Hilarity Ensues - Hilarity Ensues Part 24
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Hilarity Ensues Part 24

GoldenBoy "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!?"

Tucker "What? You said you had walk away insurance, right?"

GoldenBoy couldn't even respond. He just stood there stuttering, staring at me in enraged disbelief.

Tucker "This isn't even an act of God. It's covered."

Hate "I told you not to tell Tucker about the insurance."

Tucker "I don't understand why you're mad, GoldenBoy. Insurance means everything is free!"

There was one more element to this plan: we had to kidnap El Bingeroso. Let me explain: El Bingeroso's fiancee was very "strict" with him. The reason he's usually the wildest of the group when he goes out is that she requires him to be so docile the other 99.9% of his life (I would never call her controlling or domineering. NEVER). There was no way in hell she was going to let him come with us if she knew we were planning a bachelor party out of town.

First off, he already had an "official" bachelor party planned for the spring (one where her father and uncle would be in attendance). Second, she did not get along at all with GoldenBoy (too long to explain why, but it boiled down to petty bullshit). And third, the only reason El Bingeroso got to go on the Austin Road Trip-which we'd just gotten back from a few weeks earlier-was that he pitched it as a "law school bachelor" party to her. He got arrested there, she freaked out, and there were no more weekend trips for El Bingeroso.

And it's not like we could tell El Bingeroso ahead of time that we were going to Charlotte and trust him to make up a good excuse. He was afraid of the woman he was planning to spend the rest of his life with (I don't blame him; despite my fearlessness with any sort of authority, I made it a point to never cross Kristy). The minute she began the fiancee forensics, he would fold and sing like a canary. GoldenBoy decided to wait until the day before to tell him anything, and even then all he said was that we were all going out that night, and to wear a light blue button down with khaki pants.

When we pulled up to his place, all he saw was nine identically-dressed dudes in a white cargo van. He was too confused to fight until we had already dragged him into the van and were driving away. It was like a flash-bang grenade of debauchery and bad decisions. Only then did we explain: El Bingeroso "We're spending the night in Charlotte? Are you kidding?"

Hate "Look around. We're all dressed the same! Do you think this is a joke, asshole?"

El Bingeroso "Kristy is going to be PISSED."

GoldenBoy "We aren't turning around."

El Bingeroso "Fuuuuck ... gimme a beer. I need to get real drunk before I tell her I won't be home until tomorrow."

GoldenBoy was in charge of making the Charlotte plans. You can tell he's had a girlfriend for a LONG time, because his plan was to have us start at a bar, then go to a strip club, THEN to a night club. Who the fuck puts the strip club anywhere but the END OF THE NIGHT? How does that make any fucking sense?

We start at some random Irish bar. After pounding beers for the entire drive from Durham to Charlotte, plus a few shots in the bar, El Bingeroso finally has the courage to call Kristy. He is outside for at least ten minutes. He comes back in looking like he'd just put down the family dog. Personally.

GoldenBoy "Everything OK man?"

El Bingeroso "No."

Hate "You still getting married?"

El Bingeroso "Probably."

Tucker "I know the solution to this problem!"

El Bingeroso "Line'em up. I need something to drown her disappointment in me."

We did so many Irish Car Bombs, the bartender ran my card, signed me out, and then made us start another tab with a different card. My bill was so high he was afraid the card would get declined and I'd leave without paying. Weird-I'd never met the guy, yet it's like he'd known me my whole life.

It was only like 6pm, so it was still happy hour, and pretty much everyone else in this bar was dressed in business clothes having a post-work drink to relax. We were not. We were in attack mode, looking for targets. And unfortunately for them, a group of young fat secretaries came into the bar and made the calamitous mistake of choosing to stand near us. They chatted away, stuffing their faces with the free happy hour food, oblivious to the fact that the world as they knew it was about to crumble around their cankles, like so many crumbs from the free appetizers they were chowing on.

Hate is normally pretty tolerant of most people-well, he normally holds his anger about people inside himself-but when he gets drunk and ornery, if you prod him the right way, he'll let it out: Hate "Fat girls should not be friends with other fat girls because all they do is tell each other how cute they look in clothes that are clearly too small for them. This is just offensive to those of us who know what a gym is."

SlingBlade "You have a unique and interesting perspective. I would like to subscribe to your newsletter."

Tucker "Hate, you should go tell it to them. I bet they think short guys are lame."

I was joking, but Hate was so drunk he took me seriously and immediately walked over and started talking to them. This was the first indication that he wasn't just drunk, but FULLY in the tank. He NEVER approaches girls. The second indication came moments later when he stormed right into the middle of the group: Hate "HEY LADIES! HOW ABOUT YOU JUST STOP EATING FOR A WHILE? HAVE YOU THOUGHT OF THAT?"

Even from a distance, I could tell that the fatties were confused by this short angry person yelling at them. You know how cows get all flustered when they're getting herded by border collies? It was just like that. I quickly scurried over to get in on the fun.

Tucker "My friend is only trying to be helpful. He doesn't like to see people wasting their gym memberships."

Of course, this started a whole heated conversation filled with ridiculous fatty logic and the flimsiest of rationalizations. I can't remember what they said; it was nothing spectacular. They weren't even very good at lying to themselves about why they were fat. One thing I do remember was one of the girls trying to accuse Hate and I of drinking too much. The gall of her!

Fatty1 "You don't think you drink too much?"

Tucker "What does that even mean, 'too much'?"

Fatty1 "How many times have you woken up and had no idea how you got home?"

Tucker "That's not drinking too much, that's called your twenties!"

Fatty2 "I don't like it when guys drink too much."

Tucker "I find that when I drink I become incredibly charming. I do things like yell obscenities at random people, vomit everywhere and break things that don't belong to me. When I get drunk outside, in addition to being abusive and destructive, my charm extends to urinating in inappropriate places, running around with my clothes off and passing out in public parks. That sounds like awesomeness to me."

They weren't convinced, so I thought I'd try to spice everything up by adding more alcohol: Tucker "Hey bartender, we need shots! And bring extras for the these pregnant girls, they're drinking for two!"

We were ejected from the bar, even though I was the one who got a drink thrown at me. How does that make sense? If I'd known a joke that tame was going to get us kicked out, I'd have just roundhouse kicked one of the girls in her donut hole instead to get my money's worth. Hindsight is always 20/20.

Here we were, kicked out of a bar at 7:30pm on a Friday. GoldenBoy had rented one of those party buses for the night so we could all drink and not have to drive. Unfortunately, it wasn't scheduled to pick us up until 8pm. You'd think this half hour would be a good opportunity to slow down, maybe drink some Gatorade, and pace ourselves.

Yeah, you'd think. We walked to a 711, bought a 30-pack, and drank it on the street like a fucking homeless baseball team. You know the night is off to a banging start when you are street-drinking before the sun even goes down.

Ten obnoxious guys, all dressed like Catholics on Sunday, can easily get shitfaced and descend on a strip club without creating too much of a stir ... at 1am. We got there at 8:30pm. We sit down at our table, and some girls come over and start talking to us. The stripper talking to SlingBlade was kind of a bitch to him, and then got up and left.

Tucker "Dude, how did you not just rip into that stripper?"

He kinda swayed in his seat for a second.

SlingBlade "I'm so drunk, I couldn't find the way to my ass with a flashlight and a map. I don't feel good. In fact, I'll be right back."

Ten minutes later, PWJ comes back from the bathroom.

PWJ "I just walked in the bathroom and heard SlingBlade yelling 'HUH, YEAH, you gotta want it!' What the fuck is wrong with him?"

A few minutes later, SlingBlade comes out holding his abdomen.

SlingBlade "Dude, taking antibiotics and then drinking is a bad idea. I just let loose a symphony of bowel movements, each in different pitches and melodies. It was like a poop xylophone."

The bachelor show for El Bingeroso was pretty conventional. They took him up onstage, poured alcohol down his throat, rubbed their tits in his face, tied him up, hit him with belts and just generally used him to vent their rage against men, before unceremoniously kicking him off the stage.

The other guys dispersed and were getting lap dances or whatever, and I was left to watch El Bingeroso. We were sitting on bar stools by one of the stages, and at this point he was so drunk he had basically reverted to a state of mild retardation. Whenever a stripper came near him, he would reach out to touch her, like a child fascinated by an aquarium of fish. The whole time he was swaying back and forth on his stool, trying to stay on but of course falling off, and then cheering every time I caught him.

El Bingeroso "Woooooooo-YAAAAY!!!!! Hahhahhahahhaha!"

Eventually the bouncer sees this dog and pony show, and tells me that my friend is too drunk and has to leave. Thinking quickly, I used a technique I've used many times to save my drunk friends from getting tossed out of bars: Tucker "No man, he's not drunk, he's got M.S. You know-Multiple Sclerosis. Normally he's OK, but after a few beers, he can't really sit up well."

Bouncer "Oh shit dude, I didn't realize. Sorry about that. Just keep an eye on him okay? And no more grabbing dancers."

Tucker "Yeah, no problem. I'll do that."

Then I made the major mistake of the night. Because we were all basically shit-canned, and it was only 10:30pm, I figured I needed to get us sobered up for the club we were about to go to. This was 2000, back before ephedrine exploded the heart of a professional baseball player and got banned. I had some ephedrine with me because I would take it when I was really drunk but wanted to keep drinking-real smart, I know, but it's safer than coke at least-so I took a few. Hate and PWJ saw me and asked for one too.

If you've never taken ephedrine, the best way I can explain it is this: Imagine what it's like to drink a bunch of Red Bulls. Add a couple Adderall. Now strap your heart to a car battery and switch it on. That's basically ephedrine (well, several ephedrine. I don't think what we took was the "recommended dose"). Half an hour later, I was ready to run a marathon carrying El Bingeroso on my back like he was Yoda.

El Bingeroso wouldn't take an ephedrine, but the alcohol was catching up to him and so he wanted to eat. This strip club had food, but they were telling me the fucking kitchen was closed.

Tucker "Hate, come over here, I need some help."

His pupils were dilated, fists clenched at his sides, and his nostrils were flared. He looked like Diego Sanchez right before a UFC fight.

Hate "I don't think I could deal with it if someone crossed me right now."

Tucker "OK, we don't need to fight, we just have to find some food for El Bingeroso. See if we can order a pizza or something. I have to stay here and keep him upright."

Hate looked around the club, saw a guy with a plate in front of him that still had food on it. He purposefully strode over.

Hate "EXCUSE ME SIR! ARE YOU DONE WITH YOUR FOOD?"

The guy just kinda stared at him. I think he was wondering if this was the busboy, and if so, why he was yelling at him.

Hate "GIVE UP THE FISH! MY DRUNK FRIEND WOULD LIKE TO EAT IT."

If you're not sure how to get kicked out of a strip club, taking a half-eaten plate of food from another customer will get it done.

We pile back on the drunk shuttle and ask the driver to stop somewhere for food. I guess in Charlotte the phrase "stop somewhere for food" means to pull into a truck stop with a Subway in it. I'm not even kidding. The best part: the Subway was not open. I would've gotten behind the counter and made my own sandwich, but they'd put all the food away. None of this stopped Hate from standing at the counter screaming for sandwiches until some poor old janitor making minimum wage had to explain to him what the "CLOSED" sign meant.

We stuffed a bunch of truck stop hotdogs that looked like wilted horse dicks into El Bingeroso's mouth, and then went downtown to the club where we supposedly had reservations for a table or something. We get there, and of course none of us are on the list except GoldenBoy. He has some friends who are inside at our table, tells us he'll be right back, and goes into the club. Given this set of facts, which one of these would you think was the case: GoldenBoy was going to get his friends to get the rest of us in, or, GoldenBoy decided, in the middle of a bachelor party that he'd organized for one of his best friends, to ditch everyone on the street out and just drink in the club without us.

I think any rational person would assume #1 is the most likely scenario. PWJ didn't. He was convinced GoldenBoy had ditched us. He calls GoldenBoy approximately 35 times in the next four minutes.

Of course he doesn't answer, because he's busy and inside a loud club. Each unanswered call makes PWJ progressively angrier-and because he's drunk and high on ephedrine, he deals with his anger by spiking his phone as hard as he can into the sidewalk outside. It shatters into ten pieces. Hate-who is also drunk and high on ephedrine-sees that and accuses PWJ of being on steroids.

Hate "I knew it! You've been getting too big lately! Roid rage! You're on the juice!"

PWJ "What are you talking about? Fucking GoldenBoy screwed us!!"

Hate "Your lats are too fucking big, that's another sign of juicing!"

PWJ "I rowed crew in college you idiot!"

Hate "Juicer!"

As they scream at each other like feral tomcats, I get fed up and take the other six of us into the bar across the street.

Finally something goes right: There's a bachelorette party at this bar! The easiest way in with a group of girls anywhere is to have something in common with them, and there isn't much more in common than being out to celebrate your friend's last night of freedom. We immediately link up and go through all the introductions, and of course I pay zero attention to anyone's name except the girl who really strikes my fancy.

Tucker "You're the hot one, I'll remember your name."

HotOne "Oh will you?"

We do a few rounds of shots, the girls try to get the bachelor and bachelorette to make out (they won't) and everyone is getting along great. I could tell SlingBlade actually was kinda sick, because he was even being nice to the girls. At some point, HotOne gives me a naughty look and does a "come hither" with her finger. I oblige, totally thinking she's going to tell me to meet her in the bathroom to fuck. She leans in, pulls my ear to her mouth, gives me just the slightest hot breath to tickle me, and seductively whispers: HotOne "What's my name?"

FUUUUCK!!!! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!.

You know what it's like to "know" something, and then the second you are called out on it, you go completely blank? Yeah, that was me. I racked my brains. I'd said her name to myself earlier so I would remember it; unfortunately that was several drinks earlier. You could've offered me 2004 Google stock and I wouldn't have remembered. This was my chance to lock her pussy up, and I was fucking blowing it like Michael J. Fox playing Operation.

So I played the only card I had: misdirection.

Tucker "Yeah right ... what's MY name?"

Saved! Her expression gave it away.

Tucker "You don't know it!"

HotOne "Well you don't know mine!"

Tucker "I know your name, but until you know my name, I'm not gonna say it. There are principles involved here."

HotOne "You don't know my name!"

Tucker "I don't just give it away for free. You gotta earn it."

For the next few hours, we fucked with each other: HotOne "Do you even remember what I just said?"

Tucker "It doesn't matter what you said. If it was important, a man would've said it."

HotOne "Just shut up. Every time you talk, I like you less."

Tucker "I'm sorry, did you say something? I just hear a faint buzzing noise coming from your area. Like a gnat that won't leave."

HotOne "If you talked less, it'd be better. Then I could imagine you have the kind of personality I like."

Tucker "At least I'm good looking. I'm going to have to fuck you from behind and push your face in the pillow, so I can pretend you're a girl I'm attracted to."

HotOne "Your friends say you're a dog. Does that mean if I throw a stick, you'll leave?"

Tucker "It's a good thing for you I blacked out an hour ago and won't remember any of the stupid jokes coming out of your mouth."

HotOne "I'll tell you one thing that won't be coming out of my mouth: Your penis."