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?

Adam: Hurry up!

 

 

Me: I’m driving as fast as I fucking can!

 

 

Adam: Just hurry up!

 

 

I can practically hear the impatience of the genetic inheritance from my father in his voice. How the fuck do you tell a guy going ninety miles per hour on the cop infested 23 freeway to hurry up?

 

 

It’s 5:00pm, after my cell binging over five times with I-dunno-what’s-going-on-tonights and my Facebook status feed blowing up with check-ins in Las Vegas Nevada from more than three groups of people that I know don’t know each other, I consider my fate sealed. After all I WAS the first person to accept Tim’s bachelor party invitation request, and who the fuck am I to miss my friend’s bachelor party? No one, that’s who. This would make me a category B asshole.

 

 

I AM an asshole, but not category B. Definitely not category B. I opt in to this Vegas trip forty-five minutes prior to the set leaving time. The mathematical equation I figure: A – the set leaving time of 5:45pm + B – the proven logistic that Tron is always late = C – be ready by 6:15pm.

 

 

I now find myself in a race against time in which I employ my mother to do my laundry and my brother to retrieve it from the dryer while I scoop up my weekly earnings from my father and grab his radar detector at the same time.

 

 

The conversation above takes place with an added “Ask Dad if I can borrow his Movado watch” from Adam, followed swiftly by a “Tell him to go fuck himself” from my father.

 

 

I arrive back home bumping the only appropriate record for a time like this, Deftones – Adrenaline. Adam, Jared, Tron and Nick are all ready and waiting for me.

 

 

Now of course Adam didn’t find it fruitful to actually fold my laundry and I clearly don’t have the time. I stuff it all in my Burton backpack and sling my suit over my shoulder, inconveniently leaving my belt behind.

 

 

Real men don’t pack til the last second. Remember that.

 

 

Arrive at Treasure Island 12:00am. Check in at Treasure Island 12:45am.

 

 

The five of us agree to not leaving the room until we have ingested a more than adequate amount of hard liquor. Nick busts out the Admiral, Tron the Milagro and Grey Goose. Classy if I do say so myself, and I do.

 

 

Me: There’s an iPod player in the room?!

 

 

That shit eating grin comes across my face as I gulp this perfect ratio poured by Nick rum and diet and Tron puts on that song.

 

 

Adam quotes without hesitation- “What the fuck are you doing Ken?”

 

 

The Entourage advocates (Adam, Tron and I) laugh deviously.

 

 

Extremely relevant, do not continue without copying and pasting to your browser, please: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1C6gC50ZI0

 

 

Yeah, that song.

 

 

Tron and I arrive to a mutual agreement that this song will be played each and every time we exit the room.

 

 

Boozed up and mirror approved, we cab it to Mandalay Bay. Timmy and the bachelor party are at the Minus Five Ice Bar and this is our intended destination.

 

 

I had no clue we were at the correct location when we see Tim and Devin both running down the tile stretch in front of the bar wearing gloves and no shirts. All of us laugh hysterically. VEEEEEEEGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!!!

 

 

Tim and Devin greet us over enthusiastically. You know what fuck that, strike through the “over” in the previous sentence. We’re mother fucking here god damn it.

 

 

I exchange thirty bones for a parka and entrance. For the money I paid, you’re god damned right they helped me into that coat.

 

 

It’s really fucking cold in here. We’re greeted by the rest of the party- Scott, Kevin, Lee, Javi, Rob and Ryan.

 

 

Not ten minutes passes. I get tapped on the shoulder.

 

 

Inappropriately dressed Hawaiian shirt employee: You and your party need to leave.

 

 

Me: umm EXCUSE ME?!

 

 

IDHSE: The bachelor is smashing glasses on the ground (the glasses are made of ice).

 

 

This doucher goes on to explain that the ice has potential to melt and cause safety hazard. The ice… has potential… to melt… in a bar appropriately titled Minus Five, and I say appropriately titled because its mother fucking negative 5 degrees Fahrenheit.

 

 

Genetically inherited Jew manipulation skill engaged.

 

 

Me: Hey look man, I completely understand. But we just got here no more than 10 minutes ago, we’re all gonna need our money back.

 

 

IDHSE: NO. you’ve had your drink. It’s time to leave.

 

 

Genetically inherited Irish rage engaged.

 

 

Me: We leave and you will refund our money, or you will let us stay.

 

 

This probably doesn’t translate well on paper, so allow me to take a sentence for explanation. John elaborately describes this look as the “Eric Wise death stare” in which an undisclosed amount of liquor mixes with my genetic half of hundreds of years of Irish rage.

 

 

I advise the not fucking with of me or my group.

 

 

IDHSE cordially agrees after falling victim to the Eric Wise death stare. We stay.

 

 

I don’t even know why I argued. I want to leave, I’m wearing fucking sandals and all ten of my toes are fucking numb as fuck(what can I say? California grown!). Oh yes I remember why now. I don’t like people telling me what to fucking do.

 

 

We spend an adequate amount of time in the ice bar during which a minimum of two females stripped off their tops at the drunken encouragement of our group. I believe a pat on the back is in order, don’t you think so?

 

 

I wanna say it’s 4- 430am now. I also wanna say that Timmy is fuckin’ doneski.

 

 

Group can’t decide where we’re going.

 

 

Me: PLANET HOLLYWOOD!!!

 

 

Someone: what’s at Planet Hollywood?

 

 

Me: UMMM HOLLY FUCKING MADISON?!

 

 

 

The original group plus Scotty cab it over to Planet Hollywood. We leave Planet Hollywood. Don’t ask I have no fucking clue.

 

 

We truck over to Bill’s gambling hall. Good luck and Gambling ensues, and at some point all six of us are sitting at the same blackjack table. Good fucking times.

 

 

After countless complimentary redbull/vodkas and Jared’s wallet growing one hundred fatter we decide to cash out.

 

 

Jared: WHAT THE FUCK!!!

 

 

Jared points outside and I wish I didn’t look.

 

 

It’s fucking day time. Not sun-coming-up daytime. Real mother fucking daytime.

 

 

En route towards our hotel.

 

 

Group of black girls: Heeeeeey boooooooys why dontcha come hang over here with us?

 

 

Jared: NOPE!!!!

 

 

Jared takes it upon himself to speak for the whole group, and rightfully so.

 

 

What the fuck is with black girls hitting on us in Vegas?

 

Click here for part 2.

 

A standard Tuesday night really. I shy away from my usual rounds on Reddit to make sure I’m up to speed, as far as the torrenting community goes. But wait what’s this? I spy with my little eye… DUKE FUCKING NUKEM FOREVER?! I rub my hands together in typical sinister fashion.

 

I don’t think I get more than a hundred megs deep before I hear the cease and desist scream from Adam’s room with the accusation that I am sucking up all the bandwidth. Again.

 

I now find myself not playing the game 12 years in the making and instead bitching about the reasoning behind it in this here bloggity.

 

Allow me to devote this line to my service provider: Suck it AT&T. For many reasons I do not wish to describe because I value my reputation of being a… what’s the opposite of techno-weenie?

 

 

Monday 10PM

 

Alan: WHAT THIS GUY DOESN’T KNOW IS THAT I’M… I’M FRIENDS WITH THE FUCKING ADMIN. NO DUDE I’M GONNA HAVE HIS FUCKING ASS BANNED! WHAT THE FUCK IS HIS FUCKING PROBLEM?!

 

I arise from my slouched posish in this comfy ass office chair accordingly. Any form of racket generating a volume higher than my infamous big ass headphones is deserving of my attention. Such situations tend to possess highly comedic properties.

 

Just what the fuck is going on here anyway? I do hate to sound cliche but I find the phrase appropriate- some stones are just better left unturned.

 

I find Alan in the hallway. The fucker is still in his work clothes despite clocking out hours ago. He’s (what us PC gamers call) RAGING. RAGING like the fucking lunatic that he is. RAGING because somewhere in some other place on this planet a fellow nerd is sitting behind his monitor attempting to destroy all the fruits of his effort.

 

You know when someone’s getting a little too chatty in your ear about subjects you couldn’t give a fuck about? And then you inquire further anyway? And then you realize how much of a fucking retard you are?

 

I’ll spare you by summarizing the eye-rolling babble that ensued when I rubbed salt in the wound. Another player is “trying to burn my shit down”, and by shit he means his digital house.

 

I’ll say it again. His digital fucking house.

 

Yet I inquire further.

 

Why Eric? WHY?!

Because it’s Monday night BRAH, I ain’t got shit else going on.

 

I enter Adam’s room to find Adam, Jared and Colt all playing the same shit.

 

I skip the eeny meeny miny mo kindergarten shenanigans and choose the most viable source to get a no-bullshit answer from. Colt.

 

Me: Just what the fuck is this?

Colt: The game is called Minecraft. Look man, Alan said it best: it’s like computer Legos.. you mine shit, you build shit, you craft shit.

Me: So ummm, what do you do after you build shit?

Colt: You mine more shit and you build more shit.

 

I lack to comprehend the value of the game but identify the name to be strikingly accurate.

 

Adam: ERIC YOU GOTTA TRY IT

 

Fuck no.

Not that modern day orchestra cat-jumps-at-you-instead-of-killer hype. No. Some

of that real deal nails-in-your-mouth suspense. Imagine that heart-sinking feeling the Dunn Edwards staff feels when my father walks into the paint store.

 

 

I find myself shuffling my initial thoughts:

 

 

-Dude, why the fuck would you try to smuggle 12 kilos of heroin onto a plane.

-I definitely wouldn’t smuggle shit for only 10 large…

-Dude how’s he gonna get out of this!?

-Wait, why the fuck am I rooting for the heroin smuggler?!

-WHY AM I IN SUSPENSE OVER A FUCKING TELEVISION SHOW THAT HAS BEEN APPROPRIATELY TITLED “LOCKED UP ABROAD”, I MEAN FUCK, THE CLIMAX IS IN THE FUCKING TITLE HE OBVIOUSLY GETS CAUGHT!

 

 

I’M A FUCKING IDIOT. Letting the mastermind network engineers manipulate my thought process when FUCK you know what? I don’t even believe China exists cause I haven’t seen it. True story- roll them eyes, but Momma didn’t raise no sucka. THIS IS WHY I DON’T WATCH TV.

 

 

That being said, if you haven’t already dedicated a percentile of your lacking Tuesday, I sincerely advise setting your shmancy DVR to National Geographic, or “NatGeo” as the cool kids are calling it now days- some fine television programming, and you know I don’t watch TV.

 

 

 

 

 

I had a friend once that worked at what those in the paint business call “D.E”. that’s “DEE EEE”. a successful  paint contractor such as my father has no time to verbally form the proper noun Dunn Edwards. Only after making the sacred oath of the pinky swear that I wouldn’t tell Dad would he elaborate to me that all D.E. employees are stricken by the fear of god when Jan Wise walks up in that mother fucker.

 

 

You can categorize this under psychotic rambling, and I’ll drop you under can’t-microblog-for-dick.

 

 

PCHAAAAAA

 

 

lata

Dan: Yeah man, last time I was on a Carnival cruise I just sandwiched a handle in between some clothes.

 

Me: WHAT! Last time mine got GANKED!

 

 

Remembering the emotional travesty that occurred that September 10th last year when I entered my stateroom to unzip my suitcase and find a note in place of my $11.99 handle of Admiral Nelson. Run on sentence- fuck you. Go ahead, flame me for having not water bottled my shit. My title aboard this ship is Master and here they go sifting through my personal luggage to gank my alcohol. No quantity of chocolate on my pillow can compensate for such despicable action, and I do love my chocolate.

 

Dan reveals his investigative findings about this cruise, and it isn’t good. Turns out there isn’t even a casino aboard this cruise ship and you cannot bring any form of liquid aboard whatsoever, this includes water. Yep, some real fucking nazis.

 

Derek: Fuck that man. I’m going Listerine.

 

What? Derek goes on to explain what he reads and understands to be the flawless technique for smuggling booze through security. Listerine bottles and an undisclosed amount of drops of green dye.

 

He says the Listerine smells like alcohol so it would pass if it were to be opened, however I do contest the scent of Jack Daniel’s would not disguise as Listerine.

 

With exception to my opposition to this easily avoidable scenario, I believe, in theory, this could work. However when it comes to booze, neither of us three fuck around.

 

We expand the idea to surrounding the Listerine with other and many toiletries, preferable ones a security guard will not go fucking with. We mutually agree an old rusty razor would work nicely, add some hair in there to bump nicely to fucking fantastic.

 

Right now you’re hanging out with three guys who are scheming. Males live for this shit.

 

Naturally our creativity pertaining to the subject at hand spirals wildly out of control. Somehow we’ve transitioned from booze smuggling to passing Amoxicillin and switchblade knives past US Customs to “how do weed dealers hit a bong four times and then meet up with you behind the gas station? DUDE I’D BE FUCKIN TRIPPIN”.

 

Somehow Dan brings us back to the original brainstorming bubble, introducing what he has just dubbed “decoy handle”. Some real fucking genius shit if I do say so myself, and I do.

 

Current plan: Green dyed alcohol inside of Listerine bottle, bundled with preferably disgusting toiletries, with a handle sandwiched in between clothes to serve as decoy- in turn drawing attention away from said Listerine bottle.

 

 

I will issue a follow up report following the success of this operation after their cruise. If this thing flops, I’m never fucking talking about this again.

It all started here.

 

Dad starts complaining about his big toe hurting. I assume this is where my brother Adam recieved this attribute- turning a common cold into a death bed terminal illness. I naturally downplay their moans as half as bad as it would be for a normal person. My sister and I accept this as invitation to ridicule the fuck out of my dad. Your fucking big toe hurts? BWWHAHAHAAHA.

 

Dad comes home from the doctor diagnosed with something I myself have never heard of before. As time has come to prove, I’m not the only fucking idiot out there. Not too many people know what Gout is so I will copy and paste you a definition from the first Google result available, which is by far more beneficial than the original description my Dad gave to me “The blood crystalizes blah blah blah, Acid build up blah blah blah, I don’t know I have to drink cherry juice now and can’t eat meat.”

 

Gout is caused by having higher-than-normal levels of uric acid in your body. Your body may make too much uric acid, or have a hard time getting rid of uric acid. If too much uric acid builds up in the fluid around the joints (synovial fluid), uric acid crystals form. These crystals cause the joint to swell up and become inflamed. 

Not everyone with high uric acid levels in the blood has gout. 

The exact cause is unknown. Gout may run in families. It is more common in males, postmenopausal women, and people who drink alcohol. People who take certain medicines, such as hydrochlorothiazide and other water pills, may have higher levels of uric acid in the blood.

Oh the plot does thicken. THE PLOT ALWAYS FUCKING THICKENS.

 

 

Bout 3 weeks ago I head up to Vegas to meet Dad for a wholesale convention. Arriving a bit famished we pop into a hotel/casino for a bite. Dad limps in. Apparently the Gout has spread to his knee, and naturally I downplay just how bad it is.

 

Dad gets a wheel chair.

 

 

Dad: Push me

 

 

I give Dad my “Bro-you-not-see-that-fivefootnine-Ccup-blueeye-brunette-overthere?” look.

 

Step Mom realizes wassup and decides to take the helm.

 

NIGA I’M A 24 YEAR OLD MALE IN VEGAS

 

 

I considered our quarrels resolved until today when Dad explained in lack of detail that Diet Coke is somehow extremely horrible and Gout causing. In typical Jew-side fashion he nerves up to tell me I should kick my Diet Coke addiction because Gout is now a genetic trait.

 

Sorry Dad. I’m gonna choose the Irish side on this one with both the supposed genetic Gout and the stubbornness to not expunge my favorite zero calorie drink from my life.

based on a 600 calorie meal and a i-drink-somewhat-more-than-occasionally tolerance

 

 

redbull-vodka #2. ego level: human –  at least until that first one i chugged finds the veins, usually around the halfway point of the second.

 

 

redbull-vodka #3. ego level: still human –  not quite sure if i’m buzzed or not. is it because i’ve been downing them so quickly? is it because thats how it always is with this drink? it could be becoming minorly acceptable to start slapping objects out of my friends hand.

 

 

redbull-vodka #4. ego level: i look pretty damn good in the mirror –  that grin provoking mixture has made its presence aware. i sigh in relief like ending a 12 hour road trip and seeing your best friend. “this is fuckin it right here”. become unhappy with my physical location and force my audience to relocate.

 

 

redbull-vodka #5 ego level: i’m awesome –  i do not share my opinions often for the primary reason that i do not want to hear yours. however now… now its perfectly acceptable. your opinion is shitty when i’m sober, however now i have no qualms smearing your sheltered thoughts like snot under a school desk. every girl is now a skank. some guys are too.

 

 

redbull-vodka #6 ego level: i don’t care – 17 georges st pierre fans in house your cousin invited you to? TALK SHIT ANYWAY. be particularly vocal that i 1. am an OG hughes fan 2. have been watching since UFC fucking 30 and 3. your MMA opinion is MOTHER FUCKING irrelevant because of that.

 

 

redbull-vodka #7 ego level: bro –  it is perfectly acceptable to throw pizza crust at cop cars and wrestle your friend into a santa barbara gutter. “eric i don’t want to fight you”. too fucking bad bitch, too fucking bad.

 

 

redbull-vodka #8.ego level –  savage c, i don’t care! – verify i am listening to the chronic 2001 and proceed to sing every word. stumbling, slurring, drunk texting, shit hopefully not drunk dialing by this point. think: hrm whats one thing that would completely fuck up how good i’m feeling? SMOKE WEED ANYWAY.

 

 

BLACKOUT SPIN SPIN SPIN SHOWER SPIN SPIN SPIN SPIN SPIN