Friday night I went out with my friend Linz, her boyfriend and his roommate. Typical evening at the Flying Saucer in Addison, for the most part. Nice to get out of a rut and whatnot, making for a weak intro to the story from college I’m about to tell. At any rate, a happening at the Saucer reminded me of the following:
Way back in the day, when I was still in college and the calendar still had a “19” at the beginning of the year part, I used to hang out at a bar in College Station called Fitzwilly’s (which also sounds like some of the girls I met there, as in “She fits willies in there all night long”1). I was usually there with my roommate, who was an alcoholic, annoying womanizer who only really had the one redeeming quality that he paid his rent/bills on time. We’d go up there Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, sit in the corner “mafia” booth and hold court. He, being a former member of the Corps of Cadets, knew a great deal of people, while I was chock full o’ witty repartee. Also, he was a rich fucker, so most of the massive amounts of alcohol we consumed was ultimately paid for by his parents via the magic of MasterCard. We’d stay there until the bar closed, hitting on women, talking to people, being assholes, that kind of thing.
One evening, we’d gone up there and had gotten fairly sloshed when it was decided that it was time to move on elsewhere. Perhaps we were going home or maybe going to another bar for change of scenery…the Chicken or Hole in the Wall or the Dry Bean or something like that. We went to the bar to pay and as we stood there waiting for a bartender to close out our tab, I noticed a fairly hot, but definitely skanky, blonde girl wearing tight jeans and a bikini top that was straining to keep her giant, unnatural breasts restrained.
We couldn’t help but stare.
And stare some more.
And that’s when the grizzled (aren’t they all?) old biker she was with noticed us looking at her chest.
I thought we were about to get our asses kicked. Or stabbed. Or something.
Instead, the old biker guy asked, “You like her titties?”
I didn’t know what to say…I’d been caught. My roommate, on the other hand, said “Sure…they’re nice.”
This caused me to get really nervous…my roommate had just admitted straight up to checking out this girl’s rack, whereas I was hoping that we could somehow play off that we weren’t really looking at them.
“Go ahead,” said the biker, “feel them…I bought ’em for her.”
And, so, my roommate did feel them. Right there.
“Hey, Rifleman, you gotta feel these…they feel really natural,” he said.
She giggled and said “Thanks” then encouraged me to have a feel. So I did. Both of them.
And, wow, they did feel natural.
And I didn’t get stabbed or shot or beaten with a pool cue.
1Wow, that was so fucking lame. I can’t believe I wrote that. Then didn’t edit it out.
I drank too much this weekend. Of course, that pretty much describes every weekend, but there was something about this weekend that screamed “whoa, you’ve had waaaay toooo much there, cap”.
I’m not sure why my inner-monologue would call me “cap”, but it did. Just like that coon-ass Coach Ramsey from high school called everyone “cap”. Which, I guess, in the big scheme of things, is better than being called “Hoss”.
Anyhow, Sunday night it was decided that ‘Shank and I would join my friend “Chloe” (we’re changing names here to protect the innocent) and her “boyfriend” (she doesn’t know what they are) Josh (real name, not innocent) for drinks to celebrate her 29th birthday. Now, ‘Shank has never liked Josh, whereas I’ve learned to tolerate him. For the most part. Even if he can be a tool.
But I guess we call can.
We started at the Flying Saucer in Addison, drink overpriced premium beers and sitting on sofas and high-backed chairs that were not conducive to conversation. Which is probably a good thing, because Josh has a tendency to say maddening things.
Like when, after we’d migrated to the louder, more intimate setting of Joe’s (me and ‘Shank’s watering hole, as it’s within walking distance of home, thus minimizing any chance of imperial entanglements), Josh decided to tell ‘Shank he was a horrible human being. Or maybe it was “miserable” or “useless”.
I don’t remember. The fog of $5 Coors pitchers and tequila shots won’t let me see that far into my memory.
At any rate, it was one of those things that you generally don’t tell people. But I guess some people never learned the lesson wherein “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all”.
Because, you know, some people are totally useless assholes.
Oops…I just said something that wasn’t nice.
Ever notice how drinking a little too much is pretty much the same thing as drinking way too much? I’ve noticed. Most recently on Friday night.
I’d taken the day off from work and–along with ‘Shank–occupied myself with playing Bully on the PS2. At about 4:30, we–figuratively–saddled up and headed towards downtown for the hockey game. Why so early? One reason: happy hour at Friday’s in West End. We’ve been occasionally stopping by there before games for $4 Long Island Iced Teas and, as a result, have gotten to know the bartender, a sassy, possibly-lesbian Chicana named Belen.
And we all know what happens when you get to know a bartender…they start making your drinks stronger. Several LITs later and we were lit. Game time was approaching and we needed to be there for the puck drop. Somehow, we made it from West End to the American Airlines Center unscathed. After stumbling our way to our seats and singing along to–rather badly–to “O Canada”, we had the bright idea–at the time–to get more alcohol. Two beers and two periods later, we could barely stand up. An executive decision was made to leave the game at the start of the third period. All I remember about exiting the AAC was–at one point–falling down a flight of stairs. I was ahead of ‘Shank and he said when he rounded the corner, all he saw was me at the bottom of the stairs sprawled out like I was dead. I fought my way to my feet and continued down the stairs. At one point, ‘Shank and I both decided it’d be a good idea to smash a flourescent light fixture. I don’t really remember doing so, but we both had cuts on our hands the next day to prove it.
Walking to the car turned into an adventure. What normally would’ve been a 10-minute walk somehow turned into a sojourn of at least half-an-hour. All I really remember about the walk to the car was ducking down into the garage at the W to piss. The next thing I know, we’re in ‘Shank’s Blazer, half asleep. As I lay there, reclined in the passenger seat, my drunken semi-sleep was broken by the sound of a window rolling down, followed by a gurgled heaving sound…a sound that I immediate recognized–thanks to hundreds of parties during my university years–as someone vomiting. That someone was ‘Shank. For some reason that I can’t quite fathom, my alcohol-addled mind decided it would be a good idea to jump out of the car and run around to the driver’s side to watch ‘Shank puke. Normally, were I not drunk, this would make me gag–and possibly throw up a bit myself, but my inebriation prevent this as I watched him throw up down the side of his truck.
That’s when it suddenly occurred to me that the parking lot was empty…somehow we’d both passed out long enough for the game to be over and for everyone to leave. All that were left were people going to the West End. It also occurred to me that I had to piss again. So I did the only logical thing–I wandered around to the passenger side of ‘Shank’s truck and proceeded to piss on the side of it.
I wonder what we looked like to the people walking by–‘Shank puking on one side of his Blazer and me peeing on the other. I imagine it was quite humorous.
Goddamn, we’re a couple of fuck-ups.
Holly recently remarked to me about how much she loves the Bud Light Real Men of Genius ads, to which I commented that Molson has some great ads that they run north of the border. Here are some of my favo(u)rites…
The slow recovery has begun. Once again, the weekend–an evil and vile temptress–has taken its inevitable toll on me, and I probably won’t be back to feeling normal until Wednesday or so. But that’s okay–my body has grown accustomed to these punishing ordeals, and what doesn’t kill us can only make us stronger.
I realize that that probably sounded like my weekend was horrid and tedious. Actually, the only horrid and tedious part was the ten minutes spent watching the end of Gigli at Holly’s house the other night. If that whole move was as awful as the ten minutes I saw, I probably would’ve been more than happy to claw my eyes out with a hammer.
But I digress. In total actuality, the weekend was pretty good. I went to Tyler to belatedly celebrate Minotaur’s birthday, but as he and Minogirl were working on Friday, I hooked up with the aforementioned Holly as well as Joey McIntyre’s girlfriend, Courtney–the one with the fun shoes. We went to old stand-by–Bennigan’s. And I got kind of fucked up. Which was great, until I decided to go back to Holly’s for more wine and three more hours of conciousness.
I paid for it the next day, arising early to drive my dear old mother–the Riflemom–to the middle of nowhere. (I hope to God that she never sees that I just called her “old”, otherwise it’ll be her that drives me to the middle of nowhere, and leaves for dead). Why the middle of nowhere? Because that’s were the nesting bald eagles were. That’s right–the living symbol of our great country, though if you look at the bird guide my mother happened to have, it seemed that the bald eagle covers a lot more territory in Canada than the United States. So, yeah, we saw the eagles, which was not as cool as seeing the Eagles, but still interesting.
Saturday night I went with Minotaur and his wife to see Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy–a superbly decent flick that had us laughing heartily, especially the scenes involving yarn. Afterwards, we went to get Chinaman’s food, then back to Bennigan’s for trivia and drinks.
All-in-all, an okay weekend, but more-importantly, a source for lame content. Just so I can say I blogged today. Sorry for the horridness.
A lot of things annoy me. The French. Faggy English people. Black people (I’m sorry, African-Americans) with blinged out Escalades and teeth). I mean, what can I say? I’m easily annoyed. Maybe I’m too sensitive. Or close-minded. Or something. Maybe I’m starting to turn into a curmudgeony old man. Next thing you know, I’ll be walking with a cane and sitting in my own filth after going to the bathroom in adult diapers, keeping my teeth in a glass next to the bed while I sleep my way to inevitable death.
But, hopefully, that’s not the case. I like to think that I just like my life to have a set order. A meaning that I don’t like others–outsiders–to infringe upon. Take for instance my experience the other night.
I had once again traveled to the land of my childhood–Tyler. Now I’m sure you’re wondering how I ended up there a week after I’d last graced that bastion of incomprehensible accents, but I have good reason–guilt. That’s right, for once the Rifleman felt a pang of guilt. You see, the last time I went to Tyler to visit the Minotaur and his wife, the movie star and the rest, I’d elected to go on a Saturday after I’d promised to be there on Friday–I’d decided, based on some weird logic, that I’d be better off drinking all day on said Friday rather than spending time with my brother and his wife and my own mother, especially since it was Easter Weekend–traditionally, at least with my family, a time of togetherness. But I have my excuses–I spent said Friday drinking with ‘Shank, and he’s like family, only not, so if I were, say, Riflegirl, I could seduce him without being a fag.
Saturday night, I met Holly, Courtney and Holly’s friend Amanda at the local Irish Embassy–Bennigan’s, for some drinks and whatnot. Mostly drinks, as I’m not sure “whatnot” is in this situation. Conversation, maybe? If so, there was plenty of that. We’d been there for a bit over an hour, downing cheap beer and whatnot. Dammit–there’s that word again.
Anyhow, we’re sitting at a table in the bar area–the four of us crowded around into a tightly-knit cadre, when Holly receives a text message. A text message apparently forewarning her of impending doom. Or, at least, impending annoyance. She tells us that these particular people–a couple that live down the way from her boyfriend–have been mysteriously impressing themselves upon their lives (though if you ask me, maybe they should’ve never shared their phone numbers if they didn’t want some intrusion. But I’ll forgive them–they certainly had no idea what they were getting into) and said couple’s arrival at the Irish Embassy was impending. I thanked her for forewarning me of their annoying habits of insinuating1 themselves into situations and girded myself.
They arrived. The guy was tall and skinny, quiet and, frankly, seeming like a somewhat ineffective individual. The girl, on the other hand, was short and mouthy–the type of woman my mother and her cackling friends might call a “dumpy blonde”. And, to be honest, she did seem “dumpy”, though I’m not really 100% sure what that means. Chubby, with an unflattering blouse that was about two sizes too small, too-easily highlighting the cavern of her navel and her apparently perpetually-erect nipples. Angular, rat-like features, softened by too many Twinkies and late-night Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Dirty blonde hair, skanky, just like its owner.
At first, they hovered near the table, chatting as if they were old friends on their way to their own table. Actually, this is not entirely true, as the only one doing any chatting was the girl. They guy just stood to himself, unenaging and uninteresting. Whether this was just aloofness or an air of superiority or social ineptitude, I can’t say. Personally, between you and me, I think he was just a tool. Their hovering grew more ominous as Erica, the old woman waitress, approached and took their drink order. As she returned with their drinks, they commandeered table space to set them upon. This was starting to look bad. Somehow, after a few more minutes of chatting, they made chair materialize out of nowhere and suddenly they were sitting at our already-cramped table, never showing any outward sign that they knew they were uninvited. Our tightly-knit group, full of intelligent and witty conversation–had been imposed upon by people who most-certainly carry Lone Star Cards. A flurry of text messages denouncing these outsiders bounced between our original group. Personally, I think that if I were somewhere and everyone else were text-messaging each other then laughing out loud instead of just coming out and saying it, I’d assume that they were talking about me and would leave. But these people were either incredibly determined to cast a pall over our evening or incredible oblivious. Holly and I ventured into talking about them out loud, discoursing on uninvited guests sitting at your table in restaurants like Bennigan’s, but it was to no avail. These people weren’t getting it. They stayed. And we had no choice but to pretend it didn’t matter.
But it did matter. What was supposed to be a night out of fun drinking for us was made not-quite-as-fun by weirdos. Social parasites, if you will. People who have no lives of their own, therefore have to use others for vicarious good times. And Holly says these people are like this all the time. I have to wonder if they do this a lot–find another couple to sponge social lives off of for a while until they are told off or ignored or whatever. I’ve had a few friends like this in the past–they are always just there, not really fun to hang out with or interesting to talk to, but they always just show up, inviting themselves over, drinking all of your Coke and eating all of your pretzels. Thankfully, I’ve found, if you just take a few easy steps–don’t open the door, don’t answer your phone, get a restraining order, murder them then dump their bodies at construction sites–they eventually just go away. Just like psycho ex-girlfriends.
1Contrary to some people’s belief, a valid use of the word insinuate See this entry in the Wiktionary.
It’s Monday. It feels like twelve Mondays all crammed together into one day, for I, Rifleman, feel like shit (shite, if you’re Scottish). And rightly so, I suppose. Four days of drinking will do that to you.
It all started Wednesday night. Feeling a bit stressed from work, I convinced ‘Shank to meet up at SSW official pub, Rocky’s in Valley Ranch after he got off work at 10:30. Late, I know, but that’s never stopped me before, even though I did have to go to work the next day. We drank a couple of pitchers of Shiner, harassed pseudo-Oompa-Loompa waitress Jessie and played NTN Trivia. NTN Trivia is the best thing about hanging out in bars, as it lets you avoid conversation with drunken fucks. And, being that it was poker night at Rocky’s, the place was chock full o’ drunken fucks. A good example of this was one drunken fuck who objected to the fact that the evening’s soundtrack–piped in through the bar’s PA–was electronica. He approached the bar and demanded that Chris (aka Wins-STON) change the music, as the electronica was not really music in that “It ain’t got no words! It’s gotta have words to be good music. Only good music has words!” He said this like a televangelist would say something about the word of the Lord, with above-normal conviction in his voice. I think he talked like this because he was drunk, which would mean that most televangelists are also drunk. And I can’t really blame him–if I had to live with myself after bilking people out of their hard-earned money every day, I’d probably be a drunk too.
We left Rocky’s at 1 or so in the morning, ‘Shank heading home to do God knows what and I going home to play on the Internet. And by “play on the Internet”, I mean download 10 second porn clips and masturbate. Falling asleep immediately after “playing on the Internet”, I dreamed of Jennifer Love Hewitt, amongst other things. The alarm came too quickly, which, thankfully, has never been a problem for me. I rolled out of bed and took a quick shower, foregoing shaving again and headed out the door to the car and over to the office.
I got to work around 9. Late for me, as I usually get in around 8:20 or so, but I didn’t care–my boss was off on vacation at his brother’s place in “northern LA”, as he kept calling it, as if he were embarrassed to admit his brother lived in Glendale or Burbank–just down the road from Topanga State Park, which is the only state park named after a character on Boy Meets World. As they say, “when the cat’s away the mice will play” or some stupid thing like that, and I followed that credo Thursday. After arriving at the office, I surfed the Internet (notice that I used the word “surfed” rather than “played”, as the two are entirely different activities and the latter would probably be inappropriate at the office, or at least it would be at my office) for an hour-and-a-half, took a fifteen minute break to wander downstairs to the cafe for a cup of coffee, came back upstairs, killed some more time on the ‘net, then went to lunch. After a long lunch, I came back, did some real work (stuff that has to be done everyday), then surfed some more until 5, at which time I went home. Or at least went to one of my second homes–Starbucks.
‘Shank was working, which meant I would get the hook up. And I needed it, as I was obviously up late the night before. Unfortunately, I got sidetracked while I was there and decided I needed to go home (frankly, I couldn’t stand being around the people there) before actually acquiring any of that sweet, sweet nectar of the gods–coffee. ‘Shank and I made plans to meet at Rocky’s for more drinks and whatnot after he got off work. Luckily, this night he was getting off (of work) at 6:30, so it would hopefully prove to be a somewhat early evening. Not that it mattered–I was off work the next day in observance of “Good” Friday. Though how any Friday you get crucified on could be good escapes me.
I met ‘Shank at Rocky’s at about 6:45, where we ordered our customary pitcher of Shiner and a couple of NTN Trivia boxes (or, as NTN’s propaganda would have you call them, “Playmakers”). The sad thing is, ‘Shank and I, usually masters of triviality, were being beaten about the brains by others. Others with inane NTN player IDs like “ISGUYS” and “GORDOO”. We ate some fries and had a second pitcher before calling it an evening and returning to Starbucks, where I finally got the coffee I so richly deserved. It was while we were at Starbucks that we witnessed a Mexican eating. A regular occurrence, played out at countless construction site lunch trucks across the Southwest everyday, I’m sure–but this was decidedly odd. He had two faux Tupperware containers, one containing cold noodles and the other containing what could only be described as gazpacho with large chunks in it. He was trying to mix the two, but only managed to get some of the noodles and some of the “gazpacho” on the table. Apparently, Senor Wetback lacked mixing skills. It was while he was inside Starbucks purchasing a frappucino that we noticed some of the chunks in the “gazpacho” were steamed, in-shell mussels. Yum. And weird.
Freaked out by this, we decided to retreat to ‘Shank’s house for some movie viewing, or miewving, as I like to call it. We settled in to watch Snatch–the Guy Ritchie film, not the female genitalia–when we discovered that, in his attempt to be frugal–‘Shank had purchased not the movie, but the companion disc with all those DVD extras that you maybe only watch once. Not his fault, really, as it was in a plain white box at Movie Trading Company and was marked for only $3, but disappointing nonetheless. We settled for watching Pixar’s The Incredibles instead. Which actually turned out to be a good choice.
The next day I slept in, saving my energy for that afternoon and evening, as we had a plan. Friday, we would sit at Rocky’s for hours, drinking beer and playing trivia. ‘Shank picked me up around 3:30. We were at Rocky’s at 3:38. We drank and drank and drank. And played trivia. We started to get hungry at one point, so ‘Shank suggested we order some wings. Three pounds of wings, to be exact. Which sounds like a lot, but when you really get down to it, they’re mostly bone. So it wasn’t really all that much food. Thus, barely an hour-and-a-half later, we elected to order a pizza. Now, normally I would’ve felt like a complete glutton for eating this much, but as I hadn’t eaten lunch, I justified it by telling myself I was just cramming lunch and dinner together into a short amount of time. ‘Shank, on the other hand, had already had McDonald’s, chips and two Hot Pockets, so I don’t know what his excuse for being such a fatty was. And I don’t really care. If he wants to be a glutton, than that’s his prerogative.
It was ‘Shank’s co-worker Charisse’s birthday celebration that night, so we elected to join the party at Olive Garden in Lewisville at around 8:30. We didn’t eat, as we were still sated from the earlier food. And it’s not like I’d eat anyhow, as Olive Garden is fucking disgusting. And this is coming from someone that has been known to occasionally eat Arby’s. We hurried them along, anxious to keep up the drinking. Finally, we left, headed for Denton. Now why we were going all the way to Denton to drink when there were plenty of bars in the Irving/Coppell/Lewisville/Carrollton juncture, I don’t know, but it was Charisse’s choice, so we complied. Our destination was a bar called Cool Beans, which sounds like a coffee shop, but then what would you expect from a bunch of baristas? Luckily, Tim, a gay Starbucks hipster and former barista with a hard-on for ‘Shank and who’d been at dinner, didn’t make it to the bar. I was afraid that I might have to pry him off of ‘Shank at some point during the evening.
Cool Beans was okay, if you like college bars. But to me, the college bar of college bars will always be the Dixie Chicken in College Station. It’s the Dixie Chicken’s fault that it took me five-and-a-half years to graduate (I refuse to accept any blame for my laziness). The best thing about Cool Beans was that we were able to stock up on $2.75 shots of Cuervo Especial and Newcastle Brown on draft (or draught, for you English fucks). By the end of the night, I was buzzed (thank you, massive alcohol tolerance god) and ‘Shank was, well, gone. Thus I drove us back to my place to crash.
Somehow, I was able to get up at the crack of dawn (9:00 in my parlance) and shuffle ‘Shank out the door as I left to go to Tyler, a hole but also a World Capital of Barbeque (at least according to writer Neal Pollack–personally, I tend to agree on the first, but the second claim is iffy). I killed the day hanging out with Riflemom–Rifleman’s mother. Exciting, I know, but I felt guilty in that I hardly ever do anything with her and I think that she gets a bit lonely sometimes, especially since she killed her dog. We made grilled shrimp for dinner–quite tasty. Later that evening, I went over to Minotaur and his wife’s to watch a hilarious home movie of Minotaur, Custardstyle (the missing member of SSW) and myself in Houston, featuring cameos by Holly and her friend PD (aka Pete, aka Purple Dick). It was about this time that I received a text message from Holly saying “It’s the remix to Ignition”. I convinced Minotaur and his wife to join me in meeting up with Holly at Armadillo Willy’s, because, after all, it was the freakin’ weekend, baby, and I was about to have me some fun. We arrived at Armadillo Willy’s to find Holly, her boyfriend, ace Tyler Morning Telegraph report Mark Collette, a drunken Monica and her boyfriend Ben. Miss Courtney Rogers was there as well and hanging out with her is always cool. They were singing karaoke, serenading the drunken East Texas fucks with Elton John’s classic “Tiny Dancer”, which may or may not have been about his penis.
The night gets kind of hazy at this point, a combination of tiredness and the effects of mass quantities of both Shiner and Amber Bock. At some point, we retired to Mark’s to listen to Tenacious D and talk about the best way to rub a lover’s foot to avoid ticklage. All I really remember was awaking Sunday feeling like shit. But, you know, any time you can hang out with friends like these, it’s worth it.
I just noticed that I hadn’t really blogged in a while. And while I could just chalk this up to oversight on my part, I won’t. No, the sad, long truth is that I just haven’t had a lot to write about lately. I suppose I could always just take something really mundane, like chewing gum, and turn that into a long and pointless blog, but where’s the fun in that?
So, what’s been going on lately with me? Well, as you may know, I was funemployed for a few weeks, which kind of sucked in that I kind of felt purposeless without a job to go to everyday, but at the same time gave me a chance to catch up on much-needed sleep and pornography downloading. Alas, however, the fun couldn’t last forever and I found myself accepting a position with a digital media company in Las Colinas. It’s not a bad job, and quite a significant raise over what I was making. And, hey, you can’t go wrong with more dosh, can you?
So, while I’ve busied myself getting up to speed at the new job, I haven’t had all that much time to have wacky adventures. I went to the ol’ hometown a couple of weeks ago and played some NTN trivia and drank beer with Minotaur, as we tend to do on occasion. Unfortunately, there was nothing really wrong that weekend, so I couldn’t blog about it. In fact, the worst part was not getting to see the lovely PennyLane.
The last week has been more of the same featureless existence. I slept a lot, got the hottest buffalo wings known to man with ‘shank, and watched my guilty-pleasure, Battlestar Galactica (the new series, not that crappy 70s one with Richard Hatch and Ben Cartwright or Lorne Green or whatever his name was). I bought Resident Evil 4 on the advice of Minotaur and wasted most of Saturday killing Spanish zombies (almost as fulfilling as killing Spanish people!). I also downloaded the most excellent Channel Four series Spaced, starring Simon Pegg of Shaun of the Dead as well as directed by that film’s director, Edgar Wright. Quite possibly one of the funniest British comedies (I refuse to use the inane appellation “britcom”) to come out in the last decade, right up there with Coupling and Little Britain.
Other than that, nothing. Boring, banal being. Well, except for the times I got drunk. Maybe the next few days will be better. But I fucking doubt it.