Thursday, August 4, 2011

No. 133 "The Worst Day (Part 3)."

If the scrolly thing on your mouse is broken or you're just plain lazy, you can find part 1 here, and part 2 here.

So far my day had been a steaming pile of shit topped off with a hearty ladle of "I'm Fucked" au jus. I decided that a few potent potables would be just what the doctor ordered (if my physician was a drunk) and got ready to meet up with Jenny at her boyfriend Joe's house a few miles from my dorm.

Andre Young, M.D. wants your ass to get drunk.

I informed my roommate Jim that I would be back around 1 AM; which would give him a four hour masturbation window. More than enough for the average college-aged male with a broadband connection. I joked that if he had a girl over, to put a tie on the door as a signal of preoccupation. We both laughed at the notion of him even speaking to the opposite sex without going into anaphylaxic shock, and I was on my way.

While driving, I saw my arch-nemesis Gideon riding his fixie bike listening to his iPod. I wished I had a water balloon filled with urine to throw at him, but a conventional middle finger had to suffice. My day was already getting better.

Per usual, I got lost on my way there and had to make several phone calls to figure out if Jenny meant "second left" or "third right, first left past the cemetery, U-turn at dead end and E-brake out of frustration." Perhaps a writing utensil or short-term memory would have proven valuable, but I after a couple increasingly annoyed phone calls I was able to find the place and walked up to the door.

It was a very big house, and as soon as Joe let me inside, it was reminiscent of a Hoarders episode; if the hoarder only collected totally awesome shit that appealed solely to twentysomething college students. The entire house was filled with vintage rock posters and neon beer signs with no sign of cat skeletons. According to Joe, his aunt died recently and left him the house and a bunch of money; which I'm sure she specifically insisted be spent on high quality marijuana and kegerators.

Joe was an amalgam of every stoner/slacker you'd see in teen comedies from the 90's. He even had his own catchphrase. I would compare him to that friend everyone had in elementary school whose parents always got the best toys. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be actual friends with him, but he had a lot of cool shit I wanted to play with.

(Pictured: Joe)

After he gave me the tour of his sanctuary de hesherdom, we all sat down and listened to music on his record player. Joe offered me a beer, which I blissfully accepted. Instead of a Bud Light or Sierra Nevada, I was handed an unlabeled bottle. He informed me that he recently became a home-brewer and just finished a new batch earlier in the week. I figured beer was beer and took a big gulp.

Surprisingly, it tasted just like regular beer (if that beer had been sitting in an abandoned lot for six months). I feigned enjoyment of his gag-worthy concoction, but spit the gelatinous liquid back into the bottle as slyly as I could, like grandma Mema's mutton. As soon as Joe got up to use the bathroom, Jenny and I exchanged disparaging remarks about Joe's fermented fuck up.

Jenny asked how life had been treating me lately. Instead of going off on a self-demoralizing tangent about how my youth was about to abruptly end due to my girlfriend's overzealous uterus; not to mention the fact that I was probably going to fail out of college, I told her it was "alright."

After a few more drinks and harebrained theories from Joe about artificial intelligence, I was ready to call it a night and get six full hours of sleep before my alarm woke me up for a class that I would eventually skip in order to watch The Price Is Right. I made the obligatory female friend chest-to-boob-hug maneuver with Jenny and "nice to meet ya" bro handshake with Joe.

I insinuated that I wanted to be invited back to Joe's fortress of awesome by attempting to exchange phone numbers. This was not to be since he did not own a cell phone because of "the government." I decided that asking questions would only lead to a proselytising tirade and likely Power Point presentation on various conspiracy theories, so I let myself out.

It was just past midnight and I was the only car on the road as I rocked out to some popular song from 2006 that I probably make fun of now. I looked at my speedometer and realized I was only going 25 in a 35 MPH zone. Just as I was about to speed up, a beautiful kaleidoscope of blue and red peered into my rear-view mirror. It was not a discotheque on wheels, but rather a cop ready to bust my ass.

I pulled over into the McDonald's parking lot to get some cheap drive-thru snacks; as cops are associated with taking their damn time, and I was quite famished. I figured I could present the officer with one of my baked apple pies as a peace offering since they're two for a dollar and fucking delicious. I decided that this was probably not a good idea, and instead pulled over into an empty parking spot.

Nothing good ever happens at a McDonald's parking lot after midnight.

As I waited for the officer to walk to my car I realized that I was under 21 and definitively had alcohol in my system. I immediately searched my car for anything that could get me in trouble: illicit drugs, communism propaganda, dead hookers. After realizing that A) I didn't do drugs, B) Communism was so 1967, and C) I had buried that hooker in a shallow grave last week, I began a hurried quest for gum or mints to disguise my breath.

I could find no such winter-fresh savior and instead took a long draw from a Coca Cola bottle sitting at the foot of the passenger side seat. The taste was not that of the refreshing sweetness I had known as Coca Cola, but rather chewing tobacco spit that my buddy had left as some sort of cruel joke. Just as I was about to discharge it all over my front dash, the officer knocked on my window with his criminal beating stick baton. I swallowed the disgusting tobacco spit like an averse 18 year-old girl at a seedy porn audition.

I thought about booking it and leading a car chase, but I really didn't want to add prison time and broken ribs to my worst day ever. So, I did what anyone would in that situation: try not to say or do anything idiotic.

The officer went through the generic questions about how fast I was going and where I was coming from. He then requested my insurance, license and registration. Since I'm an unorganized moron, I only had my license with me. But, I four-flushed my way through Del Taco bags and notes scattered throughout my hobo-ridden vehicle for several minutes until I gave up on the hunt. He took my license and went back to his patrol car.

I'm entirely dubious to what police officers do back at their car while you're tweaking out due to the anxiety. Maybe they're just fucking with you. Perhaps they have some sweet video games built into their on-board computer. Or, it really does take 28 minutes to run a warrant check. Whatever it may be, laying in wait at 12:30 on a Tuesday night while you ponder about whether you will be driving home safely and snuggling in your warm bed or sharing a concrete cell with a pantheon of cockeyed transients is quite a daunting task.

Officer Refusetosmile came back to my car and asked if I had been drinking previously in the evening. This was my moment to shine. Usually, I am a terrible lair with many discernible tells. But, when it comes down to brass tacks, I'm a regular Titus Oates. I cleared my throat in order to use my indomitable deceit timbre and sternly, but calmly, gave him an auricular: "No, officer. I have not." He took a second to stare into my unflinching eyes and delivered a "You better not be lying to me, boy" look before he handed my license over and told me to get my tail light fixed. And just like that, he sped off to a 24-hour doughnut shop or ongoing bank heist or wherever cops go when they're not harassing taxpayers.

As soon as I saw his headlights dim into the night I screamed out an impassioned "FUCK YEAH!" then cautiously drove back to my dorm while bumping the eclectic rhymes of N.W.A. My day had been a roller coaster ride of infelicitous incidents that continued to descend until my dumb Irish luck got me out of a near certain DUI. I was on top of the world, and even though I knew I'd wake up the next morning to realize that my life was presumably fucked; I had won this moment and I was going to savor it.

This "moment" lasted a total of eight minutes, until I opened the door to my dorm and saw Jim raping his hand once again. Oh, well. At least I wasn't getting raped in jail.

Over the next few weeks, I found out that Ly Inghoe was not pregnant, but actually a lying hoe. So I continued my relationship with her for several months since I had no balls dumped that bitch. After a few extra credit assignments and genuine studying, I was able to secure a "C" in my Electronic Media class without the disobliging tutoring of Gideon. And, I never drove drunk again. Instead, I coerced friends into driving or passed out on vomit-stained sofas.

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