New Orleans, Part 2

I woke up Friday afternoonish to the very distinct memory that Messin With Sasquatch, sometime on the way home from the airport, stopped the car in the middle of the street, pulled me out of the car, and slapped me. I don’t know why this happened. Sometimes people don’t quite get me right off the bat. It happens.
We started smoking. We watched movies. Beer was consumed. We watched this great cartoon about colonial times, which ended with cartoon Thomas Jefferson delivering the most eloquent justification of chattel slavery that I’ve heard to date, and believe me, I’ve heard a few. He succeeds in convincing a young female reporter type not to publish a scathing piece on the hypocrisy of declaring human freedom while owning other humans at the same time. Awesome. This was followed by something about Jesus when I swear I heard “the Romans froze Jesus in carbonite.” We smoked again.
We went out fairly early that night and got some food. This was followed by a succession of bars where I proceeded to drink a lot. I was introduced to a dude who shares my name and had an unfortunate condition that prevented him from drinking alcohol. We all went back to the apartment and smoked, and decided to go to the only bar who’s name I actually remember this entire trip.
Snake and Jake’s is without a doubt, the sketchiest bar I’ve ever been to in my life. It’s kind of all by itself in what looked like a mainly residential area, questionable looking characters hanging around out front. I rode over with MWS, while Booze Zombie rode over with another friend who we’ll call SpeedRacer. Other people were finding their own way there, but it was just us when we got there. We walk inside, and it’s uncomfortably dark. There’s just couches lining the walls, and a home-made looking bar. I loved it immediately. Dives aren’t created, they just have to happen. And this place may very well be “the perfect dive.”
MWS introduced me to a bunch of people who I apologize for not remembering. I just now while writing this realize that I have no clue how Sarge got here, but I ran into him later on. I was on my third vodka tonic by the time BZombie showed up with SpeedRacer. He plants him on a couch and starts telling us what happened to them on the way over.
BZ: SR is really trashed man…he was weaving all over the road and shit…he drove halfway across town. I was trying to get him to pull over and he was all “man, you’re just messing with me, I know where I’m going…” We finally came to a stop sign and I reached over and yanked the keys out of the ignition. We almost died.
I realize that drunk driving is way more ok down here than where I’m from, but that’s pretty crazy. We drink more and BZombie decides to bring SpeedRacer somewhere because he’s so goddamn trashed. They sort of half carry him out to go to somebody’s apartment. I move in on an empty couch and quite possibly passed out for a couple of minutes. I come to to MWS giving Sarge and me shit for not drinking enough. I wake up and drink more. It’s nearly 4 am, and this 100lb girl is drinking me under the table and giving me shit the whole time. Goddamn. I’ve been feasting on AAA pitching in New Hampshire, but this is The Show. I enter a Zen like state of consciousness. I separate my mind from the intoxication of my body, and I continue on.
We get back to the apartment and I get involved with MWS in a fantastic discussion of Russian literature. She pulls out a pile of books and tells me I can have them. Everyone passes out but us, and I feel a great sense of victory at having remained awake. We watch an old Woody Allen movie, “Love and Death,” which continues the crazy Russians thing. MWS goes to sleep. I’m the last one to go down. All I hear is hacking and groaning from everyone in here. We’re all dying. Saturday night, here we come.

-LFODD

My Trip to New Orleans: An Epic in Four Parts

Disclaimer: Any inaccuracies in this narrative are a direct result of the permanent brain damage incurred by the author during this trip. Any that are brought to my attention will be corrected.

Part 1 of 4

In 2007 I took a little trip,
Along with my buddy Sarge down the mighty Mississip,
Our minds were sharp, our thoughts were clear, our clothes were crisp and clean,
Headed to the Dirty Dirty, to check out New Orleans.

(Note: due to popular demand, Angel will henceforth be known as Booze Zombie...he earned it)

Day 1
The following takes place between 3pm and 6ish am

I planned a trip to New Orleans a couple months back after Booze Zombie moved back down there. I wanted to go see him, and I wanted to test myself against the best when it comes to drinking. I'll be honest, I talked a lot of shit before going down, I figured hey, drinking is drinking. Oh boy.
I talked Sarge into going along with me even though I think deep down he knew that he'd spend a lot of this trip looking on in horror at various things that I was enthusiastically participating in. In the end, I don't think I disappointed him. Our flight left Boston at 6. I got us bumped to first class, which was totally pimp because they give you free booze, and I figured that we could easily drink the cost of the upgrade, and thus make it a break even proposition. Our target was $150 in 3.5 hours, with the big disclaimer being that we couldn't get kicked off of the airplane, in my case a very real possibility. I figured as long as we could get to Philly and switch planes, we'd be all set. And if there was some sort of maximum drink limit, we'd have two shots at hitting it, with the two planes and all.
After two big vodka tonics at Legal Seafood at the airport, we board. I sit down and I notice two things. One, nothing pointy is driving itself into my kneecaps. No wonder people pay more to sit up here. Two, there's already a drink in front of me. There's still people boarding the airplane and Sarge and I are toasting success with screwdrivers. I'm never going back behind that curtain again.
We end up sitting on the tarmac at Logan for 40 minutes because Philly airport sucks balls. To make things go better they start serving the drinks two at a time and let us take turns giving surprise electric shocks to people in coach. I never knew the seats were wired like that. Anyway, the magic formula is one can of OJ, two nips of Finlandia. If I could smoke in here, I'd never leave. After we take off, we hit turbulence and the stewardess (that's what you are, deal with it) announces that they can't safely bring the drink cart out to coach and sell half cans of soda for 5 dollars each. She sets the mic down and brings Sarge and I two more screwdrivers each. I'm enjoying it but my head is filled with violent Bolshevik revolution. It isn't right how they treat the peasants up here. I realize they heavily outnumber us and I wish that curtain were a door.
We land in Philly 40 minutes late and we get to do some running. Full speed, shitfaced running. Sarge falls back but I keep going. Must make plane. Airports run on Lord of the Flies rules. Sarge catches up as we make the gate, inevitably on the complete other side of the airport.
Sarge: Dude, some lady stepped right in front of me when we were running, I knocked the bag right out of her hands.
Me: Nice! Please tell me you just kept going.
Sarge: Fucking right I did, every man for himself when you have a plane to catch.
We laugh.
The sign at the gate says some other flight. Between breaths I ask if we missed the New Orleans flight. Old Bored Guy informs me that they're just boarding now because every single plane in Philly was delayed for 40 minutes. Remember this because it's important. I hand him my ticket.
OBG: Just wait here sir...
He ignores me and checks other people in.
Me: Is there a problem?
OBG: I don't know, I have to confirm this...
He continues to check people in and ignore me. I use some of my drunken charm and interrupt his conversation with another passenger.
Me: What's going on here?...
After this I get into a row with some FNG who doesn't speak the English, and then the Bitchy Boss Lady who tells me that since my inbound was delayed, I've been bumped and will have to fly out tomorrow.
Me: Wait, the outbound that I'm holding a ticket for is right here, in this airport. I am also here in this airport. I am holding a first class ticket for this plane? What exactly is the issue here?
BBL: Well if this plane had taken off, you wouldn't have been on it.
Me: That's your argument? Jesus Christ that's not even trying. It doesn't even make sense. If the goddamn plane had crashed, we'd all be dead...but we're not.
I have no idea how, but this shouting match ended in Sarge and I sitting in first class and some other suckers getting bumped. I'm so glad I'm not middle eastern...I'd be in Federal Prison for yelling like that at an airport.
At some point during this Sarge called Booze Zombie and said that I got arrested, I did not know this.
We land in NOLA. Between us we put away 22 screwdrivers in something like 6 hours. I think that covered our upgrade fee. Sarge puked on the airplane. I told him that was a division of the Mile High Club. He was understandably proud.
BZ and his roomate, Messin With Sasquatch, pick us up outside. We head back to town. MWS is driving, she tells me there's an ice cold bottle of Stoli Raz under her seat. I grab it, and it is ice cold. I take a slug and hand Sarge the bottle. He takes a swig and immediately pukes. Pretty much all of it went out the window. Pussy, and to think we'd been training for this for a solid month.
MWS: So are you the guy who got arrested?
Me: No...(I'm confused)
BZ: Yeah you did, Sarge told me.
Me: Goddamnit you people are fucking with me.
We go into town and go directly to a bar. It's now about midnight on a Thursday, and the place is pretty crowded by my personal Thursday standards. I order vodka Red Bull, and the bartender hands me what seems like a slurpee cup from 711. I watched him make it. It was seriously half a bottle of Stoli and 2 Red Bulls. I'm a little concerned, because I'm already tanked and at this point I realize that this town is fucking serious about drinking.
We meet some more of BZ and MWS's friends at the bar. Seriously at least 5 people ask me how I got arrested. What the fuck??? I didn't get arrested. Finally Sarge explains that he told BZ that I got arrested, and of course BZ called at least everyone he knew and told them. Word travels quick.
After this we may have gone to another place that had live music, or we may have gone back to the apartment. Scene missing. Later on that night we went out to McDonalds. We picked up a kid by the name of Meerkat (this will make sense in Day 4's writeup). I introduce myself. He introduces himself. He sells me some pot. I love this town. We get to talking and he's a solid dude. We smoke a bowl waiting in the drivethru line. We wind up back at the apartment and smoke more.
MWS: There's no way I'm going to work tomorrow. I have to stay up so I can call in at 8.
Oh man.
MWS: Let's go to a bar.
I can't remember exactly, but this was something like 530 or 6 am. I realize I'm in way over my head here. They go and I pass out. I decide I don't have to win, but I gotta go the distance. Just go the distance.

Stay tuned for Part 2.

-LFODD

A Tribute to 8Mile (No, not the movie)

Sarge and I headed up to Laconia last week to go to a party at our buddy Milfhunter's place. And, I must say, the Lakes Region is most definitely not fucking around when it comes to Beirut. It's not surprising, the game was invented at Dartmouth College in Hanover sometime in the late 1940's. It stands to reason the closer one gets to the source, the tougher the competition. Anyway, there were two standouts at this particular gathering.
First standout, sending Sarge and I to loss number two of the night, was this girl...late 20's or early 30's, married, not one you'd expect to own you at Beirut. But I'll be damned if she didn't hit 3 out of every 4 shots, consistently, all night. She and her husband ran the table all night, and were only once dislodged. We had to set up another table just so other people could play. I must say, the part I respect most was the casual, understated way in which she handled herself. Total sleeper, just you'd look over every half hour and they had won yet again.
Second, and most impressive standout, is my new personal hero, 8Mile. His name is 8Mile because he showed up wearing a Detroit Tigers' hat. There was really no resemblance to Eminem. Oh, and the fact that he nailed EIGHT CONSECUTIVE SHOTS against Sarge and I. If we were playing NBA Jam rules, we would've only had two turns on offense. And after missing the ninth, HE HIT THE LAST TWO. What can I say, we were demoralized, crushed, buried.

If there were a movie made about this, 8Mile would most definitely be portrayed by Rainier Wolfcastle, and I would be this unfortunate fellow.
We actually won a match against two talented ladies afterward, but then lost again and I had no choice but to break up the team and draft one of the talented ladies onto my side. We won another match and then lost again, sinking my personal record to 2-6, after a disappointing 1-5 showing by Sarge and I.
It's always nice to get up to the real NH, instead of messing around with all the no talent clowns down here in New Hampachusetts. And Bravo to you, 8Mile. That was impressive.

-LFODD

Travelling Beruit Roadshow II, Part B...

So, I believe we left off looking for a place to play some Beruit. After peering in and out of several open apartments (this was pretty much just open to the public) we spotted a table and some cups...and two problems. One, we were out of beer. Two, we had no balls. Ping pong balls that is. Another minor issue was the lack of opponents, but that was soon fixed.
Me: HEY! We're from New Orleans, and we'll beat anyone here at Beruit. Anyone. Who wants it?
Several eager opponents step to the plate, but only one team offered to find beer. They set off in search of a live keg. Long story short we ended up playing with quarters and owned everyone, and went up into some other apartment which was all tricked out like a dance club. At this point, I'm drinking Bacardi coconut rum straight from a 20oz. soda bottle. I'm feeling pretty good. I head outside for a cigarette, and I'm thoroughly enjoying it, when Angel comes out looking concerned.
Angel: Dude, there's this guy that is, like, won't leave Marisa alone, I dunno, we might need to do something.
I'm actually pleased with this development. I've been wanting to "do something" ever since I polished off that rum.
Me: Sweet, let's go do it.
Angel: Dude, let me handle this, it may involve some tact...
Me: C'mon, I got so much tact it's coming out of my orifices.
Angel: Yeah, that's what I mean.
We head up and Marisa is heading out. I decide to be charming and start yelling things in Spanish that may or may not have made any sense. We decided to head back to the dorm. It is frigging pouring rain.
As we head back, I'm talking with Marisa and we sort of get ahead of everyone else due to our ability to walk in more or less a straight line. We bypassed a graveyard on the way to this party, and now cutting through this graveyard, at 3 am, in the pouring rain, with absolutely no light, seemed like it would take a good 3 minutes off of our commute, so we decided to go for it.
Now, I have to say, if you ever get the opportunity to walk through a creepy graveyard really late at night, really drunk, with a really good looking girl, go ahead and do it. It's one of my favorite memories of my entire life.
So we start into this graveyard, and Marisa starts getting a little creeped out, and then we fall down in this kind of sunken area. My only thought is "Oh holy fuck, who just leaves graves open like this!!" But alas it is not a grave, just poor landscaping. We're soaking wet and covered in mud. Marisa is clinging to me like the rabid raccoon that kept attacking Peter on Family Guy. At this point we notice that no one followed us in here....we're alone. She clings tighter. As Borat would say..."That's niiice." We hear some strange night animal noise. I do the only prudent thing to do in this situation.
Me: So, you think zombies are real?
Marisa: OMG shut up!
She clings tighter.
After stumbling all the way to the far corner of our ill-fated shortcut,
Me: Fuck, who puts a chain link fence around a graveyard?
Our way is completely blocked. I size up the situation and decide I can climb over it, but chivalry isn't dead where Lfodd is concerned...
Me: Hey, you think you can make it over this fence?
Marisa: Not in these shoes...
Great, she's latin, but she's blond, and now she can't even climb a fence...
Me: You don't even speak Spanish, do you?
Marisa: What??
Me: Nevermind, we're gonna have to go back.
We make our way back, I'm sort of more carrying her than walking with her at this point, but we make it back to the sidewalk after like 45 minutes, and we continue on to the dorm room. We share a rather romantic walk back in the rain. She appreciates me for saving her from the zombies and whatnot. We get back upstairs. There's some douchebag in her room who no one wants around. Marisa escapes to her room, but the douchebag follows. She shoots me the "help me" look that women use when they don't want to be impolite to some douchebag who they don't want around. I use some of my surplus tact...
Me: Hey, I'm LFODD, what's your name?
Douchebag: (I'm going to call him Larry because I really didn't give a shit what his name was)
Me: Well, Larry, it's like 4 am, so why don't you show the lady a little courtesy, a little respect, and get the fuck out of here.
Douchebag looks angry, and a little hurt, but he realizes he's also looking up about 6 inches to convey his feelings to me, he decides that chivalry is indeed alive and well, and disappears. Problem solved.
At some point in sitting on Marisa's bed talking I seem to have passed out, thus cutting short my plans of amorous conquest that night. Angel wakes me up to get me out of there, because I'm walking that line of Douchebag who nobody wants around. I sleep in some Asian chick's bed. All in all, a good night.
So, I wake up in the morning and Marisa is sleeping on her own couch. Asian chick is nowhere to be found. I'm unconcerned. She's sort of awake, so I say goodmorning, crack a warm MGD can and pound it back. Ahhh, no more hangover. I interrogate Marisa on where there is a nice, greasy, old school diner to get breakfast at. She knows just the place. Nice. I go to wake up Angel. I shake him. Nothing. I yell at him. Nothing. I shake him again. He mutters, and I quote...
Angel (still very much asleep): uggh, uhhhh, grumpy robot machine.
He starts snoring again. What the fuck is a grumpy robot machine? I decide maybe beer will wake him up. I grab another can of MGD and crack it open next to his ear. He sits straight up in bed, fully awake, and he's SCREAMING. This may be the funniest thing I've ever seen. He's screaming like he's being murdered, totally disoriented, and Marisa and I are laughing my balls off.
Angel: What the fuck did you guys do to me??
Marisa: He opened a beer, and you just sat bolt up and started screaming...
Me: Yeah, you gotta admit that's pretty funny.
Angel: Yeah, that is kind of awesome.
We drove over to the statue of Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain and took our picture drinking with him. (If you don't know who that is, you should, so go look it up).
I buy us all breakfast, we drop Marisa off and head home.
Angel: Dude, we're really good at lying...
Me: Yeah. I told you, I'm a lawyer.
-LFODD

The Travelling Beruit Roadshow, Part II (Part A)

So Angel and I decide to go up to Bowdoin College and see what's going on. He promises me there's a really hot latin chick that he knows that we can party with. He hints that she might put out. I'm convinced. I head over to Angel's after work and we start drinking beer. I'm actually taking it easy because of the hour and a half drive ahead of us, so I call it quits at three beers and switch to water. We leave sometime after 8 o'clock and head to Vacationland, aka The Deep South of the Far North, aka Maine.
We leave from Angel's house and the weather is decent. We stop to gas up and he buys a bottle of Mad Dog. It's going to be one of those nights, I can already feel it. We head north. Angel thinks that singing along loudly to Natasha Beddingfield's "Unwritten" is pretty much the coolest thing two straight guys can do alone in a car with each other, and since no one else is around, I'm inclined to go along with it. As hits of the 90's karaoke continues north, it starts to rain. We get past Portland, and it starts to pour. We're almost to Brunswick and it's raining fucking sideways.
Angel: Man, I hope these cats know how to party, because this rain is going to suck.
Me: True that, I guess we'll see.
We park at a typical college parking lot, although I am absolutely shocked to find parking. There is of course the obligatory "all caught parking without sticker will be shot on sight" agitprop. What can they do, withhold my credits? Ha! The good news is that the rain has let up. Sort of. I have a sinking feeling that we've only driven through the storm, and that it's coming up behind us now.
Angel calls up Marisa, she's going to meet us outside the dorm. I'm actually carrying a backpack full of beer cans. I can't believe I'm 25 years old and still pulling this off. I don't ever want to grow old. Ever.
Now, lets Tarantino this back in time for just a minute. When this trip was proposed, I looked at the situation of drinking with college girls who have never met me, only one of whom knows Angel, and none of whom I ever expect to see again. My first instinct was that of any red blooded American man...
Me: Angel...we have to think up some good lies about who we are!
Angel: Well, Marisa knows me...
Me: Yeah, but she doesn't know me, help me out here. I need this.
Angel: Alright
We worked this out before we even left. I decided that Law School would easily explain why I was there and let me exploit my age advantage. Girls don't like boys, they like cars and money. We decide that I went to UNH and then BC Law. I know enough about BC to pretend I went there, and UNH wasn't even a lie, or at least only a partial lie.
So we meet up with Marisa and (this is the hot latin chick) I immediately notice two things. First thing, she is hot, second thing, she ain't latin. At least not how I was envisioning things. Not that I care, but I felt like I was misled. We head upstairs, and oh yes, there are only two things in this dorm room. Women and booze. I decide I'm never leaving this place.
Introductions are made, and more importantly, I shotgun two beers in quick succession, plus some champagne and some straight vodka. This way the conversation gets looser.
I'm still somewhat miffed over the rather un-latin Marisa. Reddish blond hair, blue eyes, like I said, beautiful, but I was expecting someone straight out of those Telemundo soap operas. But what the fuck did I expect in Maine? I decide to get to the bottom of this.
Me: So, Marisa, you're from Argentina?
Mar: Yeah, well, my parents are...
Me: So was your grandfather a Nazi war criminal or something? I mean, I'm not judging anyone, I'm just interested...(she laughs...oh thank god, that could've gone very wrong)...
Angel saves me from myself and I start talking to this really tall chick and her friend, who I soon learn has narcolepsy.
Me: You really have narcolepsy?
Narc: Yeah, I have to take this medication and...
I cut her off: So do you get to get out of doing a bunch of stuff or are you just stuck with it?
Narc: Well, one time I fell asleep during an exam and woke up and the room was empty!
Me: That's totally sweet.
They start asking me about New Orleans because they know that Angel went to school there. I start telling stories before I remember that A. I've never been to New Orleans, but B. I haven't told anyone where I'm from yet. I need to call an audible right now. I turn to Angel...
Me: Tulane Law, check it to Tulane Law. He seamlessly includes me in a story about carousing in NOLA, that involved me getting arrested and spending the night in jail. I only hear this part of it, but jump right in...
Angel: Yeah, so LFODD here gets bagged and I have to go bail his ass out of jail at 5 am...
Me: Yeah, because I didn't hide behind a fucking bush while the rest of us were dealing with the cops....
Angel: (Interrupts) well you were the one stupid enough to piss right under a street lamp...
Me: ok, but that's beside the point...what was the point again?
Anyway, it's time to go party. Me, Angel, Marisa, Tall Chick, Narcolepsy and two other chicks head out, stocked up with booze in various soft drink bottles. This is so 1999...and I love every minute of it. We get outside and it is now raining sideways here. We lack coats. We consider calling drunkrides, I mean SafeRides, but none of us knows the number. We walk over to this on campus apartment deal, and there is a HUGE FUCKING PARTY IN THE RAIN! Live band, kegs, at least 500 people, all outside partying in the pouring rain. This is totally awesome. I scam numbers from Tall Chick and Narcolepsy in case we get separated.
After god only knows how long drinking, dancing with soaking wet drunk girls (awesome by the way) partying in the rain and pissing in the woods (yeah, this is a real party, fuck you city folk) I stumble across Angel again.
Me: We need to play some Beruit.
To Be Continued tomorrow, I promise.
-LFODD

The Travelling Beirut Roadshow, Part I

So over the fall and winter of last year, Sarge and I built a bar in my basement and we played a shit-ton of beruit. Now, I must say that I was a decent beruit player beforehand, but after playing 3 or 4 nights a week for a six month stretch, we got real good. I'm talking damn good, pro good, dare I say, Beerfest good. We were calling shots, intentionally missing for strategic purposes, and most importantly, consuming inhuman amounts of alcohol and still being able to function. What happened next was just the natural progression of things, as dawn becomes day, as ape becomes man, and as I become drunk...We had to take it on the road.
Although plenty passed through my doors, the main staples of the game were me, Sarge, Angel, Wolfman, and LaVidaLoca. Wolfman is a solid cat, the quiet type but he won't take shit from anybody. Sarge is another solid cat, and he's saved my ass more times than I can count, but there's a Mrs. Sarge and he isn't quite as free to do crazy shit at all times. LaVidaLoca is a chick that I was going out with for a while, but my inability to behave like a normal person kind of ended that. Still, one of the best people I know, and delightfully nuts. I must add, she's the best beruit player on earth who isn't me. But anyway, Angel is the only logical choice I had for this mission, and here's why.
Angel and I are the minutemen of competition drinking. Weeknight? Don't care. Work tomorrow? Don't care. Already drunk? Don't care. Don't know anyone at the party? Don't care. To quote the great Diamond David Lee Roth, "you threw the party, I am the party." Between us we have enough contacts to wind up at a party pretty much every single night, and we took on the mission of taking on all comers at beruit, on their own fields and their own house rules, and showing them who the champions are. The rules were simple. Make some phone calls starting around 5 pm, go wherever the night took us, and simply dominate. We formulated the plan...
Me: Think you can handle this?
Angel: I spent 5 years in New Orleans, this is child's play.
Oh boy, here we go....
So night one we hear about a party over in Portsmouth with a couple of Angel's high school buddies. They're all fresh out of UNH, this should be a good test of our skill. Angel and I hit the liquor store on the way over, I grab a flask of cheap 100 proof vodka in a plastic hipster, he grabs some Seagrams 7. We have cups, we have ping pong balls, we're ready. Neither of us have seen these guys since high school.
We meet them in the parking lot of the apartments, we do shots. We go inside, he introduces us to some friends, we do shots. I notice that there are a whole bunch of good looking chicks at this party, my opinion of this party rises, we do shots. I wander away from Angel and head out to the porch with some of the hotties to smoke butts. We do shots. By this point, I have no idea what time it was, but it was late. I'm kicking myself because I'm already drunk, and we haven't even played yet. I figure we need to get this thing going, so I issue the challenge.
Me: We will beat anyone in this house at beruit. Anyone. Who wants it?
I am completely shit-cocked at this point.
Angel and I dominate the first 3 games. We have at least 4 cups on the table at the end of each. The memories are sketchy, but the common consensus is that I made a really obnoxious bitch cry. Drinking slows down everything except my ability to trash talk. I develop a sixth sense that seeks out the most base weakness and personality flaws in my opponent, and then immediately exploit it to fullest effect. They come at you with a knife, you come back with an A-bomb. That's the New Hampshire way.
I am, to quote Tucker Max, fucked in half drunk at this point. We need a smoke/piss break. We yield the table with the understanding that we play winner. I head out back to smoke with the hotties again. I've been talking up this one chick all night, so we're talking, I'm lying about something, her phone rings. One thing leads to another and like 6 of us sing happy birthday to her mom on speakerphone. I am confused. I do a shot. We receive a complaint from an irate neighbor.
Irate neighbor: HEY!!
Me: What?
IN: Shut the fuck up, I got kids over here!!
Me: Why are you yelling, won't you wake them up?
IN: Oh, you want me come over there, wiseass?
Me: You just said you got kids, you aren't going to risk jail time, fuck off.
I do another shot to celebrate my victory. We go back in. I can hardly stand up. An enquiry is made as to what just happened outside.
Some guy: What's going on, are the neighbors pissed??
Me: Naw, it's cool, i talked to him and it's cool.
Some guy: Oh, thanks, I can't get kicked out of here.
Me: Don't worry, I take care erything (in my best drunken DiNero impression)
So we go back to the table and play 3 more games, ending with a very hard fought game against our hosts. Halfway through this game I can tell that I'm not going to make it past this game, no matter what happens. I'm fading out like Denzel in "Man on Fire." But we have a mission to complete. They sink the last shot. I hit the rebuttal. We all miss a bunch of shots, then Angel sinks the winner. He's ready to set up for another and I decide I need to lay down for a minute. I slide under the table, literally. My eyes are shut, people are stepping over me. I grab an empty beer box and puke a single, neat heave into it, and it's all vodka and beer. This is the point that this night got interesting....
Somebody calls a cab and Angel and I are going to go crash at Sarge's apt which is just down the street. My boy rp is asking me stupid questions to keep me awake, when all I wanted to do was sleep under the table for a couple hours, I would've been fine. Angel and I go outside and get in the cab. Angel says something and gets out. The cab takes off. Shit.
Cabbie: So where you going?
Me: Raymond?
Cabbie: I ain't fucking going to Raymond
Me: Uhhhhh, (awkwardly long pause) i somehow come up with Sarge's address.
He drops me off at the apt, i hand him a crumpled handful of bills and he goes. I call Sarge's phone... no answer. I call Wolfman's phone... no answer. I get the brilliant idea to throw rocks at the window. Here I am, in not the best neighborhood, skull fucked drunk, throwing rocks at an apartment building. This goes on for a bit and I decide to sleep in the vestibule. It's too cold for this shit. Time travel begins.
Angel shows up. Where's my car? A truck stop, Sarge, blackness.
I wake up and I have no idea where I am. Here's what I see...
An empty room, I'm on the floor. Two empty cardboard boxes, beige generic carpeting, a shotgun leaning against a wall. I am completely freaked out. The door is closed and I'm afraid of what's on the other side. I look out the window, hoping that it will give some clue as to where I am. A parking lot. What the fuck is waiting on the other side of this door. I'm waiting for the voice from "Saw" to come on. Lfodd, you need to get out of here, and you have a choice...
After half an hour of intense internal deliberation, I open the door.
Sarge's place....thank you God. I can't keep living like this...but I'm going to try.
End of night result....9 wins, 0 losses, we defeated everyone at said party. I sleep all day. We're awesome.

The Challenge

Somehow crazy women flock to me like I bathe in crazy chum every night before I go out. I met a girl last week at a dive bar that I like to go to just to hang out. There's no game here, it's usually a dude fest, and sometimes I just want to have a couple of beers and relax. So me and my buddy Sarge are sitting at the bar and this girl sits down two seats down from me (I'm shamelessly taking up two bar stools, one for me, one for my motorcycle helmet).
She talks to the bartender: No hard liquor tonight, just beer, I can't do any hard stuff tonight.
Keeping in mind this is Wednesday. I can't resist.....
Me: That's not a very good attitude to have.
Her: No, you don't understand, I've been drinking tequila for three straight nights, I have to slow it down. (Again keeping in mind it's Wednesday)
Me: So? I'm on my fourth crown and coke....
Her: You wanna split a pitcher?
Me: Let me think.....yes.
We talk about motorcycles, drinking, competitive drinking, beruit... Sarge helps me out by bringing up the travelling road show of beruit that me and my buddy Angel did earlier this year (I'll explain that later). She's impressed. I finish off the pitcher...
Her (holding up a 1/4 full glass): Wow, you beat me.
Me: Well, I have been training for a beer drinking competition...
Her: I still think I can out drink you.
Me: I doubt it...
I'm thinking to myself....how the hell do I even maintain gainful employment, this is Wednesday for Christ's sake, and I'm seriously being challenged to a drinking competition. I can't keep living like this.
Her: Here's my number, call me sometime.
She leaves on a high note.
I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that this is not going to go anywhere. But what the hell, I'll call her up sometime.
Sarge and I head back home, I call him up.
Me: Did that just happen?
Sarge: Yeah man, that just happened
Me: I'm not sure how I got home, I should be dead....
Sarge: I think maybe you're too crazy to die.
Me: I'm going to enjoy rehab.
It's 9:30pm on a Wednesday. I go to bed

-LFODD