Inside The Mind of a Sleazebag

L'évangile Selon LeBeouf

The Gospel According to LeBeouf

The other night, I woke up at 3 am, rolled over, and there my roommate was…squatting at the end of his bed, and staring right back at me. On a Monday night, at an hour generally reserved for the nocturnal or neurotic to be conscious, nobody else in the suite was even close to being awake except for the goofy-looking kid five feet away from my bed.

“What’s the matter with you?!”

“What?”

“Why…are…you…staring…at…me?”

“I believe you are mistaken, Jake. I was not, as you so callously put it staring at you.”

“Dean, it’s not that dark in here. I can see your eyes and those big dumb marbles were looking right at me!”

“Jake. What you perceive are my eyes gazing somewhat in your direction, as to suggest my desire to avert my field of vision to encompass a slovenly roommate. This would not only imply unsavory personality traits on my part, but also a somewhat nefarious, and dare I dabble in popular jargon, creepy motivations to my looking over there. What was, in actuality, occurring just then was that I happened to open my eyes and turn my head at that very moment. You, my friend, happened to, at that very instant, do the same, only in the reciprocal direction—toward me. So, Jake…Mr. Jacob Lewis Hudson…wouldn’t you think I should be asking you a similar, if not identical question?”

“I loathe you.”

“As I, you. Have a peaceful slumber.”

With that, Dean went back to bed. Or should I say, lay down on top of his bed, fully clothed, stiff as the starch in his baby blue polo shirt, and closed his eyes. This strange nightly routine was explained to me once as “a perfect compromise between the functional position of lying on one’s side, under the sheets, while allowing for the liberty and freedom that only an upright position can provide. The result is a greater net amount of sleep, minimizing the time spent transitioning from a state of rest to a state of non-rest.”

So, here I am, stuck rooming with this social antithesis as a result of having taken a semester abroad, in Panama, and in doing so, losing my every potential roommate to either graduation or another room. When it came time to pick a “random” roommate, Dean emerged with his luxurious room and a promise of space for me in it. Why, I thought, would nobody want to room with this guy? The kid has his quirks, but nothing bad enough to cancel out the sheer wonder of that room.

The building was described in college recruitment catalogue as “the crown jewel of the city—reaching new heights in undergraduate housing. Its elegant new apartments come with a living room, full kitchen, dining area and private bathrooms.” Not to mention ours was one of the available handicapped rooms (for reasons not fully explained to me), meaning our “private bathrooms” were roughly the size of a lesser building’s bedrooms. My rule has always been that the nicer the room promised to me, the greater an effort I would make to tolerate my roommate. The problem was, Dean always found a way to push my tolerance to the limit.

The next morning, I was on my way out, when an echoing voice stopped me. “Jake!” Dean yelled from the bathroom. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Depends.”

“Please, Jake. I’m in dire straights, here.”

“Fine, what do you need?”

“It’s not going to me pretty…but, do you think you could pick up a box of stool softeners from the drugstore tomorrow? My recent intestinal activities have left me in, let’s say, a desperate situation.”

“Are you kidding me? No way!”

“Jake, please…I’ll buy your dinner tonight.”

“It’s going to take a lot more than that to get me to buy something like that for you, Mr. LeBeouf…”

“Okay…dinner all week. I’m growing increasingly desperate, as each moment passes. I’m very backed-up. I can feel the pressure mounting, like Mount Vesuvius preparing to send the fair city of Pompeii into her final demise. It’s like— ”

“Fine! Dinner this week and no more references to what’s going on with you…intestinally, how’s that?”

“It appears as though we have ourselves a deal. Don’t be too long with your purchase, though, as it’s looking more than likely I may still be in the water closet, here, when you get back.”

“Whatever. I’ll see you later. And stop calling it that…here in the States, we call it a bathroom. You’re not fucking British!”

“Wot’s this? Not Bri’ish? I have half a mind to…” I left the room before Dean could continue with his terrible British accent, which would inevitable morph into a Sean Connery impression that was, in reality, just him talking slower than normal and saying the words “Sean…Connery…impression” over and over.

Dean was a funny kid. Not “ha ha” funny, clearly. He was more like “funny feeling in the pit of one’s stomach” funny. He came from Linnaeus, a small town in northern Maine. He would always laugh when he spoke of Maine, telling us all about how he had long been considered the “pride of Aroostook County.” I would always laugh because I thought it fitting that a kid who so resembled a lobster came from Maine. Dean was a proud conservative, despite being raised by democrats in a historically liberal area. Some sort of reverse rebellion, I suppose. For some reason, he thought his “bravery” in being a conservative among liberals was proof that he would be the future of the Republican Party. He would go on for hours about his half-baked plans and three-person political networks (which always consisted of himself and two friends from The Linnaeus Academy for Boys). It was that arrogance of his, though, that wore on me like an annoying little pebble in my sneaker. Sure, it was mostly small things, like his computer log-in name (LeBeouf-in-2028), but every once in a while, one of his “homeless is just another word for lazy” tirades would come dangerously close to setting me off.

Once out of the room, I walked with Forrest, a suitemate of ours, and longtime acquaintance of Dean’s, to the nearest CVS to pick up some Sprite, bread, and whatever else Forrest was getting.

“You’re a braver man than I, Mr. Hudson,” Forrest said, shaking his head.

“How so?”

“Rooming with Nutzo McGee for as long as you have. His roommates usually don’t last half the semester.”

“Hey, it’s not so bad. I mean, the kid’s got a couple of weird things that he does, but nothing really major…nothing that can’t be solved just by looking around at the sweet room I live in, right?”

“If you say so.”

“Sure. It’s all about compromise. Nothing really weird that he does has really gotten to me yet…except…”

“Except what?”

“Well, last night, I woke up…at like 3…and he was over there staring at me.”

“Ah yes, the staring…”

“Well, as he put it, ‘gazing somewhat in my field of vision so as to get a view of a roommate in slumber.”

“That’s LeBeouf all right. So you called him out on it? The staring, I mean.”

“Yeah, it kind of creeped me out. He was over there…eyeballing me in my sleep…like a creepy little Muppet or something..”

“Yep. Your roommate is a star-er.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. Forrest sat down onto a stack of Coke boxes and motioned for me to join him.

“It’s just the way he is. It’s not like he woke up one morning, straightened out his lime-green polo, and decided that it would be a good idea to fix his focus on people for extended periods of time. That’s just how his brain works. And, yes, it freaks the shit out of people, generally.”

“He always told me it was because ‘confidence and solid eye contact are one in the same.’”

“Yeah, well, he also says that his socks and shirts match because it makes the girls stare.”

“True.”

“Still, it’s easy for me to say, man. I don’t have lemur-eyes exuding confidence all over me while I’m trying to sleep.”

“Or have him ask you to buy embarrassing crap for him at CVS.”

“Uh oh, what’s he got you picking up for him? Lactaid?”

“Worse, man…much worse.” I sighed and headed to the back of the store, past the Tylenol, past the Pepto, and the Lactaid. I groaned as I reached for a small white box with big red letters. Forrest stifled a laugh as I picked up the box of CVS Stool Softener, and walked back toward the cashier, with the box of pills hidden in the palm of my hand like a prison shank. “I mean, it’s one thing if you’re buying this stuff for yourself…but I don’t even need this. My stool’s plenty soft!”

“Why on earth would you do this for him? I mean, this is Dean LeBeouf we’re talking about, right?”

“It was really a combination of two factors…he promised me a week’s worth of dinners, which is better than money at this point in the semester…” Forrest nodded knowingly. “And, he was talking to me…through the bathroom door…so I was pretty anxious to get out of there.”

“Yeah, I hear you, man. Problem is, you’re about to pay for those dinners in more ways than you think. Life is about to really suck for you, my friend…” Forrest pointed to the checkout counter, where two cashiers were working. One was an older man, overweight, and probably well-acquainted with what I was about to buy. This register would be ideal. The other, of course, was a cute blonde girl, about my age. “You’re totally gonna be at blondie’s register!” Forrest mocked me.

“Come on old guy…come on old guy,” I pleaded with the man to finish up with his customers quicker than his female counterpart. The line moved ahead, until I was next. The blonde was selling a pack of gum and a box of cookies to a guy about my age, while the man was saddled with a woman, around his age, purchasing various personal items.

“Man, you better pray that old guy’s faster than he looks, or that hottie over there’s gonna be checking out your stool softener…”

“No way, old guy will pull this one out, it’s his time.” It was like watching the worst competition in history. Worse than bowling on ESPN2. Forrest provided the play-by-play.

“Old guy putting forward a very solid effort, as the blonde continues to struggle counting one-dollar bills. This one could definitely go either way. Looks like problems for old guy, as his customer has just…let me confirm this…yes, she’s paying in change. This could dash the checkout hopes of young Jake Hudson, as he so hoped to avoid embarrassment by having this cashier ring up his digestive medicine. Now, unless the old guy can count this change faster than the blonde can…oh, and what’s this? Price check on register two! You know what this means…Jake will indeed be purchasing his product from a fellow gastricly-challenged gentleman. No humiliation tonight in the Hudson household, folks!”

“Thank you, old guy,” I mumbled as I trotted up to the register and placed my product, face-up, on the counter, ready to get out of CVS. The old guy picked up the box, smiled slightly, and began to scan it. One swipe over the scanner…nothing. Again…still nothing. I was beginning to get nervous, the dreaded “price-check over the PA system” scenario seemed near. Instead of reaching for the receiver, though, the old guy turned his head to the right, committing perhaps even worse of a checkout counter travesty.

“Jessica, could you help me out with this?” he cleared his throat and looked at me. “Sorry, sir, I think they messed up the barcode on these…particular boxes…so we always have to have the manager come and check it out.” He turned back to the beautiful blonde Jessica. “Call up Shirley, have her come here and take care of something for me.”

“Well, at least it’s not Jessica coming over here,” I said quietly so only Forrest could hear. The old guy apparently thought this was directed to him.

“Oh, sure thing, son. Nothing I hate more than having my…troubles…aired in front of the fairer sex. I wouldn’t have Jessica there see something like this.” He cleared his throat once again. “Shirley will take care of you.” I turned around to see a woman, probably in her early thirties, with a face, figure, and sex appeal that seemed to put Jessica to shame. My heart sunk.

“Carl, don’t tell me it’s the god damned stool softeners again!”

“Bingo,” the old guy replied. Stifled laughter emitted from Jessica, Forrest, and the customers.

I got back to the room, frustrated from a less-than-stellar day at CVS, courtesy of a certain purchase made for a certain “backed-up” roommate. This is not to say that I had never been frustrated by Dean before, but this time that little pebble in my shoe seemed to dig a little deeper into my foot than normal. I walked up to the door, ready to slump onto the sofa, and let the cable TV wash over my brain, cleaning up the jumbled mess that was the stool softener incident.

I unlocked the door and turned the handle to be met with a pitch-black room. Oh, good, I thought. The kid’s actually out somewhere. Maybe he made a new friend or something. I flicked the light on and, much to my surprise, there was Dean, on the floor, peering out the window with his pants around his ankles. Through the window, a room across the way was light up, and I knew which room it was: 503, home of two women’s softball players, one of which was changing in her bedroom, directly visible from where Dean was squatting. “Ummmmmmm, maybe I’ll come back later…” I stammered.

“No, Jake, this isn’t what you think it is!! I had an—oof!” In his surprise at seeing the lights suddenly come on, Dean turned a complete about-face and fell flat on his back, whith his legs straight up in the air. His pants unrolled from around his ankles to partially cover his legs.

“Yep. Definitely coming back later. Maybe not at all, who knows!”

“Jake, wait. This was just an accident!” Dean tilted his head up, looking at me.

“Sure was…you know, these doors have deadbolts in case you want some privacy…in your peeping…or whatever you were doing. You know, come to think of it, I don’t want to know. I was leaving. Here’s your medicine.” I tossed the small red box to him. Then, as I turned to walk back out, Dean, pants back down to his feet, threw himself between me and the door.

“Jake, I think what we have here is a slight misperception on your part. You derive, from observing the current situation, a somewhat unflattering, albeit inaccurate, picture of me. Given the scene you were presented with upon entry to this room, though, such a conclusion is to be logically expected, I suppose.”

“Logical to think I walked in on your fun time?”

“So to speak, yes.”

“You know, I’d ask for an explanation, but I know it would be something along the lines of ‘I was changing my clothes, and my pants zipper got caught. This is right when I happened to look out the window, right when she looked at me, which is, coincidently, also right when I turned the lights off by accident, because I was trying to catch my fall, and hit the light switch…all right as you were walking in, strangely enough.’” Dean looked at his feet. “Well, am I right?”

“My zipper never got caught, but, the rest is fairly accurate. I was changing from my class outfit into my casual slacks, and I happened to notice out of the corner of my eye that this fairly…endowed…girl was disrobing right in front of her window. I mean, a fairly conspicuous place to stand whilst in the nude, but people here seem to have no shame, so there you go. In any case, it occurred to me that she might look up and make, well, the same inaccurate assertion that you made, so I shut the lights off so as to avoid such a happening. That is, until you so ceremoniously illuminated the room upon entry, putting my vulnerable form in full view, as if to suggest I was participating in voyeurism.”

“Uh huh…one of your bullshit stories, like the one you made up to cover for staring at me in my sleep last night…”

“Jake, you don’t think I’m fabricating my answers? I know these events all seem somewhat conveniently coincidental, but I assure you, I’m not inventing alternative realities.”

“I don’t know, Dean. Between the staring, the weird medicines, the stories, and now this…I’m beginning to question whether or not it’s really worth it for me to be in here.”

“Worth it?”

“I mean, it’s a nice room, but I’m not sure I can really handle another semester of this crap, man. It’s taxing.”

“Well, Mr. Hudson, if that’s your sentiment, then I suppose the simple priviledge of living with Dean LeBeouf may not be something that you’re able to handle.” By this point, Dean had pulled his pants up and fixed his belt. He was tucking in his polo shirt and straightening his collar, when the doorbell rang. He sauntered to the door and placed one of his gigantic eyes next to the peephole, and let out an airy whisper. “Oh, good Lord…it’s her.”

“Her, who?” Dean winced as I asked and rolled his eyes toward the window. “Oh, her, window girl? Well, that’s my cue to leave! I’m out of here, Mr. LeBeouf. Enjoy explaining this one, I’m sure she’ll have an easier time believing you than I did…and enjoy the restraining order!”

“Jake, hold on. You know this was a mistake.”

“Oh yes. I’ve heard the…alibi…you should be fine.” The doorbell rang again, followed by a swift pounding on the door. I looked out of the peephole. “Wow, she looks angry…but I’m sure she’ll calm down when she learns you were just changing and happened to shut off the lights and whatever the hell else you said was happening.” I moved to open the door, but Dean stopped me.

“Jake, you know I’m usually above pleading…but this time, I guess you leave me with little to no choice. If I am to apply to law school, charges of voyeurism could be somewhat detrimental to my acceptance. Now I know you don’t believe me, and seldom do, but I swear this to be the truth, and if you open up that door, I’m done for. If, however, the door was to remain in its current closed state, she may think that this is the wrong room, and try next door…you know, the Sigma Phi Epsilon brothers?” Dean looked at me with a sincerity I’d seen before, in almost every other person I’d known, but not him. Maybe it was just the result of a desperate situation taking hold, and his weird tendencies finally coming back to bite him in the ass. It would be nice to see the SigEp’s take the heat for this one, but either way, I had no reason to defend Dean, or even include myself in the situation that was unfolding.

“Look, man, you’re on your own in this one. You dug your own grave, now rest tight in it.” I turned to open the door, but stopped. “What’s that smell?”

“Oh, that.” Dean sighed. “It’s the Price Club veal cutlets I cooked earlier.”

“I didn’t think your…system…could handle veal.”

“It can’t believe me,” Dean laughed and pointed to where I assumed his lower intestine was. “I owed you a week’s worth of dinners for the errand you ran for me.” I looked at the meal, painstakingly prepared as only Dean LeBeouf could. It was set out on the dining room and let out a light laugh and sat down at the table.

“Shh, sit down. She’ll leave after a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Jake.” Dean sat down next to me and nudged the plate of meat toward me.

“Thank you, man.” I began to quietly eat the veal. “You know I only expected like four or five meals at McDonald’s or something, right?”

“Yes, I’m aware of your culinary preferences, but I surmise that one might enjoy this slightly more than a few dozen bacon cheeseburgers.” Dean fiddled with the box of stool softeners.

“Dean,” I gasped. “McDonald’s doesn’t sell bacon cheeseburgers.”

The Ballad of Scooter

What could work better than a three-foot-tall teddy bear to get me a date, Scooter thought to himself as he marched down Pennsylvania Avenue, a can of Natural Light in one hand, the bear in the other. Flanked on both sides by his roommates Mitch and Drew and followed closely by his wingman, Vick, Scooter was finally ready to take the bull of love by the horns. The only problem was, in the great rodeo of life, Scooter still had yet to stay on the bull of love for the full eight seconds. He’d been thrown worse than the 1919 World Series.
Scooter’s problems with women weren’t by any means due to a lack of effort on the part of either him, or his closest friends. At this point, it was more of a result of the unfortunate combination of bad nerves and even worse luck. It just happened that each time it seemed like he would finally be able to get a phone number or ask for a date from a girl he’d met at a party, disaster would strike. Either he would stumble over his words, forget the girl’s name, or (as was the case most of the time) he’d be pushed out of the way by some guy who called himself Tony or “The Rick,” and left to stumble aimlessly around the frat house until he found Mitch, Drew, or Vick.
Tonight was different for Scooter, though: tonight he had a plan…and a bear.
“We’re gonna get you laid tonight, buddy!” Mitch yelled, popping the top of another Natty and chugging it. “This place’ll be crawling with chicks!”
“Crawling, huh?” Scooter replied, ambivalent.
“Yeah, man,” Vick said as he took the bear from Scooter’s hand. “As long as you stick to the plan, you’re pretty much guaranteed to get some. I mean you’d have to be pretty stupid not to.”
“Either that or he’s gay,” Drew chimed in. Scooter show Drew a dirty look. Drew’s favorite response to just about anything Scooter did was to question whether or not Scooter was, in fact, straight. The first few times, Scooter laughed with him, playing along with the joke. Somewhere between the hundredth and thousandth time, though, Scooter was through being amused…or pretending he was, at least. Scooter turned to Vick
“Where’d you find this thing, anyway?” Scooter asked, gesturing toward the large stuffed animal Vick had taken from him.
“Hotties across the hall, freshman year,” Vick responded, tossing the bear back to Scooter. “They had a crush on me and left it outside our door at the end of the year…kind of a ‘goodbye’ present.”
“Well did you ever get their numbers?” Mitch nudged Vick.
“Uh, well…not exactly.”
“Ohhh, so it was a hit and run, right? Thank you, goodbye, no need to call!”
“It was something like that. I mean, except for the ‘hit’ part. Never really closed the deal.”
“But you ended up with the bear,” Scooter said as he began picking at the glittery pink Greek sorority letters painted on the bear’s foot. “And, basically, you’re trying to push it off on me now. Smooth.”
“No way, man!” Vick was shocked. “We’ve got this bear here tonight to help you out, Scoots. This, my friend, is your ticket to the promised land.”
“Come on, Vick,” Scooter sighed. “It’s not going to work.”
“Sure it will,” Vick insisted. “It’s the perfect plan. Even you can’t screw this one up, bud.” Vick chuckled, and grabbed a beer from the half-empty box that Mitch was lazily carrying at his side.
“You sure this is going to work?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me the plan again.”
“Sure thing,” Vick said, his beer half gone already. “It’s Valentine’s Day. For starters, that’s the perfect opener for most guys when it comes to picking up a drunken girl…but you’re Scooter, so we have a few fail safes set up. That’s where the bear comes in. You’re going to go up to a girl, hand her the bear, and tell her that your friend ‘Ted’ thinks she’s cute and would she please be your valentine. If you do it right, you should be able to land a pretty decent girl.”
“Pretty decent?” Scooter asked, warily.
“Yeah…I mean, not too hot, but still respectable…think 6.5 out of 10. The plan’s not that good.”
“A 6.5 out of 10 is like a D, man.” Scooter said through gritted teeth.
“Well, when it comes to getting chicks, you’re not exactly on the honor roll here, bud.” Mitch teased him. Scooter began to respond, but realized he had nothing, and just kept his mouth shut. Mitch was being a jackass, but he also wasn’t exactly lying. If anything, a D was a generous grade to give Scooter in the world of love…that would assume he was getting a passing grade.
It wasn’t always this way for Scooter. At the beginning of freshman year, Scooter came in brimming with confidence. All through high school, he had been told about the wonders of college, specifically the willingness of the girls to hook up. This was very appealing to a kid who, throughout his high school career, had managed to avoid romantic relationships completely. That was supposed to change once he got to college. A beaming young freshman, Scooter was ready to become Don Juan de Washington.
The problem with this idea, of course, being that sending a guy with Scooter’s experience in to pick up girls at frat parties was like sending a history major to work on discovering cold fusion—wasn’t going to happen.
It probably didn’t help much that Scooter had entrusted his quest for women in the hands of his friends, who figured that the best way to get their friend a date for the night was to send him into a frat house with a teddy bear and a few cheesy pick-up lines as ammunition.
“Okay Scoots,” Mitch coached Scooter as they approached the frat house. “If the Valentine’s Day line doesn’t work, here are a few backups. Some of these are untested, so use them only if the situation absolutely calls for it. Go ahead, Drew.”
“Hi, I'm foreign. I've got Russian hands and Roman fingers,” Drew said, proud of himself. Scooter stared at him blankly. “Get it? Rushing…? Roaming…? Foreign…?”
“I get it. It just sucks,” Scooter said, shaking his head at Drew.
“Fine,” Vick cut in. “Try this one on for size: ‘I’m dying of thirst…and you, miss, are one tall drink of water.”
“Okay, that one doesn’t suck; it just doesn’t make any sense…at all.”
“You guys are terrible at this,” Mitch laughed as his friends’ failed attempts fell flat. “See, now this is why Scooter’s had such tough luck. He’s got idiots like you sending him in with lame lines like that. No wonder.”
“Okay then, slick,” Drew sneered. “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
“Was your father a meat burglar? It looks like somebody took fine hams and shoved them down the back of your dress!” Mitch grinned contently. The other three, dumbstruck, just stared back at him. “What? It’s good. You know it’s good.” Silence. “Whatever, you guys suck. Let’s just go inside, okay?”
“Okay,” Vick said, stifling his laughter. “Whatever you say, man.” As the four friends waited in line to get into the party, nothing was said until Scooter, without question the most awkward member of the group, broke the awkward silence:
“A ‘meat burglar’?” Scooter said, barely able to get the words out before he began laughing hysterically. “Honestly.” Scooter got to the door first, his friends waiting behind him. The brother working the door gave him a funny look.
“Did you skip a few grades, there, kid?”
“What?”
“Well, you still gotta have your teddy with you wherever you go…figured you’re pre-pubescent at best.” The brother gestured toward the bear nestled under Scooter’s right arm. Scooter had forgot he was carrying the thing and turned bright red with embarrassment.
“Heh, oh yeah,” Scooter tried not to look flustered. “Some hotties…you know…gave me a bear…they liked me I think, I don’t know. Figured I should probably, you know, walk around with it…make them happy. They’re hotties, like I said. You don’t want to upset a hottie, you might not get some, right? Am I right about—” The brother cut off Scooter’s rambling by asking for the five dollar cover. Scooter handed him a wad of ones and headed inside, bright red, sweating, and clutching the bear to him like it was filled with heroine and he was trying to get through customs.
Once inside, he knew it was time to do what he had been trying to do since freshman year: pick up a girl. It was now the fall semester of his senior year, and still he had failed to do so. It wasn’t easy for Scooter. He thought that the college dating scene would be a drastically different experience than it had proven itself to be so far. As a naïve freshman, he thought it would be so easy. Scooter’s initial idea of what would be involved in college dating went something like this:
Scooter and his roommate, Mike, are sitting at home on Friday night watching TV. It was a typical college Friday night, so there were plenty of attractive, slightly drunk girls running around campus in their mini skirts and Uggz boots. And, since this was a storied college Friday night, the girls would be looking frantically for guys to hook up with.
Wandering through the halls on Scooter’s dormitory floor, two girls see the door to room 216.
“Stacey,” the perfect-bodied blonde would say to the even more perfect-bodied brunette, “the door says ‘Scooter and Mike’…they sound cute.”
“Yeah Brandee,” the brunette would reply, adjusting her low-cut halter top. “Do you want Mike? Because Scooter sounds like just the kind of guy I want to hook up with.”
“Okay!”
Unfortunately, this was not how things were done in college, as Scooter discovered after ten consecutive Friday nights of watching TV with no Stacey or Brandee showing up at the door. So they don’t come to me Scooter began to understand. I guess that means that I have to go to them. So, Scooter decided that he would reserve his Friday nights, from then to the end of the semester, strictly for going to “them.”
Here he was: another weekend night, and so far it was going pretty much as history would have predicted it. He had walked up to two girls so far. The first hadn’t noticed him next to her, on account of his not actually speaking to her, and walked off to join her friends on the other side of the room. The second one he had actually managed to eek out a brief “hello” to, before a much taller guy in a pink polo shirt “accidentally” bumped into her, and bumped Scooter out of the way.
Feeling defeated, Scooter dragged his feet as he headed to the couch on the far side of the room where Vick and Drew sat watching and laughing as Mitch danced with a blonde freshman girl. Scooter plopped down next to them and put the bear on the floor.
“Is he dancing with her or having a seizure?” Scooter asked Vick.
“Nah man,” Vick shook his head. “It’s more like when you see those nature shows, and the male animal does a mating dance to draw the female in to him.”
“Yeah,” Drew added. “Then, when she gets within his range, he just starts going for it, all out attacking her…come to think of it, he could probably learn some manners from those wildebeests on Animal Planet.” At this point, the freshman, clearly sober and still harboring some self respect, escaped from Mitch’s grasp and dashed downstairs. Drew looked around to make sure nobody had seen the sad display, but was dismayed to find his three friends on the couch, doubled over with laughter.
“Whatever, man.” Mitch shrugged and adjusted the front of his jeans. “I guess she just couldn’t handle this.” Desperately looking to change the subject, Mitch picked up the teddy bear from next to the couch and thrust it into Scooter’s chest. “Besides, this is supposed to be the night we get Scoots some. I can get it any old night.” Scooter threw the bear back down onto the floor.
“I don’t think that the bear thing’s gonna work, guys. I mean, check me on this, but if a girl walked up and did that to you, wouldn’t you be weirded out?”
“Scoots, man,” Drew began. “You can’t think that way. That’ll get you nowhere. It’s all about confidence.”
“Seriously, man” Vick said, picking the bear back up and handing it to Scooter. “Just pretend that you’re really smooth, act like you’re a real player. I know it’s a stretch, but just make it seem like you go through women like Kleenex…and the girl you happen to be talking to is lucky that you took time out of your busy night to say a few words to her.”
“And give her a bear!” Mitch yelled as he opened the last beer from the pack.
“Yeah,” Vick gave Mitch a funny look. “Give her the bear. Remember, use the lines if you get in trouble…just not the ‘meat burglar’ one.”
“Hey fuck you,” Mitch mumbled from the couch. “That one gets you laaaaid.” Mitch shifted in his seat so he was facing the door. “Whoa, damn…lookit that! Coming over this way…hot ass girl, man.” Scooter looked over toward the door.
Oh no, he thought. This could not be happening. Of all the girls to have to walk into the frat party, it had to be her. While he didn’t know her name, Scooter had a gigantic crush on her. Sophomore year, she had sat in front of him in British History every day…and while she contributed to his staying wide awake for every single 8 am lecture, she also was the primary reason Scooter learned about as much British History as he would have at the local strip club.
Scooter could tell by the looks on his friends’ faces that he would be made to talk to her. Just as happened most weekends, they would push, drag, or coerce him into approaching her, and then he would do what made him Scooter. He’d have to choose from either letting loose a string of awkward comments about completely disconnected subjects, asking her what her major was, and then making awkward comments about that, or using the awful teddy bear plan Vick and his roommates had set up for him. Of course, there was also the ever more appealing option of standing silently next to her until she walked away. That had always worked out nicely for him. Either way, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
He just had to find a way to leave the area before Drew or Mitch caught onto what was going on and forced him over there. If he was able to dodge that bullet, he would be home-free. Any alternative scenario in which he didn’t have to talk to this girl, of course would also be ideal. Scooter would have no such luck. Vick was already talking to her.
“What’s he doing?” Scooter implored Drew.
“Don’t worry about it, man. You’ve got this. He’s just setting ‘em up for you to knock ‘em down.”
“But I don’t want to knock ‘em down!”
“Sure ya do. Everybody wants to knock ‘em down. Look at Mitch, he’s knocked at least 5 of ‘em down tonight alone.”
“Yeah, but I’m not Mitch, man…I’m Scooter.”
“Damn right you’re Scooter. That’s why you’ll succeed, unlike Mitch,” Drew gestured over to the couch where Mitch had another freshman girl (a brunette this time) in his clutches.
“I don’t know, man. I don’t even have anything to say to her.”
“Well, you’d better think fast, here she comes. Later!” Drew left Scooter and met up with Vick to watch, as the girl approached Scooter.
“Hey,” the girl said softly. “You’re Scooter, right?”
This is it, Scooter thought. His heart was racing, he could barely see straight, and the theme from Rocky was on an endless loop in his head. He played various scenarios over and over in his head, each ending with the girl either becoming offended or scared or bored. It occurred to him that it had been a while since she had spoken to him and he still hadn’t answered.
“Yes,” Scooter answered. “Scooter. Hi…I’m Scooter…”
“I’m Jackie.” The girl seemed fairly relaxed, which was a far cry from most that Scooter was used to talking to at these parties. “Your friend back there said you had something for me?”
“Um…” Scooter dawdled for a second. Vick probably told her about the bear…or was expecting him to give her the bear after telling the girl there was a ‘gift’ for her. He had only two things on the tip of his tongue to say to her, and one was the bear line. Once again, he realized that he hadn’t said anything yet, and the awkward pause was becoming lethal. “Ted thinks you’re cute, are you my valentine?” Forgetting to hand the bear to her when he said this, Scooter immediately realized the confusing nature of what he had just said.
“Um, I guess,” Jackie replied, clearly baffled. “Who’s Ted?”
“Ted’s nobody,” Scooter said as he jettisoned the bear, knowing it was time for some damage control. What could he say, though? What would Mitch do? “Is your dad a meat burglar?”
“What?” Jackie took two steps back. Scooter looked behind her, where Vick and Drew were shaking their heads and motioning him to abort the line. Mitch, half aware of what was going on, gave Scooter a thumps-up and began walking over before Vick and Drew held him back.
“Nevermind. It was something stupid my friends thought would work.” Scooter said, with a candor he usually reserved for his closest friends.
“Work for what?”
“You know, picking you up or whatever. They have these terrible pickup lines that they claim work on girls. I think they’re cheesy, you know, and if you’re going to pick up a girl you should just be honest and be yourself and all that stuff you always hear but never listen to.”
“You wanted to pick me up?”
“Yeah, but whatever, I messed that up. I mean, I like you and everything, but I don’t want to pick you up, I wanted to date you. I wanted to take you out and do all those things, but there’s no good way of asking, so I give up.”
“You want to take me out to dinner?”
“Well, I did, but then I messed up the teddy bear thing and tried to say the meat burglar thing and made a mess. Honestly, who uses that line anyway? What a dumb-ass thing to say to a girl, girls don’t like that stuff. The problem is, I’m always looking for ways to ask girls out and do all that and—”
“Stop babbling, it’s annoying,” Jackie said. Scooter stopped mid-sentence. The two stood in silence for a few moments. Scooter didn’t want to break the silence with another verbal blitz, but he also didn’t want her to leave. She would, though, if he didn’t say something.
“Why aren’t you walking away?” Scooter finally asked.
“After that weird outburst, you’d think I should, wouldn’t you?” she replied.
“I would have. Most other girls would have.”
“Yes. But I’m still here.”
It was very rare that Scooter got the point. It usually sailed about a mile over his head. Fortunately, this was a rare instance in which he understood what was going on around him, and the timing couldn’t be better. Vick and Drew watched as what looked like a normal conversation was finally taking place between Scooter and a member of the opposite sex.
“Think he’ll get her number?” Drew asked Vick.
“I think so.”
“Good for him. It’s about time that kid got a woman’s number in his phone that’s not his mom or sister.”

You come and go...

Uh yeah. So that was quite the week. Lots of time spent in bed, be it good or bad time spent there...come to think of it, more odd than anything else. Well, in any case, let's start at the beginning.

Friday

Todd's in New York until Saturday night. I have a single room.

Scott Fedley: You gonna take advantage of that shit?

Me: Yeah...

Brian Goldberg: You gonna take advantage of that shit?

Me: Yeah...

Ed: Are you going to partake in activities fitting of a roommate abroad and a dorm room absent of forces otherwise not condusive of your imminent activity, sexual or otherwise?

Me: I don't know.

Ed: True enough that.

Me: Yeah...

Todd (sensing a disturbance in the force): Not in my bed...not in my bed...please not in my bed...and not my wine either, fool.

So I guess I had my work cut out for me...24 hours to utilize and empty room, and basically scratch to start out with. No prospects, no parties, no fake ID, no alcohol (except Todd's wine). Of course, I started out where, logically, one shoudl start out in such a quest...I headed over to Fedley's to pre-game the women's basketball game (only way to watch women's basketball is drunk, don't let anyone tell you otherwise).

On the walk over came my first opportunity of the night.

I'm crossing the street from my dorm and a hot brunette walks up to me (yeah, this happens alot). She asks me where she can find some of the monuments. I stifle the urge to tell her where my Washington monument is, and ask if she's from out of town. The following is a direct quote:

"I'm from Montreal. I'm just here for a couple days on business, and I was looking to see some sights, maybe have a little bit of fun, too."

The following is a direct quote from me:

"Word. Well there's the Lincoln...and the others are near there. I'd go with you but I have to drink and then watch women's basketball. Have fun!"

Remember champagne girl? That made me look like a genius compared to this.
So, the first opportunity of the night (and a golden one at that) turned into yet another crash and burn project. Still not realizing what I had just done, I cheerily walked over to Fedley's. Once I told Fedley what happened, of course, I realized in horror what I had just done.

Fedley: Douche...

The night was young, though, and I still may have been able to scavenge something out of it...maybe.

At the women's game, Fedley and I were asked (by a hot cheerleader) to be the halftime show: a tug of war contest at half-court for a tee shirt. Being drunk poulms, we agreed. Being assholes, we left the arena two minutes later.

So the night was almost a complete wash so far. Brian Goldberg called to hang out, but with no real idea of quite what to do that night either.

A karaoke bar, for some reason, seemed like the winning plan, so we all changed into jeans and rock tee shirts and headed out. Weirder than out idea to head there was the fact that it was completely packed.

This left us with two options: Go to Apex, the gay bar, and trick Fedley into getting hit on my men, then laugh at him and kick him in the ass for "being a gay," or head to the bar Karma and see if there was any way an idiot with no fake ID could get in. As it turned out, the only thing I really needed was $10 for the bouncer, and I had my wristband for alcohol.

Once inside the bar, the prospects were few and far between. Two slightly attractive girls by the bar knew Goldberg. One had (and I couldn't even make this up) a tattoo of the Zia sun on her back.

BULLSEYE!

Step 1. Approach bar
Step 2. Introduce self, wingman (Edley)
Step 3. Buy girl a drink
Step 4. Work magic

Problem was, there was one step that I added over the course of the night:

Step 3.5. See girl's hot ballerina friend, get that girl's name and number, try to work magic, get shut down, return to first girl with tail firmly between legs.

Probably not the smartest move on my part...and definately a dick one...but that's just something I have to live with on a daily basis, so meh.

At about 2, we decided to head to Goldberg's to smoke Hookah. Still recovering from a death sickness at the end of winter break, and still coughing every time I laughed, smoking Hookah was probably not the best idea...but come on, it's me.

About 15 minutes of Hookah elapsed...and the friend of New Mexico girl ran to Goldberg's bathroom, sick. Seeing an opportunity, I offered to walk NM girl home. Of course, on our way to her place, we got sidetracked and headed to mine. Heh, funny how that happens.

Here's where it gets a little graphic, and for this I apologize...but this part also demonstrates my brief instance of showing moral fiber, so it's essential that I go into it. Here's what I'll do, I'll put it in baseball terms.

I started off by hitting a single. While on first base, I stole second, and was rounding third, when she stopped me for the third out of the inning. It was then her turn to bat, and she came right out and hit a triple (yeah, baby), and was looking to steal home.

At this point I was not too drunk to be practical and safe. I needed to put on my...um...how to put this...

I needed to put on my batting glove.

To which she responds, "you don't need that."

UMMMMM....yeah, that's not really going to work.

Fortunately she didn't have my number. Fortunately I didn't have hers. Even more so, I forgot (or never knew) her name...that said, kicking her out was pretty easy.

I may be a sleaze...but I'm a clean one, dammit.

She went on her merry way. The next morning I stumbled through a hungover shift at TicketMaster, bought Goldberg lunch for having to deal with drunk puking crying puking friend, and washed my sheets. Twice.

Saturday

Saturday night went significantly better...without my even trying, actually.

It began kind of rocky, and Todd returned home to Brian's joking that I got some on his bed. The look of horror on Todd's face was priceless. I assured him that Brian was lying, and explained with a "why else would my sheets be in the wash? I never do laundry!" This convinced Todd.

Later, Edley, Goldberg and I met up with Dave and his girlfriend to head, briefly, to a frat party. We were all tired from Friday, and all looking to stay sober and head home early.

Like that was going to happen.

As we were getting ready to leave the frat, I noticed Goldberg with two freshmen girls...a blonde and a brunette, both gorgeous, the blonde was from jersey, and the brunette was from the United Arab Emirates. At this point I had a decision to make...cut my losses from Friday night, head to 7-11 with my buddies, eat a hot dog and go to bed...or see what Goldberg was up to.

Heh.

So Goldberg and I are walking with the freshmen back to their dorm. Once there, I truly expected nothing, just a goodbye, maybe a phone number. Nothing more.

Brunette: "Do you guys want to come up? My roommate's gone, and I have food"

And I have food...wow, what kind of a moron would turn down a gorgeous Brunette from the United Arab Emirates...AND free food??

We all hung out for about an hour, and it seemed to be going nowhere. The food was pizza and pringles (girl's got skills), but the conversation was bleak. Most of it consisted of Goldberg and myself trying to prove to the brunette that a guy she had a crush on was gay.

3AM hit, and Goldberg and I decided to call it quits. Goldberg and the blonde were the first out the door. I was on my way when the brunette grabbed my arm.

"You remember my name right?"

Always the backbreaker...I had to think fast.

"Of course. Question is...do you remember mine?"

"Hee hee, of course, Vick"

Whoa, that's right, Goldberg had been calling me that all night. I'm now living under an alias...anything goes. So, with nothinn to lose, I kissed her.

This could lead to one of two things: A slap across the face or another game of baseball.

Play ball!

Unfortunately, I had only managed a ground-rule double before the roommate's boyfriend, assumedly doing what I was doing in the next room with his girl, burst in, laughed, and went to the bathroom. At this point, it was time to call it a night, at 4AM.

"So, um, I definately gotta get your number and give you a call."

I got the number, but the "entry name" slot was still glaring up at me. It was time to pull the oldest trick in the sleaze manual

"Nice. Oh, and sorry, I have no idea how to spell your name..."

"A-M-A-L"

"Oh, haha, nice. Couldn't figure if there was an H in there or two A's or something, haha...um, so I'll call you...bye!"

Downstairs, Goldberg and the blonde were waiting. I got a high-five from Goldberg who, at this point was my favorite person in the world, and a stern glare from the blonde, who we later discovered to be an evangelical christian.

"Okay Vick, I'm gonna crash, walk her home, yeah?"

"Sure."

Most...awkward...walk...home...ever...

"So...what toom you so long?"

"Um, just saying goodbye to Amal..."

"30 minutes of goodbye?"

"Yeah, it was a real Kodak moment."

"Did you hook up with her or something?"

"Yes. Yes I did."

"Great."

"Hey, it's not like I do stuff like this all the time!"

"Somehow I doubt that..."

So, a fun weekend with hoes, bros and evangelicals came to an end. I went back to the dorm where, much to my suprise, Todd was still awake, watching 5am TV.

"What're you still doing up?"

"Oh...just...not tired."

"Go to bed, man"

"Yeah, I'm going...but real quick...before I do..."

"What?"

"Dude, are you sure you didn't do anything in my bed??"

I survived a week of hibernation--that being the week all my final projects were due

I wrote a "profile" for journalism about my math professor

I took an astronomy exam for real

I studied all day and took a judicial politics exam

I finished a piece of fiction based on a character from our lives.

I took an astronomy final not for real....


That is to say, as the final exam was really a 'makeup' exam, we were allowed either to not take it, or to take it and have it only help our grade, not hurt it. I opted to get revenge on a douchebag.

Everyone knows a douchebag like this, or has one in a class or two. He's a GW student with a really fat head (I'll get back to this in a sec.). He's probably majoring in poli sci like everyone, but was really good at science once upon a time, so he takes pleasure in showing everyone up both during class and at the exams.

During lecture, the few people that were there got to enjoy his lame antics. He'd answer every question, rasie his hand, turn around and answer other students questions...you know, be that guy.

During exams, he would always finish first...which is fine in and of itself. But he's always get up and look around the room and smirk at everyone before he left.

Well done, sir! You have defeated a bunch of political scientists in the arena of astronomy. Give him the Nobel Prize.

To top it all off....his head was huge.

Like, huge doesn't do it justice...Ginormous begins to describe. (Prep people: Take Shariff's head and add like 30% to it...heh, yeah, that kinda big.) And this melonous cranium always always always found its way right in front of me. Not matter where I sat in the classroom, he was always right in front of me. That was probably my biggest beef with him. Plenty of GW students exhibit the first two qualities...but rarely does the third rear it's ugly head (so to speak...)

I had to show him up...I mean that's all there was to it.

On the day of the final, I rolled in like 5 minutes before. I hadn't studied, whatever. I had a plan.

I found his seat, went over and made sure to sit right next to him. The tests were passed out, and I turned to him.

"Good luck."

"Psh, don't need it," he answered smugly.

"Heh, okay."

The stage was set. I received my test, winked at the douche, and got straight to work.

Bubbles were vigorously filled in. I didn't read the questions, I didn't care what the answer sheet said...I just needed to finish filling it in. I think the douche noticed what I was up to, because he picked up the pace a little bit to. the loser was actually trying to get the right answers though.

After about three minutes, I had finished. I folded my test, handed it to the professor (yes, Professor Old-Fro, Mana) and got my coat. Right before I left, I bent down to thr frantically working douchebag, and whispered..."Boo-yah!"


Sooooo....was it worth it?

I mean, I had a solid B+ in the class.

Was it worth forgoing the prospect of an A in a class I don't care about to show up a douche?

Certainly felt like it.








More stories in the days to come about other assorted personal conquests! Beware!

I don't know if anyone really reads this anymore, but here's something I'm keeping note of, mostly for myself


The only person on the GW campus that didn't hold the door open for me today was the Vice President for Academic Affairs, Robert Chernak. This is also the guy in charge of the "selective major" process I'm so fond of.

Huh.

Mia's coming to visit in two days. This should be fun, Todd and I will have a reason to be all touristy in DC, see all the sights, and be cool and have a girl stay overnight. Only the second one between the two of us in two years of college...Ha, we're pathetic. In any case, we want things to look nice for her.

Todd: Yeah man, we should clean up a little bit.

Thomas: Agreed. I'll clean up my laundry and straighten up the room.

Todd: I'll clean the kitchen.

Thomas: All right! Then we can convene to tidy up the breakfast nook.

---------If you don't already know who's just about to make a roaring comeback, you haven't been reading this blog enough------------------


Thomas's Penis: ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR...

Thomas: Uh oh...

Todd(horrified and appalled): uhhhh....

Thomas's Penis: PLEASE TELL ME YOU DIDN'T JUST SAY 'TIDY'

Thomas: Sorry

Thomas's Penis: THEN TELL ME YOU DON'T ACTUALLY HAVE A 'BREAKFAST NOOK'

Thomas: We do...It's right next to the lunch counter...

Thomas's Penis: ENOUGH!!!! I've heard enough. Do you realize how close I am to relocating????

Thomas: Idle threats...

Thomas's Penis: I'm serious, man...the offers are flooding in. It's by sheer faith in you that I stay...I gotta say, though, man...between the platonic relationships you have with women these days, the tidiness, and the god damn the breakfast nook, some of these offers are looking real nice.

Thomas: Right.

Thomas's Penis: I'm serious...you've heard of Brad Pitt, I hope. Ever since Jennifer won his in the divorce, he's been on the market for a new one. He borrowed Eminem's for a while, but he's looking for a full-timer.

Thomas: So what've I gotta do to keep you?

Thomas's Penis: Isn't it obvious?

Thomas: No.

Todd's Penis, piping up for the first time: How about either getting laid or stop being a pussy, you dumbass!!

Thomas and Todd are both speechless.

Thomas's Penis: Finally! SOMEBODY'S TALKING SENSE AROUND HERE!!! ROOOOOOARRRRR!

Todd's Penis: Meow!

This time, Thomas and his penis are speechless.

Todd looks akwardly around, then runs away and hides

BUT HE CAN'T HID FROM HIMSELF!!!! ROARRRRR


-END-

I'm pretty happy right now. I don't know why.

I'm doing poorly in a class that's supposed to be my major, I'm sick again (or sick still, depending on how you look at it), and my date stood me up today.

I'm happy, though, because I've turned over a new leaf.

Saturday night...I was where I usually am...Lambda Chi.

This time, there was an actual change, for the first time of hooking up with a hot girl...I mean a really good chance. (Let me put it this way, I probably could have filed for sexual assault and won. I was felt up more times than Carmen Electra on the subway during rush hour.)

But lovely imagery aside, the point is, she was actually pretty hot, and I had a very very good chance with her.

I didn't do it.

I actually felt sick to my stomach that a girl would act this way. Thrusting her body around like that, no decency or self respect. And on top of that, getting upset that I wouldn't grope her back. It's not her fault, I guess...it's what The OC taught her to act like.

It's horrible is what it is.

In any case, I tried talking to her, but ended up just leaving. Yes, either a douche move on my part or a "good guy" move on my part depending on who you ask. Who I asked, though, were my GW friends (Todd excluded) who called me a douche. Todd approved, though.

Which is why Todd's opinion is worth 300 Lambda Chi brothers'.

Whatever. That night taught me that I'm more suited to (and comfortable with) that traditional dating scene. No drinking or grinding or hooking up. Just being nice and getting to know the girl type thing.

That's what the date today was supposed to be. Till she went all "guy" on me and didn't show.

Whatever. You live and learn.

Hopefully the new attitude will yeild better results than the old one did.

Impressive-looking books
Line the shelves in my dorm.
With intellectual-sounding titles
Like Learn Cuneiform.

But these books are mere vessels
Just means to an end:
impressing a cute girl,
taunting a smart friend.

Unread volumes, cluttering my room,
each spine so crisp, the pages as well
If one of them was ever opened,
It would have that “new book” smell.

A book not read, just displayed.
Put up in my room just like a degree
from an Ivy-League school
that doesn’t belong to me.

Yet still there they lie,
full of knowledge, and of culture.
And just below is yours truly:
The textual vulture.

The books, as said, are means to an end.
But what end, you say, could possibly do?
Simply the impression made on
that girl from stanza two.




I hate poetry class...

Then I'd help people. Like the Katrina people.

It's sad, and also politically mind-wrenching for me to see George W. Bush, whom I defend daily crack jokes about New Orleans, waylay in Arizona, and promise a new house to Trent Lott amid this crisis. This is ridiculous.

You may only hear this once, guys...but George Bush is being a poulm.

Hopefully that's all the venting I'll need to do about this, as it looks like people have finally realized that this IS an issue of importance.

It's been a long time...I guess I've been busy or whatever, but this seemed like a good time to post. Enough about the sad stuff, though.

My serious rantings aren't why you all read this thing. You read this, I assume, for stories like

Suspiciously Sober Thomas Runs From One Biggie, Leaves Another in Shame

Okay, so "biggie" is kind of a mean term...I'm really one to judge the physical assets of others...but, in any case, with this one, it was deserved...I think. You be the judge.

It was another of the infamous Lambda parties...this time the theme was "beach party." (meaning the basement floor was covered in sand and there was a wading pool in the corner). Problem with this one was, despite the fact that I was drinking for the first time in months, four and a half Natty Lights had no effect on me whatsoever.

A blessing in disguise...and yet, also a curse.

My usual dependence on the 'social lubricant' that alcohol provides, and the fact that on this particular night it wasn't doing its job proved to be a disappointment. Three perfect pick-up opportunities were passed up due to a curious mixture of nerves and apathy. And I'm not talking nasty hookup opportunites passed up...I'm talking cute girls wearing bikini tops as shirts passed up for...God knows what reason. Idiocy, mostly. A small price to pay, though, for the joy that sobriety brought me later that night.

I was hanging out upstairs in the house, away from the "beach." Two girls approached me and my buddy Scott...actually approached us (so rare). One was really really cute. Reeeeeeeally cute. Like Amy Smart in Starsky and Hutch kind of cute. The other was...yeah...

Guess which one hit on me?

So I headed back to the seaside, to find that the wading pool had broken.

Whod've known that drunk kids and an inflatable pool couldn't coexist?
The result was an entire basement full of ankle-high water and wet sand. It was okay, I danced a little (and by 'danced' I mean akward white guy flailed) and then suddenly felt a great force shoving me against the wall of the room, holding me hostage, unrelenting in its deadly caress of my...great manly...muscular form. The force was that of a "bumpin' booty." It's owner: none other than the very biggie I probably would have hooked up with had the Natty's worked their magic. Instead, I was of a sound mind, and ready to engage in a logical and constructive method of conflict deviation.

I ran like hell.

I wish I was making this up...but I'm not. I squeezed past the ass, bolted through the door, and hauled down the street.

See, with me, you get stupidity and entertaining moronics, whether my blood alcohol level is .02 or .000000001.

I'm what they call the complete package.

And it's good to be back!

The wedding...ah the wedding. I'll have to write all about it.

Of course, behind every good wedding is a kick ass bachelor party.

And behind every kick ass bachelor party is a bewildered best man.

qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm,.1234567890-/.,

I guess the fact that I avoid weddings at all costs really came back and bit me in the ass this time. Apparently as best man, my duties were not limited to getting the groom drunk the night before and then picking up bridesmaids the day after. Damn.

First off, I had to take care of the wedding bands for the entire weekend. Not much to say here except that the only thing worse than checking your coat pocket every thirty seconds is having someone ask you to check every fifteen...

One of my more entertaining duties was setting up the bachelor party.

Unbeknownst to me, there's an 18-and-up strip club in Albuquerque (I don't know why this suprised me--it is Burque, after all), so previous plans of a dinner at Hooters paled in comparison. So it was settled, Jeremy was given a quadruple shot of Bacardi 151 (yeah, holy crap) to loosen up, and we were off to this place--Fantasy World.

It was pretty fun, I'm not gonna lie. There was weirdness in that Jeremy (the groom) knew two of the strippers from high school. And additional weirdness in that the chubby oriental kid with us, Dos, knew the inner workings of the strip club better than I think the strippers did.

After a quick hello to the two strippers we knew and an even quicker tutorial from Dos about proper strip club etiquitte, we headed in. Being that we were in New Mexico, I expected the strippers to be relatively unattractive. A couple were, but for the most part, they were pretty hot. I did the dollar bill thing (in which a stripper takes a dollar out of your mouth using...not hands...) and that was pretty cool. I gave one of the hottest strippers $25 and had her give Jeremy a suprise bachelor party lap dance. He came back out with a wide grin and limited vocabulary (mission accomplished). I thought that seemed pretty fun. But something fucking happened to me.

Of all times for my conscience to pipe up...the little shit chose the strip club. His stupid little friend, morality, joined in, as I saw a stripper that reminded me a lot of a crush of mine from last summer (I refer you to the Bronwen Forbay series of posts). My buddy in my boxers was telling me to go for it..."She's hot man, c'mon! You have 25 bucks for that, dontcha?" I believe were his words of persuasion. My damn conscience, though, man.

I felt really bad about it. I mean, yeah, they make really good money. But it seems to me wrong that a girl that beautiful spends her nights giving tubby asians hardons and making 40-year-old insurance adjusters forget about the missus for a while. She must have seen me looking at her, because she offered me a lap dance. I sided with my conscience and said no (to which my penis replied with a vivacious "Rooooooarrr!"), and was razed for it for the rest of the night by Jeremy and the other groomsmen.

As the night winded down, we headed back to Jeremy's house. A brief stop at the 24 hour McDonald's (yes they exist--how cool is that?) we got back just in time to see the sun rise (and have Jeremy pass out under the coffee table)

Our wakeup call the next morning came from the lovely bride.

She was talking so loud, we all heard her through jeremy's ear. Such loving pearls came through, like...

"What time did you get in??"
"Were you DRUNK?"

and, the kicker...

"There weren't loose women there, were there??"

I would find out later that she had no idea where we had gone the night before.

But to quote the Wizard of Oz, that's a horse of another color.

So, we prepared for the wedding. I bought car chalk to tag the car "Just Married" (yet another duty I had neglected until the last minute). And flowers and stuff, as I was ALSO supposed to prepaer the bridal suite for the arrival of the young couple.

Once all this was taken care of, we headed back to Jeremy's for a few hours of preparing for what I thought was the biggest day of his life. The groomsmen and I spent the time bouncing around, telling Jeremy he was getting married and all that. Jeremy, on the other hand, watched the video game channel and fell asleep (in his tux!) until it was time to leave. Don't get overexcited, Jer.

The ceremony itself went all right. I remembered the rings (gee, with all the reminders, i dont know how!), Jeremy remembered his lines, and the bride's parents agreed to give her away. My tuxedo pants, however, decided to break during the "I do"s. Ha ha...enough said.

The wardrobe malfunction caused me also to be late in signing the marriage certificate as their witness, by which time all the bridesmaids were made aware that my pants had broken. Wheeeeee.

Well, at that point, I figured the storm was over, and I thought I had braved it well, not doing anything to seriously disrupt the wedding. Then, the worst situation I could ever imagine crept up:

The entire crowd at the reception began clinking their glasses with forks. Oh fuck....I knew there was something I forgot. The entire reception looked at me. The creepy guy shooting the wedding video pointed his camera at me. The father of the bride nudged me and said "Better have a good toast ready, son."

I think even my penis bailed on me for this one--"Fuck this man, you're on your own here!"--as I raised a glass of champagne and hoped for the best, while preparing for the worst.

I blabbed on about me and Jeremy as kids and all that...then as the toast closed, I relaized I needed a punch line...and the only thing I could think to mention was the strip club. The people laughed, so I guessed that I did good. I guessed wrong. Seconds later, I had the bride request my presence in private.

"You are in sooooo much trouble, Thomas! Oh MY GOD!"

"Ummm, sorry?"

"Sorry, yeah right, think of something better"

"Well, I mean, it was just a bachelor party...and Jeremy didn't even go inside...or get a lap dance, heh."

"really?"

"Would I lie?"

"Thomas..."

"Well, I'm not right now!"

"Okay, fine. But watch your ass..."

She's gonna make her new husband so very happy.

So, with that, I left to put the finishing touches on the bridal suite and head home.


And the bride liked what I did with the place...so ha!

Wedding: 53
Thomas: 1

At least it wasn't a shutout.

And hey, whoever wants to join me in a trip to Fantasy World this summer, gimme a ring!!






**
As a side to this post, Jeremy left three days after the wedding to join the army. My thoughts are with him for the next four years.