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.

Cruise port Encinada Mexico.

 

I have aspirations of squandering these Mexican streets for las farmacias and pillaging their prescription narcotics, the likes of Vicodin and Xanax, and then proceeding to bask in my victory by guzzling Coronas by the buckets on a hammock in the shade all behind the Mexicans-shall-not-pass line. Maybe even partake in a little bit of bartering for shit I don’t need. Who knows? I’ve always been one to ride on the seat of my pants.

 

First off let me say, I’m not that scenic of a guy. In fact, often I stand in front of historical monuments and can’t think of a better course of action other than a shrug my shoulders or perhaps a vocal “cool man”. Now don’t get me wrong, of course I’d love to see the Egyptian pyramids and perhaps the Mayan temples before I smoke myself to death.

 

I exit the cruise ship. Not so astonished to find my dad bartering with 5 Mexicans over who will give him the cheapest fair to “La Bufadora”. I’m positive this is less about a cheap cab fare and more about a Jew relishing in his prime of his genetic art of manipulation and bartering. I spent the better part of Spanish class fucking off with Voicemail and I’m not exactly hip on my Mexican geography either. The Mexican with the lowest cab fair promises a 30 minute drive only.

 

Ok. I can do this and still have time for my aspirations and perhaps mingle with some of those large breasted females in only the smallest bikinis when its all said and done.

 

Its two hours later. Mexican and white folk alike are lined around this rock. Any minute now everyone claims. I’m thinking about getting another one of those authentic churros when… BLAM.

 

Water comes out of a rock.

 

I now connect the Spanish to English dots. La Bufadora meant “the blowhole”. I just drove in a Mexican cab. For two fucking hours. To see water come out of a fucking rock.

 

My sister and I barrage my dad with verbal stone age weaponry the entire two hour ride back, in which no Mexican pharmacies were pillaged, no coronas were drank, no hammocks were laid in, and most certainly no girls in skimpy bikinis were flirted with.

 

Damn good churros though.

fantasyangxl: eric

snow2punk: ?

fantasyangxl: do you dislike that woman

snow2punk: yeah

snow2punkl: i hate her

fantasyangxl: i heard the attitude

fantasyangxl: lmao why?

snow2punk: where to start

 

 

 

 

Yeah. Basically my Step Mom informs me this woman will be coming over to perform some light accounting work for the business.

 

 

Okay. Whatever.

 

 

The woman is over maybe 5 minutes before she taps me on the shoulder. I’m naturally aggravated being asked to take off the big ass headphones. Yes, what do you want Accountant?

 

 

Accountant: Step Mom said I could use the wireless mouse you are using.

 

 

I glimpse back in time to yesterday afternoon when Step Mom has oh so thoughtfully bestowed upon me this bluetooth mouse.

 

 

I probably gave her too much credit there, she wasn’t doing this for me. My guess was she had had enough of my trackball borrowing from her and dad.

 

 

It’s K i don’t like trackballs anyway.

 

 

Now mind you, this bitch is like 80.

 

 

 

Me: Oh, ok. She didn’t mention anything to me.

 

 

Me: Need me to hook it up for you?

 

 

The Accountant: NO I’M NOT STUPID I CAN GET IT

 

 

 

 

I’m legitimately taken aback.

 

 

Fucking cunt.

 

 

Fine take the fucking mouse you bitch.

 

 

I vow no eye contact with this broad for the rest of eternity.

 

 

 

 

Now I’ll be honest, somewhat. I’ll admit I have a temper. I won’t admit I was out of line.

 

 

The Accountant leaves and I find it within my interest to repossess my mouse.

 

 

The mouse is fucking gone.

 

 

Hmmm, where to start? Umm let’s see… THIS CUNT STOLE MY FUCKING MOUSE.

 

 

 

Step Mom later assesses the situation and insists I say nothing.

 

 

 

 

Ah yes, you are fortunate to find text underneath that last line. Cause the plot thickens.

 

 

The plot always thickens.

 

 

 

 

It’s next month already. The Accountant is indefinitely receiving the Eric Wise cold shoulder, quite brutal if you’ve never been so unfortunate.

 

 

I’m walking down the hall to package up the recently sold Hello Kitty beach towel and…

 

 

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SMELL

 

 

The 80 year old female accountant has desecrated the lavatory.

 

 

Did this bitch not notice the second fan switch in the bathroom that is equipped in every modern home?

 

 

Don’ try to cut her some slack, it was only her and I present.

 

 

 

The Accountant again leaves and I have the need to relieve myself of the amounting K cups I’ve downed.

 

 

I unzip and look down…

 

 

Look down to find a massive shit stain in the toilet.

 

 

The Accountant couldn’t be bothered with the strategically placed brush on the left of the toilet, or right depending on if you are sitting.

 

 

 

So flash forward to today. I let this bitch in after her cigarette break. The accountant is astoundingly angry. I’ve-been-knocking-for-5-minutes angry.

 

 

For the record, I would have let her in sooner had Adam and I not been partaking in our tribute to Black Sabbath today.

 

 

Accountant: You locked me out

 

 

Me: Umm… no. Unlock the fucking door before you go outside, or better yet leave it cracked open.

 

 

 

It’s at this time where Adam IMs me that aim conversation, despite the fact we are sitting a foot apart from each other.

 

 

Adam is hysterically laughing as I furiously type the above story in not so elegant words (although with a lot more cussing).

 

 

Adam: DUDE HOW HAVE YOU NOT WRITTEN ABOUT THIS?

 

 

 

So here ya go. Tomorrow we’ll be furthering our voyage through the Iron Maiden discography and Easter egg hunting for the K cups Step Mom has hid from us, I invite you to join.

 

 

 

 

 

Best day ever!

First off, let me say, much controversy arose after my brother posted a video of my family rolling around on electric scooters at the ASD Trade Show in Vegas.

 

Yes. I received multiple text messages all with the same condescending premise.

 

I’ll give you an example:

 

Derek Eyster 4:09pm: ERIC PLEASE TELL ME YOU DON’T RIDE CARTS THROUGH THE CONVENTION CENTER

 

Now I am no liar and chose not to deny such accusations against my masculinity. Instead I implemented my half Jew mastermind tactic by simply ignoring the claim and replying with a subject obviously less demeaning to my dignity.

For the sake of story telling, and you know I’m all about the story, I did.

 

I did ride that mother fucking cart through that convention.

 

However, in my defense, I did a minimal amount of pleading to reverse my father’s decision. The plea of a 24 year old single male with no visible injury went unheard. The result, devastating.

 

If you haven’t met my dad, arguing with him is much like arguing with myself. There will be no reasoning.

 

I knew the second I plugged the key into that electric scooter I would be seeing no female anatomy during the course of this Vegas trip. At least not during the hours of this trade show on this mother fucking scooter.

 

If you’re female and somehow were not aware, us males are always on the prowl. Even on business, on a scooter, in the middle of a huge ass convention filled with Jews.

 

Real Jews mind you. Yarmulke wearing Jews.

 

ASD Trade Show, day 2. I find myself scooting around the jewelry section.

 

Ah yes. What a fine place to coax a young preferably brunette C cup female back to my palatial suite at the Hilton… IF I WASN’T ON A MOTHER FUCKING SCOOTER.

 

I’m reaching top cart speed when the twinkle of my blue eyes lock blue eyes with that brunette C cup of my preference.

 

Thanks for the good genetics, mom.

 

Her: You’re just being lazy.

 

She says this smiling.

 

Me: That’s not true, I hurt my leg.

 

I’m also smiling.

 

Her: Hi, I’m Hanna.

 

I’M IN MOTHER FUCKER!

 

Eric you suave son of a bitch. You’re flirting with a girl on a fucking scooter.

 

And Hanna, what a hot fucking name.

 

Unfortunately she’ll never know mine because at this very instant my father scoots up on my left and decides to alpha male the conversation.

 

Yeah. The man who blasted me from his ball sack just cockblocked me.

 

Now excuse me while I post under “missed connections” on Craigslist.

Adam throws a pillow at snoring nick.

 

Adam throws another pillow at nick.

 

Nick: I’m up!

 

He isn’t pleased.

 

I pull out my card that says I’ve-know-you-since-kindergarten, lay that bitch on the counter, and continue with Adam to batter Nick with a barrage of every available pillow in the room.

 

Nick: God damn it you mother fuckers I said I’m up!!!

 

Me: We’re going to meet my cousin at the Rio pool you comin?

 

We had all just finished showering and changing into our beach vibe.

 

We don’t give Nick that option.

 

The fucker is borderline infuriated. Staggers off his footrest-made-bed and immediately proceeds to the bathroom to vomit the entire contents of his stomach. Exits, and pours a rum and coke. No ice.

 

We make it to the elevator a long ass way down the hall to turn around to the startling realization that Nick hasn’t even left the fucking room.

 

WHAT THE FUCK NICK

 

Nick appears and snail slimes down the hallway, red party cup in tow, as we incessantly ridicule him with verbal rape.

 

Arrive at the Rio pool scene and slap hands/hello hugs gender specifically with my cousin Sara, her husband Nick (We’ll call him NickZ due to the doublage of Nicks in this story) and their two friends.

 

Me: Does a waitress come around here or what?

 

Tron’s not having any of that. If I could erect a time machine and go back and grandma pinch his cheek out of sheer pride, I would.

 

Tron: NO. WHERE IS THE BAR?

 

Valid point Tron, valid mother fucking point.

 

First round is on Jared. Five dudes, Five Coronas in the bucket and Las Vegas pool chillen. I let out that commercially famed just-opened-a-coca-cola sigh of relaxation.

 

Jared: Can we get some fucking limes?

 

It’s 1pm. Now is just as good a time as any to tell you I’m that one notch above buzzed. What the fuck else you do in your room when everyone else is still rinsing off last night?

 

This is fucking it right here and to show my gratitude to the moment and my friends I hand Tron a hundy and tell him this next around is on me.

 

Adam front-mans the group and executively decides they are going to hit the Rio buffet.

 

Nay. I respectfully decline despite Adam’s offering to pay. Nothing will fuck up this buzz.

 

They must have forgot I just bought another fiver of coronas.

 

I offer one to Sara’s empty hand. She declines with a “no they are yours.”.

 

PSSSSSH MODESTY AT A TIME LIKE THIS? I will have none of this and remind her of our blood cousinship.

 

 

Five beers later. How the fuck is it 4pm? NickZ invites me up their room at the Mirage for a whipped cream vodka & orange juice.

 

Beer before liquor never been sicker? FUCK NAH I’M ERIC WISE BRAH, AND ERIC WISE JUST GOT OFFERED VODKA.

 

I pound one and NickZ hands me the half of his remaining as we walk into the Aria Buffet.

 

Wait how did we just go from the Mirage to the Aria? Hahaha. If I don’t know, you don’t know, and I’m telling you right now I don’t fucking remember.

 

I’m not eating. And for reputation’s sake let me just say this is more about how I can’t stomach food while this intoxicated and less about the admission fee.

 

Sara pressures me to eat and I decline by referring to her as “mom.” This is an instant argument ender with Sara. She doesn’t think this is funny. She’s never thought this was funny. I think it’s fucking hilarious.

 

They do have free unlimited wine though, and I CAN drink when I’m this drunk.

 

NickZ crumples the buffet receipt into his pocket and VOILA! As far as the Aria is concerned, I am a paying customer.

 

A paying customer who’s not eating, just drinking unlimited wine.

 

My smile is reckless and fucking sinister.

 

 

I’m bumping into EVERYTHING outside of the Aria. I have two thoughts: 1. Eric Wise you dual wielding mother fucker (as I look down to the OJ/Vodka in my left and the glass of wine in my right) and 2. GOD I FUCKING HOPE SARA AND NICK DON’T SEE HOW MUCH I DON’T HAVE MY SHIT TOGETHER.

 

I only vaguely remember getting dropped off at Treasure Island.

 

I don’t remember finding my room at all, however I’m positive the friendly hotel staff and the photo I took of our room number ensure my safe arrival.

 

I pass out on a king size bed.

 

 

 

 

 

I wake up on one of two queen size beds.

 

OH WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!

 

The empty room now populates with Adam, Jared, Tron and Nick.

 

Adam: Here man, here’s the food you wanted.

 

Me: Umm thanks… WHAT THE FUCK?!

 

I conclude that the long awaited room switch finally occurred while I’ve been blacked out, and judging by the willingness of my brother to bring me food I don’t remember ordering, I’m going to have to say my body was very cooperative.

 

I pop open a box to reveal a big ass corned beef sandwich from Canter’s, french fries and two big ass sides of ranch. Adam know’s my taste buds well, but I know he would have only gotten me one ranch. The mere fact that there are two ranch dressings in this box leads me to believe that I did indeed place this order because of how much I stressed to him just how valuable the proper amount of ranch dressing was for my dipping pleasure.

 

I fucking love you Adam.

 

I don’t remember eating the sandwich.

 

Memory returns and what’s this? I’m in a state of fucking panic! PROBABLY BECAUSE I CAN’T FUCKING BREATHE.

 

MOTHER FUCKING SCOTT IS ON TOP OF ME AND HAS ME IN A MOTHER FUCKING ARM TRIANGLE. (BJJ rook? he was choking me the fuck out.)

 

I instinctively tap repeatedly with my left hand on his back, the new age international sign of uncle.

 

I can only assume my body thought it a fabulous idea to make a submission attempt on Scotty and it failed miserably.

 

Me: Thanks man, I probably needed that.

 

Welcome to the re-birth mother fuckers. I’m back.

 

Check phone.

 

Keith Cope – missed call. Keith Cope – text message.

 

Sorry my Vegas resident cousin, I was too busy being BLACKED OUT DRUNK to hang out with you.

 

 

 

Tron calls the concierge for the second time this trip. Apparently all it takes to get a free bottle of cheap champagne delivered to the room is a phony explanation that the guy at the check-in counter promised it to you.

 

Concierge says 45 minutes. The bottle comes in 2.

 

I’m suiting up as Tron and Adam, both hysterically cackling, bust down the bathroom door and spray showering Jared with the champagne.

 

Don’t worry, I was assured no male genitalia was seen this trip.

 

Everyone minus Tron and I leave the room to go somewhere. I just called Adam to recollect detail, he said to go get chasers.

 

Tron: Shot of Goose?

 

I humbly oblige.

 

This Goose is warm and I let out a aiight-lets-get-this-overwith sigh accordingly.

 

Tron: Cheers!

 

Me: Wait! The song!

 

We put on that song. Go back to Part Uno if you have made it this far and don’t know what I’m talking about.

 

Tron: Cheers!

Me: Cheers!

 

Sorry Tron, you can’t judge a shot for shit. If I have to gulp three times to put it down that’s like three shots.

 

I actually chalk this up to six shots because it all came back up in my mouth forcing me to re-swallow.

 

There is no chaser.

 

Adam, Jared and Nick enter at just the right time to find both of us heaving for air. I mean, I’m fucking dying man. I have both my hands on the counter trying to regulate my breathing in a desperate attempt to not throw the fuck up.

 

Naturally they ridicule us incessantly, and justifiably so.

 

Nick deals the final blow by pointing out the diet coke I didn’t drink that came with my Canter’s sandwich that would have acted as an ideal chaser. An ideal chaser being anything but more Vodka.

 

Tron and I laugh over how fucking stupid we both are.

 

 

 

Jared buys me a redbull/vodka and we enter Tim’s bachelor party dinner at the Venetian.

 

I share an appetizer with Jared. Pay, because hell man, he’s bought me a fuck ton of drinks this trip. And proceed to the bathroom.

 

Adam, Jared, Tron and Scotty intercept me at the bathroom and I follow them to cab it to XS night club at the Encore.

 

Allow me to take this time to apologize to Timski for bailing like that. Dick move in retrospect on my behalf. Hope you had a good night man.

 

Allow me to also take this time for those of you who don’t know me well enough, the club scene is not my thing. However I’ll do anything twice, and why not have my first experience in Vegas with these dudes who’s thing it IS?

 

We’re in line waiting, Tron sparks up conversation with five girls. Two lookers, three not.

 

I opt to chime in with him.

 

Maybe this club thing ain’t so bad after all?

 

I overhear the bouncer claim there are 6000 people inside.

 

Rope lifts up and lets us in. Adam pays my admission because it’s my first club experience.

 

Walking down a small corridor to the club, hrm doesn’t look like there are 6000 peop… OH HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

 

If there’s two things I infamously loathe it’s small Asian girls and pop music. Yet here I am, Eric mother fucking Wise, smack dab in the fucking middle of them.

 

Yeah there are 6000 people here alright. 5000 Armenian males trying to get laid and 995 featureless female Asians trying to dance. By featureless I mean no ass and no tits, and by trying I mean trying not to get raped by Armenian cock.

 

REMAIN POSITIVE.

REMAIN POSITIVE.

YOU’RE HERE TO HAVE A GOOD TIME.

 

Tron: I’m gonna go get us some drinks.

 

VALID IDEA TRON. VALID FUCKING IDEA.

 

Only redbull/vodka can save me now.

 

 

 

It takes Tron 30 minutes to reappear with these drinks and I have absolutely no fucking clue how he got them being 1. male and 2. with this place so fucking crowded.

 

Now I’m not claustrophobic, but I don’t like being touched. Is there a -phobic prefix for that? Ask Adam, the quickest way under my skin is to put both your hands on shoulders. I’ll freak.

 

At some point mid conversation Jared says nothing and B lines to the dance floor. The rest of the group follows suit, me being last in line.

 

Err I don’t really dance.

 

I’m not standing here alone that’s for damn sure.

 

Fuck it I’ve had enough redbull/vodka to make this place my bitch.

 

And then… yep I fucking freak.

 

A male has placed both his hands on my hips. Not in the hey-can-you-move fashion either. More like the hey-baby-wassup fashion.

 

Now I really hope you watched that video from Part Uno because this is me now.

 

(You didn’t did you? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1C6gC50ZI0)

 

This is me now, Johnny Dramaing the fuck out of this mother fucker. Raging to the nearest exit because I chose to defy my mother wit to not fucking come here in the first place.

 

I’m so fucking mad. There’s no one acceptable to scream at. I need to redeem this night.

 

Dial Sara. No answer. FUCK.

 

Nick. NICK NICK NICK NICK NICK be up to something cool.

 

Please be doing something cool.

 

Dial Nick.

 

Nick: Ummm I’m just at Bally’s man… the rest of the guys are going to the club you just left.

 

ARE YOU FUCKING FOR REAL?!

 

ARE

YOU

FUCKING

FOR

REAL

 

 

I’m duck, dodging and weaving mother fuckers with my legitimate usher talent that I can only hope to pass on to my son one day. Working at a theatre at age 17 came with a benefits package, I’m schooled in the fucking trade of this shit.

 

Nick: How the fuck did you get from Encore to here in only 20 minutes?!

 

I applaud Nick for his capabilities of coping with the anger outbursts of my brother and I for so many years. Yep, kindergarten. No seriously, Nick is one cool cat.

 

I rage in Nick’s ear for 10 minutes on the bench outside Bally’s. Both of us mutually agree our best and cheapest option is to go back to the room.

 

Fuck it. It’s 4:30am, and getting out of this suit and dress shirt that’s now glued to my skin via sweat sounds fucking fantastic.

 

 

 

do your chain

hang

low?