Flashback: Senior Test

Someone recently made mention on my Facebook wall about having to take the senior test at 7:30 AM on a Saturday morning up at Truman State University. This brought back painful flashbacks of my experience with the PRAXIS exam, at the same time a year prior.

Well aware of the test that Saturday morning, I did what any college student would do in the same circumstances: get hammered the night before. I was soused, topsy turvy drunk. The test didn’t really have any bearing on our degree, and in my efforts to have as much fun up at school as physically possible, drinking was a safe option. I don’t recall the occasion, or whom I even drank with, but I think it is safe to assume it was a very dumb idea, and wrecklessly irresponsible.

At 6:30 AM the next morning I woke to my alarm, in the living room of my house, still fully clothed from the night prior. I just got up and walked to Violet Hall, where the testing was taking place. As I stepped foot in the school building it occurred to me that I was still very much so intoxicated, as was dually noted by some of my classmates that came within a few feet of me. Poor form, Peter.. Poor form. I made it to my designated classroom and began the test in blissful oblivion, questions about the process of painting in the 16th century and random ceramic terminology, this was going to be a breeze.

Cue hangover.

Oh no. Oh God, no. The cold sweats started. The delirium tremors made filling in bubbles with my number 2 pencil harder than answering the questions themselves. I could feel hot vomit bubbling up my esophagus. I gathered my dignity and strength and shuffled to the front of the room. “May I please use the restroom?” “Sure, but we can only let one person out of the room at a time, you’ll have to wait until the other student comes back.” Son of a bitch. I know that hangover-sickness comes in waves, so I focused my attention on my test. The wave approached again, and the cold sweats were my sign to go to the bathroom. I got up and shuffled to the front again. “Can I go now?” Oh no, sorry, someone else already left to go. You’ll have to wait again..” Well, this is it. I was going to vomit all over this very quiet sterile classroom where people were intently focused on a test that determined their future as a teacher. Since I had no intention of becoming a teacher this test meant nothing to me other than experiencing a painful hangover the likes I would normally have slept through.

Then the door opened. I made a beeline to the bathroom before I had even reached my desk again. Halfway down the lobby towards the restroom I vomited in my mouth. Not just a little regurgitation, but a full blown chunky vomitus that I somehow contained in my mouth. As I drop kicked the door open, I let fly a projectile spew into the nearest receptacle, which just so happened to be the paper towel trash can. I couldn’t even make it to the toilet. I just unloaded in that little metal trash can like I had the bubonic plague foaming out of my face. Sweet relief.

As I stumbled back into the classroom reeking of disgorged beer and whiskey, I took a seat and lay my head down. I was abruptly woken by my classmate kicking me, pointing to her test and then to the clock. It would seem that I passed out for over an hour, snoring and burping. This left me a paltry 20 minutes to complete a test I had barely made a dent in. I finished my test just in time to hand in my answer sheet then rush back to the bathroom to vomit, in a toilet this time. The bathroom was now full of test takers who hushedly giggled at my retching. As I emerged from the stall wiping my mouth, people looked at me witha mixture of disgust and amusement.

“Tough test, wasn’t it?” I muttered. This roused more disgusted looks and a few laughs.

The beauty of this whole scenario was not only did I finish, despite my hangover and vomiting, but I passed with flying colors. I did very well, and others in my class didn’t pass at all. Truman gave me the the tools I needed to become one of the school’s most functional alcoholics.

Halloween Bus Party

This past Halloween I embarked in a journey dubbed “The Halloween Bus Party.” The Halloween Bus Party is held every Halloween, and is exactly what the name entails. It is a procession of buses that ferry drunk-asses around the greater St. Louis area to different bars. Each bus is packed full of alcohol, including a cooler of beer, hundreds of jello shots, and jungle juice. In theory, this is brilliant. No risk of driving while intoxicated and everyone has alcohol provided between bars.

We started out at The Atomic Cowboy and signed in and got our passes. After this, all hell broke loose. We filled the buses and immediately began pounding beer and jello shots. Before we even got to the first bar, the Trainwreck in Westport Plaza, a girl on our bus had vomited. The whole bus reeked of regurgitated beer. Not pleasant. Come to find out, it could have been a lot worse, someone on one of the other buses decided to just go ahead and urinate on the the bus on the way there. A public school kindergarten field trip to the zoo is better behaved than this group.

At the Trainwreck, 100+ people in costumes filed into this bar and immediately began harassing the unsuspecting patrons of the restaurant whom were already eating. Mind you, it is only 7:00pm at this point. Wolverines waited in line for the men’s room while a slutty group of pirates took pictures with them. Waldo was ordering Jager-bombs, and a very drunk Pocahontus danced like a mentally challenged Elaine Benes. Nothing makes sense on Halloween. I love this holiday. My two other Ghostbuster compadres, and I opted to go to the bar next door, a near vacant mexican restaurant where an overweight man was singing covers, mostly of Jimmy Buffet.

Moving onward, people slowly but surely filed back onto the buses. We were down quite a few people at this point, but moral was higher than earlier. Imagine a bus barreling down the highway, with people flying around, completely unrestrained, guzzling beer and shouting obscenities from the windows. The next stop being The Skybar.

As we pulled in, there was a costume contest going on, and without any reservation, two of the three Ghostbusters jumped up on stage and began dancing. The crowd was not receptive, since we apparently barged into the women’s costume contest, we were unceremoniously booed from the stage. Our third Ghostbuster was vomiting outside in the bushes, and I started talking to an unattractive overweight bartender in the lobby.

From there we went to a Taco Bell that was closed where one of the few people left on the bus went out to check with the employees and ended up falling in the mud. Back at the Atomic cowboy, there was another costume contest, and the Pocahontus in our group won. The winning costume wearer was awarded a framed picture of a woman covered in blood, and a dildo. Where the Hell am I? The rest of the evening was spent chugging beer we swiped from the bus’s cooler and launching pumpkins into a wall with a catapult behind the bar. Halloween was a success!

Oktoberfest 2009

This past October, some friends and I went to Oktoberfest in Soulard, both Friday and Saturday nights of whatever weekend it was. This was my first time, but it took very little time for me to meld into the beautiful drunken atmosphere. I had a few steins full of a beer called the Optimater ( I was clearly drawn to the most intimidating of names ). While waiting in line a late-middle aged man singing in German approached us and asked us if we had ever been drunk. When we replied yes, he retorted with,”Fucking Americans! You’ve never been drunk. You’ve never been drunk until you shit your pants!” Hmm. You may have me beat, sir.. He then went into detail about a time when he shit his lederhosen in the middle of the day while drinking. Wonderful.

Well on my way to inebriated nirvana, I was front row for the Obenheimer Express, a German band / orchestra where I was dumbly waving at the trombone player, a old man of at least 60. I don’t know how, but my acquaintances came across tickets for free beers, and my stein soon was transformed into a bottomless glass of ambrosia. I know my body very well, and I know it’s limits and tolerance: which is assumably more than most. It’s not that I am tooting my own horn, but I drink too much. What I didn’t factor in was the potency of German beer, specifically THE OPTIMATER. I made it to close, which is near midnight, when we left the bar and decided to keep drinking at Humphrey’s.

Once safely situated in the car, the spins hit. When I get the spins in the car, it feels like I am on a roller coaster, no exaggeration. My stomach drops, each brake is equivalent to a sharp corkscrew, each lane switch an ass-clenching drop. Not a good spot for me. I held on for dear life and somehow staved off vomit until I was in the grass across from Humphrey’s where I roused up a few stein’s worth of beer, and what looked like half digested TGI Friday’s Sizzling Chicken and Cheese.

I finally make it into the bar, where I immediately order two ice waters. As I turn around with my water, I ran directly into another patron of the bar, and doused him with water.

Gentleman Patron of Bar A: “What the fuck, are you serious?!”

Me: “Sorry, didn’t you know you’re in the splash zone? Get out of my way or I’m going to vomit on you.”

Gentleman Patron of Bar A: “What did you say? Do we have a problem?”

Me: “The problem is that you are still in my way.”

Gentleman Patron of Bar B: “Take it easy, Jeff. We don’t have a problem.”

I’m not sure, but I almost inadvertently started a fight, which would have been catastrophic because any sudden motions and I would have been vomiting uncontrollably in a bar packed shoulder to shoulder with people. I continued double fisting waters the remainder of the evening, and apparently just wandering around the bar. The Optimater took home the prom queen this evening, but sweet vengeance will be mine at the next Oktoberfest… maybe.

Patriotic Profile: Truck Driver Steve

First and foremost, I want to apologize for the lack of blogs as of late. My life has been consumed by my PS3 and job unearthing. It won’t happen again.

This installment of the Patriotic Profile series will focus on a man I have only come across three times. People who know him better than I have informed me that everyone calls him Truck Driver Steve. Everyone I talked to didn’t really elaborate on that, so I am not sure if the nickname was given to him because he drives a truck, or if he is just a really creepy man. Each time I have run into this man, he was sitting at the end of the bar at Humphrey’s near SLU.

Now, to any onlooker, this man is obviously gross, in a patriotic sort of way. Lanky man, dingy t-shirt, gross sweat stained hat, cigarette between his lips. He sits and sketches at the end of the bar, by himself, in a place jam packed full of drunk college kids. He is eyeing some of the girls around him, which, in a bar, isn’t out of the ordinary. Except, this wasn’t a “GUUuurrrLL YouUU So FIIINE!!” sort of stare, so much as a “I would love to follow you home and go through your trash” sort of leer. I think stalking could be seen as patriotic in its own weird way, and I think Steve would readily agree. It is my nature to approach the unapproachable, gross, crazy, homelessy, scary patrons of bars and public transportation, but when I saw that he was drawing in a bar on a saturday night, I had to see what was up. I nonchalantly leaned over the bar to order a drink, strategically next to him and checked out his drawing. He was drawing a woman’s face.

I told him that it was pretty good, to get the conversation going. This drawing was not very good. He then proceeded to tell me all about the classes he is taking, and how he loves to draw people. He started flipping through his sketch book – which was filled with pictures torn out of dirty magazines and his rudimentary attempts to draw said nude women. When I say dirty magazine, don’t picture Playboy, because these were not from anything near that. Think of something gross, multiply it by 100, throw in a theme like barbershop or prison, add in a few close ups where there should never be a camera in the first place, and you might be close to what this man was drawing.

I think there is something strangely American about pornography. Dirty magazines are a holy grail to every young boy growing up, yet this man never seemed to move past that phase. He kept talking, his comments got lost in the loud music and my drunken haze, but I kept nodding and feigning recognition. Truck Driver Steve can usually be found at Humphrey’s, check out his drawings, and if you are a girl, I would just steer clear altogether. God bless this fine country.

Fink’s Bachelor Extravaganza (part 3)

This is the final and most thrilling installment of the Fink Bachelor Party trilogy. When I left off, we were paying our bill at the BBQ place. We grabbed our beers and took to the streets. Thats right, drinking in the street. One of the most glorious things about Beale St. is that you can walk around outside with your alcoholic beverages. It was beautiful. Places along the street even advertised, “Beer to Go.” Never in my life did I imagine this weekend would be at a place that encourages public intoxication.

Our first stop was a huge place called Silky O’Sullivan’s. They had a goat for goodness sake (see figure 1). They served a diabetes explosion in a pail with giant straws. It contained beer, wine, and liquor (see figure 2).

Figure 1

Figure 2

(Photos courtesy of Google Image Search) After we started downing drinks, we saw things much clearer. By clearer I mean as a swarm of prowling, virile men. Lucky for us, there were bachelorette parties aplenty. I witnessed young men hitting on late-middle aged silverbacks. A silver back is beyond cougar status, as I have come to understand it. Any older woman that goes to a bar with the sole intention of hitting on every man that crosses her path will now and forever be dubbed on my blog as a silverback. At one point in the evening I saw a grown man giving a woman a piggy back ride around the bar because she was mildly attractive and part of the bachelorette party that was mingling with our group. Lots of booze and vaginas will drive a man to do strange things.

More drinks. More beer. More shots. We grew tired of the bar we were at so we ventured down the street to a place called Coyote Ugly. I am sure that many of my readers are familiar with this place as being the fun-loving place where attractive country girls dance on the bar and everyone has a good time. “Haven’t you seen that movie?! This will be awesome!!” This, I’m afraid, is incorrect. The movie is a very romanticized version of the truth, as is any chick flick. The reality is frightening and overpriced. If my memory serves me correctly, the cover at the door was 10.00 dollars (US) which was my first qualm. The women were pretty good-looking, but for a ten dollar cover, I expected partial nudity or circus tricks. Also, the bouncer, a very big man of the African-American persuasion, seemed to be tailing us the entire time we were there. The plan was to get the lucky man of the evening a disgusting shot, even though he was already on the verge of nausea. Instead, the bartender with the bullring through her nose revealed to us they did something special for a few ten notes extra. Say no more, darlin’ here is some cash, go to work. What happened next took everyone by surprise.

Two women bent Fink over the bar and proceeded to draw penises in permanent ink all over his back. With a little critical thinking, one could have logically inferred this was coming. The girls held him down and faux-made-out over him, pouring multiple tequila shots into his mouth. They then flipped him over, and mercilessly beat his ass with his own belt. I am not talking a few quick snaps, I am talking over twenty, full bodied swings. This was painful to watch. What was more painful to watch was the other bartender grabbing a trash can and trying to position Fink further up the bar so he could vomit in it if need be, but the giant man of the African American persuasion thought he was trying to get behind the bar so he grabbed Fink’s legs and was pulling as hard as he could, all the while getting pummeled in the ass. Poor guy had no idea what was even happening, but it became a spectacle for everyone in the bar. When he was finally done, he slowly got off the bar, and looked around at us in a blind rage.

Needless to say, we promptly left that bar. We hit up a place called ‘Wet Willy’s’ and ordered Call a Cab’s, which contain Everclear. At one point, the bachelor’s older brother took off his shirt and danced with a big group of black girls, who proceeded to grind on him. At this point alcohol had a firm grip on the controls of this speeding, wild, out of control train of men. Some guys swindled their way into a club to chase NaNa, and some of us just stood out in the street for a while belittling passerby’s.

(Much Later: The details are lost in a tempest of Beer/Everclear) – In an attempt to corral a member of our party to join us in an early morning Denny’s run, Two guys, ass naked, jumped on the bed with him, dropping hairy nutsacks all over his sleeping head. To the sleeping man’s credit, he didn’t even flinch. It was a messed up scene straight out of Borat, but instead of a very obese man, it was a furry little ginger.

We gave up hope, and in a small tussle in the middle of the street outside the hotel, we finally decided to hit up Denny’s rather than the strip clubs in Graceland. Imagine, if you can, 10 slobbering drunk guys, all hungry and rowdy, barging into a Denny’s, anywhere between 3:30 – 4:30am. I was time-traveling drunk by this point, and could only focus on my French Toast. One guy at the table was reading prices off his iphone for escort services who offered a bachelor special with girl on girl on girl action and party games. Another two were hitting on a bachelorette party near the claw machine. The older brother was spitting mad and threatening to kick his little brother’s ass, and making fun of me for always wearing plaid, even though I had known him for around 16 hours at this point, and wearing plaid for about 7. In an effort to keep the fighting from happening, another member of the crew was trying to hold hands with everyone, while the only Asian kid in our group ordered the All-American Slam®. The two guys hitting on the bachelorette party got them to come over, and convinced her to let Fink wear her pink sash. After we ate, Fink threw down 20.00 dollars and him and I bolted from the Denny’s, sash in hand. Soon thereafter, he received multiple phone calls regarding the sash, in which we all pretended to have British accents and deny any accusations.

All in all, the evening was epic, and is high on the list for “Nights of the Century: A Readers Guide to All Things Epic,” which is not a real book… yet. I hope you guys read the trilogy, I think this night deserved a much longer post, but I have been working on this one for a while now, trying to hash out the details. It was a beautiful night that should be made into a film, with a soundtrack by John Williams and a special appearance by Jeff Goldblume. That is all, hope you enjoyed.

The Belly Bomb

I have eaten a lot of really disgusting and unhealthy things in my hayday. In fact, I was one of those gross fat kids in the cafeteria that would eat the nasty concoction with a ketchup base for a couple of dollars or snort a line of crushed up Pringles for the respect of my peers. More so, late night fast food has been an Achilles heel of mine for some time, namely Taco Bell.

This seems acceptable enough, but on September 30th, 2009, a bomb was dropped, leaving a rampage of unforgivable and unethical destruction in it’s wake.

I am going to lay all the facts out right here for you. This gut-wrenching concoction that tore apart my insides was comprised of very specific ingredients. I will include them in a list so you can avoid what would ultimately open a portal from Hell to my anus. Have you ever seen the real-life adaptation of the Super Mario Bros. where John Leguizamo (Luigi) jumps through the shifting rock wall into another dimension? It was NOTHING like that. Ingredients are as follows:

1.) Broccoli Cheddar Soup a la Bread Co.

2.) One Full Throttle Original Energy Drink

3.) At least 12 Pabst Blue Ribbon beers

4.) Two orders of Cheesy Fiesta Potatoes

5.) Two orders of the Cheesy Gordita Crunch

These things, consumed in this exact order, is the key to the Underworld. I have seen it, and without a shred of a doubt I am certain it was the most accurate depiction of Hell that I have ever laid eyes on. Steer clear my friends, or be damned.

Fink’s Bachelor Extravaganza (part 2)

We were armed to the teeth. Seven big cheeseburgers, 14 tacos, a separate little bag for the 10 Buttermilk Ranch packets, a 5th of Absolute, and a complete lack of morality. There were 11 men piled in this 11-passenger van, all of whom were completely exhausted from a combination of paintballing, fast food consumption, and sleep deprivation. Needless to say, the first leg of the drive was a heap of sleeping, burping, farting, full-grown men. I take comfort in the fact that a group of people, some very well acquainted, others not so much, can all cat nap together in a civilized manner. It was a van overflowing with the brilliant male camaraderie found at the heart of America. Bound by reckless decision making, a knowledge of the impending self-destruction and overindulgence, acceptable only on Catholic Irish holidays and bachelor parties.

The evening’s crest began building when a few of the passengers were roused from sleep by brake slamming or swerving. Our wonderful drivers made great time, and even found out that the rented vans topped out around 90 mph. At some point the two vans matched each other in each lane, side by side. It may have been just my imagination, but I could have sworn someone flipped us off. “Gimme something to throw,” someone shouted from the front of out van. I reached for my bag of Jack N The Box, but unwilling to forfeit my two last greasy cold tacos, I handed over the small bag full of Buttermilk Ranch instead. Screaming down the highway, the co-pilot of our van hung half of his body out the window to angle the package of ranch towards the other van behind us. With a graceful flick of the wrist, the ranch was sent flying through the air, finding it’s target on the other van’s windshield, exploding in a creamy white mess (lol). Contrary to what you might believe, ranch doesn’t bead off of plexiglas like rain, it just smears all over when you turn on the windshield wipers. We took the next stop and immediately started drinking.

With energy drinks and alcohol, we set off back down the road, exchanging outrageous stories, such as: “I got caught jerking off sitting indian style in a camp’s shower,” “I got chased out of the Tropicana by a hooker with a knife,” and everyone’s favorite, “One time I accidentally peed in my own mouth.” Things were certainly picking up steam now. These stories seemed to set the precedent for things to come.

Finally we arrived at the dazzling Econolodge in Memphis, Tennessee. As the men readied themselves in their rooms, I took note of the convenient proximity of the outdoor pool. I snuck into the neighbors bathroom and unloaded my Jack N The Box, and littered the room with sanitary napkin bags. Boo Yah! Nothing more satisfying than trashing a hotel room.

As we descended the stairs the night took on a whole new persona. All 20 of us walked to Beale St. We were all Hell bent on going some place in a back ally, but it was packed so we settled with a little hole in the wall BBQ place. It was seriously the best bbq I have ever had. Even Jon, who ordered the BBQ Balogna, said it was to die for. Not to mention, the 60 + old guy singing about “Home-Grown Tomaters” really added to that Memphis atmosphere. Satiated and sublime we emerged on the street, in search of strong spirits and weak morals. (To be continued…)

Fink’s Bachelor Extravaganza (part 1)

This post will be a trilogy, because the day really did consist of three parts and to try and fit all of the highlights into one blog would be a challenge. I had the divine privilege to an invite to a friend’s bachelor party this past weekend. Without any inclination as to what this weekend would have in store, I readily agreed because the adventurous and drunken nature of Fink and I’s encounters have created what could easily be dubbed as a mutual infatuation. We mesh frighteningly well. The description of our relationship is now bordering on creepy, I think I have made my point. Enough said, moving on.

The day started way too early. As usual, I blatantly disregarded the fact that I had to be up at 7:00 AM and went out drinking the night before and loaded up on Taco Bell, clocking into bed at an impressively irresponsible 3:45 AM. When my alarm sounded in the morning I was surprisingly motivated and we hit the road to Fearless Fighters Paintball, where the first leg of the Bachelor party started. Halfway there I had to pull over to a Burger King so I could drop a deuce. Moving on, we arrived at the paintball grounds right on time, 7:45AM. We were the first few people there. People trickled in while we suited up and signed waivers. The guy running this place seemed to embody the Pacific, Missouri area we were in. Imagine, if you can, a cross between Chris Farley’s SNL character, motivational speaker Matt Foley and a gun crazy hermit holed up in the woods.

Once signed up, the urge to shit took hold, more vicious than my first stop at the BK earlier that morning. I frantically searched the main building for somewhere to poop, but to no avail. The urgency soon overpowered my pride and I asked the Hoosier Matt Foley where the bathroom was. He simply pointed outside to a bright blue Johnny on the Spot. This port-a-potty had clearly not been serviced in quite some time, and as I caught some back splash on my ass, I couldn’t help be concerned for my health. Who knows how long that stagnant filthy water had been sitting up there in the woods. It was cold. It was wet. I had no other choice though, my hasty pasties needed to come out. The worst part was trying to maneuver around in a cramped little box while wearing too many layers. Not to mention the port-a-potty was on a slight incline throwing my balance off, and without a window to provide a frame of reference it was like trying to wipe your ass in the dark trunk of a swerving car. Seriously bad planning on my part.

This was my first time playing paintball and I was more or less a huge handicap for whatever team I was on. This showed when the two designated captains were picking teams. We lined up in front of the captains like cows at a cattle auction. I was the last kid picked for a team, and when I was picked the captain didn’t even know my name. A bleak flashback to recess in grade school, the last kid being picked for kickball, chubby and already sweaty from just standing in line on the hot blacktop. Some things never change.

On the field I found myself breathing heavy without even moving anywhere. Crouching behind big tires burned my thighs and butt to the point where I was just sitting down, completely immobile and vulnerable due to the poor shape I am in and an instinctual laziness. I just huddled behind things and fired blindly towards the other team’s base. Most of the time my goggles were too fogged up to see anything at all, much less someone from the other team. At one point I saw movement and unloaded my whole hopper of paint on what would turn out to be my own teammate. I got hit in the head, hands, legs, back, and ass multiple times, and it hurt like a bitch. It was a lot of fun, don’t get me wrong, but this is certainly not an activity that I would venture to call myself good at.

After a shower, $14.00 worth of Jack N’ the Box, and two 10 passenger vans full of men, the second leg of our journey was ready for take off, in every sense of the expression. (To be continued…)

Left To My Own Devices

The other day I was visiting my friend and checking out her new place. She lives with a co-worker that I had never met until this particular visit. My friend was getting ready in the bathroom and I was left to my own devices while she took over an hour getting ready. This is something she should have known would be troublesome.

I sifted through her CD collection and found one of my favorite albums of all time, Gnarls Barkley – St. Elsewhere. I was crankin’ it to at least 20. The song Crazy gets me jacked up. I dunno what it is, but the bare bones construction and gospel style gets me dancing.

What my friend’s new roommate saw next was something I didn’t intend for anyone to see at all. She walked downstairs, apparently to do laundry, and stumbled up me, dancing swing style in front of a full length mirror with a colander on my head belting out Gnarls Barkley. Even the roommate’s dog sat there watching me with it’s furry little white head tilted sideways.

I am an idiot. No further comment.

The Officer is Not Amused

It seems as though every time I go to Big Daddy’s on the landing, my disdain for the establishment leads me to do things that I would normally never do, just to spice up the evening. In my usual whirlwind of inebriation, I was pounding whiskey, nabbing olives and cherries from the bar, and dancing like a fool. The night was going well, and everyone was having fun.

However, I perceived an air of routine-ness hanging in the air. A feeling of deja-vu that echoed of previous evenings to the same caliber. This is unsettling to me, and doubly unsettling when I am under the influence of strong spirits. Since the cat fight on the patio was broken up, and the fat old guy got too tired to keep grinding on various women in our party, my sub conscience was becoming antsy and meddlesome. I like every night to be one that can be romanticized through the oral tradition of storytelling.

As a uniformed police officer strolled past me, something clicked in my head. On an extreme impulse and poorly made split decision I reached out and grabbed a big meaty handful of the cop’s ass. You could ask me why, and I wouldn’t have an answer for you. As the cop abrubtly turned around and stared at me, my cheshire grin melted into a slack-jawed gape and wide-eyed self realization.

Officer: “Why did you just do that?”

Any reasonable person would be apologetic right now, but if you are reading my blog then you know that I am the opposite of this. My response was also made on a careless whim.

Me: “Well, you have a very nice ass.”

Poor choice. The officer proceeded to shove me away from my group of friends. “You are fuckin’ out! You are out of here!” Onlookers yelled, “What did you do?! What did he do wrong officer?!” He didn’t respond, but rather continued to shove me in the direction of the door. I thought about yelling, “I GOT dat ASS!!!” but my reason had finally come to and was now settling in a nervous grumble in the pit of my stomach. The cop continued to shove me, nearly knocking me down. As the cop pushed me out the entrance he yelled, “If I see you back in here, I am going to fucking arrest you for harrassment, you got that?!” Yes sir, thank you sir. He went back into the bar and I stood on the cobblestone street by myself for a few moments as I replayed what had just happened.

Then I walked across the road to Morgan Street and bought another beer.