The Drunken Blog

I’ve been told that stories are my bread and butter here, so I will continue with stories until I run out of them, at which point I’ll have to go out and make new stories, or at least make up new stories. This particular story dates back to October of 2005. It is the story of the most unusual way to start a relationship, leading to quite possibly the shortest relationship in history.

Oktoberfest is an annual party put on by my uncle and his friends. It’s basically an excuse to drink good beer, eat good food, hang out with good people, and give money to a good cause. With all the goodness in the air, you wouldn’t even think that something bad can happen. This Oktoberfest was the first year that the party was big enough to move out of my uncle’s front yard, and into a new venue, Oceana, which is a naval base, for all those people not from the Virginia Beach area.

The year previous to this Jeff and I had marked our cups with sharpies for every beer that we imbibed, a way for us to keep track of just how drunk we were. It was also when I was given some of the best advice of my entire life, “It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon.” True to form, we were drinking for about 8 hours, which makes it more like a double marathon. It was also at this Oktoberfest that I heard one of the funniest conversations in my entire life. I will recreate that conversation for you now:

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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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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 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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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 love Aqua Teen Hunger Force, one of my favorite cartoons on TV. In case you don’t know, they had a little incident in Boston with their recent advertising campaign. Here’s a little video recap (taken from gizmodo.com).

This is what I think of that:

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I was having a very casual conversation with a good friend of mine on gtalk and somehow or another we got to talking about websites. I commented that I have been working on websites in one form or another for about 10 years, and I showed him a link to that site (last updated 2002!). I went through and noticed that I had pictures from prom, with my prom date, who turned into a lesbian, not a LUG, mind you, but a full fledged lesbian.

Let me take you back to a more magical time in my life. I was a junior in high school and on the school newspaper. This girl, I’ll call her Clinton, was also in my class. I didn’t particularly take notice of her, I wasn’t exactly at a relationship point in my life (I had tried one freshman year and that’s when I learned that relationships are more than just a title, you have to do stuff). She, however, noticed me. She was also a senior, which may have been another reason that I didn’t notice her, I was very strict on the staying within your own grade rule, more for my own protection than anything else. I quickly learned that was stupid, especially since I am usually the youngest in my group.

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I’ve always been told that it’s poor form to give out your number to a girl in a bar, and it is. There’s only one reason that a guy gives out his number, and that is because he’s too scared to ask for her number. Let me fill you in on a little secret – if you don’t have the balls to ask for her number, than she’s not going to bother to call you. Plus, the chances are that you like her more than she likes you. So while she may have liked you just enough to go out with you if you had been somewhat persistent in calling her, she definitely does not like you enough to go out of her way to call you. That’s just the way the world works.

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Back when I was in college underage drinking was the “hip” thing to do. Not wanting to be called “un-hip” – a title reserved for my grandmother (who is called that because she had her hip removed, not because she’s not cool, even though she isn’t cool) I occasionally partook in the wonderful adventures that alcohol could provide.

I even tried to take this wonderful past time of drinking large volumes of alcoholic beverages home with me during winter break. It should be noted that this story takes place during my sophomore year in college, which means that I was still only 19 and green around the ears. It’s weird coming home from college over breaks. After having so much freedom to do anything that you want to suddenly being back to where you have to tell your parents where you are going at night, and have to secretly plan parties when they are out is a far cry from walking to your neighbor’s dorm and getting wasted on a moment’s notice.

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My company has a somewhat dilapidated database system for entering in test questions. It’s very unintuitive, has a clunky design, and makes you go through about 5 steps to do one thing to a question. Well, the other day this system (called ITS – Item Tracking System) stopped working on my computer. Something about a MDAC package not being available. The funny thing is that it was working on everybody else’s computer, just not mine.

Since I need to use this system to do some very tedious, menial, boring work, I sent an e-mail to the ITS people. They sent me back an e-mail asking if all of my settings were correct. I was pretty sure that they were, but I double checked anyway, since sometimes internet explorer likes to randomly change security settings. Of course, all of my settings were correct. They asked me to send a screenshot of the problem, I obliged.

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