I grew up on a farm and when my dad quit farming, I decided that getting covered in shit and working really long hours was really appealing to me. I opted to get another job at a farm in town and I truly enjoyed working there. It was very hard work, but it was rewarding: waking up at 4:30 AM to be at work by 5:00, working from then until about 6:30 PM, milking cows, driving tractors, and just generally doing what they show on a Wranglers Jeans commercial. That doesn't mean we didn't have fun working there though. I remember one particular morning, a strange thing occurred...
It was morning milking time and we were just getting started, so I would guess it was probably about 5:30 AM. One of the other guys that worked on the farm by the name of Troy was wandering around before going to feed the cows. I was starting the task of milking and he came walking past me. He and I had a fun little game we liked to play in the morning that went a little something like this:
Me: Hey Troy!
Troy: WHAT?!? (Faking anger)
Me: Fuck you.
Troy: Shut. Up.
Me: Shut the fuck up.
Troy: SHUT. UP!
Me: SHUT THE FUCK UP!
This would go on until we were shouting obscenities at the top of our lungs at each other for no good reason other than it kind of woke us up at that point in the morning. It ended with one of the two of us waving our hand above our heads with a big goofy grin on our faces, saying, "Mornin'!". The other would be forced to do the same and then we went about our days. It always managed to keep us entertained and happy. I don't know what that says about us, but it can't say good things.
In any event, I was in between a couple of cows, putting on a milking machine when Troy went traipsing past my field of vision. I then proceeded to yell at him:
Me: HEY!
Troy: WHAT?!?!
Me: SHUT THE FUCK UP!
Troy: SHUT THE FUCK UP!
*Large thump from an indeterminate source*
Troy and I stared at each other for a second, trying to figure out what exactly had made that noise, when all of a sudden Troy got terribly pale and looked to his left at a cow that was laying down. He bolted towards the animal and I did as well. I had no idea what was going on, but judging from the look on Troy's face, something was not going well. I ran over to see the cow on the ground, pulling its collar to an extreme and choking itself. Troy and I leapt into action, Troy going to the front of the animal, grabbing the collar, and tryin to unhook it while I pushed the animal up from the back, allowing the collar to loosen some slack. If you've never tried to move a cow that's dead weight, it's very difficult. A cow can average anywhere from 1200 to 1500 lbs and this was a Brown Swiss cow (one of the larger breeds), so she was probably about 17-1800 lbs. We managed to get enough slack to remove the collar, but the cow just put her head down and laid very still suddenly. Immediately we called for the owner of the farm to come down to help, and he ran to us.
He put his head down and just said she was dead. Now this may seem pretty sad, but it wasn't all that out of the ordinary; farm animals died all the time, it is just a way of life. This cow in particular was old (about 13 yrs old, which is a pretty old cow) and we were pretty sure she had a heart attack. The odd thing was the timing: she literally dropped as Troy finished yelling at me and he just happened to be about 10 feet from her when it happened. We will never know if Troy startled her that much and she died or if he has some super power that allows him to kill bovines by yelling at them to "shut the fuck up", but one thing is for certain...
I am not letting Troy anywhere near my fucking cows. Ever.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Liar, Liar, Feet on Fire?
It's always good to stay in touch with your friends from High School when you go off to college. Especially if your friends go to the same college! But what happens when you have to come home for the summer to live with your parents? Well, you hope that some of your friends will have to come back home as well, thus allowing you to party with them. The only problem is that you are living with your parents. But then you just wait for a set of parents to leave and you can party at their house. While my parents never went anywhere, luckily for me some of my friends' parents would leave their house in the capable hands of their responsible, college-aged children. This is a story of one of those times...
My friend Kat had a few of us over to her house when her parents weren't there for a weekend and we decided to have a couple of drinks. Now, when I say a few people, I actually mean that this time: there were only about 5 of us total at the house. The problem was that three of us were dumb, 20-something males who grew up in the middle of nowhere. So, when the words "fire pit" and "bonfire" were thrown around, we immediately decided to investigate this further. At this point, our bloodstreams were probably flammable due to consumption, so the last thing we needed to do was play with fire. Thank god we were all rational adults, so we all decided to sober up before we played with fire.
After that fantasy never happened, the three of us (myself, Jake, and Corbin) headed outside to get some serious flames going. Now, unfortunately, Kat was being a major buzzkill (read: more sober than us) and said we couldn't do that and she wasn't going to tell us the location of any fire-starting supplies. Luckily for us, Jake was dating Kat at the time, so he went outside and said, "I know where they keep the gas! And I've got matches!"
The three of us went to a shed near the house and went to find the gas Jake said he knew of. Not only did we find a gas container there, but we found 3 gas containers! We had stumbled straight out of reality and into a Darwin Award! Too bad for the human race, we weren't removed from the gene pool that night, but something pretty damn funny did happen...
All three of us decided to go out and put some wood on the fire pit and some gasoline on that wood. All was going just fine until we light it all on fire. Nothing exploded, but we did notice there was a bit of grass outside of the fire pit that had lit itself on fire. And by a bit, I mean something roughly the size of a football. I am not over-exaggerating anything this time, we were in no imminent danger. We were a good distance from the house, woods, cars, and other people. And that's why what followed is so stupid.
We all agreed in a well thought out, calm conversation ("Dude, the grass is on fire!" "Should put it out?" "Probably should" "I'm drunk as hell right now, stop harshing my buzz with talk about fire") that the grass should be extinguished. So, Jake and I (being slightly more sober than Corbin) looked around for something to put the fire out with. Corbin, being a man of action (drunk), decided to stomp the fire out. This is just fine most of the time, but I think I left out one important detail:
Corbin was barefoot.
Actually, I left out two important details:
Corbin was barefoot and his feet were soaked in gasoline.
It took Jake and I a minute to realize that our friends feet had CAUGHT ON FIRE and we should probably do something about that. You see, we managed to spill everywhere with our gas (probably because we were flinging gas at each other, but that's neither here nor there) so Jake manage to get Corbin to the ground and I patted his feet out. Luckily, Corbin was one of those genetic freaks that didn't really feel pain like normal people (seriously, they made Jackass-style videos of him getting tazed and things like that), so he was no worse for the wear. That and all the booze made him just fine. It was at that point we all realized the grass was still on fire and we still had to do something about it.
You ever have one of those moments where everything happens in slow motion, you know it's all going to end badly, but you still can't react fast enough? This was one of those moments. I am sure it had something to do with all the alcohol, but for whatever reason, I just sat back and watch what happened next. It was like seeing the unveiling of the PT Cruiser: you knew it was a bad idea and it could do a lot of damage, but you kinda wanted to see it go up in flames.
Corbin proceeded to notice the grass was still on fire and sprang into action again. That's right: after we had just stopped his feet from being on fire, he tried to stomp out more flames. This, unsurprisingly, lit his feet the fuck back up and we had to put him out once again. I then got up and stomped the fire out with my shoe-covered feet and everything was fine. Jake and I asked Corbin if he was okay and he seemed to be. After a strange conversation about bacon (probably brought on by the smell of burning flesh), we all decided to let the fire burn out and go back inside to drink more.
I wonder if they ever covered that scenario in D.A.R.E.?
My friend Kat had a few of us over to her house when her parents weren't there for a weekend and we decided to have a couple of drinks. Now, when I say a few people, I actually mean that this time: there were only about 5 of us total at the house. The problem was that three of us were dumb, 20-something males who grew up in the middle of nowhere. So, when the words "fire pit" and "bonfire" were thrown around, we immediately decided to investigate this further. At this point, our bloodstreams were probably flammable due to consumption, so the last thing we needed to do was play with fire. Thank god we were all rational adults, so we all decided to sober up before we played with fire.
After that fantasy never happened, the three of us (myself, Jake, and Corbin) headed outside to get some serious flames going. Now, unfortunately, Kat was being a major buzzkill (read: more sober than us) and said we couldn't do that and she wasn't going to tell us the location of any fire-starting supplies. Luckily for us, Jake was dating Kat at the time, so he went outside and said, "I know where they keep the gas! And I've got matches!"
The three of us went to a shed near the house and went to find the gas Jake said he knew of. Not only did we find a gas container there, but we found 3 gas containers! We had stumbled straight out of reality and into a Darwin Award! Too bad for the human race, we weren't removed from the gene pool that night, but something pretty damn funny did happen...
All three of us decided to go out and put some wood on the fire pit and some gasoline on that wood. All was going just fine until we light it all on fire. Nothing exploded, but we did notice there was a bit of grass outside of the fire pit that had lit itself on fire. And by a bit, I mean something roughly the size of a football. I am not over-exaggerating anything this time, we were in no imminent danger. We were a good distance from the house, woods, cars, and other people. And that's why what followed is so stupid.
We all agreed in a well thought out, calm conversation ("Dude, the grass is on fire!" "Should put it out?" "Probably should" "I'm drunk as hell right now, stop harshing my buzz with talk about fire") that the grass should be extinguished. So, Jake and I (being slightly more sober than Corbin) looked around for something to put the fire out with. Corbin, being a man of action (drunk), decided to stomp the fire out. This is just fine most of the time, but I think I left out one important detail:
Corbin was barefoot.
Actually, I left out two important details:
Corbin was barefoot and his feet were soaked in gasoline.
It took Jake and I a minute to realize that our friends feet had CAUGHT ON FIRE and we should probably do something about that. You see, we managed to spill everywhere with our gas (probably because we were flinging gas at each other, but that's neither here nor there) so Jake manage to get Corbin to the ground and I patted his feet out. Luckily, Corbin was one of those genetic freaks that didn't really feel pain like normal people (seriously, they made Jackass-style videos of him getting tazed and things like that), so he was no worse for the wear. That and all the booze made him just fine. It was at that point we all realized the grass was still on fire and we still had to do something about it.
You ever have one of those moments where everything happens in slow motion, you know it's all going to end badly, but you still can't react fast enough? This was one of those moments. I am sure it had something to do with all the alcohol, but for whatever reason, I just sat back and watch what happened next. It was like seeing the unveiling of the PT Cruiser: you knew it was a bad idea and it could do a lot of damage, but you kinda wanted to see it go up in flames.
Corbin proceeded to notice the grass was still on fire and sprang into action again. That's right: after we had just stopped his feet from being on fire, he tried to stomp out more flames. This, unsurprisingly, lit his feet the fuck back up and we had to put him out once again. I then got up and stomped the fire out with my shoe-covered feet and everything was fine. Jake and I asked Corbin if he was okay and he seemed to be. After a strange conversation about bacon (probably brought on by the smell of burning flesh), we all decided to let the fire burn out and go back inside to drink more.
I wonder if they ever covered that scenario in D.A.R.E.?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
D.A.R.E. to be Different
As many of you may be aware, D.A.R.E. stands for "Drug Abuse Resistance Education". This was a program where officers would come to your classroom and tell you the dangers of drugs. It was a way for kids to learn about how drugs turn you into a loser and get you tossed in jail for just thinking about them. If you smoked or drank, then you were heading down a slippery slope towards harder drugs, prostitution, jail time, awesome sunglasses, anal rape (receiving, not giving), and probably death. It was a lot like being a celebrity, but more private and a lot less money involved.
What D.A.R.E. really did was teach you about all kinds of awesome drugs and what their effects were. As a 10-year-old kid, I had no idea what LSD or Ecstacy was, but a cop was suddenly coming to my class to tell me about hallucinations and tripping balls (probably not in those words). All I know is that when they started talking about how you could see dragons and shit while on drugs, my 5th grade mind suddenly found drugs incredibly intriguing. It was like a "Choose Your Own Adventure" come to life, only you just had to drop acid, sit back, and enjoy the ride! How could that not be awesome?
Oh yeah, the jail time and such. Come on, I was 10! Like I actually listened to everything. I heard hallucination and was immediately daydreaming I was Lancelot, riding my trusty steed to slay the dragon Yawgmoff, saving the princess Amgala and getting lucky (which at the time I assumed was like kissing but way grosser). D.A.R.E. pretty much held kids' attention right up until they started talking about the bad things drugs do, which is exactly what it shouldn't have done. In short, it was a disgusting failure as a preventative measure.
But, nonetheless, once you got done with it, you were able to go through a graduation ceremony. Which meant a certificate, pizza, cake, and (if you were lucky) a chance to write a speech to say in front of a crowd. Well, take a wild stab at who got chosen to speak? This guy. So I got pretty excited about being able to show off my awesome speech and let everyone know what kind of a great, drug-free kid I was going to be (read my previous posts to show how awesomely drug-free I ended up being).
Well, 3 years prior to this, my sister had gone through D.A.R.E. and never went to her graduation. Not because she didn't want to, but because my mom thought it was a waste of time and told her not to go. When it came time to go to my graduation, Mom still didn't want to go. Considering I had to give a speech, she decided to do what any good mother would do: she offered me five bucks not to go. Of course, being the avid drug resistance person I was, I refused the money and insisted on going regardless.
Nah, I'm just fucking with you. I took the $5. It's five dollars! When I was 10, that could buy an X-Men figure! I was gonna get Gambit instead of going to my stupid D.A.R.E. graduation! Ho-lee shit!
Years later, I would get to be president of Red Ribbon council (our high school's anti-drug program) and even participate in a mock accident scene we put on to show the horrors of driving drunk. I was such a role model for younger kids, it was actually kind of scary. All that in spite of the fact I never went to my D.A.R.E. graduation. Sure, I still got my certificate the next day, but it wasn't quite the same because I wasn't at the actual ceremony. But hey, it all worked out just fine.
That is, until I was arrested.
Now, the arrest itself wasn't anything remarkable. I was arrested for possession of marijuana, possession of paraphernalia, and underage possession of alcohol. Yep, when I go, I go all out. Now I should point out it was found in the same car that I happened to be riding in and it wasn't actually mine (I swear officer). I did get charged because no one in the car fessed up (thus they charged all of us). Eventually I went to court, they "lost my case file", and all charges were dropped. No lie. Thank you, ineptitude of small town court systems!
The point of this meandering story is to tell the tale of my mother picking me up from the sheriff's station that fateful night. It was 1:00 AM and she came to get me. She said nothing to me the entire ride home, sitting in irate silence for a good 20 minutes or so. I was reeling at the verbal lashing I was going to get, wondering just exactly what was going to happen. I couldn't bear the thought of a lecture on this from my mother considering if I got a "B" on my report card, that warranted a 15-minute lecture itself. We pulled into the driveway of our house, and Mom stopped the car. She looked at me with that "I'm so disappointed I don't know what to say" look that all mothers have and my heart sank. She said only one thing:
"I just want to know why."
These words hit me pretty hard and it was almost worse than a huge lecture. I had to come up with something to respond with and it had better be good. I replied with the best thing I could think to say:
"I think it's because you made me skip my D.A.R.E. graduation."
Mom sat in stunned silence for a minute and I thought, for a brief second, she might actually slap me. Instead, she chuckled a tiny bit, and merely said, "Go to your room." I bolted up the stairs, heart racing, finally realizing what my brain had failed to filter out. How did I get away with it? I have no idea. I was asked to step down as Red Ribbon president (shocking), but the joke was on our school because it lost funding the next year and Red Ribbon was laid to rest. I had to go to court and, as I said before, charges were dropped. I had to go through some bad experiences, but hey, everything sort of worked out.
Years later, Mom asked me how I had worked up the nerve to say such a thing at a time like that. I said I figured I was already screwed, so I might as well try to make some humor of the situation. Because the charges were dropped, she was okay with everything that happened and I never got arrested again.
So in a way, skipping my D.A.R.E. graduation was probably the right thing to do. At least it made for a great snappy comeback.
What D.A.R.E. really did was teach you about all kinds of awesome drugs and what their effects were. As a 10-year-old kid, I had no idea what LSD or Ecstacy was, but a cop was suddenly coming to my class to tell me about hallucinations and tripping balls (probably not in those words). All I know is that when they started talking about how you could see dragons and shit while on drugs, my 5th grade mind suddenly found drugs incredibly intriguing. It was like a "Choose Your Own Adventure" come to life, only you just had to drop acid, sit back, and enjoy the ride! How could that not be awesome?
Oh yeah, the jail time and such. Come on, I was 10! Like I actually listened to everything. I heard hallucination and was immediately daydreaming I was Lancelot, riding my trusty steed to slay the dragon Yawgmoff, saving the princess Amgala and getting lucky (which at the time I assumed was like kissing but way grosser). D.A.R.E. pretty much held kids' attention right up until they started talking about the bad things drugs do, which is exactly what it shouldn't have done. In short, it was a disgusting failure as a preventative measure.
But, nonetheless, once you got done with it, you were able to go through a graduation ceremony. Which meant a certificate, pizza, cake, and (if you were lucky) a chance to write a speech to say in front of a crowd. Well, take a wild stab at who got chosen to speak? This guy. So I got pretty excited about being able to show off my awesome speech and let everyone know what kind of a great, drug-free kid I was going to be (read my previous posts to show how awesomely drug-free I ended up being).
Well, 3 years prior to this, my sister had gone through D.A.R.E. and never went to her graduation. Not because she didn't want to, but because my mom thought it was a waste of time and told her not to go. When it came time to go to my graduation, Mom still didn't want to go. Considering I had to give a speech, she decided to do what any good mother would do: she offered me five bucks not to go. Of course, being the avid drug resistance person I was, I refused the money and insisted on going regardless.
Nah, I'm just fucking with you. I took the $5. It's five dollars! When I was 10, that could buy an X-Men figure! I was gonna get Gambit instead of going to my stupid D.A.R.E. graduation! Ho-lee shit!
Years later, I would get to be president of Red Ribbon council (our high school's anti-drug program) and even participate in a mock accident scene we put on to show the horrors of driving drunk. I was such a role model for younger kids, it was actually kind of scary. All that in spite of the fact I never went to my D.A.R.E. graduation. Sure, I still got my certificate the next day, but it wasn't quite the same because I wasn't at the actual ceremony. But hey, it all worked out just fine.
That is, until I was arrested.
Now, the arrest itself wasn't anything remarkable. I was arrested for possession of marijuana, possession of paraphernalia, and underage possession of alcohol. Yep, when I go, I go all out. Now I should point out it was found in the same car that I happened to be riding in and it wasn't actually mine (I swear officer). I did get charged because no one in the car fessed up (thus they charged all of us). Eventually I went to court, they "lost my case file", and all charges were dropped. No lie. Thank you, ineptitude of small town court systems!
The point of this meandering story is to tell the tale of my mother picking me up from the sheriff's station that fateful night. It was 1:00 AM and she came to get me. She said nothing to me the entire ride home, sitting in irate silence for a good 20 minutes or so. I was reeling at the verbal lashing I was going to get, wondering just exactly what was going to happen. I couldn't bear the thought of a lecture on this from my mother considering if I got a "B" on my report card, that warranted a 15-minute lecture itself. We pulled into the driveway of our house, and Mom stopped the car. She looked at me with that "I'm so disappointed I don't know what to say" look that all mothers have and my heart sank. She said only one thing:
"I just want to know why."
These words hit me pretty hard and it was almost worse than a huge lecture. I had to come up with something to respond with and it had better be good. I replied with the best thing I could think to say:
"I think it's because you made me skip my D.A.R.E. graduation."
Mom sat in stunned silence for a minute and I thought, for a brief second, she might actually slap me. Instead, she chuckled a tiny bit, and merely said, "Go to your room." I bolted up the stairs, heart racing, finally realizing what my brain had failed to filter out. How did I get away with it? I have no idea. I was asked to step down as Red Ribbon president (shocking), but the joke was on our school because it lost funding the next year and Red Ribbon was laid to rest. I had to go to court and, as I said before, charges were dropped. I had to go through some bad experiences, but hey, everything sort of worked out.
Years later, Mom asked me how I had worked up the nerve to say such a thing at a time like that. I said I figured I was already screwed, so I might as well try to make some humor of the situation. Because the charges were dropped, she was okay with everything that happened and I never got arrested again.
So in a way, skipping my D.A.R.E. graduation was probably the right thing to do. At least it made for a great snappy comeback.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Fake IDs I've Seen, Part 2
As you may remember, I was a bouncer for a while in college. I have seen some pretty stellar fake IDs, but a few stories really stick out in my mind as being particularly ridiculous, and I am here to tell you of another brief encounter I had with an awesomely dense patron...
I was working one night at the bar and it wasn't all that busy. I would have been extraordinarily bored were it not for a group of my friends joining me for some fun. I was on the verge of being cut due to the lack of crowd, but we got a mini rush of about 15 people, and it was just enough to keep me on for a while longer. I languished at the idea of staying on, but my compatriots kept me entertained.
The door swung open and a rather young looking gentleman entered the establishment. My friends turned away briefly, knowing that I had to put my "bouncer face" on (sort of like a "poker face", but with less Lady Gaga). I wish they hadn't turned away though, for what happened next was something you couldn't have scripted better.
The fellow handed me "his" ID and I took a look at it. I immediately giggled, handed the card back to him, and said I wasn't going to let him in.
At this point, I should say (as I said in the previous article), that the bar I worked at was not known for its strict carding policy. If it looked remotely like you, we were going to let you in on most nights. I was good at spotting fakes, but it was mostly because I saw so many on any given night. It was a lot of fun getting to refuse people if we didn't need the patronage, but it was an infrequent joy.
The young chap stared at me blankly for a sec, looking bewildered. He seemed to be absolutely flabbergasted I didn't let him in, especially considering the crowd was small and I was looking to get cut soon (not that he knew that). He looked at me, asked me why I wasn't going to let him in. I responded simply, "Because that's not you on the ID."
This is the point where every person puts forth their best, "Yes, that is actually me!" argument, but it rarely works. He was no different, telling me it was him on the ID. I reiterated that it wasn't, he insisted it was. I then put a rest to the altercation with this:
"No, you're not Jim Spencer, this is!"
I proceeded to turn my friend around who was standing next to me (the same friend from the fishbowl race). Confronted with the person on the ID he did not legally procure, the young man bolted from the bar with almost cartoonish quickness, leaving a veritable dust cloud behind. My friend shrugged, stating he had lost his ID a couple weeks prior and obviously it had been found. We all laughed pretty heartily, as not only did I know the person on the kid's fake ID, but he was standing next to me. Sometimes Madison just isn't big enough.
I was working one night at the bar and it wasn't all that busy. I would have been extraordinarily bored were it not for a group of my friends joining me for some fun. I was on the verge of being cut due to the lack of crowd, but we got a mini rush of about 15 people, and it was just enough to keep me on for a while longer. I languished at the idea of staying on, but my compatriots kept me entertained.
The door swung open and a rather young looking gentleman entered the establishment. My friends turned away briefly, knowing that I had to put my "bouncer face" on (sort of like a "poker face", but with less Lady Gaga). I wish they hadn't turned away though, for what happened next was something you couldn't have scripted better.
The fellow handed me "his" ID and I took a look at it. I immediately giggled, handed the card back to him, and said I wasn't going to let him in.
At this point, I should say (as I said in the previous article), that the bar I worked at was not known for its strict carding policy. If it looked remotely like you, we were going to let you in on most nights. I was good at spotting fakes, but it was mostly because I saw so many on any given night. It was a lot of fun getting to refuse people if we didn't need the patronage, but it was an infrequent joy.
The young chap stared at me blankly for a sec, looking bewildered. He seemed to be absolutely flabbergasted I didn't let him in, especially considering the crowd was small and I was looking to get cut soon (not that he knew that). He looked at me, asked me why I wasn't going to let him in. I responded simply, "Because that's not you on the ID."
This is the point where every person puts forth their best, "Yes, that is actually me!" argument, but it rarely works. He was no different, telling me it was him on the ID. I reiterated that it wasn't, he insisted it was. I then put a rest to the altercation with this:
"No, you're not Jim Spencer, this is!"
I proceeded to turn my friend around who was standing next to me (the same friend from the fishbowl race). Confronted with the person on the ID he did not legally procure, the young man bolted from the bar with almost cartoonish quickness, leaving a veritable dust cloud behind. My friend shrugged, stating he had lost his ID a couple weeks prior and obviously it had been found. We all laughed pretty heartily, as not only did I know the person on the kid's fake ID, but he was standing next to me. Sometimes Madison just isn't big enough.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Bowling Adventures
Back in my college days, I was in a bowling league on Thursday nights. I loved this league. It provided a fun activity to build camaraderie. It helped me make social connections. It allowed me to improve my bowling skills. It also gave us a socially acceptable reason to be drunk at 8 o'clock on a Thursday night.
See, our league started at 5 PM. There are 5 people on a team in this particular league and you bowl against a different team every week. My team wasn't all that great at bowling. In fact, aside from one guy who had about a 190 average, we all pretty much sucked. We had one goal for this activity: put down 10 pitchers before the games were done.
That's right, our sole purpose was to have everyone on the team drink the equivalent of two pitchers of beer per person in around 3 hours. This resulted in some great memories (and many lost memories). Also a lot of eyewitness accounts the next morning. It was a ton of fun and looking back on it, my liver starts to hurt.
The infamous night I will be speaking about now occurred on a 13 pitcher night (not our record, but a good night nonetheless). I broke away from my bowling team to meet some friends out for a birthday celebration. I met the group at a bar that is famous for serving fishbowls full of booze (cleverly named "Fishbowls"). As I ascended the stairs to the second floor of the bar, I was greeted with about 6 tables of people, each with a Fishbowl on it. There were 4-6 people at each table except for one with my friends Eli and Jim sitting there. It was a Fishbowl race, with each team consisting of 2 more people than ours did. I shrugged and drunkenly psyched myself up for the race (which involved drinking more). The sprint was won by the three of us, much to the chagrin of the other teams. After the feat of strength, our crowd was restless. We polished off the other drinks that were ordered (I finished a friend's whiskey and coke) and we decided to trek on to a new location.
Well, after that many drinks, anyone is going to be affected. My motor skills were lacking, speech center impeded, and my stomach uneasy from the mixture of beer and liquor (and extraordinarily sweet Fishbowl drink). As we came into our new libation station, my memory fails me. From here on out is all eyewitness account, but has been confirmed by several people as the truth. The bar we were at, it should be noted, is famous for two things: it has a goddamn tree in it and smells of puke, even after having all the carpet replaced. To a lesser extent, it is also known for having really bad customer service unless the bartenders know you. But that's neither here nor there.
As I came into the bar I should not have been let into in the first place (apparently I can appear sober if need be), I was offered drinks. I wisely refused, saying I should take it easy. At this point, I realized I needed to throw up, but instead of going somewhere more private, I stealthily threw up in the middle of the bar. Realizing that I should try to cover up the fact I regurgitated in public, I came up with a plan. Like a ninja, I disguised my transgression... by standing in a puddle of my own vomit. A bartender saw through my clever rouse and came around to inform me that I needed to leave. But first, I was handed a towel and told to clean up what I had done.
Before I tell you what happened next, I would like to say that having worked in bars after this occurrence makes me feel bad for what happened to the bartender. My work experience also makes me have less sympathy as it was a stupid, short-sighted act the bartender should never have done. Hindsight is 20/20 though, and I can't change what happened.
I took the towel and drunkenly bent over to clean up the puke. I lost my balance a bit, and almost fell into the puddle. However, I did manage to paw at the pile of bile enough to get a handful of it contained in the bar rag. I then managed to hurl the pukey mess into the face of the bartender who told me to clean it up.
Let this be a lesson to all you bartenders out there: just kick the person who threw up out. Suck it up, clean the mess up yourself. They may throw up again if they stay, or maybe the will pull one of the all-time douchiest moves and hurl a bar rag back at you.
In any event, the bartender wasn't happy and thanks to my amazing (drunk) people reading skills, I was able to deduce this. I ran out the door as my friends distracted the bouncer. Apparently no one gave chase, but I do vaguely recall running most of the 2 miles home (and I think throwing up several more times). I don't know exactly what happened, but I do know that no fewer than 10 people posted comments on my Facebook wall the next day to congratulate me on a job well done.
See, our league started at 5 PM. There are 5 people on a team in this particular league and you bowl against a different team every week. My team wasn't all that great at bowling. In fact, aside from one guy who had about a 190 average, we all pretty much sucked. We had one goal for this activity: put down 10 pitchers before the games were done.
That's right, our sole purpose was to have everyone on the team drink the equivalent of two pitchers of beer per person in around 3 hours. This resulted in some great memories (and many lost memories). Also a lot of eyewitness accounts the next morning. It was a ton of fun and looking back on it, my liver starts to hurt.
The infamous night I will be speaking about now occurred on a 13 pitcher night (not our record, but a good night nonetheless). I broke away from my bowling team to meet some friends out for a birthday celebration. I met the group at a bar that is famous for serving fishbowls full of booze (cleverly named "Fishbowls"). As I ascended the stairs to the second floor of the bar, I was greeted with about 6 tables of people, each with a Fishbowl on it. There were 4-6 people at each table except for one with my friends Eli and Jim sitting there. It was a Fishbowl race, with each team consisting of 2 more people than ours did. I shrugged and drunkenly psyched myself up for the race (which involved drinking more). The sprint was won by the three of us, much to the chagrin of the other teams. After the feat of strength, our crowd was restless. We polished off the other drinks that were ordered (I finished a friend's whiskey and coke) and we decided to trek on to a new location.
Well, after that many drinks, anyone is going to be affected. My motor skills were lacking, speech center impeded, and my stomach uneasy from the mixture of beer and liquor (and extraordinarily sweet Fishbowl drink). As we came into our new libation station, my memory fails me. From here on out is all eyewitness account, but has been confirmed by several people as the truth. The bar we were at, it should be noted, is famous for two things: it has a goddamn tree in it and smells of puke, even after having all the carpet replaced. To a lesser extent, it is also known for having really bad customer service unless the bartenders know you. But that's neither here nor there.
As I came into the bar I should not have been let into in the first place (apparently I can appear sober if need be), I was offered drinks. I wisely refused, saying I should take it easy. At this point, I realized I needed to throw up, but instead of going somewhere more private, I stealthily threw up in the middle of the bar. Realizing that I should try to cover up the fact I regurgitated in public, I came up with a plan. Like a ninja, I disguised my transgression... by standing in a puddle of my own vomit. A bartender saw through my clever rouse and came around to inform me that I needed to leave. But first, I was handed a towel and told to clean up what I had done.
Before I tell you what happened next, I would like to say that having worked in bars after this occurrence makes me feel bad for what happened to the bartender. My work experience also makes me have less sympathy as it was a stupid, short-sighted act the bartender should never have done. Hindsight is 20/20 though, and I can't change what happened.
I took the towel and drunkenly bent over to clean up the puke. I lost my balance a bit, and almost fell into the puddle. However, I did manage to paw at the pile of bile enough to get a handful of it contained in the bar rag. I then managed to hurl the pukey mess into the face of the bartender who told me to clean it up.
Let this be a lesson to all you bartenders out there: just kick the person who threw up out. Suck it up, clean the mess up yourself. They may throw up again if they stay, or maybe the will pull one of the all-time douchiest moves and hurl a bar rag back at you.
In any event, the bartender wasn't happy and thanks to my amazing (drunk) people reading skills, I was able to deduce this. I ran out the door as my friends distracted the bouncer. Apparently no one gave chase, but I do vaguely recall running most of the 2 miles home (and I think throwing up several more times). I don't know exactly what happened, but I do know that no fewer than 10 people posted comments on my Facebook wall the next day to congratulate me on a job well done.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Things About Japan You Aren't Told
I was in Japan for the last couple of weeks visiting my girlfriend, in case you didn't know. It was an amazing trip, I must say. I saw Mt Fuji, downtown Tokyo, and all kinds of temples. But, I saw a few things that you won't be warned about, so I figured I would tell you so you won't be surprised when you visit the Land of the Rising Sun.
At some point, you will have to crap in a hole in the ground: For the most technologically advanced country in the world, Japan has a lot of toilets that are merely holes in the concrete that you squat over. It's moderately disconcerting at first, but after a while it feels like camping in a smelly concrete bunker. It just sort of happens, I guess. On the subject of toilets...
For every hole in the ground, there is a toilet with crazy technology on it: They have heated seats (amazing), a bidet (not as amazing), and automatically raising seats (pretty freaky at first). The best part is that the bidet water pressure is adjustable. I should warn you if it goes up to five, don't go beyond three unless you want water shot directly into your ass. And I don't mean your crack, I mean up your rectum. Also, some toilets have a little symbol on them like the third one from the left on this picture. Those are exactly what you would expect: a button to make the ladies feel a bit more fresh. Out of curiosity, I pressed it once. I must say, don't do that unless you feel your taint and scrotum need a thorough cleansing.
Japanese people make all kinds of strange noises: Every single Japanese person, from the oldest man to the youngest girl will make a noise of surprise that sounds roughly like a Tim the Toolman Taylor grunt. It's sort of their "Oh really?" noise, but far stranger. Also, they will constantly be making grunts on the train, while listening to you talk, and when they are in the stall next to you (possibly after getting a nice little taint washing).
They have vending machines everywhere: I know it's pretty well advertised that you can find most anything in vending machines there: from umbrellas to beer to panties, there's a vending machine that will have what you need (I saw all of those things in machines there, by the way). But what they won't tell you that even in the suburbs, there's a vending machine on every corner, often times more than one. And on those machines, you will notice that...
Tommy Lee Jones is fucking everywhere, staring at you like an omniscient God: Case in point:
The Japanese people as a whole don't know who he is except that he's the Boss Coffee spokesman.
Everyone has a charm on their cell phone: Much like this, everyone has crap hanging from their cell phones. Teenagers will have so much stuff on their phone that it can't be physically contained in the bags. The charms hang out of their pockets or bags like medals and stripes on a general's uniform. They have more mass than the phone itself often times. And even the most stern salary man will pull out his phone to reveal a little monkey dangling from it.
Japanese men's fashion has two categories: Business suit and gay. That's it, there's very little in between. Imagine a country full of indie/emo/scenester guys that decided to make their fashion gayer by a factor of 10 and you have Japanese guys. Their hair takes longer and is more stylish than most fashion models'. Their jeans are designer with more holes than fabric in them. Their shoes are pointier than elf shoes. They wear shirts that are tighter than their pants. Their belts look like everyone of them got a bedazzler for a gift. And they wear bigger sunglasses than your average Brooklyn Jewish Princess. It's disturbing.
And that's really about it for now. Enjoy your travels!
At some point, you will have to crap in a hole in the ground: For the most technologically advanced country in the world, Japan has a lot of toilets that are merely holes in the concrete that you squat over. It's moderately disconcerting at first, but after a while it feels like camping in a smelly concrete bunker. It just sort of happens, I guess. On the subject of toilets...
For every hole in the ground, there is a toilet with crazy technology on it: They have heated seats (amazing), a bidet (not as amazing), and automatically raising seats (pretty freaky at first). The best part is that the bidet water pressure is adjustable. I should warn you if it goes up to five, don't go beyond three unless you want water shot directly into your ass. And I don't mean your crack, I mean up your rectum. Also, some toilets have a little symbol on them like the third one from the left on this picture. Those are exactly what you would expect: a button to make the ladies feel a bit more fresh. Out of curiosity, I pressed it once. I must say, don't do that unless you feel your taint and scrotum need a thorough cleansing.
Japanese people make all kinds of strange noises: Every single Japanese person, from the oldest man to the youngest girl will make a noise of surprise that sounds roughly like a Tim the Toolman Taylor grunt. It's sort of their "Oh really?" noise, but far stranger. Also, they will constantly be making grunts on the train, while listening to you talk, and when they are in the stall next to you (possibly after getting a nice little taint washing).
They have vending machines everywhere: I know it's pretty well advertised that you can find most anything in vending machines there: from umbrellas to beer to panties, there's a vending machine that will have what you need (I saw all of those things in machines there, by the way). But what they won't tell you that even in the suburbs, there's a vending machine on every corner, often times more than one. And on those machines, you will notice that...
Tommy Lee Jones is fucking everywhere, staring at you like an omniscient God: Case in point:
The Japanese people as a whole don't know who he is except that he's the Boss Coffee spokesman.
Everyone has a charm on their cell phone: Much like this, everyone has crap hanging from their cell phones. Teenagers will have so much stuff on their phone that it can't be physically contained in the bags. The charms hang out of their pockets or bags like medals and stripes on a general's uniform. They have more mass than the phone itself often times. And even the most stern salary man will pull out his phone to reveal a little monkey dangling from it.
Japanese men's fashion has two categories: Business suit and gay. That's it, there's very little in between. Imagine a country full of indie/emo/scenester guys that decided to make their fashion gayer by a factor of 10 and you have Japanese guys. Their hair takes longer and is more stylish than most fashion models'. Their jeans are designer with more holes than fabric in them. Their shoes are pointier than elf shoes. They wear shirts that are tighter than their pants. Their belts look like everyone of them got a bedazzler for a gift. And they wear bigger sunglasses than your average Brooklyn Jewish Princess. It's disturbing.
And that's really about it for now. Enjoy your travels!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Fake IDs I've Seen (part 1)
While I was going to college, I (like so many other college students) worked in bars for a few years for some income. While I did bartend for a short amount of time, I was mostly a bouncer for around 4 years of experience (a little over 2 years at one bar and a little over 1.5 years at another, though some of that I was working at both). Considering one of those bars was a pretty well established underage bar, I saw a lot of fakes. While most of them were pretty forgettable, there are a few incidents that definitely stick out in my memory. I will recount one of these tales for you right now, with more to come.
I was at the bar (I won't say the name to protect the bar), guarding the door like a good bouncer should. Now, the general rule of thumb for the bar was if it was busy and we didn't need the numbers, get hard on IDs; if it was sort of dead, be a little more lax. Well, the bar wasn't very full on a Saturday night, so I was trying to get our numbers up by being more lenient with my checking. A group of four girls came up to the door, all of which were pretty clearly underage. I braced myself for the onslaught of bad fakes, and ended up with something I could never have braced myself for.
Now, most girls will try to flirt with the bouncer in order to get into a bar. While this will work sometimes, it didn't with me. That doesn't mean I wouldn't let you in if you flirted with me, but it wasn't because you flirted with me you got in. Most of the time I was trying to make more money (we got a share of the tips, you see) or I just didn't care that much. Another thing that people will try to do (and this is a good bit of advice for underagers) is put a legitimate ID at the front and lump the fakes in the middle, bookending with another legit person in the back of the group. This works pretty well too, but if you have an entire group of less than 21 year olds, you can't bookend very well.
Back to the group of girls: the first three handed me pretty obviously fake IDs. They were all out of state and weren't plausible, either because of the bad picture or just terrible fake qualities of the ID itself. I rolled my eyes at the cards, even asked a couple where they got them and how much they payed. I was going to let all of them in until I got to the fourth girl. She handed me her ID and I looked at it. I then had the following conversation with her:
Me: I can't let you in with this.
Girl: (looking confusedly at her friends) Why? It's me! [standard response]
Me: No, it's not. I can't let you in.
Girl: It's actually me! I have a second form. (pulls out a student ID matching the license)
Me: I know this isn't you and that means I can't let you in.
(Now her friends are really confused because a second ago I made fun of their fakes)
Girl: But it's actually me! See I have this second form! Why do you think it isn't me?
Me: (a bit annoyed now) Because if this is you (holding up the ID), that means I dated you four years ago, and I don't seem to remember that!
Girl: (stunned) Uh, wha-... What?
Me: Tanya Fay Risley (named changed to protect the innocent) from Edina, MN (also not true). She goes to grad school in South Dakota now for Physical Therapy (grad school true, nothing else). I've been to her house and met her parents.
Girl: (stunned silence)
Me: I can let a lot of things slide, but this isn't one of them. Bye.
(Girl and her friends walk out of the bar with weird looks on their faces.)
That's right, she handed me an ID of an ex-girlfriend from my sophomore year of college. I'm okay with most fakes, but that I just couldn't let through. The looks on the girls' faces after letting in three fakes and then stopping the fourth were pretty priceless. Sometimes I really liked that job.
I was at the bar (I won't say the name to protect the bar), guarding the door like a good bouncer should. Now, the general rule of thumb for the bar was if it was busy and we didn't need the numbers, get hard on IDs; if it was sort of dead, be a little more lax. Well, the bar wasn't very full on a Saturday night, so I was trying to get our numbers up by being more lenient with my checking. A group of four girls came up to the door, all of which were pretty clearly underage. I braced myself for the onslaught of bad fakes, and ended up with something I could never have braced myself for.
Now, most girls will try to flirt with the bouncer in order to get into a bar. While this will work sometimes, it didn't with me. That doesn't mean I wouldn't let you in if you flirted with me, but it wasn't because you flirted with me you got in. Most of the time I was trying to make more money (we got a share of the tips, you see) or I just didn't care that much. Another thing that people will try to do (and this is a good bit of advice for underagers) is put a legitimate ID at the front and lump the fakes in the middle, bookending with another legit person in the back of the group. This works pretty well too, but if you have an entire group of less than 21 year olds, you can't bookend very well.
Back to the group of girls: the first three handed me pretty obviously fake IDs. They were all out of state and weren't plausible, either because of the bad picture or just terrible fake qualities of the ID itself. I rolled my eyes at the cards, even asked a couple where they got them and how much they payed. I was going to let all of them in until I got to the fourth girl. She handed me her ID and I looked at it. I then had the following conversation with her:
Me: I can't let you in with this.
Girl: (looking confusedly at her friends) Why? It's me! [standard response]
Me: No, it's not. I can't let you in.
Girl: It's actually me! I have a second form. (pulls out a student ID matching the license)
Me: I know this isn't you and that means I can't let you in.
(Now her friends are really confused because a second ago I made fun of their fakes)
Girl: But it's actually me! See I have this second form! Why do you think it isn't me?
Me: (a bit annoyed now) Because if this is you (holding up the ID), that means I dated you four years ago, and I don't seem to remember that!
Girl: (stunned) Uh, wha-... What?
Me: Tanya Fay Risley (named changed to protect the innocent) from Edina, MN (also not true). She goes to grad school in South Dakota now for Physical Therapy (grad school true, nothing else). I've been to her house and met her parents.
Girl: (stunned silence)
Me: I can let a lot of things slide, but this isn't one of them. Bye.
(Girl and her friends walk out of the bar with weird looks on their faces.)
That's right, she handed me an ID of an ex-girlfriend from my sophomore year of college. I'm okay with most fakes, but that I just couldn't let through. The looks on the girls' faces after letting in three fakes and then stopping the fourth were pretty priceless. Sometimes I really liked that job.
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