3:01 P.M. – 11:00 – I do a bunch of work and reply to a flurry of text messages from my three carpoolers about last-minute crap…wishing I had flown with the other members of our group that are way smarter than myself and my three carpool teammates.
11:15 P.M. – I take my last “Non-Vegas Piss” in the company bathroom.
11:16 P.M. - I drag my co-workers out of the building by their wrists.
11:17 P.M. – The four of us pack all of our crap into our friend’s car. I have the biggest suitcase because EVERY…SINGLE…ZIPPER on EVERY…SINGLE…COMPARTMENT of EVERY…SINGLE…SUITCASE in my ENTIRE luggage collection has broken off, except for my second-largest suitcase. Everyone refuses to believe that this is a true story, so I get made fun of by the one guy and two ladies in my group for packing a larger bag than the females.
11:19 P.M. – I get upset about the luggage jokes, but I knew it was coming, so I let it slide. I am just thankful to even have luggage (even though every time I go somewhere overnight it looks like I am heading to Europe for six weeks).
11:21:00 P.M. – We are all packed, the engine is running, I have individually slapped each three in my carload for their part in the “luggage roast,” and we are ready to roll.
11:21:30 P.M. – A co-worker NOT going with us on our trip attempts to back his car out of his parking spot…and smashes the rear-left quarter panel of his car into a pillar in our underground parking garage.
11:21:32 P.M. – I did not see the crash happen, so I think the noise is from the pillars in the parking garage (again, underneath our building) snapping; and I think the building is collapsing on top of me. I can’t decide whether I want to take the last three seconds of my life to pee myself, shat myself or jokingly tell the other heterosexual male in our carpool (Scott) that I am secretly gay for him so it haunts him eternally.
11:22 P.M. – We all pile back OUT of the car and survey the damage from the crash. After seeing the broken taillight, we all simultaneously say “aaaahhhhhh fffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu _ _.”
11:24 P.M. – One of the girls in my group tries to lighten the emotional load by saying “It could be worse.” Seconds later, I explain that “It could also be better,” and how comments like hers in no way help the situation-and that, in fact, they make the person who just crashed his car want to slap her for her optimism.
11:29 P.M. – We FINALLY get back into the car and exit the parking garage. We drive 44 feet, pull into a gas station and get back out of the car. My friend Scott fills up his gas tank; we grab essential “crossing the desert in the middle of the night” supplies and get back into the car.
11:36 P.M. – We make a right out of the gas station, drive 84 feet and pull into Jack in the Box because one of the chicks wants to get something to eat. I berate her. I explain that this is exactly why guys cannot handle traveling with women. Because, all women do is impede progress and increase travel time. I don’t mean it, but it is the perfect cover – because I go in with her and order a #11. I return to the car and fall under more scrutiny for my hypocrisy. I am fine with this, because I have a spicy chicken sandwich, large curly fries and a bucket of Mr. Pibb.
11:44 P.M. – We get onto the 101 and Scott drops the hammer. We start doing that “It’s a four-hour drive, but at this rate, we can make it in 3:10” math, and then discussing it aloud.
12:02 A.M. – We are about 20 miles west of North Hollywood and two cop cars fly past us and bring traffic to a halt. The cops are holding up traffic so that the street crew can put out cones, signs and barriers for the weekend construction to begin. Four lanes jam into two and traffic quickly freezes.
12:09 A.M. – My friend Scott (driving) and myself (shotgun…All-Time, bitch) grow exasperated from sitting still and attempt to reposition ourselves by simultaneously leaning in toward the console, causing an unfortunate forearm touch. We instantaneously pull away, but at no point make eye contact.
We were so close. We were a Jack in the Box stop from never even seeing this traffic jam. Luckily, I made a scene about the girl wanting to stop for food, so everyone remembers this and silently blames the girl (even though I secretly wanted to stop as well, and subsequently took full advantage by ordering a large #11 which will soon be causing me a “food coma.”).
12:09 – 12:35 A.M. – Sitting on the highway. We have moved about 19 feet.
12:36 A.M. – My food coma sets in. For those unfamiliar with me, I fall asleep 30 minutes after I eat (every time) for about 45 minutes and then I wake up like it never happened (I had a fasting blood test last summer, and apparently there are no signs of hypoglycemia, hyperglycemia or diabetes…so who knows?)
.
12:37 A.M. – I wake up. As I stretch my arms out around my seat’s headrest, I touch the naked left foot of one of the chicks riding in the back of the car who was using my food coma as her own personal “stretch time.” While trying to rub the indentation of the passenger-side door lock out of my right cheek, I explain that her behavior is unacceptable.
12:38 A.M. – “Foot Girl” likens me to a bodily orifice.
12:42 A.M. – I laugh heartily at Scott for the 9th time in less than an hour because he plays the air drums during every song he hears on the car stereo. This does not sound all that funny, but it’s funny. To me it’s funny.
12:42 – 3:31 A.M. – Driving…
3:32 A.M. – We pull into the Mirage.
3:48 A.M. – We get our rooms keys and hit the elevator.
3:53 A.M. – We bust open the door to our room (which was booked under two names - one of which flew into Vegas earlier in the day, and one that rode in the car with me). Upon busting open our room door, we find three of our co-workers are already in the room (one of which flew all the way from our New York office to party).
3:54 A.M. – It’s on.
3:56 A.M. – We dial the iPod to “Lil Wayne” and let the bitch run.
3:57 A.M. – Seven people make a bottle of Absolut and two Gatorades appear and disappear in a matter of about 14 minutes.
4:11 A.M. – The Magnificent Seven hit the bar in the lobby of the Mirage. Texts are sent and received and our seven has grown to ten, thanks to some old college friends that were also in town. Two rounds at the bar and we close out.
4:42 A.M. – I’m Hazeyville (drunk, sauced, on lean, slizzered).
4:48 A.M. - We hit the casino floor.
4:49 A.M – I nearly collapse from secondhand smoke.
4:50 A.M – I am certain I have lung cancer.
4:55 – 5:45 A.M. – Roulette. At some point, I get reprimanded by the dealer for leaning on the glass by the spinning wheel. If they do not want people to lean on the glass, they should put up a sign that says “Please do not lean on the glass.” Oh wait, there is a sign (see “4:42 A.M.”).
5:46 – 6:22 A.M. – Blackjack.
6:23 A.M. – I realize (thanks to the nonsensical skylight in the front lobby of the Mirage) that it is “tomorrow outside,” and my body instantly decides that it needs to sleep.
6:36 A.M. – We hit the 24-hour diner at the front of the Mirage. I get my late night usual: pancakes and cheese fries (which satisfies your cravings for both breakfast food and grease. Try it this weekend. You’re welcome.).
7:27 A.M. – Separate checks.
7:35 A.M. – We enter the room and I make one of my drunk chick friends help me put my traveling sheets and pillowcases I brought from home onto the hotel room bed.
7:51 A.M. – Lights out.
Saturday.
10:24 A.M. – Two hours and twenty-three minutes of sleep and I am angry with everyone. We are awake because Scott is getting texts that one of our friends, who is staying at the Monte Carlo, has just landed a cabana at the Monte Carlo pool.
10:25 A.M. – I tell Scott, who is up and moving around, to be quite and that I am not going to the pool.
10:26 A.M. – Scott tells me “Wake up. It’s Vegas.”
10:26 A.M – I tell Scott, “Oh, I did not realize our geographical location. I guess I am fully-rested now.”
10:26 A.M – Scott likens me to female genitalia. I never hear it because I fall back asleep in the middle of his sentence.
11:15 A.M. – We cab to the Monte Carlo and rendezvous with our squad.
11:16 A.M. – I enter the pool area and hear music pounding. I am stoked to know there is a DJ, but at the same time, he’s bangin’ Beyonce, so I’m shook. I have one of those “Is this really going to be one of those DJs that plays Beyonce records all day to please the tourists that only know the top ten most downloaded iTunes songs?” moments.
11:18 A.M. – The DJ needle drops out of Beyonce and into True Pseudo’s “Freaking Me Out (Designer Drugs Remix)”. I don’t really like True Pseudo, but it lets me know where his head is at-and I relax because I know we are in good hands.
11:27 A.M. – The full roster posts up in the cabana (13-ish total???) and we commence to get it poppin’. Everyone strips down to their swimmers, but I keep on my hospital scrubs and white tee because I am fair-skinned like that.
12:17 P.M. – Our bottles of Stolinaya and beer arrive and things begin to crank up.
12:19 P.M. – The misting sprayers on top of the cabana are being whipped around by the wind and splashing me in the face no matter where I stand (I have to stand under the cabana because I know we are going to be here until 5:00 P.M. and I can’t be out in the sun for the entire time unless I plan on spending the evening in the hospital). Thus, I am gargling that misty spray like it is my job and wondering if my contacts have been washed out of my eyes.
12:27 P.M. – Scott figures out how to turn off the misters and I am stoked.
12:56 P.M. – It reaches 248 degrees and I tear off my scrubs.
12:57 P.M. – Scott alerts me that I need to “step my boardshort game up.” I retort that I have had my pair since boardshorts hit the Midwest. The saddest part is that my shorts are from 1995 when I lived at home in Indiana. I am embarrassed. I am usually the one that calls people out…and I just got called out. I am thinking “have I really had these boardshorts for 14 years?” It seems like way less because-when I lived in Indiana-I only wore my boardshorts one day a year when I visited my family in Tampa for a week and we spent that one day at the beach that sunburns me so bad I don’t want to go outside for another year.
12:59 P.M. – I succumb to the fact that I need to tighten my Swim Game and promise Scott that I will let him take me to a surf shop in L.A. as soon as we get home to rectify the matter. Scott also makes me promise to not only buy new boardshorts, but to trash my “tired, old boardshorts.” He explains that he doesn’t even want them to return to Los Angeles. He insists that I leave them in Nevada…just to be safe.
1:00 – 1:28 P.M. – Drinking…
1:29 P.M. – My friends decide to play floating beer pong in the pool.
One, I am grossed out by pools. I won’t step foot into a private pool, so you can imagine how I feel about a pool sharing the dead skin cells, ass sweat and armpit rinse of 800 strangers.
Two, beer pong disgusts me. Dropping that contaminated ball into cups of beer and drinking it is just asking for E-coli.
Three, PLAYING beer pong IN a Las Vegas hotel pool is Turbo Nast. They should really call it Urine Pong. I’m not really all that into hepatitis, so I stay on the sidelines. That’s just me.
1:48 P.M. – While sitting and watching my friends drink cups of beer with a urine-soaked ball in it, the DJ loops the first eight counts of “Suspicious Character” by The Blood Arm and blends into a House remix of “Use Somebody” by Kinds of Leon. I am impressed, but at the same time, secretly hoping for “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys.
2:38 P.M. – I am back in the cabana applying my second coat. While spraying myself with ‘block, the DJ juggles “Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems” and it was hot to def. I am starting to feel it.
3:16 – 3:35 P.M. – I am not certain of the order, but the DJ drops, Puffy’s “All About The Benjamins (Remix),” Kings of Leon’s “Sex On Fire,” Rick Springfield’s “Jesse’s Girl (some random Dance Remix)” and The Outfield’s “Your Love (DJ Roctakon’s Singing Sunday Bmore Remix).” I am on fire, and ready to hit the club right about now. Again, I have no idea what order the songs were played, but we somehow landed at or around 125 beats per minute.
3:39 P.M. – He played it.
3:39 P.M. – It happened.
3:42 P.M. – I’m exhausted.
Now, unless you were there that day, you are probably wondering what just transpired. Well, he played it. “It” is my favorite club joint (Steve Angello – “Be (MASHUP vs Show Me Love) {Hardwell Re-Edit}). What “happened” after that was-I ripped my shirt off like a crazy person and started swinging it in circles above my head, to the side, and toward the ground for a solid 90 seconds.
After growing tired of swinging my shirt, I began doing lunges. Now, I do these things in a lot of different public places, to mixed reviews. A lot of people are confused to see aerobic moves at bars and night clubs, but after the initial shock, most people seem to come around. The lovely folks at the Monte Carlo pool seemed to really be feeling the lunge.
After I ran out of breath from dancing, we made friends with the people in the cabana next to us who noticed my insane exploits. I mean, that’s the point isn’t it?
3:44 – 5:00 P.M. – We hang out with our new friends and continue to get sauced.
5:01 P.M. – The pool shuts down and we stubble out. Being a professional, I hit the convenience store and grab two one-liter bottles of water and get to chugging.
Big shout to DJ Sean O’Neal (sp.?) for killing the turntables all afternoon.
5:11- P.M. – We hail a minivan back to the Mirage.
5:23 P.M. – Two of the girls go up to the room to nap, while me, Scott, and our third chick roommate (“Jackie in the Box”) decide to head across the street to Chipotle.
5:29 P.M. – The three of us arrive at Chipotle.
5:38 - We are each about two bites into our respective burritos when I spill an entire large cup of Mr. Pibb onto the floor of the main/middle walkway in the restaurant.
5:41 P.M. – A Chipotle employee comes out to mop up the mess I have made. I request to do it myself because I am a drunken idiot, but she refuses my gesture.
5:56 P.M. – I walk out of the restaurant with my head held low.
6:08 P.M. – The three of us arrive back at our room where the other two girls are sleeping. The three of us fall into the two beds where there is room and join in the afternoon napping before we get ready for our 9:00 P.M. dinner reservation.
8:50 P.M. – Scott is awakened by a text message from one of our friends who has already arrived for our dinner reservation.
8:50 P.M. – Scott curses half-heartedly (due to exhaustion) and explains that our “nap” lasted a couple of hours longer than we had budgeted for - and that we just ruined our Saturday night dinner reservation that we all five promised to attend.
8:50 P.M. – I tell Scott “It’s Vegas.”
8:50 P.M. – No one laughs.
8:50 P.M. - 9:15 P.M. – We all five lay in silence and begin waking up.
9:16 P.M. – 11:00 P.M. – Shower assembly line, room service grilled cheese sandwiches, iPod on Daft Punk and pre-gaming with vodka shots…for them anyway. I am standing in the room staring at the wall and wondering if my headache will ever reside and if I am going to hurl. At some point, the iPod hit Mark Ronson’s “Valerie (The Count of Monte Cristo & Sinden Remix – Feat. Amy Winehouse)” and I feel the Electro run through my body. I speed shower and feel myself begin to turn the corner.
11:00 P.M. – We cab to The Palms.
11: 10 P.M. – There are about a two thousand people in the lobby of The Palms trying to get into both of the nightclubs, so we decide to migrate.
11:13 P.M. – “Foot Girl” orders us to the bar for a Lemon Drop shot before we exit. I seriously consider withdrawing my name from the festivities, but by the time I make up my mind, it’s too late and I already have a shot in hand.
11:14 P.M. – We click glasses and shoot.
11:14 P.M. – We all groan. I nearly puke on my shoe tops.
11:16 P.M – Waiting in the cab line outside The Palms.
11:33 P.M – We cab over to Wynn to see if we can get into Tryst.
11:45 P.M – 12:31 A.M. – Waiting in line at Tryst…
12:32 P.M – We head down the stairs to the club. I step inside and am amazed at the size and layout of the place. As soon as you walk through the front door, the dancefloor is front and center. Beyond the dancefloor, the club opens up to the outside. There is a pool, complete with waterfall right off the dancefloor. It is pretty sick.
12:36 P.M – We make it to the front of the bar and do a quick shot of Goosey. This time, I don’t feel like puking. I begin feeling like I could possibly be taking it to the house tonight. Quickly, I order a second round of shots. As soon as we all down the second shot of Goosey, the DJ drops DJ Class “I’m The Shit (Remix – Feat. Kanye West).” Immediately, I put my hand on Scott’s shoulder and begin jumping up and down as high as I can. The three chicks I am with are embarrassed. Scott is ecstatic. Scott has been waiting all night for “Wild Todd” to come out and go off…and it just happened.
12:39 A.M. – We hit the middle of the dancefloor, where the roof ends and you are basically outside by the pool looking up at the Nevada sky.
12:40 A.M. – I am in the freaking zone and the DJ is wrecking it.
12:42 A.M. – DJ drops LMFAO’s “Shots (Feat. Lil Jon)” and I get buck. I am screaming every word and no one cares because they are all just as inebriated as me.
12:42 A.M. – 1:02 A.M. – Bumping and grinding the ladies in my squad, we well as a few randoms (and Scott too from time to time).
1:03 A.M. – Another round of shots and a cocktail to chase it with.
1:04 A.M. – One of the ladies in our group opted out of the shots and decides to get in line to order a beer. Thus, I shoot her shot for her (my fourth) and dance on her while she is in line, because the DJ just went into Dr. Dre’s “Nuthin’ But A G Thang.” What choice did I have?
1:09 A.M. – The “Party of Five” is back in the center of the dancefloor, and serious footwork is on display. Still reeling from Dr. Dre, and wondering what the DJ is going to do now that he is down at 83 BPM, I begin to hear elements of T.I.’s “Swing Your Rag” cut through the mix. By the time the song is playing in the clear, I have already removed my button-up shirt and am steadily waving it around like a Gucci rag.
Yep, I dance…hard.
1:10 A.M. – 2:00 A.M. – Dancing, bathrooming, staring at the pool…
2:14 A.M. – Back up in my wheelhouse (126 BPM) the DJ completely sets it off with The Nightcrawlers’ “Push The Feeling On.” Or no. When I hear the vocal drop in, I realize that the track is actually Pitbull’s “Hotel Room Service,” and I go stupid. I believe this was the most hyper I was all weekend (barely edging the poolside Steve Angello demonstration). In fact, it is one of the most vivid memories of my entire trip. I love that damn song. That Saxophone sample is so filthy. DOPE!
2:45 A.M. – We leave the club and hail a minivan.
2:58 A.M. – We arrive at The Spearmint Rhino.
3:00 A.M. – The $40 cover charge makes me so angry that I forget that I am scared/disgusted by the idea of strip clubs.
3:01 A.M. – 4:24 A.M. – I stand with my arms at my sides (not touching ANYTHING) and wait my friends out. The lone bright spot is that the lame strip club DJ actually dropped Cassie’s “Long Way 2 Go (Feat. Ryan Leslie).” NO ONE EVER plays that record. It must have been Cookie’s strip routine song, because, based on what I heard leading up to this point, I just cannot imagine the DJ being that cool.
4:25 A.M. – We leave and head back to the Mirage one last time.
4:43 A.M. – We get back to the room and order more room service grilled cheeses sandwiches and some chicken fingers for good measure.
5:30 A.M. – Lights out for good.
Sunday.
10:30 A.M. – Wakey Wakey, eggs and bacey (as in “bacon,” yet altered to fit the rhyming scheme).
10:31 A.M. – 11:59 A.M. – Showers, dressing and packing for all.
Shower, dressing, stripping of personal bedding and packing for one of us.
12:00 P.M. – We check out of the Mirage and head to The Venetian for lunch with our friends from the Monte Carlo before they catch their flights back to L.A.
1:45 P.M – We all exchange hugs and possible dates for the next trip back.
2:00 P.M – The Foursome jam back into the car and leave the city.
3:00 P.M – We hit hella traffic (which we planned on) and stop off at the state line to kill time and let the roads clear.
3:10 P.M – We pull into Buffalo Bill’s to ride that damn “Desperado” roller coaster that we all drive past on I-15.
3:15 P.M – When we walk in the door of Buffalo Bill’s and it is spectacular. It is every bit as depressing as you imagine it when you speed past it on your way to the Vegas. It is dark, dingy, smokey and full of townies. I recommend that everyone check it out at least once.
3:21 P.M – We are ticketed and ready to get our coast on.
3:34 P.M – We step onto the coaster, I don’t fit. I bang my knees against everything and eventually buckle my safety belt.
3:37 P.M – The coaster takes off.
3:37 P.M – We drop 225 feet.
For some reason, we all four decided that this might be a good idea after nearly 24 straight hours of drinking in Las Vegas. I did not handle the drop well. I imagine that I would have screamed if my entire esophagus had not been filled with vomit. Lucky for “Foot Girl” sitting next to me, I was able to hold it in.
After the first drop, the coaster becomes less vomit-inducing and more bruise-inducing. It is the roughest roller coaster I have ever been on in my life (emotional or otherwise). I smashed each elbow against every piece of metal in my coaster car about 45 times apiece. The same goes for my knees (It would be Monday afternoon before I realized that I had huge bruises on the inside of each elbow and below each kneecap – and three weeks before they went away).
3:40 P.M – We exit the coaster and limp down the stairs silently asking ourselves why we paid money for that beating.
3:45 P.M – We drive across the street to the outlet mall.
3:46 P.M – 5:45 P.M – Shopping…
5:46 P.M – The four of us hit KFC across the street from the mall because it was pretty much all there was. No complaints from me. I got a Crispy Strip meal with double mash and kept it moving.
6:25 P.M – We hit the gas station for petro and ride out. It is right about now that three of us remember that we left work early on Friday and have to go back in for several hours AFTER we get back to L.A., which is now looking like 11:00 P.M., depending on traffic.
6:36 P.M. – 11:21 P.M. – Driving, hearing the Lakers won the title, watching Scott play air drums, making inappropriate jokes, sharing stories and fighting with the girls.
11:22 P.M. – Scott, “Foot Girl” and I drop off “Jackie In The Box” at home, so the three of us can go in to work.
11:25 P.M. – “Foot Girl” and I call every pizza place in the valley only to find that not one freaking pie spot is open past 10:00 P.M. on Sundays. How lame is this fact?
11:33 P.M. - - “Foot Girl” and I walk to, get this, Jack In The Box to politic with the usual late night tranny crowd there and get food for ourselves and Scott.
11:52 P.M. – We all three house our grease food and settle in to work until the sun comes up. Not awesome. I do not recommend this as a culmination to any Nevada trip. I cannot remember the last time I was so miserable.
Well, that’s pretty much wrap on Vegas, Part II. There are a few things I learned after this, my second trip to Nevada. Please allow me to share:
1 – Las Vegas trips are misery (but you signed up for it).
2 - You will be hung over until Tuesday.
3 - You will have spurts of nausea until Wednesday (and a little bit when standing up from your desk chair at work on Thursday).
4 – It will take seven days to physically and mentally recover from Nevada.
5 - It will take 3-4 weeks for the thought of Las Vegas to stop bringing you to the brink of spewing. Only at this point are you able to laugh at the memories you made on your most recent trip. But, again, until then, the mere mention of the city will make you want to url.
6 – I am too old to get drunk twice in one day. From now on, I need to spend my Nevada trips sleeping all afternoon and waking up for dinner and clubbing and that’s it.
Alright, I am going to shut this down. I have been piecing this together for over a month. At this rate, I will be back in Las Vegas again before this gets posted. So, I just need to stop re-reading and proofing this thing and post already. Sorry in advance for any typos and / or clarity issues.
For years, I have been meeting up with friends to chill at bars and clubs nationwide.No matter what city or state I am in, I keep running into the same irksome situation.
First, a little information about wordsbytodd.I’m not a big drinker.I drink about once every two months. I get drunk about once every two years.Basically, I’m like your grandmother.
There are many reasons why I often do NOT partake in the drinking festivities.For one, I have a lot of fun while sober.Second, I like to drive my car and do not wish to start a DUI collection.I like to drive so I can leave if someone makes a scene and/or ruins the night, or in case I need to move to another spot, or if I need to give drunk friends a ride home, and mostly because I like to leave the party when I am ready and ensure that I sleep in my ridiculously comfortable bed.These days, my back and neck do not respond as favorably to a squeaky night’s sleep on a friend’s futon (or bunk bed).
Also receiving votes were:
1) not having a hangover
2) not falling down and ripping a hole in the knee of my pants
3) not spending $120 at the bar when I could be spending that money to buy records (or dinner for a woman that is not interested in me for anything other than free meals).
4) I am 97% less likely to crave and consume 7000 calories worth of cheese fries and strawberry shake from In-N-Out at 3:00 A.M. (ruining two weeks of workouts).
At any rate, I routinely pass on the sauce.Having only hung out with me my entire life, many of my friends still do not grasp this.Thus, more often than not, whenever my friends and I rendezvous, someone will, without asking, buy a round of drinks for the group.
Balls!
At this point, I am immediately obligated to drink (and also purchase) the same number of drinks as there are people in our faction.
(Example:If you are in a group of four people, you will receive three “free” drinks and then buy the fourth round of four---giving everyone an equal four drinks drank and paid for.)
So, to be clear, I would show up not wanting to drink AT ALL, and then my friends would do me the “favor” of making up my mind for me that I am getting inebriated + not driving home (legally anyway) + splitting a taxi fare + scrambling to find someone to take me back to get my car the next day…and that it will be costing me at least $50 to do so.
Thanks for doing me that “favor.”
Do me a real favor and buy your own alcohol.If I want something, I will buy it for myself.This way, if I want one drink, I only have to have one drink.
Why doesn’t this make sense to people?
I realize that, more often than not, people are just trying to be polite with this gesture.I realize it, and I also do not care.
Leave me out of it.
Do not EVER buy me a drink unless you are a female (that is NOT part of my entourage) and you have a dangerously low self-esteem.
From time to time, people need to be notified (or reminded, depending) that some things are OVER-and will no longer be tolerated.Some of you may already be familiar with this idea if you read my “Over (10-26-08)” entry.Either way, I have officially added four more items to the list…
1 – The “Tapas” Discrepancy.
We all know that every time someone mentions a tapas restaurant, everyone thinks the person said “topless” (instead of “tapas”) because those two words sound a lot alike.
One, it’s not really all that funny.
Two, if any context clues are used whatsoever, it is easy to tell that when you and your friends are talking about making a reservation at a restaurant, they are probably not randomly inserting comments about shirtless females (with my friends it is slightly more difficult to tell, but still).
Bottom line:
1) Yes, the two words sound alike.
2)It was nothing more than “mildly amusing” the first time you heard it (61 years ago), so at this point it is
officially “zero funny.”
3)Stop laughing.
2 - Stud Finder.
For some reason, two hundred years later, when using a stud-finding device to locate a 2 x 4 in a wall, people still play the obvious “let’s see if we can find another stud around here besides me” line.
I have been dodging any and all light carpentry work situations and home improvement tv shows for the past 12 years in order to avoid this “joke.”
It is not funny, and everyone around you resents you for forcing them to muster a fake laugh when you drop this bomb.With any luck, those of you that read this will stop faking it and start giving these people the blank/bored/”really?” stare that they deserve.I mean, either that or just go ahead and punch them straight in the grill.In this situation, either option is acceptable.
3 - Closet Space.
There was a time before the sub-prime meltdown that I gave serious thought to becoming a real-estate agent.I decided against it solely because I knew I could not deal with showing heterosexual couples the closets in the master bedrooms, saying “As you can see, it’s a MONSTEROUSLY huge closet” and then having to handle hearing the guys say “Yeah, I might even be able to fit some of MY clothes in there (nervous laugh, nervous laugh, nervous laugh).”
I know me.And I know that if I put myself in this position, every guy that spoke these words would get slapped like a bitch (and I don’t see that helping me make any sales).
One day, I hope to purchase some property in another country.Given this, I DVR “House Hunters International” in an effort to keep current on real-estate around the globe.But, between this and #2, I may have to give up HGTV altogether.
Freaking “A”.
4 - The Osmonds.
Freak accidents and illnesses take thousands of unsuspecting (and suspecting) lives each year-yet somehow, after 95 years, both Donny and Marie Osmond are, as of yet, unscathed.
Inexplicably, these two are in their 90’s, healthier than your great-grandparents, still employed and still annoying everyone on a daily basis.
It is looking like there is no hope for disease, so please join me by crossing your fingers for a freak accident.
I'm actually doing this. I am actually putting up an official scoreboard for my readers.
I never thought I would, but I also never thought anyone would respond to the first trivia question.
For those that have no idea what I am talking about, read the entry before this one (and the rest of them, for that matter). But, if you are too lazy to do that (like me) I will summarize by saying that I placed a ten-point trivia question in the previous blog entry that was answered correctly by "The Carter Posse." Thus, ten points have been awarded, and an official scoreboard has been instituted as a constant reminder that everyone else in the entire world (except "The Carter Posse") is ten points behind, and also sucks.
Check it:
1 - The Carter Posse = 10 points
2 - Everyone else in the world = 0 points
3 - See #2
4 - See #3
5 - See #4
So, that's it for today. Keep an eye out for the ten-point trivia questions and you too could one day have your name bestowed upon the WBT Scoreboard.
(FYI, if you are looking to make it onto the scoreboard, it is probably going to pay to brush up on your Hip-Hop, Dance, Electro, Dubstep, Bassline and Soul music)
First off, ten points to the first reader to comment or email in the artist that I quoted for the title of this piece.
Who knows, maybe I start lacing each blog with a trivia question and posting an official scoreboard with reader point totals.I mean, probably not, but maybe.Really, you never know (but sometimes you do).
Now, let’s get to business…
The most glorious thing happened to me this past Thursday night and I absolutely have to share.As I stepped off the elevator en route to my flat at 3:48 a.m. (so, I guess it was Friday), I inadvertently surprised two drunk girls that were standing a few feet away from the elevator looking out over the property’s courtyard (and apparently not expecting anyone to be getting off the elevator at that hour).The two girls screamed in that “you realize it is really late and you should try to be quiet, but you can’t help it because you’re straight up Hazeyville-and some skinny kid with a backpack and pink watch just got off of the elevator and nearly scared the shat out of you” sort of way.
I have no answer for why I put my hands in the air like I was under arrest at that point, but I did.Maybe subconsciously it was my way of motioning: “I’m tipsy too/I just want to go to my apartment/I ain’t gonna hurt you because 1) I am a harmless skinny kid and 2) If I were a predator it wouldn’t even matter because I am so tired tonight that I’m just not feeling it.
I was perfectly content to pass it off as exactly what it was---two drunken girls wandering around my building at 3:48 a.m. on a Thursday (again)---and just walk on by like Dionne Warwick…but then they spoke to me.Even in an encounter as bizarre as this becomes in the next few paragraphs, I was still surprised that their first words to me were “Hey, have you seen two black guys?”Instantly wishing I was African-American, I smiled on the outside but dejectedly shook my head “No.”
As I braced to pass them and head toward my door, I happened to notice that they were both wearing Eye Black on their cheeks (like football and/or baseball players).Immediately intrigued, I decided to engage.As I drew closer and the girls gathered their respective frightened breaths and commenced giggling, I noticed that one was wearing a cape (like a vampire and/or baseball player).After pissing my pants, I pulled it together enough to ask exactly what was going on and how I could become involved.The ladies explained that they were “kinda messed up” and “playing Drunk Hide ‘N’ Seek” with their boyfriends.Instantaneously, two things entered my head: 1) they were losing and 2) by a lot.
One of the girls explained that she lived in the building with her boyfriend.At that moment, I realized that the guys were probably back at the apartment watching SportsCenter and wondering why the girls had been gone for six hours (and laughing when they realized that the one girl was still wearing a cape).
Apparently, these two young ladies were having a really rough time with the “seeking” portion of the game.It became obvious that, not only were these two never going to find their boyfriends, but these girls would be extremely lucky to “seek” their apartment at any point in the next five hours. Then, what to my wandering eyes should appear, but two black dudes doing lat pull-downs in one of our 24-hour fitness center mirrors.I explained to the girls that it looked like there was activity in the gym-area across the way and that maybe they should go check it out.
Now, in my younger days, I thought Sociology was something that colleges made up for dumb people (athletes) to major in, but I have spent the middle part of my Twenties infatuated with this branch of Science.I am always trying to pry deep into the nuts and bolts of what goes through people’s brains and makes them do the things they do.With this in mind, I wanted to question these girls about how this whole “Drunk Hide ‘N’ Seek” thing materialized (you know, because I am twenty-seven and I don’t play Hide ‘N’ Seek or Four-Square as much as I used to).So, I posed exactly that question.After a brief moment of silence, the caped one summed it up for me with one word, “vodka.”Realizing that, at this juncture, this was probably the extent of their collective recall, I decided to send them on their way.We exchanged goodbyes and I reminded them to head toward the gym-and that, if they wanted to, they could use the elevators to get there because they were still, you know, functioning.
After the girls hit the elevator, I wrestled my phone out of my pocket with hopes of calling someone to come over and play “One-On-One, I Had A Couple Of Drinks Two Hours Ago, But I Was Good To Drive Home, And If You Want To Crank It Back Up I Have Belvedere In My Freezer” Hide ‘N’ Seek with me, but no dice.I’ll be honest, I was sad.I was jealous as hell of those four and their DH’N’S game.
I don’t know about you all, but I don’t have nearly as much fun as I used to (and I have to be honest, I am one of the most fun people around).
I guess the point I am trying to make is that we are never too old to crank up a game of “Hide ‘N’ Seek” (drunk or otherwise).It made me smile to see those twenty-somethings keeping the dream alive.Age really ain’t nuthin’ but a number (no points will be awarded for naming the artist that sang this song due to the “obvious” factor).Sometimes, you just need to pop bottles, slap on some Eye Black, strap on a cape, and wrestle up a game of “Hide ‘N’ Seek.”
As soon as my key penetrated my lock, I thought “blog.”As I started cranking out a skeleton of this entry on a Chipotle receipt, I was trying to recall games from my younger days that I have incorporated into my adult(ish) years.It took about two seconds for my brain to flash back 386 days to a Cinco De Mayo party I went to last year at a friend’s house.
After an amazing Mexican meal and a mixture of spirits and seis-packs, the couple that was hosting the party surprised everyone with a piñata.
Let me say that again: a piñata.
It was hanging in the garage and it was full-o-candy.Once we decided that someone would probably die if we used the metal bat that the hosts had originally planned on, we changed to a wiffle and tequila-fueled madness ensued.
SIDEBAR:“Dizzy Bat” is my most-favorite-est game in the entire world. And, when you have a piñata, you kind of “Dizzy Bat” yourself, walk around, and then STILL get to swing a bat at a paper matche bull full of candy.It’s amazing.
It took about 30 minutes, but we eventually wiffled that paper mache bull into vapor, sending candy throughout the garage.I could not believe how much fun I was having.I kept trying to compare it to something, but nothing came close.The only memories I could muster where I was honestly equally excited and entertained were of raging at Chuck E. Cheese as a kid (you know, before you grow up and realize that entire place is coated in a quarter-inch of feces).
After the laughter from the piñata died down, I felt like everyone still had a lot left in their respective tanks, so I decided to take it up a notch.I marched inside the house and headed straight for the refrigerator door.You freaking guessed it…DRUNK EGG TOSS!Keep in mind that it was about 2:00 a.m. and pitch black outside except for the driveway fog light that barely illuminated a six-foot circle on the driveway.When the playing conditions are as such and tequila is involved, chances are high that people are going to end up wearing most of the eggs, but we didn’t care-we pressed on.
Four teams of two stretched out across the barely-illuminated driveway tossing eggs back and forth and smashing them all over one another.It may have been the greatest night of my adult(ish) life.
When did we stop playing games?
If I told you that you could have the most fun you have had in ten years tonight with seven friends, a patch of grass and a dozen eggs, what would you say (I know, you don’t have seven friends, but other than that)?
We need to keep these games alive.It’s so easy, it’s so much fun, and it’s so cheap (recession).Given this, it’s really stupid NOT to have an Egg Toss, piñata or Hide ‘N’ Seek game every weekend.
I need some new games.I hope that some of you will post or email in new ideas.I want to really take things up a notch this summer at the beach parties and barbeques that I attend.
I have been thinking of organizing a “Dizzy Bat” extravaganza for several years now, but it is just too dangerous.It is dangerous enough when sober and surrounded by acres of open space-so when people inevitably begin drinking and/or the game is held on a less than ample playing field, you have a recipe for surgeries.
Wait, Dizzy Bat is PERFECT for the beach.I keep forgetting that I live 30 minutes from the Pacific Ocean these days.In Indiana, a Dizzy Bat extravaganza was not really feasible, but with a beach in play I can really see this coming to fruition (sorry non-beach havers).Cali friends:be expecting an Evite.
Lastly, big shout out to my friends (who shall remain anonymous) for throwing the greatest Cinco De Mayo party EVER last year.You two are so dope.And also, why did you just randomly have two-dozen eggs chilling in the ‘fridge?Protein?I hope you two don’t take those things down “Rocky-style.”Yucky.
ALSO, huge shout to my friend J, who’s birthday is May 5th.Every year I remember in the days leading up to 5/5 and I tell everyone around me that my friend J’s birthday is Cinco De Mayo and we all talk about how interesting it is…..and I ALWAYS forget to call the poor kid on his birthday.I swear I ALWAYS remember J, I just ALWAYS forget to call.Happy Birthday, fam.
I decided that since College Football season ended four months ago, it was probably a good idea for me to get off of the couch and move around, even if it is just a little movement. I mean, at this point, any movement is good.
Unfortunately, I found a park three blocks from my apartment equipped with a huge/soft/well-shaded dirt running trail that surrounds several acres of lush grass. The reason why this is UN-fortunate is because shin and knee pain from running on asphalt/concrete surfaces is my go-to excuse for not taking my daily runs anymore. The “hard surface” excuse jumped my former #1 excuse of “the weather” when I moved from Indianapolis to Los Angeles back in September. When it’s 70 degrees and sunny every single day and you live 800 feet from and amazing park it is really difficult to come up with new #1 and #2 reasons NOT to exercise. So, I recently decided that is was probably better to put my energy into working out, instead of thinking up new excuses not to.
For those that do not know me, I have been tinkering with the idea of Triathlon for about three years now. Before I moved to L.A. (seven months ago), I was back in Indiana running about 20 and biking around 75 miles each week. I was in “Phase 2” of about 68 phases that would constitute me being ready to compete seriously in full-scale triathlons (and by “compete seriously,” I of course mean “finish…any of the three disciplines”).
Hey, at least it was a start.
At least I was working out five days a week. It got to the point where I would get restless and somehow saddened in those atypical instances when my social schedule would actually impede me from training on a given day. Holy balls, that seems like a lifetime ago.
But, now I’m back in the saddle-like a porn star fresh off of an antibiotic dosing schedule.
My first day back, I was five strides into my run and feeling pre…..tty good about myself …until a lady pushing a baby in a stroller with ONE HAND blew by me in the middle of what must have been her 94th mile. I know this because I saw her pushing that monster truck stroller around the track during my nearly 45-minute STRETCHING routine (and who knows how long she was running before I arrived). You know, this is exactly what you DON’T need when you are five strides into your first day back after a seven-month workout hiatus. It’s like, just when you start to feel proud of yourself for putting the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos back in the cupboard and lacing up your Sauconies, some lady five months out from giving birth blows by you on her 94th mile whilst pushing said offspring in a stroller WITH ONE HAND and checking her split times on the wristwatch on her free hand. Honestly, I wanted to stop running, rip my ear buds out, throw them on the ground, kick someone’s dog and walk home with my head held low. But, I kept on. I kept on limping along, gasping for oxygen like the fat guy in every movie that is trying to get in shape (usually while smoking a cigarette during some sort of cardio).
It hurt a lot. It hurt both physically (lungs, muscles, joints) and emotionally (Stroller Lady), but I did it. And, I have been back three to four days a week for five weeks now.
Shouts out to all of my people in the gyms and parks getting their swagger back and helping to slim down this robust nation. Don’t let the “Stroller Ladies” of the world get you down.
And attention Stroller Lady: In a few more months, I will be back at the top of my game. When that day comes, I will be raging through the park kicking over every stroller in my mother-freaking path. Be ready for that. You might want to put a chinstrap on that infant, because I am NOT playing games out here.
Some of you might be interested to know that I received word this week that I am being considered for a job as the newest blogger over at TMZ.
I have shared some of my cover letters in the past, so I thought you kids might like to see the cover letter of mine that made its way into TMZ's hands. As always, I was shockingly inappropriate.
As you will soon read, I invited TMZ to come check your boy’s blog out before making the obvious decision to hire me. So, feel free to leave a comment that makes me look awesome. This way, TMZ can see that I have to beg my readers for feedback and affection.
TMZ, if you are reading this…”Hi!!!!!” (in a high school girl’s voice. Ashley Tisdale, maybe?)
My name is Todd (last name deleted for the purpose of anonymity).
You folks at TMZ are about to hire me for the new blogger position, and you are about to read why.
Ironically, I posted a blog about cover letters two weeks ago. Don’t believe me? Then suck on this link… You Should Hire This "Todd" Guy
If for some reason you did not suck on the previous link, you can spare yourself the boredom of my cover letter and resume by hitting Todd Is The Funniest Bastard To Ever Use "Times New Roman" right now to immediately find out why I am the blogger your company was hoping to hire when this job opening was posted. Otherwise, feel free to read the boring stuff below...
I am as creative, organized and nontraditional as you will find. My work ethic borders on obsessive, my writing borders on genius, and as luck would have it, I also happen to be hilarious. You really want to hire me right about now, don’t you? I know. I know.
I have attached my resume for you to completely ignore. If for some reason you read it, I hope you will find it to be a good match for Thirty Mile Zone …but that won’t happen, because I have absolutely ZERO professional writing experience. But, personally, I feel like I have made up for my lack of professional writing experience by professionally bitch-slapping the interweb over the past seven months with the dopest blog in the world.
Seriously, I am Chris Brown-ing the blogosphere.
Fear me.
I look forward to the possibility of wasting your time with an interview and subsequent facility visit. I love wearing a suit, meeting higher-ups, and lying about how qualified I am for a job...if only for an hour or so.
If you give me this job, I will rock the bitch like a video game. Trust that.Thank you for your time.
R.I.P. Tupac,
Todd (last name deleted for the purpose of anonymity) {AKA “Toddy Blog”}
