Jenna: Hey what are you doing?
Me: Golfin'
Jenna: I should have guessed, what are you doing later?
Me: I don't know
Jenna: Every single time I call you, you're drinking, golfing, or both...do you do anything else?
Me: I took a shower this morning.
Jenna: You're my everything.
Me: Hey I got a box in the mail.
Matt: Who's it from?
Me: Ahhh, it's from my mom, it's going to be pants.
Matt: Pants?
Me: If I get a box from my mom, it's going to be pants. I've got a whole closet full of dress pants, but every week I'm getting 3 pairs in the mail from my mom...
Matt: Linde, that's excitement.
Ashley: Nick, we should date.
Me: What?
Ashley: We hang out, we talk, we're practically dating.
Me: That's all dating is? Hanging out and talking?
Ashley: That and sex.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
JJ: A letter of complaint.
There are a lot of uses for the Internet. Most of which surrounding the exhibitionism of Asian women and donkeys and some of which pertaining to legitimate knowledge (wikiquote, askmen.com, etc). But some people use this web of world...wide...ness...as a social networking tool. I am using this medium to explain my displeasure with a man named JJ. So if you're out there JJ...this is about you, and if you want to sue me for defamation of character, go right ahead because I have 3 witnesses to your atrocious behavior...perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, perhaps I should inform all of you readers what has exactly happened, perhaps I should stop saying perhaps...
Between posing as a 14 year old girl on MySpace and enjoying the occasional game of Kerplunk! I find myself in need of nourishment. This entails going to restaurants, sometimes with other people. On this night--yes this night--as in May 4th, 2008 a few friends and I partook in the classiest of Italian establishments outside of Fazolis: The Macaroni Grill.
Now in my limited experiences at TMG I've received concierges service, usually from a cute waitress who is able to write her name in crayon on the white-paper tablecloth UPSIDE-DOWN and put little hearts around it to accent the name "Ashley" it is quite a neat trick--it's not Copperfield--but lets get real, she makes $3.45/hr.
Me and my company (1 man, 2 ladies) were seated and told that our waiter would be with us shortly. Waiter...as in man. Needless to say I immediately let out a large sigh and began hoping for some gratification under the table from the ladies in attendance. And then he came: all decked out in his white collared shirt, his ravishing tie, and his shag haircut with scruff beard--hardly the hygiene of somebody I want handling my food.
"I'm JJ, I'll be your server tonight.:
and....
and....
and..........
nothing.
He didn't write his name on the paper table cloth or ANYTHING. I was absolutely stunned, disgusted would be a good word to use in this instance. Who is this JJ? Why does he think that he doesn't have to adhere to Macaroni Grill protocol? I could only make one assertion: He was on LSD. This is not a generalization. 10 times out of 10 if you work at a food service restaurant and you don't follow the guidelines of said restaurant, you are on hallucinogens. Don't believe me? Ask my friend Chad why he got fired from Cold Stone...hard to remember the tip song when you're tripping balls on mushrooms. And my (now ex) friend Shawna? Yeah, apparently if you don't rock the birthday song at Happy Joe's your ass is out! (They also don't take kindly to drinking on the job or stealing from the register we found out).
So Mr. "I'm too good to do my job correctly" took our orders. 3 diet cokes and an Iced Tea...I was planning on consuming hard alcohol, but this guy was already on my bad side and I didn't want to risk having to go back into treatment for assaulting a food service worker, even if he didn't write his name on the tablepapercloth thingy.
We place our orders and things are going fine. Naturally, we're in Nebraska and the table of elderly citizens sitting behind us are engaging in a highly racist conversation while their black waiter brings them refills. This kind of thing is more common in the Midwest than you'd think...of perhaps you think we're all bigoted racists...to which you'd be more or less correct.
We too received refills as we finished our drinks, but there was something not right about the situation. As we sat there...new drinks in hand, our old glasses just hung out. Sitting on the table...4 glasses full of ice with straws in them...cluttering up the place. I occupied my time by stealing crayons from the kids at the table behind me and drawing a rocket ship and a calendar from the year 2001...this was all very symbolic and I topped it off with an Ingmar Bergmann quote. At least somebody is using the crayons and the paper, JJ sure seemed above it.
Our dinners are then brought out...with nearly no room to put them...JJ just pushes shit everywhere. He also mistakes everybody's order and came without one meal entirely: mine.
I sit and wait...wondering why it takes 25 minutes to prepare spaghetti when I could make it at home....blindfolded....for a fraction of the time (and price). But alas, I sit quietly...not wanting to hurt poor JJ's feelings on account of his LSD-induced fragile state of mind. After another 5 minutes my food has arrived. At our request he takes some of the glasses back, saying "whoop, here we go" as he stacks each one. Now we are left with 3 glasses, all in need of re-filling, I do not have a glass all together and I have received only one meatball on my spaghetti, even though I paid an extra $3 to have them.
I eat the entire meal without a drink...which was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I got it in my head that my meatball was some kind of animal testicle (they are large and round and could easily be mistaken for such) and I need something to wash it down. Where is JJ? Where the fuck is my soda? He comes back about 15 minutes later (I've finished) and tells me that they ran out of meatballs (shouldn't I have been informed of this earlier) and that his manager will come out and talk to me--as if this is necessary. He also says that my meal will probably be comped (I'm not even 100% sure what that restaurant jargon means) and that they will bring me some meatballs out later. As if I have the time to wait around and have testicles dropped on my plate...*insert your own joke here*
So by this time it's pretty much your standard "get me out of here" situation and he brings the checks out. Now instead of doing this in literary form, I will break down the ticketing situation in list form to help you understand what the hell happened (I'm still confused).
The first time JJ brings us our tickets.
1 check.
Problem: we want it split up.
Take two:
2 checks, mine is $28, the other is $30. We put our cards down.
After scanning them:
He gives the receipts to the women, which makes no sense, they give them to us.
2 checks, mine is $28, the other now has a top copy of $30 and a bottom copy of $42.
We inquire....
After taking the card and re-scanning it:
He gives us receipts...again to the wrong person.
2 checks: mine is $28 (I felt like I was donating to the handicapped so I left him the abysmal tip of $3, my friend was going to tip $6...this was not a smart move).
The ladies ask for boxes, he brings them tins with lids...which isn't a box at all...I begin wondering if my soda was in fact Diet Coke or if I was duped into drinking Diet Pepsi...I actually like DP better...but he should have been honest with me.
I don't think I will ever go to another Macaroni Grill in my life...for 1 the service sucked, for 2 I don't like eating testicles.
I will also never trust a food service worked that goes by initials. Sketchy shit, people.
So if you're on the net, JJ and you decided to google your profession and your name..." JJ + "The Macaroni Grill" + "Lincoln, Nebraska" " I hope you find this....I also hope you find a new line of work...and quit the LSD. We all suffer because of it.
Oh, and I never received my extra meatballs...and the manager never showed up.
Between posing as a 14 year old girl on MySpace and enjoying the occasional game of Kerplunk! I find myself in need of nourishment. This entails going to restaurants, sometimes with other people. On this night--yes this night--as in May 4th, 2008 a few friends and I partook in the classiest of Italian establishments outside of Fazolis: The Macaroni Grill.
Now in my limited experiences at TMG I've received concierges service, usually from a cute waitress who is able to write her name in crayon on the white-paper tablecloth UPSIDE-DOWN and put little hearts around it to accent the name "Ashley" it is quite a neat trick--it's not Copperfield--but lets get real, she makes $3.45/hr.
Me and my company (1 man, 2 ladies) were seated and told that our waiter would be with us shortly. Waiter...as in man. Needless to say I immediately let out a large sigh and began hoping for some gratification under the table from the ladies in attendance. And then he came: all decked out in his white collared shirt, his ravishing tie, and his shag haircut with scruff beard--hardly the hygiene of somebody I want handling my food.
"I'm JJ, I'll be your server tonight.:
and....
and....
and..........
nothing.
He didn't write his name on the paper table cloth or ANYTHING. I was absolutely stunned, disgusted would be a good word to use in this instance. Who is this JJ? Why does he think that he doesn't have to adhere to Macaroni Grill protocol? I could only make one assertion: He was on LSD. This is not a generalization. 10 times out of 10 if you work at a food service restaurant and you don't follow the guidelines of said restaurant, you are on hallucinogens. Don't believe me? Ask my friend Chad why he got fired from Cold Stone...hard to remember the tip song when you're tripping balls on mushrooms. And my (now ex) friend Shawna? Yeah, apparently if you don't rock the birthday song at Happy Joe's your ass is out! (They also don't take kindly to drinking on the job or stealing from the register we found out).
So Mr. "I'm too good to do my job correctly" took our orders. 3 diet cokes and an Iced Tea...I was planning on consuming hard alcohol, but this guy was already on my bad side and I didn't want to risk having to go back into treatment for assaulting a food service worker, even if he didn't write his name on the tablepapercloth thingy.
We place our orders and things are going fine. Naturally, we're in Nebraska and the table of elderly citizens sitting behind us are engaging in a highly racist conversation while their black waiter brings them refills. This kind of thing is more common in the Midwest than you'd think...of perhaps you think we're all bigoted racists...to which you'd be more or less correct.
We too received refills as we finished our drinks, but there was something not right about the situation. As we sat there...new drinks in hand, our old glasses just hung out. Sitting on the table...4 glasses full of ice with straws in them...cluttering up the place. I occupied my time by stealing crayons from the kids at the table behind me and drawing a rocket ship and a calendar from the year 2001...this was all very symbolic and I topped it off with an Ingmar Bergmann quote. At least somebody is using the crayons and the paper, JJ sure seemed above it.
Our dinners are then brought out...with nearly no room to put them...JJ just pushes shit everywhere. He also mistakes everybody's order and came without one meal entirely: mine.
I sit and wait...wondering why it takes 25 minutes to prepare spaghetti when I could make it at home....blindfolded....for a fraction of the time (and price). But alas, I sit quietly...not wanting to hurt poor JJ's feelings on account of his LSD-induced fragile state of mind. After another 5 minutes my food has arrived. At our request he takes some of the glasses back, saying "whoop, here we go" as he stacks each one. Now we are left with 3 glasses, all in need of re-filling, I do not have a glass all together and I have received only one meatball on my spaghetti, even though I paid an extra $3 to have them.
I eat the entire meal without a drink...which was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I got it in my head that my meatball was some kind of animal testicle (they are large and round and could easily be mistaken for such) and I need something to wash it down. Where is JJ? Where the fuck is my soda? He comes back about 15 minutes later (I've finished) and tells me that they ran out of meatballs (shouldn't I have been informed of this earlier) and that his manager will come out and talk to me--as if this is necessary. He also says that my meal will probably be comped (I'm not even 100% sure what that restaurant jargon means) and that they will bring me some meatballs out later. As if I have the time to wait around and have testicles dropped on my plate...*insert your own joke here*
So by this time it's pretty much your standard "get me out of here" situation and he brings the checks out. Now instead of doing this in literary form, I will break down the ticketing situation in list form to help you understand what the hell happened (I'm still confused).
The first time JJ brings us our tickets.
1 check.
Problem: we want it split up.
Take two:
2 checks, mine is $28, the other is $30. We put our cards down.
After scanning them:
He gives the receipts to the women, which makes no sense, they give them to us.
2 checks, mine is $28, the other now has a top copy of $30 and a bottom copy of $42.
We inquire....
After taking the card and re-scanning it:
He gives us receipts...again to the wrong person.
2 checks: mine is $28 (I felt like I was donating to the handicapped so I left him the abysmal tip of $3, my friend was going to tip $6...this was not a smart move).
The ladies ask for boxes, he brings them tins with lids...which isn't a box at all...I begin wondering if my soda was in fact Diet Coke or if I was duped into drinking Diet Pepsi...I actually like DP better...but he should have been honest with me.
I don't think I will ever go to another Macaroni Grill in my life...for 1 the service sucked, for 2 I don't like eating testicles.
I will also never trust a food service worked that goes by initials. Sketchy shit, people.
So if you're on the net, JJ and you decided to google your profession and your name..." JJ + "The Macaroni Grill" + "Lincoln, Nebraska" " I hope you find this....I also hope you find a new line of work...and quit the LSD. We all suffer because of it.
Oh, and I never received my extra meatballs...and the manager never showed up.
Friday, May 2, 2008
The Truth about Germs
*After using a public restroom*
Me: So you going to wash your hands there, chief?
Trev: Ummm...I didn't really, you know, touch it.
Me: Neither did I.
Trev: Do you usually wash your hands?
Me: Only if there's somebody else in the bathroom with me.
Trev: Same.
Me: And when they don't you're usually like "Gross, that guy didn't wash his hands."
Trev: That's life.
Me: I think if you slicked your hair back, you could pull of being Phil Mickelson at a bar.
Matt: That's what I need...people coming up to me and asking me questions I can't answer.
Me: Like what?
Matt: Ultimately, nothing golf related. If I saw Phil Mickelson at a bar I'd ask him "What the hell are you doing while everybody else on the PGA TOUR is--I don't know--getting better?"
Me: hmmm
Matt: To which I'd have to reply, "Eating a bowl of apple jacks and watching cartoons"
Me: You think that'd get you laid?
Matt: For sure, with models probably, crazy hotel PGA TOUR sex.
Random Girl: That's a lot of beer.
Me: Yeah.
Random Girl: Didn't I see you running this afternoon?
Me: Probably.
Random Girl: And you drink that much beer?
Me: It's a cycle.
Random Girl: Wow.
Me: I don't do it at the same time.
Random Girl: what?
Me: Drinking and Running.
Random Girl: Oh I thought you meant drinking and driving.
Me: What?
Random Girl: Huh?
Me: So you going to wash your hands there, chief?
Trev: Ummm...I didn't really, you know, touch it.
Me: Neither did I.
Trev: Do you usually wash your hands?
Me: Only if there's somebody else in the bathroom with me.
Trev: Same.
Me: And when they don't you're usually like "Gross, that guy didn't wash his hands."
Trev: That's life.
Me: I think if you slicked your hair back, you could pull of being Phil Mickelson at a bar.
Matt: That's what I need...people coming up to me and asking me questions I can't answer.
Me: Like what?
Matt: Ultimately, nothing golf related. If I saw Phil Mickelson at a bar I'd ask him "What the hell are you doing while everybody else on the PGA TOUR is--I don't know--getting better?"
Me: hmmm
Matt: To which I'd have to reply, "Eating a bowl of apple jacks and watching cartoons"
Me: You think that'd get you laid?
Matt: For sure, with models probably, crazy hotel PGA TOUR sex.
Random Girl: That's a lot of beer.
Me: Yeah.
Random Girl: Didn't I see you running this afternoon?
Me: Probably.
Random Girl: And you drink that much beer?
Me: It's a cycle.
Random Girl: Wow.
Me: I don't do it at the same time.
Random Girl: what?
Me: Drinking and Running.
Random Girl: Oh I thought you meant drinking and driving.
Me: What?
Random Girl: Huh?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Musings...Sex and the city...and goats.
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Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Conversation with Matt
N: "I'm thinking I might get married."
M: "AHHHHAHAHAHAHA, good for you."
N: "Seriously, dude."
M: "Some girl let you teabag her, and now you're going to marry her?"
N: "No dude, I'm going to marry Bo's sister, Michelle."
M: "why?"
N: "I don't know...she has nothing to do...we're both single, I'll let her move to Nebraska and I'll take care of her and shit."
M: "Awwwwww that's not good."
N: "Then I'd get to hang with Bo all the time--"
M: "--not good at all."
N: "We'd be brother in law--"
M: "--Fuck me."
N: "You're really against this aren't you?"
M: "Fuck." N: "Alright...maybe I won't."
M: "Nah--I just locked my keys in my car...I'm going to have to call you back."
M: "AHHHHAHAHAHAHA, good for you."
N: "Seriously, dude."
M: "Some girl let you teabag her, and now you're going to marry her?"
N: "No dude, I'm going to marry Bo's sister, Michelle."
M: "why?"
N: "I don't know...she has nothing to do...we're both single, I'll let her move to Nebraska and I'll take care of her and shit."
M: "Awwwwww that's not good."
N: "Then I'd get to hang with Bo all the time--"
M: "--not good at all."
N: "We'd be brother in law--"
M: "--Fuck me."
N: "You're really against this aren't you?"
M: "Fuck." N: "Alright...maybe I won't."
M: "Nah--I just locked my keys in my car...I'm going to have to call you back."
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Record...
It happens to everybody sooner or later. It is as natural as masturbation and turns women on just as much...it is of course: Pooping your Pants.
Now I tend to be competitive by nature, from drinking games to old-school Nintendo, you can bet that not only am I going to shit-talk you through the duration of our competition, I'm going to continuously downgrade you in public for the rest of the night based on my performance (it should be noted that on the very rare occasion that I lose, the following reasons are often brought to the forefront of conversations: cheating, unclear rules, swamp-ass, etc.)
And there is one thing that my competitiveness will not allow--and that is to let all the 2 year olds have all the good pants-pooping stories. It's just not fair, there are plenty of grown adults that have stories that go far beyond the "too much mashed peas" bit that I keep reading about all over the net. So without further adieu...I give you, "The Record"
May 15, 2005
At the time I found myself living in wonderful Cedar Falls, Iowa...home of the University of Northern Iowa and from what I can remember, a gas station, a bar, and a chinese restaurant--although don't quote me on that because the gas station may not have actually been there--I can't be relied on for any pertinant information pre-2007.
Regardless, I was moving into an apartment with a couple of guys that you'll undoubtedly hear more in upcoming articles. They being 2 of my best friends: Trev and Bo. We had rented a small 4-bedroom place that we would share with a guy named Garet who, for all intents and purposes, may be the gayest man I have in my memory bank. I know what you're thinking that he wasn't really gay...and that he just wore skin tight tank tops in the middle of winter, ate nothing but cool whip and iced coffee, spent 50 minutes in the bathroom each day, and had 8 x 10 glossy photos of himself layed out on his dresser at all times--just in case he needed to prove to his daterape victim that he was indeed "taking his modeling seriously" you would be correct in assuming all of these things.
But I digress--
This story actually begins with the move-in. Being underage at the time, we needed to stock our new fridges with enough beer to get us through our innagural shit-show, this of course required the help of a few 21 year-olds, most notably my brother and his girlfriend who (along with other friends and family) stocked our apartment with about nine 30-packs of Busch Light...not my drink of preference, but nobody was employed at the time and well....when in Rome...
When we finally got everything moved in and running we began doing what all college guys do: we drank beer and played video games. There was something awe-inspiringly liberating about shit-talking my friends without repercussion from resident assistants, which at UNI is pretty synnonomous with "Born again Christians, closet homosexuals, or the faceless guy from High School that got stood up at prom by the girl in the wheelchair".
We invited some girls over and got the night started in fashion--of course we were young and had no intentions of ruining our place the first night and decided to keep things low key with a game of "circle of death" with the occasional beer bong thrown in for good measure.
By 10 things were getting a little hazy, I walked into my bedroom a couple times and bellyflopped on my bed for no reason other than I finally could do whatever I wanted to and this was something that excited me.
Periodically throughout the night my brother would ride past our screen windows on a stolen bike and drunkenly tell us to time him while he went around the block, only to show up 30 minutes later wearing a beer dispensing helment that was filled with Jim Beam on one side and a bottle of Mylanta on the other...brothers are crazy.
By 12 I was officially shit-faced. There were going to be many nights in which I was this wasted (many of which in public, but those are stories for another time). This was the first time that I was wasted, in my own place, with my friends, with a bunch of girls, and I was taking this thing home.
Mistake #1 -- Beer bong contest. I've already told you that I was competitive, beer for beer--through a funnel? Let's do this. Beer number 1--> nothing but silk..I take a knee and let the taste of funnel cake and abortion excess that is Busch Light run its course to the pit of my stomach. I gently rise, wiping my mouth with my arm and grab the tube, nodding to my competitor that I am ready for another. Beer number 2--> I am money. I will not be stopped, part of me actually thinks that the fact that I'm already drunk is the ninja-like mentality that will bring me to dominance. Beer number 6 --> I waver...ever so slightly misjudging my weight as I get up of one knee. I look like a parkinson's patient who has just be denied a marriage proposal. I look around the room and see nothing but neon lights. Beer number 9--> My mouth fills with water as I make it to my feet, I can no longer take this--suddenly I'm being shook by Bo in celebration. In my addled state I didn't notice my competitor had keeled over, potentially dead from alcohol poisoning. I slur a smile and raise my arm in victory, victory tastes delicious.
Mistake #2 -- Victory tastes delicious, and so does a Jimmy John's sandwich when you've been drinking for 9 hours. Conveniently placed just down the parking lot from our apartment door is a Jimmy John's. We proceed.
It is now 2 am and the store is closing. I make small talk with the sandwich maker who informs me that at the end of the night, they throw away the bread....let me get this straight--I'm an unemployed college student who can hardly spend $1.29 on a loaf of gas station brand bread and you throw loaves away at night!? I can't believe my ears and promptly have the employee bag me 10 loaves. Let's see...things to do: Get Groceries? Check.
I take the loaves of bread, along with my 3 number 1's with me back to my apartment where the girls have invited some more people over and my brother stops by on the stolen bike again to claim that he "will dominate any bitches ass"--brother's are crazy.
Mistake #3 -- After consuming all 3 sub sandwiches I feel less drunk than before. I am getting incredibly tired and actually find the notion of sleeping alone in my own room more enticing than attempting to get a girl in there with me. I crumple my sandwich wrappers into balls and throw them on top of the near-100 beer cans stacked on top of our coffee table.
I give a half-attempted wave to my guests and roommates and then bee-line for my bed room. After closing the door I strip down naked and decide that this is the most comfortable way to sleep.
Mistake #4 -- As I lay down to embrace my drunken slumber I get a rumbling in my stomach. It doesn't seem life threatening, so I roll over onto my back. The light in the middle of the bedroom circles above me and I flinch, thinking the glass is going to come crashing down onto me. Like a character in an Alfred Hitchcock movie I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes in an attempt to make the spinning stop. My stomach turns with each rotation of the room around me. I know deep in my heart "I'm going to puke".
But I never puke. Honest to god, from birth til now I can count on two hands the times I've vomited in my life.
I throw the covers off of me, revealing my out of shape naked body to anybody who wants to look through my open blinds. I decide that I have no time to get dressed, but I also don't want 10 people out in my living room to see my naked body grossly contorting its way to the bathroom. I do what any sane man would do in my position: I pressed my face against my screen window and tried to puke through the screen onto the sidewalk below. Here's a tip for all you up and coming drunkards out there: this is not effective.
I try to choke down what is essential 24 inches of sub sandwich and over 30 beers rumbling in my stomach. I throw on a pair of khaki shorts...unbuttoned, unzipped over my bare ass and run frantically through the party and into the bathroom. The last thing I remember hearing was "he's gonna puke" from one of the girls in my living room.
During the tormentingly violent heaves of vomit all over the bathroom I realize that the gale forces that come with every heave has lead to my worst nightmare: I'm shitting myself.
As projectiles escape me from both ends I can't help but put my face on the toilet seat...a seat so new in our apartment that it hasn't even been sat on yet.
There is a knock on the door: it's my buddy Bo.
"Linde, you alright in there?"
"Yeah," I reply, frantically grabbing every towel I can off the racks and pushing the vomit around the bathroom.
"You puking?"
"Nah dude, I've got it."
For some reason I thought the towels would absorb the vomit, but it's just like the paper towels in junior high science class, nothing really gets picked up, it just gets pushed around a bunch.
I take some toilet paper and wipe my ass...it looks like I just dipped a roll of angel soft into a fondue pot.
A knock again. This time it's a girls voice.
"Can I use the bathroom? I really have to pee."
"Uhhhh, just a minute--" I finish off what appears to be most of the vomit and throw the towels into the trash can.
I open the door to expose 4 horrified faces. Trev and Bo look at the bathroom along with two girls that were at the party. I look at their faces and then turn and look at myself in the mirror. I'm completely covered in vomit, my genitals are hanging out of the unzipped khaki pants, and there is poop streaks all over the tile floor.
"Linde....." Bo says, utterly speechless.
I walk past them and go to bed.
The next morning our apartment is spotless, it appears that the following things happened after I passed out.
Bo cleaned up all of my poop and excrement, which took him until around 4 am.
Bo then received a blowjob from the last remaining girl at the party.
Bo then blew up an air mattress by his mouth which took him 2 hours to complete.
My brother rode by on a bike and yelled "I dominate bitches" as he threw the bike into the parking lot and slept outside his front door at 8 am.
5/15/05 was the last time I vomited. The record was in tact until 3/30/08 when I puked...that time I was also naked, but in my apartment, where I was forced to clean up after myself.
Now I tend to be competitive by nature, from drinking games to old-school Nintendo, you can bet that not only am I going to shit-talk you through the duration of our competition, I'm going to continuously downgrade you in public for the rest of the night based on my performance (it should be noted that on the very rare occasion that I lose, the following reasons are often brought to the forefront of conversations: cheating, unclear rules, swamp-ass, etc.)
And there is one thing that my competitiveness will not allow--and that is to let all the 2 year olds have all the good pants-pooping stories. It's just not fair, there are plenty of grown adults that have stories that go far beyond the "too much mashed peas" bit that I keep reading about all over the net. So without further adieu...I give you, "The Record"
May 15, 2005
At the time I found myself living in wonderful Cedar Falls, Iowa...home of the University of Northern Iowa and from what I can remember, a gas station, a bar, and a chinese restaurant--although don't quote me on that because the gas station may not have actually been there--I can't be relied on for any pertinant information pre-2007.
Regardless, I was moving into an apartment with a couple of guys that you'll undoubtedly hear more in upcoming articles. They being 2 of my best friends: Trev and Bo. We had rented a small 4-bedroom place that we would share with a guy named Garet who, for all intents and purposes, may be the gayest man I have in my memory bank. I know what you're thinking that he wasn't really gay...and that he just wore skin tight tank tops in the middle of winter, ate nothing but cool whip and iced coffee, spent 50 minutes in the bathroom each day, and had 8 x 10 glossy photos of himself layed out on his dresser at all times--just in case he needed to prove to his daterape victim that he was indeed "taking his modeling seriously" you would be correct in assuming all of these things.
But I digress--
This story actually begins with the move-in. Being underage at the time, we needed to stock our new fridges with enough beer to get us through our innagural shit-show, this of course required the help of a few 21 year-olds, most notably my brother and his girlfriend who (along with other friends and family) stocked our apartment with about nine 30-packs of Busch Light...not my drink of preference, but nobody was employed at the time and well....when in Rome...
When we finally got everything moved in and running we began doing what all college guys do: we drank beer and played video games. There was something awe-inspiringly liberating about shit-talking my friends without repercussion from resident assistants, which at UNI is pretty synnonomous with "Born again Christians, closet homosexuals, or the faceless guy from High School that got stood up at prom by the girl in the wheelchair".
We invited some girls over and got the night started in fashion--of course we were young and had no intentions of ruining our place the first night and decided to keep things low key with a game of "circle of death" with the occasional beer bong thrown in for good measure.
By 10 things were getting a little hazy, I walked into my bedroom a couple times and bellyflopped on my bed for no reason other than I finally could do whatever I wanted to and this was something that excited me.
Periodically throughout the night my brother would ride past our screen windows on a stolen bike and drunkenly tell us to time him while he went around the block, only to show up 30 minutes later wearing a beer dispensing helment that was filled with Jim Beam on one side and a bottle of Mylanta on the other...brothers are crazy.
By 12 I was officially shit-faced. There were going to be many nights in which I was this wasted (many of which in public, but those are stories for another time). This was the first time that I was wasted, in my own place, with my friends, with a bunch of girls, and I was taking this thing home.
Mistake #1 -- Beer bong contest. I've already told you that I was competitive, beer for beer--through a funnel? Let's do this. Beer number 1--> nothing but silk..I take a knee and let the taste of funnel cake and abortion excess that is Busch Light run its course to the pit of my stomach. I gently rise, wiping my mouth with my arm and grab the tube, nodding to my competitor that I am ready for another. Beer number 2--> I am money. I will not be stopped, part of me actually thinks that the fact that I'm already drunk is the ninja-like mentality that will bring me to dominance. Beer number 6 --> I waver...ever so slightly misjudging my weight as I get up of one knee. I look like a parkinson's patient who has just be denied a marriage proposal. I look around the room and see nothing but neon lights. Beer number 9--> My mouth fills with water as I make it to my feet, I can no longer take this--suddenly I'm being shook by Bo in celebration. In my addled state I didn't notice my competitor had keeled over, potentially dead from alcohol poisoning. I slur a smile and raise my arm in victory, victory tastes delicious.
Mistake #2 -- Victory tastes delicious, and so does a Jimmy John's sandwich when you've been drinking for 9 hours. Conveniently placed just down the parking lot from our apartment door is a Jimmy John's. We proceed.
It is now 2 am and the store is closing. I make small talk with the sandwich maker who informs me that at the end of the night, they throw away the bread....let me get this straight--I'm an unemployed college student who can hardly spend $1.29 on a loaf of gas station brand bread and you throw loaves away at night!? I can't believe my ears and promptly have the employee bag me 10 loaves. Let's see...things to do: Get Groceries? Check.
I take the loaves of bread, along with my 3 number 1's with me back to my apartment where the girls have invited some more people over and my brother stops by on the stolen bike again to claim that he "will dominate any bitches ass"--brother's are crazy.
Mistake #3 -- After consuming all 3 sub sandwiches I feel less drunk than before. I am getting incredibly tired and actually find the notion of sleeping alone in my own room more enticing than attempting to get a girl in there with me. I crumple my sandwich wrappers into balls and throw them on top of the near-100 beer cans stacked on top of our coffee table.
I give a half-attempted wave to my guests and roommates and then bee-line for my bed room. After closing the door I strip down naked and decide that this is the most comfortable way to sleep.
Mistake #4 -- As I lay down to embrace my drunken slumber I get a rumbling in my stomach. It doesn't seem life threatening, so I roll over onto my back. The light in the middle of the bedroom circles above me and I flinch, thinking the glass is going to come crashing down onto me. Like a character in an Alfred Hitchcock movie I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes in an attempt to make the spinning stop. My stomach turns with each rotation of the room around me. I know deep in my heart "I'm going to puke".
But I never puke. Honest to god, from birth til now I can count on two hands the times I've vomited in my life.
I throw the covers off of me, revealing my out of shape naked body to anybody who wants to look through my open blinds. I decide that I have no time to get dressed, but I also don't want 10 people out in my living room to see my naked body grossly contorting its way to the bathroom. I do what any sane man would do in my position: I pressed my face against my screen window and tried to puke through the screen onto the sidewalk below. Here's a tip for all you up and coming drunkards out there: this is not effective.
I try to choke down what is essential 24 inches of sub sandwich and over 30 beers rumbling in my stomach. I throw on a pair of khaki shorts...unbuttoned, unzipped over my bare ass and run frantically through the party and into the bathroom. The last thing I remember hearing was "he's gonna puke" from one of the girls in my living room.
During the tormentingly violent heaves of vomit all over the bathroom I realize that the gale forces that come with every heave has lead to my worst nightmare: I'm shitting myself.
As projectiles escape me from both ends I can't help but put my face on the toilet seat...a seat so new in our apartment that it hasn't even been sat on yet.
There is a knock on the door: it's my buddy Bo.
"Linde, you alright in there?"
"Yeah," I reply, frantically grabbing every towel I can off the racks and pushing the vomit around the bathroom.
"You puking?"
"Nah dude, I've got it."
For some reason I thought the towels would absorb the vomit, but it's just like the paper towels in junior high science class, nothing really gets picked up, it just gets pushed around a bunch.
I take some toilet paper and wipe my ass...it looks like I just dipped a roll of angel soft into a fondue pot.
A knock again. This time it's a girls voice.
"Can I use the bathroom? I really have to pee."
"Uhhhh, just a minute--" I finish off what appears to be most of the vomit and throw the towels into the trash can.
I open the door to expose 4 horrified faces. Trev and Bo look at the bathroom along with two girls that were at the party. I look at their faces and then turn and look at myself in the mirror. I'm completely covered in vomit, my genitals are hanging out of the unzipped khaki pants, and there is poop streaks all over the tile floor.
"Linde....." Bo says, utterly speechless.
I walk past them and go to bed.
The next morning our apartment is spotless, it appears that the following things happened after I passed out.
Bo cleaned up all of my poop and excrement, which took him until around 4 am.
Bo then received a blowjob from the last remaining girl at the party.
Bo then blew up an air mattress by his mouth which took him 2 hours to complete.
My brother rode by on a bike and yelled "I dominate bitches" as he threw the bike into the parking lot and slept outside his front door at 8 am.
5/15/05 was the last time I vomited. The record was in tact until 3/30/08 when I puked...that time I was also naked, but in my apartment, where I was forced to clean up after myself.
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