ummmmmmmmmmmk

Time travel 2004. I’m 17.

No worries I’m still that punk yell-fuck-in-front-of-your-kids-in-the-checkout-line, get-ejected-from-your-cousin’s-house-by-her-husband obnoxious mother fucker.

Rockin mah Nokia 6510 and still sportin’ that Deftones virgin Mary T.

Dad’s out of town.

Now, for just a moment, I want you to think back at the grueling obstacles you were forced to hurdle over just to have a couple fucking drinks when you were that age.

Drinkings only an option when you got a place.

And I got a place.

 

Derek and I secure an unhealthy amount of hard alcohol from Crazy Asia.

You might be wondering just what Crazy Asia is, so allow me to do what I do best and elaborate further.

Crazy Asia, while yes being a proper noun, is not a location- he’s a person.

You see, Crazy Asia was notorious for selling liquor to minors.

Every transaction with Crazy Asia went similarly like this:

::slide booze on counter::

Crazy Asia: How old are you?

You: 22.

Derek believed it good practice to always say a year older than the minimum drinking age of 21.

Don’t question the master.

And Crazy Asia would proceed to bag your liquor and hand you a receipt that had an unexplained additional fee of $5 even. Who the fuck are we to ask questions? Crazy Asia just hooked it up.

Again.

Anyway anyway anyway anyway-

The plan is to get off work at 10 and head over to Dad’s with Corey and Derek.

 

I get a last minute phone call from my father.

Dad: Ben’s coming tonight to stay at the house.

Man, I fucking swear my step brother has a fucking knack for showing up at the most inopportune times.

OK fine. Fuck it.

Carne Diem. I’m siezing this shit.

Carne… it means meat in Spanish… how do you live in LA and not know that?

10 o clock approaches.

Dial Ben.

Me: Yo! I’m heading over with some friends.

Ben: ahhh man I dunno… I have some people over and stuff

Ben: YOU KNOW WHAT FUCK IT

Ben: THIS IS YOUR HOUSE TOO

Ben: GET THE FUCK OVER HERE, AND BRING SOME BITCHES TOO.

 

So we arrive shortly after.

Ben is fucked FUCKED out of his mind.

Ben: You guys wanna do the devils?

Ah yes. The devils.

Derek still periodically jabs at me with a “hey man, wanna do the devils?”

The devils.

Triple Cs.

Cold and cough medicine.

DXM.

We shrug him off for the first of many times.

No thanks broski, none of us feel like scratching ourselves to fuck tonight.

Walk inside.

Pink Floyd – Darkside of the Moon serenading the scenario. With a metric fuck ton of empty cold and cough medicine boxes.

We’re talking like the upwards of 50 fucking boxes here yo!

There’s 3 of Ben’s marine buddies laying with their backs on the floor and their feet up on my dad’s couch. All of them slurring incoherently.

The military doesn’t test for OTC drugs.

 

Shot time.

As time progresses more of my niguhs be showin up, with the perpetual “Eric you still a virgin? I’m gonna get Madison to fuck you cmon!”s from my step brother, along with some of my younger step brother’s skanks.

At some point in time, after Ben choke slams this coked out ex-marine cuban mother fucker, another marine makes his way into my sister’s empty bedroom with a drunk fucking 15 year old girl.

Fucking Christ! There’s a fucking Barney blanket on the fucking bed! Marine dude’s like fucking 25.

I know what’s going down, and I ain’t down with it.

However, self preservation prevails over stopping statutory rape.

 

I pull Ben aside to let him know.

The fuck was I thinking?

Ben starts hysterically laughing.

At this point I’m in the hallway right outside my sister’s bedroom with Ben and a bunch of my other friends. Including Danny.

Yah yah, you know loud ass mother fuckin Danny. <3

Ben: SOMEONE OPEN THE DOOR AND YELL “FUCK HER IN THE ASS IT’S LEGAL!”.

Ben: SOMEONE OPEN THE DOOR AND YELL “FUCK HER IN THE ASS IT’S LEGAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!”.

Danny twists the doorknob and kicks the door open.

Danny: FUCK HER IN THE ASS, IT’S LEGAL!!!!!!!!!

 

Don’t think any of us stopped laughing for a good 10 minutes. I’m talking tears-coming-out-of-your-fucking-eyes crying.

 

Dunno, I don’t do you-had-to-have-been-there stories, but maybe this was one of them.

But fuck it, the people that were there enjoyed.

 

This is usually an oral presentation.

And usually I’ll get the usual “is it really legal to fuck a minor in the ass?”

Truth is, I dunno. Prolly not.

 

Dore! I know you have the video, post it in the comments =P

 

 

 

Last night, October 22nd.

 

I’m filling my cup up with ice in my kitchen.

Now, a minor tidbit. My ice machine is slow as fuck.

No, like slow as fuck.

Like 28.8k dial up eeeearrearrhraslrkhaslrkh DIAL UP slow.

Props if you incorporated the sound there.

 
Prolly standing there for like 20 seconds waiting for this bitch to fill up.

20 seconds is a long time when you’re filling up ice from a domestic freezer.

This bitch stomps into my kitchen from the garage entry.

Like, STOMPS the fuck in.

I stare at her.

She stares at me.

I stare at her.

She stares at me.

I look at my mom.

Mom gives a minor shoulder shrug signifying she’s doesn’t fucking know either, yet not dictating to this bitch she doesn’t know what the fuck is going on either.

Me: ummm who are you?

Her: I’m Evonne.

Her: My sister came through this door, I followed her.

Pause.

 

Me: Want some vodka?

 
Its 5:20 pm

I’m expecting a no, completed with an eye roll.

I get wide eyes, with an over enthusiastic YES.

This girl is fucking jabber jawzing about my dogs to my mom, both my mom and I exchanging what-the-fuck looks.

Me: I’m going upstairs… if you want to come up.

Her: What’s up there?!

Bitch you are MINORLY attractive. Minorly.  I am not trying to rape you. I’m trying to save my fucking mom here.

Bitch follows me upstairs

As we enter my room, I exclaim to my room’s occupants, Colt and Travis:

Me: yo this is some girl I met downstairs. No, seriously, I have no clue who the fuck she is.

—–
And now Colt, with a brief interlude:

Monday 5:23 – sitting on a futon in Eric’s room preparing for a new job when I hear a voice unfamiliar to the setting.

Then I hear Eric.

Eric:  Probably behind that door (referring to his brother’s room).

I make eye contact with Trav and nod toward the hallway. Trav, with the better hallway vantage point, looks down the hall as I proclaim “if she’s cute you can bring her through this door.”  Look at Trav for confirmation. He gives me a green light nod/shrug combo and I repeat “if you’re cute you can come through this door”.

Enter Eric and a 90-100 pound girl close behind with glazed eyes and a vodka/rockstar in hand.

Eric: yo this is some girl I met downstairs. No, seriously, I have no clue who the fuck she is.

——

Resume narrative Eric.
Colt: So who the fuck are you?

Her: I’m Evonne.

Colt introduces himself with a handshake.

Travis: I’m Tra…

CUT THE FUCK OFF

Bitch cuts off Travis.

Bitch points at Colt.

Her: WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE FOOTBALL TEAM?!

Colt: I don’t watch football.

Colt:  I prefer sports where people beat each other in a cage.

This bitch starts psycho babbling about god knows what.

Me: Yo we’ve been listening to Black Moth all day, what you guys want?

Bitch: OH!! Put on (chunk easy?)(Indescribable transcript.)

Ignoring her suggestion we put on Pinback and she again goes on about chunk easy.

Me: What the fuck is that?

Colt: Sounds like some hip hop rap bullshit.

Her: It’s like a 60s song they took the beat from and he sings over it.

Me: You were born in the 90s…

Me: How the fuck old are you?

 

It suddenly dawns on me 95 pounder is 95 percent UNDERAGE.

 

Her: How old are you?

Me: No, seriously, how the fuck are you?

Her: How old are YOU?

Me: I’m 26.

Her: No you’re not.

 

Bold accusation.

 

Me: How old do you think I am?

Her: (Long, blank stare)… 25?

lmfao
Me: How old are you?

Her: Guess.

Me: 18.

No.

Travis: 20.

No.

 

Well nigaz, I have no photographic evidence, but this bitch is certainly not 21.

 

Long ass pause.

Her: am I making you uncomfortable?

Me: I’m drinking vodka.

Me: And I’m in my own room.

Me: Why would I be uncomfortable?

Her: I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!

Pause.

Her: Are you uncomfortable?

Me: If anyone’s uncomfortable it would be you.

A minor flash of her glazed eyes reminds me of Joe Stone’s blacked-the-fuck-out stare.

Bitch gets up and walks out.

We shrug our shoulders.

 

10 minutes pass.

Another bitch walks in.

Bitch2: Where is she?

Me: I don’t fuckin know.
Me. Hey how old is she?

Bitch2: 19.

Me: AH! THE ONLY NUMBER WE DIDN’T GUESS!

Joey calls me. I divert undeserved attention from Bitch2 to phone call.

Me: Sup dude?

Bitch 2 promptly makes her exit.

 

Btw there is a high probability Andy Dick may be showing up to our Halloween party, so, cya next Monday.

srsly yo

 

 

 

WHAT?!

Double whammy!!!!

May 27^th.

Colt: Goodnight Eric.

Colt much later, post this event, tells me he poured a 15/16 vodka Sprite.

Like 15 parts vodka 1 part Sprite.

Guess this is goodnight after all!

My body is transported home by our designated driver

Love you Mom.
We’re setup downstairs. By setup I mean Scott, Adam, Trav, Wagner and I have our computers set up downstairs

LANning.

Playing D3.

3:06am

A bitch walks through my door.

Our heads turn.

All of us.

Bitch gets halfway up our staircase.

(headed towards my brothers room)

(Alan’s)

Bitch: You guys are fucking nerds!

OH IT’S FUCKING ON!

Wagner recognizes said bitch.

 

Wagner: Dude I fucked her sister!

I’m hysterically laughing.

Not lol.

Not hahaha.

Like,

AAAAAAAHAHSHAHAHAHAHAHA

Yeah, I realize there’s an h in there.

I wake up my mom, expectantly.

Courtesy at a fucking time like this?

My mom comes out.

Mom: Shut the fuck up!

Me: MOM!

Me: MOM!!!

Me: MOM WAGNER FUCKED HER SISTER!

Me: WAGNER FUCKED HER SISTER!!!!!!

AAAAAAHASHAHAHAHAA!!!

I’m laughing hysterically.

Scott is laying on the couch in the other room.

Scott joins in on the laugh.

Mom: SHUT THE FUCK UP SCOTTY WODDY.

My mom is hysterically laughing now too, fuck, we all are now.
You know when your Mom’s supposed to be angry but you divert that shit and make her crack the fuck up?

And she’s still trying to compose being angry but she’s still cracking the fuck up?

Yeah I’m the king of that shit.
This bitch comes walking down the stairs

Me: MOM WAGNER FUCKED HER SISTER!!!!!!!

Mom’s still hysterically laughing.

Mom: (while laughing) Shut the fuck up Eric!!!

Me: MOM!

Me: MOM, WHAT YOU THINK BITCH IS DOING HERE AT 3:06 AM AND LEAVING AT 3:08 AM?!

My mom retreats back to her room, shutting her door behind her.

Me: SHE’S BUYING DRUGS MOM!

Me: SHE’S BUYING DRUGS!!!!!!!!!!

Me: 3:06AM MOM!!!!!!!!

Me: 3:06AM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

Wagner really did fuck her sister

I’ll start off straight with ya, I’m tired. Tired of your puzzled expression when I reference Wilfred. Tired of having your eyes roll at me when I attempt to persuade you into watching the show about a man in a dog costume, which apparently doesn’t have the ringing brilliance in description as I know it possesses. But I know what’s good for you right? I always have. That’s why you shoot another even though you feel like you’re too drunk already. I know what’s good for you, I always have. Dr. Ric prescribes.

Today I will make my final attempt to reprioritize your Netflix and put Game of Thrones on the back burner.

Not to knock your primitive medieval fascination. I’m quite addicted myself actually- now that David Duchovony has put his dick away for the season and I’m no longer able to vicariously live through Vinny Chase and the Chasers.

I’m pretty sure I miss Johnny Drama more than some of my real life family members.

It’s the end of summer, September. Chelsea’s long awaited wedding is upon us, and albeit I do appreciate a solid wedding, I’m fairly more stoked to have chase bunkin’ on my couch for the next week, and flying to Portland with him for the next.

Chase always stays with me, as opposed to grandma. And I do actually call her grandma. And his mom is my mom.

What an asshole right?

I’ll say my life is pretty fucking hectic on a consistent basis, but nothing like when Chase visits from Portland. It’s an attempt to cram 6 months of chillin’ into one week, and we’ve become increasingly efficient at it.

Night one. After devouring too many In N Out burgers (there ain’t one in Oregon), throwing them up, and lighting cigarettes backwards, our night is coming to a close. By close I only mean we’re going back to my place to eventually sleep.

Sure we’re tired, but you make a god damned effort to pry your eyes when you’re with your best friend you only see but once or twice a year.

We decide to watch something. Now might be a swell time to add, I don’t think either of us actually know how to operate standard cable or DVD players or any of that shit- despite how technologically apt we are, EVERYTHING is set up accordingly: GeForce 460ti to HDMI.

Munks: you ever seen Wilfred?
(I call him Munks, he calls me Ric- and that’s why you’ve been calling him Munks and me Ric for the last twelve years.)

Me: No. What the fuck is Wilfred?

Munks: It’s about a guy in a dog costume. I squint my eyes and prepare to roll in doubt.

But no. Fuck that. This is fucking Chase and I can recall countless times one of us jabbed with a pun and the two of us were the only ones laughing.

I remember laughing hysterically outside his home in Central Point, Oregon when the two of us realized over a cigarette that we’d both separately came to the same conclusion years ago that nothing in this world matters because we’re both going to die.

We’re on the same fucking page.

Let’s do it.

A quick torrent download from “it” and we got our Wilfred waders on.

I’ll admit, despite my undying trust in Munks, I was a little taken aback to find Elijah Wood as the lead role.

It’s not that I hate Elijah Wood or anything.

And it’s not that he looks gay.

It’s just Lord of the fucking Rings is 9 hours of my life I’ll never get back, and I had shifted all blame solely on him.

Elijah Wood: the face of my hatred for all things Lord of the Rings.

That said, I forgive you Elijah.

I forgave him two minutes in to episode one when he’s pictured on a couch smoking weed out of a Gatorade-bottle-made-bong with a man in a dog costume. A man in a dog costume who’s also smoking weed.

I suppose this is the segment I list the nutritional properties Wilfred has to offer.

Did I not just specify a man in a dog costume smoking weed out of a Gatordade-bottle-made-bong?

The show’s premise is the traditional tale of a young man with a loss of direction and a lack of motivation: Naturally, leading Elijah to the only justifiable solution of suicide. As opposed to more violent techniques, Elijah decides to go out on a ride of prescription narcotics.

Admirable, if I do say so myself, which I do.

That’s the way I’d do it anyway.

Elijah meets Wilfred near the same moment he realizes his sister prescribed him placebo sugar pills, as opposed to the alprazolam he intended to overdose on.

Elijah proceeds to learn life lessons from a man in a dog costume for the following ten episodes, through untried untraditional methods of drug use, debauchery, stuffed animal humping and of course ensued hilarity.

 
Other than the fact it’s an 8.0 on IMDB (MCChris: “that means something up here!”), I have no other convincing notions to convey at this point in time, nor do I give a fuck if you actually turn on Wilfred to enjoy it. But hey, my frequent status updates may turn suddenly comprehendible if you were to roll the dice.

No? Your fucking loss.

 

 

 

I just had a moment of creativity and jogged this into my iPhone notepad this morning.

Age 25, 2012. The once glorified house-party has become seemingly extinct, much like the Tyrannosaurus Rex and his reptilian brethren. I can only attribute my previous statement to the following calculation: what’s illegal is risky, what’s risky is fun. And now that my brotherhood, once deemed “the sesh” have all met and exceeded the legal drinking age- we’ve traded the house party for the drive home from the bar, the stakes are much higher.

I suppose by now you’ve discovered the nostalgic properties coercing me to write this here bloggity. It’s true, I do miss the occasional house party. I miss sprouting my social butterfly wings when that red party cup is placed in hand. I miss the occasional game of Ninja.

Ninja?

Ninja.

HAHAHAHA.

Ninja. Ninja, my dear reader, was the pinnacle of house party success. Which of my friends invented this game I am uncertain, but allow me to proceed further.

Ninja was a contest between an undetermined amount of participants, and only the drunk thus brave became willing. The basis of Ninja is simple. You start in the backyard of the house party you’re in attendance of, and start jumping walls from backyard to backyard, to backyard and back again- the winner being the one who never pussed out. Please do consider thrilling existing obstacles such as trespassing, drooling Rottweilers and the unexpected pool.

It’s to my understanding Michael Yeomans did blindly Ninja a wall right into a neighbors pool. It’s also to my understanding that was the end of Ninja.

Only the drunk thus brave played, and only the strong survived.

Back in the days when Smirnoff ice reigned supreme, and hangovers considerably less dominant.

I clearly recall this moment in time. I’m 17 with my bent neck wrapped around my lips.

Girl: My nipples are pierced.

Corey. Corey’s wearing that signature fucking smirk of his. Signature and sinister. If you know Corey you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about.

Corey: I don’t believe you.

Seventeen year old Eric chokes upon exhale.

I’ll say this much. Her nipples were indeed pierced.

 

Yes, this is all leading to some sort of demented conclusion, albeit not the direction you’re expecting,

My good man John is throwing a rarity that is now the house party this upcoming Saturday. I have not only promised a keg upon my arrival, but some nipplage as well. So, for the sake of my wallet ladies…

Eric Wise [1:41 PM]: when people hear keg they know that its a real deal party
John Reynolds [1:41 PM]: for sureree
Eric Wise [1:42 PM]: girls taking clothes off, big guys throwing up party party
Eric Wise [1:42 PM]: in fact if there is a keg and you don’t see a nipple, come see me and i’ll personally give you your money back
John Reynolds [1:42 PM]: hahahahahahahhahahhahahahhahahah

 

 

cause the party life is like nothin’ else, and if you gotta lotta problems put that shit on the shelf!

Apologies in advance for the cynic and sour start.

I don’t like my brother Alan. For sure he’s an asshole. Plays his music too loud and too late, macks the last piece of the pizza YOU bought in the fridge, leaves a puddle on the tile in the wake of every shower- but before you condemn my soul to the depths of hell, allow me to offer a line of justification. He treats my mother like fucking shit, inadvertently leaving me with a perma pill chewing taste in my mouth. Go chew a Tylenol and sympathize. This aggression will not stand man!

This should elaborately portrait paint my reasoning as to why I’m happy he just bailed out of this cruise two days prior. Well, half of my reasoning- allow me to do what I do best and elaborate further.

Instant message received.

Fantasyangxl: Dude Alan just bailed on the cruise.

(Yes Fantasyangxl is Adam’s screen name, and I can offer no explanation in his defense, primarily because I’ve never asked.)

Snow2punk: WHAT

I completely drop conversation with Adam as my genetically inherited Jew brilliance begins ticking in a direction proportionate to my favor.

I’m going to get Travis in on this.

I AM GOING TO GET FUCKING TRAVIS ON THIS FUCKING CRUISE.

I windows + L my shit and burst to the outside.

Dial Daddy.

Me: DAD!!!

Dad: SON!!!

Me: DAD! CAN WE SWAP ALAN’S SPOT FOR TRAVIS?

Daddy’s a part-time travel agent you see. Part-time because he’s registered as a travel agent for the sole purpose of receiving discounted cruises.

Daddy informs it’ll be a mere fifty smackers to transfer the name from Alan Wise to Travis Tonsbeek. I have absolutely no clue as to the reason why, nor do I fucking care.

I run back in.

Me: TRAVIS!!!

Travis is one of my best friends, and I only use the plural form in respect to my other best friends.

Travis is oh to well accustomed to that fire in my eye. That fucking frantic excited-way-to-fucking-early me.

So what? I get a little excited.

Me: Dude you mind paying fifty to go on a cruise with me this weekend?

Trav: pff NO.

He retorts with that I-can’t-believe-you’d-fucking-ask-me-that tone.

 

 

It’s Friday and Travis and I have successfully cleared customs with two white Stoli filled Listerine bottles, 10 Rockstars and 6 gatorades. Oh yeah, and some clothes.

I have two initial priorities boarding this floating party.

1. Achieve an adequate drunk prior to eating lunch

and

2. Get my 16 year old sister drunk.

Travis and I sit at the first bar in sight. About 6 paces from the entrance to the ship. Efficient bar placement if I do say so myself.

And I do.

Double vodka-Redbulls for the both of us, and one for Adam.

 

Magically our bags have arrived in our cabin before I can even finish my drink.

The three of us waste no time pouring another, as well as pouring a specially made one for sweet innocent (laughable) little Heather.

I say specially made because I mix 1/4 vodka, 3/4 Rockstar- a bit of a switch up from our normal half and half ratio which I’d normally deem a crime to pour otherwise. That being said, the girl is 16 and fucking tiny to boot.

The hours to follow prior to the mandatory attendance muster (safety) drill will be spent scourging the decks for attractive females and proceeding continuation of achieving mind state obliterated.

 

I have no entertaining commentary pertaining to the muster drill, other than my father successfully ducked out on it again. The fucker’s a pro yo. What’s his cruise count now Adam? Like 46 I think? Diamond Plus baby! But alas, this is separate story entirely.

Which brings us to 6pm, bar adjacent to the casino.

There’s absolutely only one fucking reason we aren’t gambling right now, and that reason is because the casino doesn’t open til 6:30- when this over-sized fun ship hits international waters and the party officially begins.

Pathetic right?

Hah.

Yes. Travis, Adam, my father and myself are all waiting outside the casino waiting for that shit to pop.

What kinda half Jew would I be if I didn’t participate and appreciate the fine art that is gambling?

A fucking shitty one, so I must pay my respects.

 

I’m unsure as to your personal experience in a casino, but allow me to offer a brief intermission on the inter-workings.

The people you enter the casino with won’t be the people you stay with.

You get lost in there bro.

Before I know it I’m betting strategic roulette with Adam reading me off numbers to play. I can see my dad within view at the black jack table.

Naturally, Travis is fucking missing.

Fucking Travis in the mother fucking casino.

 

I’m winning a fuck ton of money. Seven hit numbers in a row. I’m laughing hysterically as my dad joins up.

Dad’s got a keen knack to be there at the right time, as well as when to walk.

On the cruise prior, which I unfortunately was not on, a successful female roulette player taught my brother and father just how to play roulette- and win.

We’ve all had it wrong all along. Apparently betting money on your family’s birth dates isn’t an adequate way to play roulette and come out a winner.

You gotta play a quarter of the wheel based on the numbers that are poppin’ off.

 

Dad and I are winning some serious money. We’re the only two at the table. Tipping the dealer ten smackers every time he spins in our favor. Ordering Mai Tais at every 10 minute increment.

As Derek says, if you don’t have a drink with an umbrella in your hands while on a cruise ship, you’re monumentally FUCKING UP.

 

And I spot Travis.

I spot the Travis I’m only familiar with in Vegas.

Stern look, drink guzzling Travis.

Me: How are you man?

In Regards to his wallet, not his personal well being, and despite I already know the answer.

Trav: Down two.

As the straw finds its way back into his mouth.

I explain to Travis the fortune at hand and advise he start placing bets following my father and I’s lead.

 

And naturally we start losing.

 

Trav’s luck would be laughable had he not lost so much fucking money every time we hit the casino together.

 

The night ensues in typical scenarios to the above, and only one notable/memorable event  worth mentioning (partially do to high alcohol intake) is the snail eating.

Travis and I order escargot at dinner. And whether you’d like to attribute this to our inebriated mindset, we liked it. There’s actually an unflattering video floating around somewhere, one which won’t be seen by you nor posted by me.

 

Saturday.

Mexico.

Now as much as I’d love to continue my gawk at this fat ass sea lion (and believe me this fucker is FAT) we got matters to attend to.

Pharmacies to pillage, strippers to wreck, margaritas to guzzle.

So let’s keep this sequential yeah?

 

Full blood Jew dad and half blood Jew son both got one thing on their minds, and to the fucking pharmacy we go.

Not just any pharmacy mind you, the one owned by Roberto.

I use Roberto’s name because daddy is on  first name basis with the man. Go figure right?

 

I wait patiently as my dad fulfills his knapsack-needing order.

And finally it’s my turn.

I got only one thing on my mind.

Err, HAH.

You know me too well.

Fine.

That’s a blatant lie.

 

Me: I want ambien.

If you know me, you’re well aware I’m a chronic insomniac. If you don’t know me, well you know I am one now.

Roberto scuffles to his back room.

It’s been five minutes.

This isn’t looking good.

 

Roberto, the only trust worthy pharmacist in the region, is out of fucking ambien.

Mother FUCKER.

Me: Painkillers?

Roberto inquires as to what painkillers would intrigue me.

Me: The stronger the better!

Roberto: I have Vicodin, $3.50 each

Err, umm, meh.. nah.

I pass.

 

Roberto: Have you ever tried Xanax for your sleeping problem?

Xanax. Sweet sweet Xanax. How could I ever forget about you?

I purchase an undisclosed-to-you quantity of Xanax. Xanax bars.

Roberto: A quarter or a half of one of those will put you to sleep.

Daddy looks over to me with that you-know-better-than-that-son look.

Daddy: You take the full.

 

Hah! Oh the striking wonderment of genetics.

(at this point in the oral telling, Derek exclaims “TELL ME YOU DIDN’T TAKE ONE RIGHT THERE”)

To address what you’re all probably thinking, no. No I did not.

Eric Wise certainly did not pop a Xany directly after purchase.

 

At this point Adam and dad roll out to get a massage, leaving Trav and I with Heather and step mom to guzzle margaritas at a restaurant nearby.

Yes. My dad also has a first-name-basis masseuse in Ensenada.

Fucking dad.

 

Adam returns sooner than dad.

Me: Finish your taco bro, we’re going to the strip club.

And we do.

 

We head to the strip club. The same one we got kicked out of last time, but again this is another story entirely.

There are two bouncers sitting in chairs outside of the strip club door.

There are also five Federalis appearing to be hassling them.

Meh fuck that. I’m Eric Wise, I am drunk and I am going to see some titties.

I push through the middle of the Federalis.

Me: YO we wanna go in!

The bouncers inform me that the titty bar is closed.

For what reason, I’m unaware but my heart frowns…

 

And then smiles as my conversation obviously is overheard by a Mexican citizen passing by.

This Mexican promises me he can bring us to the strip club we desire, and we follow suit.

 

I hope your imagining a drunk Eric, Adam and Travis stumbling down a dark beaten alley way behind touristy Ensenada, because that’s where we are.

I have my fist clenched, waiting for some Mexicans to pop out and try to steal the hundreds in my pocket.

(As I come to find later in the evening, Adam and Travis both feared the same and also walked fists clenched.)

But alas! This trustworthy Mexican has led us to the promised land and inside we go!

 

There is no cover charge bro! WELCOME TO MEHICO!

The three of us order a round of Dos Equis and top shelf tequila shots.

 

Mexican strippers know white boys with money when they see em, and waste no time accordingly.

I’m in there maybe two minutes and I got this bitch in my lap with her hand rubbing my crotch.

Oh Mexico. I fucking love Mexico.

I deny her lap dance offer as I’m fairly confident I can find a cuter faced one.

And you’d think, this being Mexico, that I’d simply settle for a girl with all her teeth.

 

Mother FUCK I am Jewish.

 

Some unknown-to-me thus unknown-to-you quantity of Dos Equis and tequila shots later, we’re approached by that fine faced stripper.

And she wastes no time.

Stripper: Lapdance?

Me: Yeah!

The stripper extends her hand to take mine.

Hrm. I mean, I did want a lap dance, but for some reason something was just off.

Me: I’ll buy for him.

I point to Travis accordingly.

Travvy fucking grins as his hand is held by this stripper and he disappears into the abyss.

 

He’s gone maybe two minutes and Adam and I were approached again.

Stripper: Lapdance?

Me: Sure.

This time I let her take my hand.

As I’m led to the back room the stripper moves my hands to her ass.

 

No quarrels here.

In the off chance you’re a complete fucking retard, this isn’t the Spearmint Rhino in Van fucking Nuys. Touching, or more adequately put, groping is not only allowed but encouraged. The stripper places both my hands on her breasts accordingly.

Perfect size and real.

And you know I’m partial to the C cup.

 

The stripper informs me my dance is almost over.

Stripper: Do you want the special dance?

At a Southern Californian strip club a “special” dance is more or less translated into longevity.

Do I want you to continue grinding on me for the next half hour for sixty bucks?

Clearly.

 

I KNOW YOU FUCKER. I KNOW. I’M A FUCKING IDIOT.

I’m so fucked up this somehow even gets passed this savvy Jew.

 

I figure out what I’ve done as I’m being led into a different room.

A room with a door on it.

And the stripper has a box of Kleenex in her hand.

 

(Oh I’m incapable of fathoming the suspense you must be in with what the fuck I’ve done now.)

 

I sit down in this 5X5 foot room.

The stripper shuts the door and sits down on my lap, grinding away.

 

And she gets up.

 

Stripper: The condom cost you five dollars ok?

What the fuck? I could buy a whole fucking box of condoms for..

NO WHAT THE FUCK!

Me: NO!

 

Me: NO NO NO NO NO!

No doubt the stripper’s taken note of the money I’ve been spending in this place and my quarrel isn’t with the price of a 5 dollar condom.

She starts rubbing my chest in effort to seduce me.

Stripper: What’s wrong baby? You don’t like sex?

 

Oh I’m fairly positive this bitch knows I like sex, however I’m doubtful my D passing Spanish grade can explain to this female I am not going to fuck her in fear of some unfavorable STD contraction.

I receive a normal lap dance  and walk away.

Walk away with that type of awkward face. That awkward face you can FEEL.

Would I have fucked her had this been a legitimate American establishment?

I’m going to walk away with this with a notch of morality under my belt regardless of your conclusion.

 

I sit back down in between Trav and Adam, ordering another round of beers as well as another round of shots.

Two strippers approach. One with the sole intent of seducing Adam, and the other Travis.

Stripper A: Lapdance?

Adam’s got that awkward E vibe going on.

Me: ADAM GO!

And he does.

 

Upon his return, Trav’s stripper is still on his lap.

This girl is straight up rubbing his cock through his jeans.

 

Fuck if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was a handjob.

Travis and I meet eyes. The dude-what-the-fuck? eye meet.

He’s smiling though, I’m laughing, and he’s not stopping her.

Adam and I both look at each other with that baffled what-the-fuck smirk, both making certain to not look down at Trav’s crotch.

 

Conversing with Adam and the following grabs my attention:

Stripper on Trav: I WANT TO SUCK YOUR DICK!

HAHA WHAT?!

No whisper of elegance as a white woman would approach. This is a loud fucking exclamation!

“I WANT TO SUCK YOUR DICK!”

 

And after the completion of her exclamatory, guess who shows the fuck up?

Dad.

Haha.

How the fuck did Dad find us in this, what I’m calling now, WHORE HOUSE in the back alley of Ensenada?

Daddy collects his boys and we head back to the ship.

I stow my Xanax in my step mom’s purse, solely because I’d rather her get caught smuggling them on board as opposed to myself.

Sinister? Haha. I know.

 

Sometime later we’re back in international waters.

And you know god damn well what that means.

 

I join my father at the craps table.

 

I can’t begin to adequately describe the feeling of elation when you’re “on a roll”.

It’s fucking UNFATHOMABLE.

 

I’m on a fucking roll!

I mean, I AM ON A FUCKING ROLL.

The table is cheering!

Eric is winning money!

Eric is winning money for dad!

Eric is winning money for the entire god damned table!

EVERYONE LOVES ERIC.

ERIC IS THE CENTER OF FUCKING ATTENTION.

 

This is a male father-son bonding moment.

Dad and I are slapping high fives and hugging each other with each roll, scraping our winnings off the table.

 

Have you met my father? He’s the definition of masculine. A little family history for ya- My dad’s name is Jan, solidifying resentment towards my grandmother from birth. True, Jan is commonly a female name and my father explains the ridicule only ceased post dropping out of high school at some point in the 10th grade. To arrive at my destination point, my father named myself and male siblings using a simply designed template incorporating the factors of short, masculine and cannot-be-made-fun-of-or-rhymed-with. On a side note, unfortunately this has no effect of the attempt of the witless to add a “the” in between my first and last name, or incessantly ask me if I’m wise- since we’re on the subject. That being said, this does not unnerve me, but it does make you look like a fucking idiot.

 

At some point after this I actually adapt the mentality that it’d be humorous to spend as much money as I possibly can.

 

Apparently, in sober actuality, losing $1500 dollars isn’t really all that funny.

Actually it’s not fucking funny at all.

 

I can only attribute the thousand and a half lost to rationalization that shooting craps with my father is an adequate makeup for him neglecting to play catch with me as a boy…

 

YO ELEVEN!

 

A prior Mexican cruise story: La Bufadora

There’s an incriminating interlude strategically left out of this post, if you ask privately, I may just supply.

I’m intrigued.

Initially.

A feeling similar to the pleasantry of squeegeeing your windows.

It’s contradictory to everything you know.

Cleaning shouldn’t be fun… but the squeegee in action is just so fucking… mesmerizing.

As I said, I’m intrigued.

Initially.

I’m intrigued because I just poured liquid chemical down the shower drain and not only has the clog been fixed instantly, there appears to be a vapor rising out from it like a fucking Volcano.

I’m mesmerized.

HOW
FUCKING
COOL

Not quite.

Apparently the chemical melt of months build up of raver hair smells quite unpleasant.

That’s the first time I’ve lied to you.

I can’t even settle on a word to describe this stench. It’s still a tossup between repulsive, putrid and repugnant.

I literally fucking RUN.

My eyes blood shot and watering.

Profusely coughing.

And you know how right before you throw up you do that little spit action?

The place you run to spit and proceed onward I just ran the fuck out of.

But this is going the fuck down.

I need to spit.

I run into my room.

Look around.

Carpet or pants?

Pants.

I spit on what turns out to be Joe Stone’s pants and throw up in my mouth.

Despite the closing of the bathroom door, this horrific aroma somehow manages to traverse the entire upstairs and downstairs of my home.

I mean, it’s fucking bad dude.

This all happened around 1pm. I’ve seemingly blasted an entire can of Lysol, and to no prevail.

It’s 5:30pm. The bathroom door is still shut. The bathroom light is still on. The entire house still fucking smells.

 

Most people look back with hatred on their first job. Not me, for I am a UFL…

It’s Saturday and I find myself in the all too familiar routine. Dressed in black slacks, shoes that don’t quite fit right, and a maroon shirt. I glance at the clock. 15 minutes before I got to bone out and head off to work. I know beforehand that waiting for me there will be Corey Marshall. I know that starting with me will be Eric Wise. I know this because I am far too familiar with the schedule. See thats what you do when you’re UFL. You know these types of things.

Clock in.

Verify Kung isn’t present.

Even though I’m fairly positive he’s not.

It’s Sunday.

Sunday Funday.

Sunday Funday proportionately titled because Kung doesn’t work Sundays.

I’m free to leave my shirt untucked.

Heading to the trash room, and not to partake in what we call “doing trash”. I’m here to secure my Robo that I stashed in the ceiling rafters post clocking out last night.

What’s a Robo you ask?

Allow me to elaborate.

You see when the reign of the Iron Fist that was Bill Curtis ended, Kung took over as General Manager of the Regal Civic Center 16 and imposed a theater wide budget cut. The only remnants from the reign of the Iron Fist are the Robos.

I know, I know. I still haven’t defined Robo yet.

I’ll start by defining the B2K.

The Butler 2000.

The Butler 2000 is just that. It’s just a shitty fucking butler. Why is it shitty? Because it has no wheels, and no fucking story for that matter. And us ushers to appreciate a good tale.

The robo’s are nearing dinosaur ice age extinction, as in, there’s only 4 left.

Securing a Robo could very well mean the difference in having a shitty day at work, or a spectacular day. Comics made, fights have been started and friendships lost over a black dustpan named Robo. To us it wasnt a $19.99 piece of cleaning equipment. To us it was status.

I might also add the robo had 2 wheels, creating a smooth slide action enabling seamless pick up.

And us ushers are all about being lazy.

Walking in I pass Eric, who had arrived sometime earlier, retrieving his robo from an in progress theater. I watch him walk into a theater, go under the curtains all in plain view of movie goers, and return with a pristine Robo. Great minds think alike.

We’re laughing, walking out to the main lobby, Robos slung in our right hands, picking up popcorn kernels in their wake.

And I see Corey with that sinister fucking smirk on his face.

Corey opens up a mustard packet and squeezes it all over Amber Mcguire’s shirt.

Corey’s laughing that same sinister hysterical laugh booming throughout the halls.

Asshole right?

Nah.

Amber’s a concessionist. And us ushers don’t take kindly to them concession folk.

Perhaps you’re wondering just what is UFL?

Look’s like we got a good crew working tonight, I say to Corey as we are waiting for the first auditorium of the day. He nods in agreement, but I know he hasn’t heard me. As usual he’s on the lookout for some code 3s. Our slang for attractive women. He sees someone, probably a little young, and swiftly leaves the group to investigate. Now that corey’s on the prowl we are one man down for this auditorium. Not a problem because even on his best day, Corey’s work ethic is equal to that of one half man.

As we prepare to enter the theater I hear “God Damnit we got credit Jockeys,” from the last usher on. Credit jockeys are those assholes who stay in the theatre to watch the credits. More importantly they prevent the guy making minimum wage from completing his task.

We have a code for this, however unfortunate, it’s been lost in the annals of time. Trust me, I even made a few phone calls to see if my usher brethren could recall.

“If they could pay us less, they would” I incessantly remind my friends.

This practically becomes the slogan for the UFL.

The founding principals of UFL are laziness and not fuck giving, I believe the technical term for this is now days is “dgafing”, however in the year 2004, no such term had yet to enter existence.

So a little background on UFL.

To squash your ignorant misconceptions, the UFL isn’t a group of little 16 year old boys mobbing under the guise of immaturity.

No.

The UFL is a fucking brotherhood.

So tightly knit, I’ll spare a line and break my present tense format as gratitude. I’ll have you know Eric and Corey are my best friends to this day.

When our my job was on the line, Corey Marshall went into the bosses office confessed, which took the blame off of me, called the boss a cock, took off his shirt, threw it at the boss, and walked out of the regal for one last time. While this story is for another day, it goes to show you these guys had my back. It wasnt some fake bullshit. The UFL cemented life long friendships.

And just because you were slapped with the job title “Usher”, didn’t make you UFL.

You either had to be vouched for, or prove your worth.

I’ll elaborate.

Take Eric for example.

Halloween 2004, his first official night on the clock in the maroon colors.

And the fucking power goes out.

Corey: Follow me dude.

You see, Corey and Eric go back. Back to the 3rd grade. Eric is vouched for. And Eric ain’t no bitch.

Eric: You sure this is cool man?

Eric follows Corey into a pitch black auditorium 2.

(I’ll have you know all rooms with a screen are referred to as auditoriums, not theaters. A theater is defined as the overall establishment in itself. Don’t ask. This is an usher pet peeve.)

Corey and Eric join with a fairly large group of employees eating popcorn, talking, and laughing, and most importantly, not attending to the black out.

The Regal Civic Center 16 is in udder fucking chaos. That’s what happens when the power goes out at a theater. Fucking chaos.

While the average patron is stricken with panic, and the model employee is doing their best to help ease the situation, UFL know this is a golden opportunity. This is a chance to double a nights wages in just few minutes.

Without hesitation I grab a few trusted individuals, Corey, Eric, and more who I know are in. See you have to know when the power goes out, it is our job to escort the patron safely out and see to it they get their emergency ticket good for one free showing at time of their choosing. Being that the computers are down and there is no count of how many customers are in the theater, this 2 inch by 2 inch red square offers a unique opportunity for the always resourceful UFL.

The managers on duty are overwhelmed and begin handing strands of tickets, probably 20 long, to those employees who’re going to “help” see the customers their refund and safe passage outside. As soon as we are handed our tickets, we disappear into the dark theater to help frightened customers find their way in the dark. Except we never make it to an auditorium, we meet up down the hall by the emergency exits and walk outside to talk relish in our score.

On the topic of similar shenanigans, err.. this also is entitled to further explanation. But we’re telling the long intricate tale of the UFL and the Regal. Bare with us.

Door.

This is more of a task than it is a position. And in short, the worst fucking one.

You see, only an Usher can be dealt Door duty.

Door is tearing tickets, anywhere from 6-8 hours. In short, this fucking sucks.

Tearing tickets is easy, however watching your friends walk by auditorium to auditorium, laughing, having the time of their life, ain’t.

That being said, on the topic of similar shenanigans, Door did have its perks.

You see the average consumer is far too fucking retarded to bring their gift certificates valued at 1 free movie ticket, to the box office.

Instead they bring them to the guy working Door. The guy tearing tickets.

The 16 year old tearing tickets.

Consumer: Can I use this here?

Why yes. Yes you may.

And instead of turning the consumer back to the box office to exchange the certificate, the Door person would instead point the consumer to the proper theater, pocketing the certificate… and slang them at school for 5 smackers accordingly.

I know for a fact Eric is guilty of such charges, but who am I to judge?

No comment.

Derek and I tag teamed this over a few rum and cokes. For the record, this is part one, probably of many. As we discussed, we could go all fucking night at this. I credit 2004 as the best year of my life, and I mean that sincerely. This was my first collaboration with anyone, pertaining to writing. I’m interested in your reactions. This was a fuckload of fun, I hope you enjoy.

Teller: Do you have an account with us?

Me: No

Teller: Where do you bank at?

Me: I don’t have a bank account.

I can see the glimmer in her eye and can the flutter of her heart.

And I can hear her thoughts.

“This fucker doesn’t have a bank account. I get to sign this fucker up!”

Teller: Would you like to open one with us today?

Me: No.

“NO? What the fuck does he mean NO? How does one survive without a corporate establishment managing his funds?!”

Teller: Why not sir?

This is every time I stop in the bank.

So every 5th and 20th of the month, providing of course these days don’t land within the duration of the weekend, which will ultimately alter the pay schedule.

And every time I can’t bring myself to deal the death blow to this stupid fucking teller.

Fine.

You wanna know why I don’t have a bank account?

It all started with that same teller eye twinkle and heart flutter.

September 2008.

Cashing my check from Guitar Center by Wells Fargo at Wells Fargo.

I worked at the corporate office, not the retail store.

(I’ve always found it mandatory to protect my reputation by stating I worked at the corporate office.)

A seemingly reputable establishment.

I verify the finer details of the account with the branch manager, specifically the pretense of free.

As in this account will not be costing me money.

October 2008

I’m in shock reviewing the shit show that is my bank statement.

Hidden between the lines of monumental bar tabs and online shopping sprees…

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!

A 30 dollar “service fee”?!

NIGA WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!

An UNAUTHORIZED 30 dollar service fee.

I debate just what service I was provided, considering my check is being directly deposited into my account and I normally don’t have any personal interaction with their employees.

I ultimately conclude there has been no service provided to me.

Monday morning, the absolute first hour and a half after the weekend, the worst hour and a half of my fucking life, ever, was just spent working for the bank.

For the FUCKING bank.

I wish death upon the corporate fat cats posted up in their penthouse suites in New York, and vow to have my money returned.

An in person visit to the branch manager is deemed necessary.

We’re sorry Mr. Wise, I can assure you this won’t happen again.

We’re sorry Mr. Wise, I can assure you this won’t happen again.

We’re sorry Mr. Wise, I can assure you this won’t happen again.

We’re sorry Mr. Wise, I can assure you this won’t happen again.

We’re sorry Mr. Wise, this…

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I say this 5 times because this happened 5 months sequentially.

Me: I want to close my account.

Imagine the exact opposite from the eye glimmer and the heart flutter.

The teller is shocked in her moment of disbelief. Like she saw a ghost that reached up down her throat and pulled whats left of that pathetic excuse of a soul out of her.

Teller: We can’t close your account today.

Oh you can.

And you will.

Umm MANAGER PLEASE.

Manager: May I ask why are you closing your account?

In which I explain the above. Incessant unwarranted charges and I add in I’m not necessarily appreciative of the smug fucking looks from their male teller whom is making literally half the amount of money I make.

And yes I did actually say that.

So what I wear my glasses in the bank. They’re fucking awesome. I’m a customer god damn it, and seemingly a paying one at that.

 

 

 

 

I crushed the soul of an Asian teller last paycheck as he penciled in “personal reasons” on his new-account-registration-contest sheet under section “Reason” , and the man next to me grins at me whilst exclaiming “cash is king.”

I do agree, however I closed my bank account before it was cool.

Hipster bank account.

I do laugh.

K. I’m working on two pieces for you. Actually if you’re interested in a progress report they’re half incomplete. (I’m a pessimist). Apparently playing Russian roulette with my creativity has its repercussions. I leave that statement open to your interpretation.

 

Here’s a little somethin somethin to hold you over; the crack baby of insomnia.

 

I touched on this initially in my first post in 09, but I realize most of you haven’t been with me that long.  That being said, I never birthed credit to this story, and credit is past due.

 

 

 

February 2009.

 

I’m sitting on the Don Cuco patio.

 

Now while I rarely appreciate Mexican cuisine, other than the burrito which is fucking fantastic, I DO appreciate cheap cocktails.

 

Derek, Travis, Stone and myself are all here on the invite of Wagner and Trevor who for some reason absolutely refuse to join their friends, us, on the patio and instead claim manifest destiny on a 4 person booth that can’t fucking fit the amount of people they invited.

 

Great mathematics for the son of a rocket scientist.

 

No really.

 

Wagner’s dad is a legitimate rocket scientist.

 

The four of us are fucking pissed.

 

The only thing anchoring us to the Don Cuco patio are our mixed drinks and we dedicate the following drink finishing moment to find a new quest, because

 

FUCK

 

THESE

 

GUYS

 

I giggle. that’s right. A masculine figure as myself giggles and the seed of destruction leeks from my mouth.

 

Me: Vegas?

 

I’m half joking.

 

Derek: fuck you.

 

Derek picks up his phone and books a non refundable room at The Tropicana.

 

Just like that.

 

Premature reluctance quashed.

 

Apparently we’re going to Vegas.

 

We ash our smokes and pound our drinks.

 

 

The four of us frantically try to fill the 5th seat in my car on the way home from Don Cuco.

 

Stone: Amantia? He just turned 21…

 

HAH!  Good fucking luck.

 

That’s a real fucking shot in the dark.

 

Good fucking luck trying to get the guy who won’t even leave his house to come on a spur of the moment Vegas trip.

 

Ring, ring, ring.

 

Stone: Yo dude, you wanna come to Vegas with us?

 

Amantia: You guys serious?

 

Stone: Pack your shit and get to Ric’s as soon as fucking possible.

 

Know Amantia? No fucking way right?

 

Amantia is fucking IN.

 

To this day my brother Adam still laughs at this fucking moment.

 

The moment we arrive home from Don Cuco and everyone is running to their car.

 

Adam to Derek: Where are you guy’s going?!

 

Adam sensing the frantic state of panic.

 

Derek: There’s… THERE’S NO FUCKING TIME.

 

Derek jumps in his truck and peels out to go throw on a button up and fill his backpack with whatever the fuck.

 

I’m running up the stairs as quick as fucking possible.

 

Me: mom

 

Me: MOM

 

Me: MOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!

 

Me: I NEED YOU TO IRON THIS FOR ME NOW!

 

I throw my mom my favorite Giorgio Armani shirt and continue packing a days worth of clothes, my hookah, and whatever miscellaneous left over booze I have.

 

Two things you should know about my friends:

 

1. We don’t go anywhere without the fucking hookah.

 

ANYWHERE.

 

and 2. Between the five of us we always have left over booze, and we never have left over booze. Does that even make sense? You might have to be one of us to get that one.

 

Two hours into this road trip.

 

Blasting our favorite sing a long.

 

Stab at it.

 

(hint: I just wanna fuck bad bitches!)

 

Go ahead.

 

If you guessed the Chronic 2001, you are correct.

 

Two hours into this road trip, hopping on the 15 freeway and…

 

And BLAM.

 

Dead stop fucking traffic.

 

WHAT THE FUCK!

 

It’s already 11pm.

 

We missed the starting gun as is, and now we’re in dead stop fucking traffic?

 

Derek is having none of this and I throw him my iPhone.

 

Derek: (studying Google Maps) I can get us to Vegas from here. Get off at this exit.

 

And I exit accordingly.

 

 

Let me just stop right here and give you a little background information on Derek.

 

This fucker knows how to read a map.

 

He was a fucking eagle scout back in the day, which may not tell you much about the man, but sure as fuck should tell you he knows how to read a fucking map.

 

Not to mention you trust me right?

 

And I trust him.

 

Derek leads me up a curvy mountain road for 15 minutes.  I just don’t see how this is going to work out, but as I said, I trust Derek with a map.

 

Or I should say, did trust Derek with a map, up until his last suggestion that my Lexus should continue on its current path which just turned into a dirt fucking road.

 

Nope sorry Derek, Lexie is going back to the freeway.

 

 

The traffic gods smile in our favor.

 

Upon return to the 15 the traffic has cleared and we’re back en route to Vegas, only 30 minutes behind schedule.

 

 

Now, as we pass Barstow and the infamous huge ass In-N-Out burger Tucker Max raves about, would be a good time to tell you Stone has been bitching of hunger pangs since we left.

 

We tell him we will eat when we get to Vegas.  (This will become pertinent information later in this story.)

 

Check in at the Tropicana 1:45.

 

In the room by 2am.

 

Travis: Want to smoke a hookah bowl?

 

Me:…

 

Me:…

 

Me: Are you out of your fucking mind man? We need to pound as much booze in this room as possible within 30 minutes and get the fuck out there!

 

Travis Agrees.

 

The whole fucking group agrees.

 

We’ve got a late start on this already, despite 2 am Vegas is really 10pm Los Angeles.

 

Commence shot taking.

 

And by shot taking I really mean take a shot worthy swig and pass to the next guy until the fucking bottle is done.

 

Now you’re probably expecting me to brush stroke a finely detailed painting of the events of that night, but I’m not.

 

I’m not because I don’t write about the ordinary.

 

If you don’t see an update on my blog for three months, it’s because I care about the quality of these write-ups.  I don’t write about getting drunk if there is no climax.

 

Smile bitch.

 

There IS a fucking climax.

 

It’s 5:30am.

 

Derek is holding a 12 pack of Coronas recently acquired from the liquor store.

 

We’re heading up the MGM escalator towards Hooters for 25 cent wings and…

 

CRASH

 

Someone throws a glass bottle in the street.

 

I turn around.

 

Me: TELL ME one of you fuckers didn’t throw that in the street.

 

Derek: NO MAN! YOU REALLY THINK I WOULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT?! IT WAS FUCKING HIM DUDE!

 

Him meaning Stone.

 

I look over to Stone.

 

He’s got that blank fucking stare in his eyes. That infamous Joe Stone blacked-the-fuck-out stare.

 

Remember he hasn’t eaten in a long fucking time. We never stopped to eat when we got here.

 

I turn back around and hear Derek behind me.

 

Derek: Here man… don’t throw this one in the street…

 

CRASH

 

Stone throws ANOTHER fucking full glass beer bottle into the middle of fucking Las Vegas Boulevard, nearly hitting a moving cab.

 

This was supposed to be the formal cut off point for Joe Stone.

 

You’ll understand my usage of the words “supposed to” after the following.

 

 

All of us are down and fucking out.

 

I’ve got two 20s left in my pocket.

 

Why the fuck do you think we’re trying to eat 25 cent fucking wings?

 

I’m under the impression I’m going to spend under 5 dollars on this meal.

 

10 wings for $2.50 and a side of ranch for a buck.

 

That’s under 5 bucks.

 

Or it WAS under 5 bucks until Joe fucking Stone orders a round of “Shotguns” for everyone at the table.

 

(Shotgun is some 25 or so ounce mixed rum/vodka fruity drink: think rum punch)

 

The fuck we need more drinks for?   All of our fucking eyes are bleeding.  All we want to do is eat this shit and face plant.

Our drinks come.

 

Stone instantly grabs his Shotgun, puts the straw to the bottom, and sucks it till no more remains.

 

From this point forward, this action has been trademarked “Joe Stoning”

 

You gotta be fucking kidding me.

 

Can you believe that fucking shit?

 

I hope your answer is yes because you certainly won’t believe the following.

 

Me: I don’t want this.

 

Stone gives me his blank signature stare. Only now he also has a little you’re-a-fucking-idiot glimmer in his eye.

 

Stone grabs my shotgun.  No chance for divine intervention as he puts the straw to the bottom and again, Joe Stone’s my fucking Shotgun.

 

And now the waitress comes around.

 

I order ten wings.

 

Derek orders ten wings.

 

Amantia orders ten wings.

 

Travis orders ten wings.

 

 

Stone: I want fifty wings.

 

Waitress: That’s a lot of wings hun…

 

Stone: FIFTY FUCKING WINGS!!!!!!

 

Each of our meals arrives on a normal sized circular plate.

 

Stone’s meal comes on not one, but two PLATTERS.

 

Joe Stone eats one wing.

 

Joe Stone face plants on the fucking table.

 

 

And I spend every remaining dollar in my pocket making up for all the drinks and his fifty fucking wings.

 

 

 

 

And that my friends, is the infamous night of 50 fucking wings. If you’ve made it this far, I do feel inclined to thank you. Like my page, and if you like this shit, repost it on your wall or copy and paste to your friend.

 

 

Until next time, much love.

There have been a few minor inquiries this morning, relating to my post confirming my action that I do in fact steal socks from my brother.

 

I’m not making this shit up! I CAN’T make shit up.

 

I won’t name any names, but some texts channeled over the AT&T network and were delivered to my cellular device.

 

Allow me to touch on the two topics in question.

 

1. “That’s gross”

 

-It sure would be if we didn’t put them in THE FUCKING WASHER.

-He’s my brother.

-I don’t even know why I’m explaining myself to a less competent human being- GO FUCK YOURSELF.

 

2. “Do you really steal your brothers socks?”

 

- Yes but allow me to defend myself, not necessarily because I have to, but for comedic purposes.

 

Hi, My name is Eric. I live in Los Angeles. I wear sunglasses indoors, and I wear sandals all the mother fucking time. All the fucking time. Everyday. Even when it’s raining. Even in the minus five ice bar in Vegas.

 

Unless I’m at work.

 

So let me explain the sock situation around my parts.

 

The socks start unfavorably under the Christmas tree. I use the word unfavorably because lets just be totally fucking honest, nobody wants mother fucking socks for mother fucking Christmas. Socks are wrapped in gift form under the Christmas tree because males do not buy socks for themselves. The only thing worse and devastating to the male ego other than buying socks, is buying car tires, but this is seperate subject entirely.

 

The socks are then transported to the upstairs drawers, their home, in accordance to their owner. I’m a tidy person and do like to store that shit immediately, however this is more to hide the fact I received socks for Christmas. Think about it. Your friend comes over later Christmas day- “Hey man, what’d you get for Christmas”? Well I’m certainly not admitting my mom isn’t cool, even if she did buy me socks for Christmas. Socks get put away immediatefuckingly. Why don’t you check out my Playstation 3 instead?

 

Day by day, the socks are worn and then eventually trickle down to the laundry room. I say eventually because while I prefer to move previously worn articles of clothing to the laundry room in a timely manner, my brother prefers to create a pile of worn clothes in the hallway. Why does he do this? He’s already admitted the answer. Here’s a direct quote from my brother: “I figure that eventually you’ll have people over and clean up and move them downstairs for me.”. Jew brother has me by the fucking balls. I WILL have people over, and I WILL move his clothes down to the laundry room, despite being aware of his tactic.

 

What a fucking asshole.

 

Eventually a large variety of socks from different owners, brands, colors, lengths, shapes and sizes will all meet and become friends during the waiting period to enter the washing machine. This period is strikingly similar to waiting for Space Mountain at Disneyland: Fuck ton of waiting, 2 minutes of awesome… but overall you deem it worthwhile.

 

Now here is where the shit gets complicated.

 

Once the socks are dried they are then laid out and picked out amongst many other articles of, now, clean laundry. My finicky brother then selects the socks of his preference based on what’s available in the clean pile, this time choosing friends for the socks by matching brands, colors, lengths, shapes, and sizes. Notice my lack of the word owner this time.

 

The remainder of socks are then channeled to my upstairs couch where I am left with the task of putting them away. The remainder of socks do not have friends. They do not share owners, brands, colors, lengths, shapes, or sizes. There is more ethnic diversity at a fucking high school in Maryland.

 

Some of you may be thinking: “Why do you stand for this Eric Wise?”. Well I’ll tell you, and it’s a two part answer.

 

The first I’ve already identified earlier in this post, on my free time when I do care about my appearance, I am wearing sandals. I am Los Angeles. I am cool.

 

On the weekdays when I am literally forced to wear shoes, I don’t have the time. Simply put, I go to sleep around 1:30am. I wake up at 6:30am.

 

I simply do not give a fuck about matching of the socks at 6:30am.

 

But I do care that they match.

 

This is laughable. My current employer actually does not give a fuck if my shirt is wrinkled, untucked, if my face is unshaven, or even if I’m showered. It is my highest doubt they actually give a fuck if I’m actually wearing dress socks, or mismatching socks, or socks at all for that matter. As long as I got some shoesies on. Contradictory as it may be,I do. I do fucking care. And I need to be wearing Project Managment worthy black mother fucking dress socks with my wrinkled and untucked button up and semi wrinkled beltless slacks.

 

And I know exactly where to find them.

 

 

And to further lay my lack of care on my mismatching sock collection situation to rest, I’ve ascended my hereditary design of needing my insignificant plot of space that’s been deemed mine to be perfectly organized. Punnet Square Shmunnet Square.

 

I mean, the whole world is fucked the fuck up, and I’m going to worry about a sock drawer of a hundred or so socks matching because it’s in my designated square on the planet? Nah.

 

I stuff them all into a drawer and compress them with my hand as I shut it.

 

 

Just kidding. Well all this shit’s real, but I love my brother, and he’ll probably laugh more at this than anyone else.