to come and go outta my life.

Until now. We re-connected based on the fact I said I had recognized her and began talking again. (Sidebar: The saying I recognized her was actually me trying to save myself from getting called out on staring at her rack.)
Me: “I knew you looked familiar!”
Cute Assumed Lesbian:” Really?!? I thought you were just staring at my rack.”
Me: “uhhh. Nope. Uh huh. No. Not me. You looked familiar.”
CAL: “uuuh huh. So you weren’t staring at my rack. At all?”
Me: “No. No I don’t think so. Sure it was me?
CAL: “ Yeah, the seats on the train were like 2 feet from each other. It was you.”
Me: “Hmmm…. Doesn’t sound like me.
CAL “Pretty sure you were. Like, I caught you.”
Me: “Shit. Yeah I was. But in my defense, you did look familiar.”
CAL: “That’s what I thought.”

She was indeed still cute, with a beautiful smile. While no longer a cheerleader, she did teach dance at a large studio back home. I finally got drunk enoughthe courage to ask her to dance. She agreed and what I thought was going to be a “clutch and sway” (as she called it.) Turned out to be a lesson on how to Waltz.

At one point, I actually said… “I really enjoy how your talking to me like a kid.” To which she replied, “Oh I’m sorry. Force of habit.” And “You’re doing really good.” With a slight smile and pained look on her face. I know when I’m being lied to. I did my best, and we actually danced for a couple of songs. Meanwhile, Blazer had been sitting at a table playing solitaire on her phone.

The night was coming to and end and CAL had to get going. I even got more drunkgot the courage to ask for her phone number which, she gave me and if we wanted to hang out again. It was a big win for straight guys hitting on Assumed Lesbians that night. I felt I did my team a great service and decided to celebrate with some more drinking. And by drinking I mean Keg stands with the bride. No joke.

We ended the night at some Coastie bar that was playing karaoke. The details here are really pretty fuzzy, so I can’t really give many details. I know Big P had his head down and his eyes closed. Gibbs had left. Date-Non-Date finally got some time to put the moves on her actual date. And I?

Well, I drank whiskey.

The night was good.

The moral of the story is… Just because a cute girl brings another girl wearing a blazer to a wedding, don’t automatically assume she’s a lesbian. For you never know.

And DON’T buy the Box!

Until next time…

Email me
SarcasmAsAWeapon@gmail.com





I’m Still A Virgin…

22 06 2009

First things first.

I would like to announce that I have indeed changed the address of this blog. It’s now, SarcasmAsAWeapon.com, which is what should have done in the first place, but I’m a bit slow. So feel free to update your bookmarks, or bookmark it in the first place.

With that outta the way, I shall now get to the meat of this blog.

You see, I’m not your typical guy.

Don’t get me wrong. I love many of the same things that men do. I love fast cars, actions movies, I love sports, I love eating wings and drinking some beers, I love whiskey, I enjoy a nice cigar here and there, I love Vegas, and gambling, and not showering for a couple days.

With that being said, there are a few things that I also enjoy that don’t necessarily make me gay, but it makes me look gay.
I like to go shopping.
I enjoy The OC, 90210, and The Hills
I spend a lot of money on clothes.
While not completely metrosexual, I do put some time and effort into my appearance.
I have an insane collection of shoes. And I’m not talking about Air Jordans.
Speaking of, I love shoes.
I’ve seen my fair share of musicals, and reference them in conversations.
I hate camping and being dirty. (aside from playing sports.)
I don’t really care for the outdoors whatsoever.
I don’t believe you should wear socks and sandals.
I don’t think you should wear a black shirt with a brown belt.
I spend too much money getting my hair cut.
I really liked Hitch.
I have some “interesting” titles in my iTunes collection.
I spend too much on grooming supplies.

But the kicker…. I don’t like strip clubs.

I’ve never been to a strip club in my life. I don’t understand them. I don’t get them. Wait, let me take that back. I totally understand them. I totally get it. However, for me it’s always been a mystery to me. Why would a perfectly smart dude got spend money on getting cocked teased? Blows my mind.

I mean put it this way… no man would buy Rock Band, open the box, and realize he couldn’t push the buttons!! Or, he wouldn’t take his hard earned cash to a car dealership, give them all his money, for him to smell the interior then 15 minutes later see another dude with his dream car! Yet, when it comes down to naked women, men will do a lot of crazy things.

While other men’s propensities for strip clubs is not the subject, my disdain for them is. I’ve gone 30 years of my life without setting foot in a strip club. Most of it was due to the fact that I’ve been in relationships in most of the years I was supposed to be out getting ripped and seeing naked women dance around. I guess I just thought that I was already getting laid on a consistent basis so what’s the point of seeing some other chick take their clothes off. Oh, and I was getting laid for free. Now, admittedly I paid for sex in different ways, like having to see some pretty messed up chick flicks, but the reward was always pretty worth it.

So I guess I just missed out on a time when I had tons of expendable cash to help support higher education goals of today’s women.

The Streak, as it shall be forever called, was in jeopardy this past weekend as I reunited with my college roommates for one of their bachelor parties. My good friend Gibbs was there and as we had talked in the weeks prior to the event, there was mention of indeed visiting a strip club. Gibbs is happily married, and like me, has grown a bit past the strip club stage. That, and he went about a month ago. But Gibbs, like me, wasn’t very keen on the idea of attending another strip club. Sadly, this was the goal of the groom Big P. He had his mind made up and was determined to go. He was really looking forward to it.

Gibbs and I had a plan.

Back in college we drank a bit. We may have made a Drink-O board that rivaled Bob Barkers Plink-O board. Some may have said we had a problem. We just figured we were accomplished. We haven’t changed much since then, so all of our drinking tendencies are all pretty much the same. I tend to swear a lot and Gibbs is a close talker. Big P, on the other hand, Big P is a different animal all together. Seeing as how Big P is a really big man and a National Champion CheerleaderPower Stunter one would assume that Big P can handle his liquor. And to be honest, if the man would slow down a bit, he could probably out drink the both of us combined.

Big P, however is no marathoner. Big P is a sprinter when it comes to his drinking. As is the case, Gibbs and I devised a plan to see to it that we indeed missed the strip club. I received a text earlier from Gibbs asking me a great tequilla for Big P to drink. I responded by letting him know my buddy swears by Don Julio. And so it was.

I arrived Saturday afternoon to the boys already immersed in a game of beer bong. However this wasn’t your typical game. The cups were filled with water and the boys were drinking from cups they had to the side of the table. Turns out, the cups to the side were filled with their beverage of choice. In this case, Big P’s was filled with roughly 8 shots of Don Julio and some Sprite. When I asked the boys, why they didn’t just play regular beer bong, the informed me that this was indeed “dirty.” This coming from the same guys that after spilling a pour of Don Julio on the plywood table top, proceeded to lick it up.

Our plan was in motion. It was like George Clooney and Brad Pitt in Ocean’s Eleven. (Gibbs, go ahead and pick whichever one you want to be. I’m cool with either, however, I’d kinda rather be Clooney. Pitt kinda seems like a little bitch. Aside from Fight Club.) Big P was diligently killing cup after cup of Don Julio. In most cases, I’d be a bit appalled that someone was treating such a fine liquor like a two dollar PBR, but shit, it was all a part of the plan.

Roughly around 10:30 (which unknowingly to me, is prime strip club time) the rest of the natives were getting a bit restless. In fact I remember a shout, “Big P, it’s 10:30!” “We gotta get going!” It was about at this point that Gibbs was taking out his revenge for The Dark Knight weekend of hockey beatdowns. He was indeed whooping my ass 10-2 in some NHL 2001. We decided that we should put down the PS2 controllers and start rallying the troops. This took longer than expected for some were still eating, some were smoking, some were finishing up a game of beer pong.

Around 11:15, our plan had been determined a great success. We had lost Big P for a good 10 minutes. When we started scouring the house, someone had gone to the side of the house, where a patch of grass was now wilting under the immense pressure that was the dead weight of a 300lb Power Stunter. Big P had passed out in the front lawn. We of course rushed to his side…. to take pictures. He remained there for sometime. I figured it was all over, and the rest of the guys would been crestfallen and resign themselves to continue PlayStation and Beer pong.

And then it happened….

The taxi pulled up and honked. The mighty beast was awaken!

Big P arose from the grass to not only walk like a infant taking his first steps, but to yell out… SHOTGUN! Big P was back. Clooney and Pitt had been foiled. I volunteered to drive some of the others toward their preferred destination of some place that was indeed a euphemism for sex. Something like the “Hot Box” or “WildCats” or “Giggles.” The name isn’t particularly important. We arrived in splendid fashion. I couldn’t find Big P or Gibbs. I scoured the parking lot that was only brightened by the amber glow jetting out from the front door lights. And then I saw them, Big P, doubled over with Gibbs hand on his back. Big P was indeed puking. This had to have been it… it had to be over!

Sadly, one of the guys in our group knew the owner of the Club, and astonishingly they were allowed to proceed inside. It was tough… The Streak was alive. Yet so close to it becoming over. I didn’t want to go in. Yet the golden lights that back lit the naked lady figures on the doors called to me like the Yellow Brick road of OZ. (PS that was a reference to The Wizard of Oz. Not HBO’s prison Drama OZ. Again, please refer to the list above. It doesn’t make me gay, it makes me look gay.)

(Cue internal struggle.)
I should go in.
No I shouldn’t.
I should go… I’m just supporting higher education.
The streak is alive. THE STREAK!
There are naked ladies… I haven’t seen one in a bit, aside from the ones that appear on this 13 inch screen.
They have STD’s in there.
Maybe one will like me.
You don’t make enough to enjoy yourself in there!
THEY’RE NAKED!
THE STREAK!

The Streak. The streak was kept alive. A shit storm of smack talking rained down from some of the boys including calling me gay. And “loving the cock.” However, as it stands… I’m 30 years old. And I’m a strip club virgin.

I’m pretty okay with that.

Until Next Time…

Email Me
SarcasmAsAWeapon@gmail.com