Home Defense While On The Road

My fine place of work sent me and Mr. Jayson Consensual Sodomy Khademi (funny cause it rhymes and funny cause sodomy is hilarious) out to San Francisco again. This time with the big dogs, #1 and #2 of our establishment that puts the grub on the table. Jayson and I now are veterans at work trips, we've mastered the art of balancing hand shakes and vice-abuse issues very well. The beauty of San Francisco is that Substance Abuse Addled Folk are not only welcome but they are family. There have been trips to San Francisco involving crack heads and songs, crack heads and bands, crack heads and recording studios, crack heads and garage doors, crack heads and Golden Gate Bridges, and crack heads with harmonicas. Drunks and road cones, drunks and sushi bars, drunks and men playing with naughty man parts, drunks and drunk old friends, and drunks with a bottle of cranberry juice and Kettle One Potatoe Wine. ALSO Pot Heads with-- well friends. Every great pot head always has friends in every major city and this trip had some friends.

Night #1 - Had a few drinks and ate the best sushi in America. I haven't eaten enough sushi across planet US but those Chinamen wielding small knives on raw sealings, rice, and seaweed-lings in SF can't be wrong and will probably take the ole Pepsi challenge on any implant at NYC. Thus my accolade of 'In America'- someone prove me wrong! - and if anyone emails me regarding some KMart sushi BS I will crap in their father's throats and post how they told me it tasted. Sushi is like Crack to me now...just much much much more pricey. Crack is going for $5 for a hit 'round the Valley...
We went to bed after some PSP action and the eve closed. Not sure if two men laying in beds in their boxers next to each other is gay or not but I swear there was no sausage play.

Night #2 - Cab ride from hell NUMBER ONE. SF is mired in scenic hilly and windy roads. When you give a cabbie a map and orders to get our crew to Oakland you expect to avoid going 65 mph over these stupid hills. 259 27th St. OAKLAND. I watch the Bay bridge (rte 88) go by and say nothing. I'm an idiot and say nothing. I KNOW HOW TO GET TO OAKLAND AND I SAY NOTHING!! I thought maybe - (a pro (?)) a driver in SF knew a magical tunnel underwater to Oakland? I am in a backseat with #1 and #2, Jay's terrorist skinny 160 lb ass is in the front. I am no longer the punk rock skinny bastard I once was, #2 has the shoulders of Michael Phelps, and #1 has the body of an extra from Roadhouse.

I am sitting bitch.

We go to 259 27th St. SF. Wrong town. Wrong area. And 4x farther away. Jerry Garcia has a better compass than this. The cabbie is pissed and guns it over those delicious hills at ---65mph, over the bay bridge, and into Oakland. 259 27th St. OAKLAND.
I am seasick. As well as #2 to my left. After an hour + cab ride we get dropped off (and we shorted that son of a bitch cabbie by $30) in Oakland. Every thing you've ever heard about Oakland is true. If America were to fuck up a city in need...why Baghdad? There is much work needed in our homeland. Trenton has more promise than this desolate burnt out drug addled wasted crummy broken town. Citizens were FIXING THEIR TRUCKS WHILE TYING OFF where we were dropped off at. As a trade we got to hang out with Green Day and chill at a beautiful and historic recording facility in the barrio. The ride back was much nicer.

MUCH NICER- Great dinner. More sushi. Shanghai 1930 was the depot and Katie, our waitress, had the inkling that our crew and friends enjoyed the rocks in our glasses. Chivalry died early on and racism ran rampant- embarassing to me but fulfilling when your higher up yells "Prease ching-chong-bing-bong-I'm-out of scrotch-prease!" at the good ole Kate.
Time for us young Vets to party and the old haven't-been-their-in-a-while higher ups to hit the sack. WRONG-O. The #1's and #2's want to party too. BRING IT! ZEITGEIST WE GO, the finest bar in the entire city. Punk rock\party\hippie\gay\under-an-overpass\party bar, there is no way these fuddy-duddies will survive. AND THE POT FAIRY ARRIVES.
In the form of 12 bags, 11 different flavors, and 1 bag of crushed pure THC, Vikes, and Pixie Stix. Go ahead and read that again.

Our crew, dig on these numbers, baker's dozen:

4 Employees, you know 'em, #1, #2, Jay and me.

2 Friends of mine that live in SF.

1 Grad and studio owner, Andy of A & D Studios in Sunnyvale CA (plug!!)

1 Grad, live sound dude for multiple very famous touring acts

2 recent grads of the school

2 CURRENT STUDENTS

--Whatever job you have I'm sure you can understand that these people range from the high, low, famed, and otherwise and YOU and YOUR COMPANY are responsible. I don't smoke the Greenwich of Beelzebub frequently, but I am aware of the consequences. After drinking. A lot. After drinkg a lot a lot a lot. Well that foe wins frequently, and won this eve. #1 (he was the ching-chong-bing-bong-needacocktailaroonie fella) was being the out of gas drunkard. #2 however...fell to the foe. MODERATION is the key when you are asked to take out clients and students and grads and famers and the like. After enjoying 12 + Grey Goose Rocks, you can potentially survive a bowl of Jesus Fur. Two and you are partying in TV Land. Three and you're Indiana Jones. Four and you're the village idiot. Five and you're in a Michael Bay flick wondering if the money's worth it. Six...SIX...well SIX and you are only a story for others to tell. Back to back to back to back to back to back these fellas smoked. Gnite #2, sweet dreams...at the bar...underneath an overpass. Now I was no angel, but I do remember one of the help coming by and asking us how our 'buddy' was. We told him he was OK, just sleeping. And that was fine in SF, GOD BLESS THAT TOWN. 45 minutes later though, when he threw up all over himself...We got kicked out. Out of a Punk rock\party\hippie\gay\under-an-overpass\party bar in the City By The Gay.

Pix were taken outside the shamed bar, laughs had, now it's time to get back to the hotel. Small feat to be had and there should be NO STORY HERE. The hotel is 3 miles away. Taxi = 9 minutes. Train = 13 minutes with the walk to the station. My cohorts are idiots and opt to get in a car with one of the drunks from the bar. I could have gone with one of the more intelligent plans...but the beer asked me to stick with my pals. Thanks beer.

I am in a backseat with #1 and vomitous #2, Jay's terrorist skinny 160 lb ass is in the front. I am no longer the punk rock skinny bastard I once was, #2 has the shoulders of Michael Phelps, and #1 has the body of an extra from Roadhouse.

I am sitting bitch.

I tell our drunk graduate to go up one block and West 3. Our co-pilot in the front seat disagrees. He points the opposite direction of yours truly and off we go. At 2AM we got to see Fisherman's Warf, Golden Gate, Giant's Stadium, and the Tenderloin District. All while #2 was vomiting on our graduate's vehicle. Classy. Line of the night? #2 after vomiting on our grad's car- "I think I left my heart in San Francisco!" - while vomit was dripping off his finger onto my leg. Thanks pal. I gave our graduate $20 and told him to wash his car on the way out. Jay and I walked to the nearest bar and did a shot of warm tequila to nod the night away and we went back to the hotel. Where we laid in our boxers playing PSP until we nodded off...and there was nothing gay about it I swear!

THE WAY BACK TO THE DESERT, Cab ride of interest NUMBER #2

I was thrilled that we asked for a town car not a cab to get us to the airport. It's a solid 20min + ride from downtown SF. We load up and...

I am in a backseat with #1 and #2, Jay's terrorist skinny 160 lb ass is in the front. I am no longer the punk rock skinny bastard I once was, #2 has the shoulders of Michael Phelps, and #1 has the body of an extra from Roadhouse.

I am sitting bitch.

But it's a town car and all is well! When you get into a town car you expect a kind fella in a suit to ask you what you need or are you in a hurry. Probably 50-60 years of age and a worldly dude that can talk about A1 Sauce or the economy. Comfprt. The last memories of SF 08 was a driver...22...Red Bull in hand...asked if we were in a hurry. We said no.

"Well good to hear guys because being in a rush you'll leave this town car in a pile of burning metal and no one will recogonize you! - Have you ever seen that before because I have!!"

High on meth and pounding Red Bull he took us on a 25 minute 'Scare Tactics' worthy scenario. He told us that he just got back from Iraq. He says he saw his friend get shot in the face, he killed a lot of those "towel headed worthless mother fuckers" and that no one appreciated him. Every other sentence was "Sorry guys I hope it's OK if I talk about this, I appreciate you listening sirs." We did everything but sing some Francis Scott Key to this swerving uppers-crazy bastard. We actually may HAVE sung the anthem, I was too scared to remember. I told him from the bitch seat that I appreciated his service and he TURNED AROUND COMPLETELY DOING 75mph to thank me for my appreciation. I spoke no more during our trip of 'dear Jesus get us there safe.' Jayson made small talk and our fine driver wanted to show him pictures from Iraq. So he dug in his pocket with BOTH HANDS and found his iPhone. He found the pictures of some crazy satellite shots and explained them to Jay...while we swerved thru three lanes. Awesome. He told us his Dad had given him the gig when he came home because he couldn't get any other work. I am thankful that I am here today but seriously...Darwin are you not paying attention?

Safe and Sound in the desert where I belong...cheers all!

Empty Anus, Filthy Hands

Sometimes our butts don't work the way we want them to. There can be timing issues, audio intensive issues, and of course issues involving our nasal passages. My issue revolved around timing.

So Joan and I were going to make an evening for ourselves and did a little bar hopping. Dive bar here, dive bar there, finally landing in our crawl-in-the-wall bar next door, about a mile from my place. Some wings and some drinks, some karaoke and some drinks, and the low low naughty rumble began to shake my inards. Damnit. This place is a DIVE; which I do love of course, but a crummy dive bar is not a place to have a seat and enjoy the miracle of a working gastrointestinal system. So I fought off the urge and the rumblings but I could tell this story was definitely going to have an ending in the locale we currently resided. After a decent fight I decided the battle was a loss anyhow and I trotted off to the crapper praying that I didn't return to my drink with crabs.

Bad news for Uncle Greg: The one toilet was filled with human waste of sorts, and was not flushing. Fucking gross. Really fucking gross. I'm out.

I returned to the table to a Joan who thought this situation was really really funny- and I guess it was pretty funny, funny enough that I'm writing about it hear I suppose, but at the time I was considering how much trouble I would get in if I took a crap in the corner of the bar; 'funny' wasn't really in me at the time, only turds were. Joan grabbed a bouncer and let him know that the crapper was buenoless. I did a jig in my painfu little head when I saw the man walk back to the bathrooms. Tick tock tick tock 5 more minutes and I should be able to get back to enjoying my humbling bar experience. I waited and waited and returned to the shitter once I saw the bouncer out of the can. I think perhaps I even jumped and clicked my shoes together in the air on the way. Threw open the stall door and voila! Same thing, no change, no flush.

Guuuuuuuuurgle gurrrrrgle gurgle. Time's up Greg, shit your pants or find an alternative. Point of no return has come and gone, any thought of running home real quick has now gone by. One stupid mile away and I can't make it. Time to get resourceful and fast. GROSS. I grabbed the WOODEN lid to the top of the toilet and put it on the ground. Fixed the two-part chain (half was chain half was some crazy peperclip combination that had come undone). Got on my hands and knees and got the water going again. Forced the flush with a lift of the bobber. Lid back on, did an extreme off colored disease inspection of the top of the can, ripped down the Wranglers and let 'er rip.

Back to the table and the rest of the eve was a sucess. However I did just have my hands in an awful shithole's shithole, on my hands and knees fixing a toilet full of drunk stranger's waste in a crummy part of town. Was it worth it? I'll give it a stalemate. It did resolve the issue and led to a kick ass evening, but it seriously was one of the nastier things I've ever done. Since I've been more aware of my bowel habits prior to going to nasty places. Another life lesson learned by yours truly.

Drinkin With A New One

Last evening the Bears played the Redskins and although I am not a fan of either it was a great excuse to get out and do some good old fashioned beer drinking during the week. One of my fellow employees, Mr. Ryan Beck, is a solid Bears fan and we have been talking about sharing a cold one for a while so I pounced on the opportunity. At about 9am when I first started thinking about drinking plans for the night I asked the lad if he'd like to join for the ball game. I recommended The Draft House, my local dingy funky cheap nasty slow crawl of a pub. I had forgotten that people of the normal human race aren't fans of such dives for the reasons of physical harm, emotional distraught, and disease. I like a bar where contracting an STD from your bar stool is a real possibility and I often forget that this concerns most other members of society. Ryan then recommended The Fox and Hound, a very nice sports bar down the street. His words were typed exactly like this:

RyanCras: 2 dollar pints and half off appetizers and more titties than you can throw your jizz at
RyanCras: ...and I DO throw my jizz

Recalling that I'm a sick weirdo and haven't been to a nice establishment in what could be years I obliged and continued with the day.

Here's the post work-day lineup for the game:

Me: Nuff Said.
Joan: Well seasoned and veteran drinker post 2 seperate stabs at AA
Steve: Current AA member who has burned the silly wagon down
Ryan Brannigan: Professional beer drinker and Bears fan to boot.
RYAN BECK: ?

Joan and I arrive to Ryan woofing down a dozen honey hot chicken wings and nursing a pint of brew. The game was a dull stalemate for most of the first half, and eventually Steve showed up. Beer, beer, beer, and Ryan orders a basket of soft pretzels with cheese sauce. And a diet pepsi. Unacceptable. If I am only good at one thing it is peer pressuring company into sin, and I wasn't about to have this Thursday turn into a diet cola how-was-your-day party. I arm wrestled Mr. Beck into another beer, knowing that just a couple beers force fed to our protagonist and he would crave it's sweet nectar the rest of the eve.

During the third quarter the 5th member of our party arrived, my roomate Ryan Brannigan. Now through the power of deliciousness, alcohol's firm grasp tightened as Mr. Beck watched the 4 of us drink faster and faster. The game ended with the Bears blowing it late in the fourth and I was ready to go. However my solid beer drinking compadres refused to allow me to wimp out. After all we were at a bar and bars do have all the requirements of good living and were we to leave clearly our quality of living would decrease. Time for some billiards. At this point of the night I have had a meager 6 or 7 pints. Ryan Beck looked over at me after finishing off his 6th or 7th and said "Seriously dude are you going to be at work tomorrow?" Ugh...yes of course, I've been concerned before when it's been 4:30am and I'm 46 cocktails deep, but a six pack has never kept me from anything but a better buzz. I now realized we were dealing with one of these guys that say things like 'Yeah but I'm not really much of a drinker.' Now I know it's my mission to get this poor guy plowed; luckily I didn't have to.

Beer beer beer, shot, beer. Suddently in the midst of a game Ryan Brannigan is approached by a gang of younger fraternity looking guys. "Wooooowoo any of y'all mutherfuckers drink beer real fast over here wooooh!" With the prospect of free beer Brannigan was in and joined their table. The frat dudes needed a 4th member of the team as they were one short...for a game of anhorman. Andchorman is a game in which two teams of 4 (or however many) get on either side of a long table and drink beer real fast. As soon as the player to your left drinks their beer real fast then you are allowed to start drinking your beer real fast. Finally the anchorman must drink their own beer real fast, and as soon as their beer is empty and back on the table beofre the opponent's anchorman you are winner of drinking beer real fast. I tried earlier to explain this game to my boss and he said that he too plays this game but with less rules. He calls it just drink your fuckin drink and he plays it all the time.

Outside for a smoke and the frat boys followed after a close match but Ryan's team did eek out a victory, somewhat numbing the pain of his Bear's loss. One of the frat dudes said to Ryan that he reminds him of this dude Dan he knows. Ryan said that Dan is his brother and they look very much alike and the crowd of testosterone filled strangers erupted into laughter. "Fuck yeah dude you're RYAN! DANNY'S brother!? Yo me and him fucked this girl on camera last year that dude is fuckin awesome!"

What a great introduction. Now our once simple about to drink newbie was clammoring to get involved in some anchorman action to and off he went. Let's just say that at 11 when we left there was little left of the man who's drinking skills we once questioned. Stumbling out of the bar he left us but this morning upon his arrival an hour and ten minutes late I messaged him to see how he was doing. Here was the answer:

GregCras: Did you survive the evening? How did it end for you?
RyanCras: ran 2 miles when I got home lifted some weights called my ex-girlfriend and rambled on her cell phone - no clue what I said. Then I called her ex boyfriend and best friend holly and rambled to them for an hour about how I hate the bitch and can't beleive she's doing what she's doing to me - thanks Greg

You're welcome buddy. It's what I do.

Fire Can Be Funny Too

My roomate and friend Ryan likes to cook. He even cooks well and not just well for a dude in a bachelor pad, but well for well's sake. This past Monday we were desperately hungover. I had just gotten home from work and wanted three things: 1)Bite the damned dog that bit me first 2) Put anything of nutrition into my belly and 3) Go to bed and pray for death. Luckily for me Ryan felt the same way and began cooking up some fried chicken. 3 eggs, bread crumbs, chicken and a boiling vat of oil on the stove- we are ready to rock. I poured a vodka soda, put some cartoons on, and awaited the chef to bring me my chitlins.

The crackling of chicken breasts crisping in the oil and the smell of boiling grease was putting a smile on my hungover world. Then the left side of the room went bright orange. Grease fire on the stove, good job Ryan. Rarely do you ever have to deal with fire on an emergency basis, and even rarer deal with it inside where God has not intended fires to run rampant. It's a pretty simple animal and there are only a few rules to control it; but when you have to deal with it on an emergency basis inside your tiny little apartment sometimes you lose your cool. Ryan lost his cool.

First thing I heard as I turned seeing my entire kitchen fairly ablaze was Ryan saying in a fairly panicked voice "uhhhhhhh no no no uhhhhh baking soda baking soda baking soda!" From my position on the couch I knew that Ryan was doing the right thing with the baking soda so I chose to instead of freak out and help enjoy my hangover and the vodka Sprite that was helping to ease it. Suddenly the 'fairly' ablaze kitchen became a Die-Hardesque explosion, large enough that from my humble seat on the couch I felt the heat come off the kitchen. Ryan was thinking baking soda, but somehow in his panic he founf FLOUR and SOMEHOW figured that since both were white and powdery they both probably had the same effect on fire. A fist full of flour got launched at the grease fire and in one quick GA-WOOSH Ryan and I were both in a panic.

Ryan's next instinct was a good one. Turn off the burner. The flames would die down in seconds and there would be no cause for concern. Ryan's instinct told his hand but his hand was not in great communication with his head. He turned off the wrong burner.

"uhhhhhhhhh uhhhhhhhh uhhhhhh oh no oh no oh no ok ok smother it!" comes out of the kitchen. Another good idea. Unfortunately the burner was still on 'blaze' so whatever Ryan was about to put on it was simply going to cook. First thing that he grabbed was going to be the glass lid of one of my pots. Good news: it worked. Kinda. At some point the blazing fire currently subduiing the flame was going to explode into a million pieces on my stove, allowing oxygen to once again ignite the flame and what will surely be a giant fireball will scorch my vaulted ceiling. I explained this quickly to our protagonist and he removed the glass cover- not exactly what I meant by my explanation. Instead of having the glass explosion ignite the flame Ryan introduced Mr. Oxygen to the flame; well at least the pot still has a lid I guess. Another GA-WOOSH and we were back at square one.

Finally Ryan came to his senses and realized that he had flipped off the wrong burner and with one quick turn to the left the excitement was over. The entire event took all of 15-20 seconds but godamn it was a great time. The apartment was completely filled with dark black smoke but my hangover was dulled by the adrenaline shots Ry had given me. Thanks buddy. The chicken was still delicious and we didn't have to use our renter's insurance for anything. Assuming nothing goes teribly wrong, uncontrolled fire in the home can be hilarious, and tossing flour at it can be a wonderful science experiment.

Big Blue Bear

Had lunch with Mr. Harper today and it ended with one of the greatest stories I've heard from the guy. Now I shall share it with you. Dave is from the Columbus OH area. Years ago before he moved out here Dave and his posse were looking for some silliness to find, and they found it in a six-foot tall stuffed toy bear. He also told me that there was no booze involved up to this point; I don't know whether to believe that or not but it's his story so I'll try to keep it as close to the original as I can. The idea comes to the crew that if they unstuffed the giant bear and cut a hole in the back they would have their very own bear suit. Now I don't know how much stuffing is in a six-foot tall bear but I figure it's a whole shit-ton of stuffing. Enough that Dave told me they covered his buddies entire basement floor with it. Dave climbed into his new bear suit and now it was idea time. They figured the bars were closing soon and they wanted to fuck with the late night crowd. The goal: get Dave stolen as a big blue bear. They drove around long enough to steal a balloon tied to a mailbox. Scored a For Sale sign. Stole a blinking construction warning sign.

All the elements were in place to cause some late night chaos. The crew went to the local pub and placed Dave in the parking lot with blinking sign, For Sale sign in lap, and balloon tied to his hand. At 2am the bar emptied out and a few fraternity dudes brought their truck up next to him. First they discussed stealing the big blue bear. Could success come this quick and easy? Negative. It turned into a "Naw dude kick it in the face!" Not good. "Naw dude hit it with the truck!!!!" The truck backed up through the lot and aimed it's grill at Davey the big blue bear. Not wanting to give up his joke but also not wanting to give up his mortality Dave waited it out until the truck's tires spun and took off at him. Dave jumped to his feet and watched as the frat dudes freaked out at the magically alive bear. They briefly lost control of their truck before peeling it back onto the street and taking off with one hell of a bar story in their pockets.

I don't know how Dave felt at this juncture but I would feel like I had gained magical powers. Next they got word that Dave's cousin and very dear friend Rob was down the block and would be leaving the party soon. If someone was going to steal Dave the big blue bear it was Rob. Rob and his friend Jason were very, very high. Very high. Dave sat on the curb, balloon in hand, blinker blinking, and For Sale sign once again in lap. Jason and Rob pulled up behind the big blue bear and Dave could hear them whispering under the heavy influence of devil lettuce that they should totally steal the bear. Rob hopped out and approached. Just when he was in reaching distance the big blue bear sprung to life, hands in the air, and belted out a raaaaaawr. Rob freaked and jogged away screaming while Jason hit the gas and took off into the night. The bear gave chase. Rob was now running from a menacing stuffed toy bear that magically came to life confusing the hell out of his once blissful buzz. After a 500 foot run the big blue bear began to speak mid run to him.

"ROB STOP RUNNING MAN! I'M YOU'RE COUSIN!!"
"HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW MY NAME BEAR!?"
"ROB IT'S DAVE YOUR COUSIN MAN!"
"HOW THE HELL DO YOU KNOW MY COUSIN DAVE BEAR!?"

Jogging + high and confused is awesome.

Dave finally corralled his pal and they got to enjoy a good laugh at the prank. Unfortunately Rob's ride had bugged out and left him. It was some time before Jason had the balls to come back and rescue him. Dave and crew were now hoofing around town looking for more fun things to do in a bear suit when the fuzz showed up. Everyone scattered except for Dave. The police flashed the lights and Dave the big blue bear was about to be investigated. As crazy as it may look, there is nothing illegal about being a stuffed toy bear in public, even at 3am.
"Excuse me uh...sir...what are you doing?"
"Just bein' a bear officer!"
"Er..so...have you been drinking sir?"
"Nope! Just bein' a big blue bear."
The cop started laughing (how couldn't you?) "Man I have seen some shit 16 years on the force, but this is just crazy! Uh, I hope you understand uh, Mr. Bear, but I do have to frisk you."
Now Dave the big blue bear is bent over, hand on a police cruiser, being patted down by a veteran officer of the Columbus police force- at which time a second cruiser pulled up and the loud speaker belted out through what I'm sure was stifled laughter: "Officer Rogers do you have that bear under control?"

Being a big blue bear must be so cool.

"Mr. Bear I have to run your license."
"Sure sir! Mind if I take my hand out of my paw though to reach in my wallet?"
So they ran Dave the big blue bear's record and it came out clean.
"Are you by yourself tonight Dave?"
"Sure am sir."
At which time Dave's crew who had been hiding in the bushes scattered giving the gag up probably thinking Dave was in some serious trouble. Also knowing the crew that Dave had in Ohio, several probably had warrants out. But the cop didn't care.
"Listen Mr. Harper can I give you a ride home?"
"Sure!"
"Um...are you gonna wear the bear suit in the car?"
"Yup!"

And there my buddy Dave was. Getting a friendly ride in a police cruiser at 3am in a big blue bear suit. Everytime you get into it with a member of the force, for better or worse, it's documented on your permanent record.

Dave the big blue bear is on his permanent record. What's on yours?


POST STORY:
Dave left Ohio for life in the desert. But the big blue bear stayed- and lived on. Dave said he heard stories of the bear making it to Ohio State, exchanging hands and faces. At one point the bear made it to another friend of Dave's who wore the bear suit through the drive thru at a Taco Bell. And ordered honey. When in a big blue bear suit you automatically become a comedian. The voice on the speaker told him that they don't have honey but they DO have Border Ices. Border Ice it is. When they pulled up to the window the clerks saw the bear suit- and so did the three state troopers eating there. The big blue bear did not see the officers run outside, but he DID see the 3 staties rush the car, draw their weapons, and order Mr. Bear out of the car. Just because you're a comedian does not mean that everyone thinks you're funny. The bear was handcuffed- no really, they didn't take him out of the suit, they cuffed him IN the suit- and was threatened with disorderly conduct. Man Ohio state troopers are tough on bears, but cheers to the big blue bear that day for being cuffed behind the back on the hood of his car; he yelled at the officers "Hey man is it illegal for me to order honey!? I'm a fuckin bear and I just wanted some honey!!"

Ich Herzen Hassen

I was VERY proud and excited a couple of weeks ago when I officially completed my final substance abuse class! It was a Tuesday and at 9:30PM I walked out of that wonderful and educational class for the final time. Although work was early the next morning and there was a big meeting with the administrator, I wanted to celebrate. Just a few drinks with perhaps a few friends. At 9:30 deep in the eve and on a whim AND on a Tuesday scoring a few friends was going to be tough, but I have perseverance like Kenyan's have stride. First priority: A lil potato wine. So I walked to the local mart and picked myself up a handle of the 80 proof clear stuff and a liter of el tonico. Couldn't get anyone on the cell to join me- but who the hell cares! I can be a great host to myself, I fucking rule and totally am okay partying with my own ego. After a short walk home it was time to crack the ice and open the gullet.

8 drinks later my ego must've went to the bathroom or something because I got totally bummed that no one wanted to celebrate my success of 2.5 months of pain in the ass classes, I was a graduate and I wanted to feel like it. At 11:30PM it should have been time to go to bed when my phone finally barked. My roomate Ryan. He had had a shit day and was at the local watering hole and had been drinking with one of the waitresses that just gotten off work. I demanded that I cheer him up with good times and cold vodka. He demanded he bring the waitress home because 'she was too drunk too drive.' I obliged. Company was on the way so good times were sure to follow.

Ryan was in an awful mood, cranky and stubborn. And I was wrong, the waitress was definitley too drunk to drive. I must have looked rather striking drunk on the couch becasue she kept slurring at me that I was very pretty. Gay but flattering- which was awesome since Ryan had brought her home. Now normally I would have the respect for a dear friend who had scored a drunk waitress and brought her home; be a good wingman and allow the pussy to fall in my buddies lap as he deserved. But Ryan was pissing me off with his grouchy mood on my winning night. And I was hammered drunk. And I was accepting these marvelously ludicrous phrases of praise and flattery with ease.

Now this lass was not skinny and not fat. Not hot but not ugly. Rock and roll hair, and handful of piercings and some visible tats. One feature she did have was unbelievably huge mammories. HUGE.

Some amount of cocktails later I was being my silly self and had made a Jew joke in passing. Not a goofy "so a black guy a white guy and a jew walk into a bar" kind of a thing, but something along the lines of "I'm hammered drunk so I think I should jew up my next drink a bit" kind of a phrase. No offense of course to any of my Philistiney friends. Instantly what I thought was just a fucked up rock n roll looking waiteress on my couch became a pissed off scowling offended bitch. She said something to the tune of "That's fucked up Greg, you shouldn't take that shit lightly."

Oops. Sometimes when you make a retard joke you're unaware that a member of the audience has a retarded brother and does not appreciate your silly disregard for certain other spices of humanity. This tasted like the case in hand. I was wrong though. With a humble face I quickly stammered out an apology, letting her know that I'm actually one of the most open minded people she's probably ever met and that I meant no offense with my silly Jewish joke. I made it to the final line of my embarassing apology but did not get to finish it. I told her "I'm totally cool with the fact that you're Jewish but-" and that's all I got out. Her face got even angrier and I got a "FUCK YOU THAT'S NOT FUCKING FUNNY," a middle finger, and then a free peek at those enormous sweater lumps. She ripped down the left side of her shirt with her left hand breaking out the jolly boobie. I don't think I need to explain to anyone reading this that I love tits, but this particular titty of interest was not a titty of love. Twas a titty of hate. Emblazened on it was a fucking swastika. This tattoo wasn't a cute little girl tat, this bugger covered the entire DD+ breasticle. Think Ed Norton in American History X. Now I know that most of us aren't fans of the nazi party, however you have to give the girl credit for the dedication to her craft. Putting a 7" swastika on your lady parts is definitley going to limit your sexual exploits. In addition to the cursing and exposure, she swung a closed fist with her right hand into her chest and then extended the fist into a flat hand.

I got the emblem and the sieg heil. Awesome.

Kinda.

As a fairly intelligent and fairly cultured man I was totally fascinated. Being a human being I was as shocked as I think I have ever been. Being an immature silly dude I have rarely laughed harder. My roomie brought home a drunk nazi and invited her into my home. Good job Ryan.

The three of us had a handful more drinks together and I picked her brain about what it was like to hate so efficiently. Good times. Thankfully I was only a little late and disheveled for the big meeting with the boss man that next morning. If you've never gotten to hang out with a dedicated bigot I suggest it, it can be worth writing about.

The Deviled Egg Mexican

Well this past weekend was something to behold. The amount of alcohol and pills consumed would have Hunter S. Thompson shaking his head in amazement and ebarassment. Such a weekend can only be had with the help of one of the finest boozehounds I know, Sir. Dave Harper. A day spent with Dave is assumed to be hard drinking, lots of fun, and the expectation of a ruined following day. Very rarely have I spent a full weekend with the guy, and I am now under the recognition that my 27yr old organs can possibly no longer keep up with such irresponsibility and destruction; but for the sake of a great story I suppose it's worth it.

Friday night my roomate Ryan had his next to last night at his bar gig across the street. At the end of his shift they gave him 6 Das-Boots from they're most recent promotions. 6 giant glass shoes for hard core beer drinking. Friday was a short night for me however and after a couple movies and drinks I quietly went to bed, but the boots are freakin' cool.

Saturday morning I woke up, cleaned up, took care of some home business, and started the video game + cocktail early afternoon. 3 drinks in and Dave stops by from work. Davey lives a decent drive to the East of me, but his place of business is next door- as a bug guy. In the mornings he drives to wherever the problem is in a company truck and sprays for roaches, scorpions, spiders, whatever little critter ails your home. So at 2pm he drops by, both of us with empty stomachs, and decide that we should have a few drinks before we start our adventure. 2 drinks a piece and it was off to adventure. But before we hopped into his bug-mobile, a great idea occured to us. Make a cocktail for the road- with a boot. Because before you officially do a little drunk driving you should always pour a giant 54oz vodka and cherry soda to take along with you. Especially whilst driving a company vehicle.

To the road we go, dropping off the bug-truck and then making our way to the Superstition Mountains out East at Dave's place. 54 ounces must have been the perfect amount because the last sip of the boot was finished off just as we pulled into his driveway. Now that we had arrived it was time to grab his girlfriend and go out to the new bar that opened up a few blocks away and have some wings and a burger for dinner. And 2 pitchers of beer. It should be noted here that before I even got to the bar I was feeling quite inebriated and was just drunk enough that I was damn near surprised to see that they were even serving me. Kick ass.

Back to Dave's with a dozen wings in the guts it was back to cocktail time. A friend of Dave and Rachele's showed up and we now have a fresh half gallon of vodka, a fifth of whiskey, and a 12 pack of brews. Normally this would be enough for a weekend's worth of work for a small family of 4 drinkers. Godamn I hate miscalculating. Dave dropped his pants early on and shook his cock about for a great naked shock value joke. Several games of hillbilly golf went down with several drinks. We started a campfire and played some guitar. We told some stories and laughed a little harder as the booze gauge began to burst at the seams. I have mentioned in the past some of the exploits of this household, and one of the knacks you will find at Dave's is that they have costumes- lots and lots of costumes. At some point in every drunk driven evening these costumes will come out, you can bet on it. They have 2 fine ones that are full bodied ketchup and mustard bottles. Awesome.

At some point in the evening Dave and I began to get a little low on smokes and we took the short trip next door to the gas station. Naturally Dave wore a mining light on his head in lieu of a hat- this is normal for Dave whether he is sober or not. Going into a store with Dave is the most unpredicatbly frightening thing you will ever experience, he truly gets off on making clerks piss their pants and does his best to make them just uncomfortable enough that they're worried- but not so uncomfy that they ring the cops. So he starts getting into it with the clerks about how he's trying to start the new 'I'm a miner' look and how convenient it is when you're in a dark place looking for your keys, drink, or whatever. With my face full of blood we got back to Dave's unscathed and when I went into the backyard I could see Dave dragging the infamous lifeguard chair from the Baby Pool Party over to his neighbor's wall. Dave and Rachele do not know this neighbor, all we can tell is that they have had music going all night long. Well, all night may not be the right words here, it is only 8:30PM at this point. For some reason I am just inebriated enough that I agree with Dave's idea and I also climb up the lifeguard chair with him and on the other side of the wall seperating the two yards is a very small, kind-faced Mexican man in his 40's drinking a beer by himself. We got to talking and I invited him over Davey's for a shot of whiskey. In an instant we were all in the kitchen with a strange Mexican man named Miguel doing shots of warm Seagram's together. 1hr later and Miguel was still hanging with us in the backyard.

We began to play Digital Camera Photo Hunt, one of my favorite drunken games where one person demands you get a picture of 'X' and it's your job to be as creative as you can to retrieve said picture. 30 minutes into the game someone (stupid memory...) asked to get a picture of Miguel in a deviled-egg costume. Now I would assume that this is an incredibly difficult task to get a complete stranger in a devilied egg outfit that looks totally rediculous, and have him being ok with a permanent photo of said Mexican. Not at Dave's house. Dave instantly had Miguel convinced, and slapped this terribly goofy giant round white wool costume over the guy, complete with giant yellow yoke on the front, and rounded off with a devil's tail coming out the rear end of it.

Got the photo, and as soon as I get a copy I will share it with you all.

Naturally I got into the costume phase of the night too, got buck naked and jumped into the ketchup bottle outfit. Why the naked thing had to happen I'll never know but I think I was trying to keep up with Dave's earlier random buck nakedness. A few party goers had mentioned wanting some pills, and Miguel came through. He told them that he had a shit ton of Vicadin over his place for some injury he sustained, but if they came over they had to be quiet and not rouse his wife and 5 kids. Dave and Rachele went over, and Miguel dumped an entire fistful of pills in their hands. 4 lonely pills would have been incredibly gracious. 25 may have been exuberant. Down the hatch went the Vikes and now things began to get fuzzy. I generally don't do drugs but will admit that a Vike every now and again has the ability to put a smile on my head. This is not late at night at all yet, but the fuzzy heads of drunk humans consuming 5 Vicadins at a time was taking it's toll. I found Rachele asleep on the chair in the living room, and decided to pick her up and put her to bed. I came back out, had a drink with Dave, and watched him melt onto his concrete patio. Once again I threw an arm around him, picked him up and put him next to Rachele. 30 more minutes and I was sound asleep too- the last thing I recall is realizing that I wanted to sleep in a bedroom not on the couch- but I could only find an air mattress which I drug into the bedroom that 'Cooch'-our 4th partier that evening- was sleeping. I was too hammered to figure out how to find a flat part of the room to land the air mattress so it ended up on such an angle that I couldn't see (why didn't I wear the damn mining light?) so that when I laid down I rolled right off it and face planted onto the ground. Considering to surrender to the carpet I remember that there was an entire other unused bedroom waiting for me. Stupid me. A good night sleep awaited with a little Vicadin demon stroking my head.

Sunday morning came with a night of 8 hours of rest. I was up at 7am. The standard water + aspirin + pancakes + bacon on a post Dave's house evening was taking place. Dave smoked a cigarette and it instantly caused him to vomit in his backyard. I made a few early morning phone calls and when I returned into the house everyone had gone back to bed. I am a trooper though damnit and I don't return to sleep! Football pre shows, setting fantasy football lineups, and eventually Dave woke back up. 10:15 am and it was time to punch the gift horse in the mouth. We inspected the kitchen to find 8 beers. No whiskey. No Vodka. Pound for pound including the drinks Dave and I had at my place and the bar and the boot on the ride over, we drank over an entire gallon's worth of pure booze and a handful of beers. Top that Robert Downey Jr.

Luckily I was once a boy scout and had snuck two flasks into my over night bag filled with vodka, and the cocktailing + football began. After an Eagles win and a Bengals win we were back on the party wagon. Just as the second flask kicked it, a pair of Dave's friends showed up with a 30 pack and a handle of vodka. Then Dave and I managed to get through the majority of a Spirit Merchants set for the meager crowd- but we've played for less! We haven't played in 5 months...it was awesome...

Naturally Dave walked out into the middle of our soire bare ass naked holding his junk in his left hand and smoking a cigarette with his right. At the end of the long Sunday I was starting to fade when the evil hiccups took control of my body. For those of you who know me if there is a hiccup involved in the Greg then lunch is coming up. I now recognize the problem and surrendered to vomiting also in Dave's backyard before the white flag went all the way up and to bed I went, just to wake up to dave at 6am for a lift home across the city. What a friggin weekend.