The Drunken Blog

I had an interesting conversation the other day with Doug. I had a story that I want to tell, but it doesn’t exactly shed the best light on me, and while it’s not horrible, it’s something that I wouldn’t ordinarily volunteer to my mom, who reads this. Doug convinced me that if I started to censor my posts it would suck. I agreed. So, as best I can remember, here is the story of how I received a death threat on facebook.

Last spring I had no plans for Spring Break. I obviously wanted to do something, it being my last legitimate Spring Break before I become the creepy guy that has graduated from college but still goes out to college Spring Breaks. A good friend of mine said that she was getting a hotel in Miami and that I should come with. She said I didn’t have to pay for the hotel; I just had to get myself down there. I found out what flight she was on and booked it right away.

She also had a friend going down with her. I’ll call her friend Crom. I remember getting to the airport to depart and seeing Jess and Crom and Crom gave me about the most awesome unwelcome one could expect. Apparently she was upset that I was coming on this trip because it was supposed to be a girls only trip, blah blah blah. And she certainly let me know she felt that way; which is kind of ironic when you consider what happened later that week.

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There are few things in the world that every single man wants in their life time. Few men actually get this, but every man fanaticizes about it. In fact, I would probably go so far as to say that this particular action is so hyped up that actually participating in the event is much less grandiose than what one builds it up to be. Just like somebody having sex for the first time, with so much build up, how could it possibly live up to the hype?

I am, of course, talking about a threesome (and not the fake kind with two guys and one girl – that does not count). Like I said before, every single guy fanaticizes about participating in a threesome, few actually get the chance and even fewer actually participate in one. There are many reasons that threesomes are hard to come by. First of all, if you are in a relationship, don’t have a threesome unless you want out of that relationship. A threesome will end any relationship that you are in, every time; trust me, it just happens.

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Have you ever made up a nickname for somebody based on some feature of their wardrobe? I have. Sweatpants is what I was original enough to come up with. If you can’t figure out what she wore to earn that title, well, congratulations for at least being able to read, I suppose. Anyway, Sweatpants is one of those girls that is super involved in school. I wasn’t so involved in school, but Jeff was, so our paths crossed. Every time our paths crossed, though, she wore sweatpants.

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I’m a fan of avoiding physical confrontations, I mean, why fight if you can make the guy look like a douche by talking to him without him realizing it? That’s a victory in my book. However, there are some people that I won’t even do that to. The guy at BWU last night was one of those guys.

You don’t really need to know much of the background for this story, but here’s the setup. I am standing near the entrance with my friends drinking beer. The girls we are with decided they want a picture with “Arms.” This is one of the bouncers, and while I don’t think his name was actually Arms, it might as well have been. He’s the type of guy that has biceps as big as your entire head. So the girls try a self portrait (i.e., one of the girls in the picture holds out the camera to try and snap herself and everybody else in the pic), they are not satisfied. I offer to take the picture.

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I wake up the next morning with one of the worst hangovers I’ve had in quite some time. I immediately get some aspirin and start chugging water. Today is going to be a long day. Jeff leaves the place around 11 because he still (!) has to help out with homecoming. Doug and I just sort of lounge around and wallow in our hangovers until about 1pm.

We had done an inventory check and both of us were a little worried. I managed to lose my phone the previous night, and Doug lost his class ring. Oops. Luckily for me, my phone is not lost; I left it in the car from the previous night. Doug, however, is not so lucky and his ring is nowhere to be found. We are finally ready to leave for the homecoming festivities. I put on my jacket and stick my hand in my pocket (you never know when you’ll find money, especially after a night like the previous night), but alas, no money to be found this time. I did, however, find Doug’s ring. I’m not really sure why he would have entrusted it to me, or how or why I had it at all. I really don’t remember anything from that night involving that ring.

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I use the word debacle to describe events that happen when I am in a particular state. I’ve always used the word meaning a variation of a good time. What I mean by that is simply I didn’t have a bad time, but I didn’t have a straight up good time either (although, chances are I did actually have a good time) – I had an interesting time. Here is a visual example in text form. Think of a good time as a straight line from point A to point B, where A is the start, and B is good times. A debacle usually starts at point A, and usually ends up at point B, but makes a few pit stops at points F through U along the way. My point being that you still have a good time, you just go about it a different, unexpected way.

This weekend was a debacle, in exactly the way mentioned above. It was, of course, homecoming weekend, and my good friend Doug had his shackles released from his government job and came up. There are mostly guys in Doug’s office so he was happy to be back up in a college town. It’s amazing what a few months away from college hotties will do to a man’s standards, but that is neither here nor there. The point is, this weekend had debacle written all over it.

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So Mark Morrison is British. Whoda thunk?

Anyway, Doug asked me to come on as a contributor to thedrunkenblog, which I must admit I did with some apprehension. After all, the last time I wrote anything meaningful, my cat had ovaries (maybe she still does, I dont know, Im not exactly sure how spaying works). However, I get drunk, and I blog, so I guess this is as natural a fit as any. So, naturally, Im a little rusty when it comes to writing relevant topics to anyone wholl read this. Sure, I could take the easy way out, and write about something completely random like ‘Famous Macks’ to go along with my hastily-thought of title. Or, I could shake the rust off, write something surprisingly insightful, and make a splash in my (second) triumphant return to the internet.

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There was a recent study done in Britain that showed that 33% of all British people are retarded, i.e., they think that if you jump up and down right after having sex you can prevent pregnancy. When clearly everybody knows that you need to drink water from the back of the cup, hold your breath, and spin around until you get dizzy and fall down.

I’m kidding, of course and I really shouldn’t make fun, because I’m sure that Americans are even more retarded than the British when it comes to sex education. But some of the things they say are pretty funny, for example:

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I was perusing the Interweb and I came across an article entitled “Top 5 ways to hustle free drinks.” It actually wasn’t so much an article as it was 5 videos of people scamming others to get them to buy free drinks. They call them proposition bets in the videos and they basically call the people that take the bets suckers because they don’t have a chance of winning, which is true.

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Valentine’s Day is upon us.  Unfortunately, this year I’m in an area completely devoid of available, attractive women.  So, what am I doing?  Watching chick flicks, of course.  Tonight I’ve chosen The Last Kiss with Zach Braff.  Great flick, but normally I never would have given this film a second glance on the DVD rack.  However, it’s the star of the movie that drew me to it.  For you see, I am guilty of the crux to which every man falls victim: the man-crush.

I don’t care who the guy is, he has a man crush.  Maybe it’s an athlete.  Ever seen a guy playing basketball wearing the Lebron James headband?  Yeah, that just makes him a better baller.  Maybe it’s a historical figure.  That guy at work with the Bruce Lee posters in his cubicle?  He just has them because he loves the martial arts.  Sometimes it’s a musician.  That kid at the video store who always wears the 50 Cent t-shirts?  Right, that just shows how thug he is.  Hell, maybe it’s a porn star.  That guy you know but wish you didn’t know who has every Ron Jeremy movie ever produced… Yeah, he just has problems.  Maybe it’s a movie star.  That guy in the dorm with the Brokeback Mountain poster?  Ok… that’s not the kind of man-crush I’m talking about.

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