The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Day 4 – 10:00am

Today I wake up more confused than ever before; something is awry.  I see Cola, because I’m hugging him, I see Rizzo laying spread eagle on the bed next to me, I see Sketch-mo curled up on the vomit bed, but I see no Wild Bill?  Oh, that’s right, Wild Bill had pulled a fast one last night!  I forgot he had shelled out cash (something of which he is not a fan) in a weak attempt to scheme up some sort of miracle foursome.  Although I don’t always black out, it generally takes me a few moments to figure out what took place the night before; most drinkers are familiar with this process.  It’s similar to when you wake up with a hangover and cottonmouth and then realize that you did not even drink the night before (if you can relate to that statement, we are friends).  After inappropriately prodding Cola awake with my uncontrollable morning wood, I hustle down the hall to heckle Wild Bill.

I have absolutely no idea which room he is in, but this doesn’t seem to be a problem after I immediately hear a familiar voice.

Amanda  “Help!”
Me  “Amanda?  What the fuck, where are you?”
Amanda  “Down here.”

Her voice leads me to their room, and I immediately regret not having my camera with me.  By some awesome stroke of luck, they are all actually locked inside their room.  I guess that would be the equivalent of locking your keys outside your car?

Me  “What the fuck are you doing?”
Wild Bill  “The door is jammed, we gotta crawl out the window.”

At this point, I’m not sure who’s laughing harder, them or me.  After the four bodies fall out through the window like some sort of circus act, the crisis is avoided.  I can tell by the lackluster smile on Wild Bill’s face that things did not go according to plan.  I ask for no details because even the thought makes me throw up a little bit.  We get back to our room and now everyone is awake.  It doesn’t take long to get ready since we are all wearing the exact same shit as the previous night.  I put in a few calls and find out that AJ, Baines, and company are already at the tailgate.  Us 4 Amigos, and Sketch-mo, pile into the van and head towards the stadium.

Day 4 – 11:00am

For a drive that’s only suppose to be 10 miles long, it takes us about 45 minutes to get there.  Between Cola’s “I’ll get you in the vicinity” GPS and the retarded amount of traffic, I’m surprised we made it at all.  Oh, and we also stopped to pick up a few cases of breakfast beer; Wild Bill had a hankering for some Bud Heavy.  After a long search, we find a place to park the van; Dan The Man parks his ride next to ours.  Once on my feet, I take in the sights.  The first crowds I see are comprised mainly of Cow Humpers, and like I have previously mentioned, mostly families as oppose to college kids.  I get our friends coordinates and head that way.  I am immediately stopped; we already have a problem.  Kristin, a member of Dan The Man’s party, is sick; allow me to digress for just a moment.

Similar to Elsie, apparently Kristin also had a little too much fun last night.  Here’s the problem, Kristin is a vegetarian (lesbian) and not to be trusted; never trust a woman that doesn’t eat meat (get your mind out of the gutter).  Cola and Rizzo have previously named her “Veggie Tales” due to her eating habits and Jumanji-style (farfetched) stories.  Since I have already done my good deed of the year by helping Elsie last night, it’s now Dan The Man’s turn to earn his good Karma.  He agrees to drive her back through the mess that we had just endured.  Dan The Man 1, Veggie Tales 0.  Ultimately, Veggie Tales decides to fly home later in the day instead of waiting for the drive back tomorrow; strange, I know.  Well I guess at least she made it to the game, unlike Elsie.  Veggie Tales 0, Elsie -1; back to the story.

After jolting my way through a bunch of inbreds whom are playing more cowbell than Blue Oyster Cult, I finally lay my eyes on a field of Black and Gold.  As I attempt to find a particular group of kids, I throw high-fives and fistbumps to any and every passing UCFer.  Even though we have been drinking since we made our pit stop, we have yet to really kick things into high gear.  Alas I see many familiar faces; we have found Headquarters.  I don’t think “kicking things into high gear” is going to be a problem, especially since this is what the tailgate looked like before I arrived.

Day 4 – 12:00pm

Since kickoff is at 4:30pm, we should have more than enough time to get silly; although I feel like I have let myself down by not getting here at 6 in the morning.  Apparently, today the name of the game is “Shotgun Rally.”  Basically, we’ll be shotgunning a scheduled beer every half-hour in addition to all of the other random shots, funnels, chugs, and impromptu shotguns.  Hopefully I don’t have to explain to you what a shotgun is, but I will explain what a Gladiator Shotgun is.  Allow me to digress for just a moment.

Although I have yet to do one myself, I have seen several Gladiator Shotguns go down in my day.  The difference between a regular shotgun and a Gladiator Shotgun you ask?  Well instead of using a key to make the hole, you use your teeth.  That’s right, you bite into the can like some sort of Cro-Magnon Billy Goat; it’s painful, barbaric, and awesome.  Whoever the Gladiator is that takes part in said shotgun is soon covered in beer, blood, and praise; back to the story.

Once Dan The Man reappears after completing his good Karma voyage, we welcome him back with a round of impromptu shotguns.  As you can see from the picture, Headquarters is set up right by the street.  This is awesome (a recipe for disaster) because the stadium is right behind us and every Cow Humper must walk right passed us in order to get to the game.  Some Cow Humpers walk passed Wild Bill right after he takes another shotgun, yikes…

Wild Bill  “Hey you!”
Cow Humper #1  “Me?”
Wild Bill  “Yeah you, Cletus, does your house have running water?”
Cow Humper #1  “Yes.”
Wild Bill  “Yeah sure, I bet you need shoes and a flashlight to use the bathroom.”
Cow Humper #1  “What are you talking about?”
Wild Bill  “Keep walking you fuckin’ cousin lover.”

As Wild Bill continues to harass women, children, and the elderly, I turn around and join Rizzo and AJ; they have created some sort of makeshift Jagerbomb circle.  Much like a “puff, puff, pass” rotation for a California cigarette, this is more of a “swig, swig, pass” formation.  And by “Jagerbomb,” I mean drinking it straight out of the bottle and chasing it with Noz (I would have preferred Tilt, but I guess I can’t have it all).  After countless shotguns and Jager-swig-bombs in about two hours time, I realize it’s time to break the seal.

Me  “It’s time to break the seal.”
Cola  “Why do you always tell me these things?”
Me  “No idea.  Where’s the bathroom?”
Rizzo  “Yeah, I kinda gotta piss too.”
Cola  “You aren’t going to like this…”

Cola alerts us that the bathrooms are nowhere to be found; he’s been going back to the van and refilling empty water bottles.  The van is pretty far from our current location, so Rizzo and I start the trek.

Rizzo  “Hey, just piss yourself like usual.”
Me  “I hate you.”

Rizzo can be quite the son of a bitch when it comes to revenge inspired pranks; allow me to digress for just a moment.

When I was a freshman in College, I borrowed a shirt from Rizzo.  Later, I returned it to him dirty and wrinkled.  When I was in class (at a bar), he came into my room and stole my computer mouse; he also left a ransom note promising its safe return as soon as I ironed his shirt.  I challenge you to try and use your computer without the mouse; I ironed his shirt immediately.

Another one of his over-the-top revenges, which has to do with the “just piss yourself like usual” comment, is a bit more disturbing, psychologically that is.  I’m not really sure if he was getting back at me for something or just being an asshole, but here’s the gist.  I had lived in 3 different apartments up until my senior year of college, basically we moved every year; the first night of each year, I always managed to pee somewhere besides in the bathroom.  My freshman year, I peed all over my unpacked luggage.  My sophomore year, I peed all over my bed; I think I actually stood up and aimed for my bed as if it were a toilet because my boxers were dry.  My junior year, I peed all over Sketch-mo’s laundry; in hindsight, that was hilarious.

Anyway, why am I sharing all of these “make my parents proud” moments with you?  Well because after the time I peed all over Sketch-mo’s laundry, I started wetting the bed on an almost bi-monthly basis.  At the time, I was living with Rizzo and Sketch-mo, so of course I shared with them my “situation.”  I mean, I party often, but seldom do I throw up or wet myself; this was a cause for concern.  Rizzo told me that I was disgusting and just couldn’t handle my booze; I ignored his mean comments.  After about 6 months of staying dry, Rizzo comes clean.  Here is a conversation we had nonchalantly while playing Smash Brothers on Nintendo 64 one day…

Me  “Dude, it’s been 6 months and I haven’t pissed myself!”
Rizzo  “Congratulations.”
Me  “Seriously, I don’t know what that was all about, but I’m glad it’s over.”
Rizzo  “Yeah, you never actually had a problem.”
Me  “Ye… wait, what?”
Rizzo  “It was me.”

I pause the game.

Me  “What?  Are you telling me you have been peeing on me?”
Rizzo  “What?  Oh God no, I’m not an asshole.”

Rizzo unpauses the game.

Me  “Well what are you saying then?”
Rizzo  “I’ve been pouring water on your crotch so you’d think you pissed yourself.”

I pause the game.

Me  “What the fuck?  Are you fucking serious?  For 6 months?”
Rizzo  “Um, yeah just about.  Dude relax, it’s not like I pissed on you or anything.”

Rizzo unpauses the game.

Me  “This is not funny, you are an asshole.  I’ve been seriously worried man!”
Rizzo  “It’s kinda funny.  Like, you’d laugh if it wasn’t you right?”

I pause the game.

Me  “That’s besides the point, how could you not tell me this”
Rizzo  “I told Cola?”

Cola has been playing n64 with us as well; he chimes in.

Cola  “Yeah I knew, it’s pretty funny.
Me  “What?!  Dude, this is so fucked up!”
Cola  “Can you stop pausing the game?”

Imagine thinking you have a sleepwalking problem because every time you fall asleep, your friends move you so you wake up somewhere else; that’s how fucked up this is, except add urine to the mix.  After getting no remorse from my soulless friends, I unpause the game; back to the story.

Day 4 – 2:30pm

With a full bottle of urine in my hand, I contemplate pouring it on Rizzo to get back at him for years of therapy to come; ultimately, realizing he is bigger than me, I just roll the bottle under the van.  Once we get back to Headquarters, I see a small crowd (3 people) gathered around Amanda; she has been bragging about how she can shotgun a Sparks.  After she proves that she cannot, the crowd disperses.

The Cow Humpers continue to pass us on the streets, growing larger in numbers; apparently they too are practitioners’ of the “Safety in Numbers” theorem.  Now that the alcohol has begun to take its natural course, it’s time for my poor decisions to follow.  I see a Jr. Cow Humper (7 year old) and his family about to pass; I make my approach.  I hand him the tail end of my Natty Light…

Me  “UCF, we don’t ID!”

Jr. Cow Humper smiles; his parents do not.  Instead of verbally reprimanding me like normal people, they just shoot me a dirty glare and bang their cowbells scornfully.  We’ve begun to notice the odd dressing style of the College-aged Cow Humpers; they all have “forehead combovers” and don’t seem to know that their shirts are only tucked into the front of their pants.  Instead of my description, let’s go with Johnny Boy’s spot on reenactment.  I can only use the words “shotgun” and “Jager” so many times before they become monotonous (if not already), so we finish off all the supplies and head into the game.

Day 4 – 4:00pm

Right before we enter the stadium loud and proud (sauced and lost), this is the first time I notice how truly outnumbered we are.  Our large group has already separated, so now it’s us 4 Knights, and Sketch-mo, lost in a sea of Cow Humpers.  I stand close to Rizzo and Wild Bill as I shout obscenities at any and everything; Rizzo is a 250lb hockey player and even though Wild Bill is a glass jaw Gummy Spine, his 6’4” looks can be deceiving.  We find our seats and begin to pass around a flask and a water bottle half-full of whiskey as the stadium begins to fill.  I reflect back to our pre-trip planning, and how Cola had purchased our game tickets through AAA.  This is always a safe bet incase the game expectedly sells out, however this generally fucks up your seating.  Instead of being in the UCF reserved block, we are definitely located at the opposite end of the stadium.  Regardless, Rizzo and Wild Bill give our seats the thumbs up.

We cheer like idiots as the Knights take the field; our spirits can’t (will) be broken.  Instead of giving you the play by play, I’ll give you the gist:  we did not win.  Cow Humpers 1, Us 0.  Some highlights of the game include this liar in front of us who promises he’s awake, me falling on my way back from the concession stand and dropping my overpriced, undercooked hotdog, and Baby Voice Bill sneaking off to the other side of the stadium to make another fruitless pass at my mom.  By game’s end, my body is bruised, drained, and condiment-stained.  We leave Baby Voice Bill behind as we make it to the van and putter back to the hotel.

Now if you’re reading this, I’m going to assume you have been to a tailgate before.  If not, well then your parents should do a better job of monitoring the Internet content that you peruse; but that’s their fault.  After any tailgate, one usually passes right out, no matter the time.  Often it’s only 7pm, so when you wake up feeling rejuvenated at 4am, you are very confused as to why it’s still dark outside.  Well friends, I reach the hotel and I hit the bed hard; my lights are out at 8pm.  Wow, I really hope you didn’t believe any of that crap; I cracked another beer and kept the partying going.  You know who sleeps?  Losers.  I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

Day 4 – 9:00pm

The only problem with never sleeping and always wanting to be out and about is that you are in a league all of your own.  My friends aren’t (are) losers, but they actually are sleeping.  Back at school, it’s not really much of a problem; as long as you have several different groups of friends, somebody somewhere is doing something.  It’s now time to go door to door at the hotel until I find some companionship.  I first knock on Lora’s door, no answer.  I assumed they were all sleeping, but I later find out they are out to eat somewhere.  Next, I go to Dan The Man’s room.  Eureka!  They are all awake and drinking, plus 1 Sanford to boot.  So in reality, I guess it’s only my friends that are tired?  Oh well.

Me  “Amanda, how the hell are you still awake?”
Amanda  “Cause I’m awesome.”
Me  “That can’t be it, must have been that Sparks you ‘shotgunned’.”
Amanda  “You’re an asshole.”

Dan The Man laughs; we high five.  Since Veggie Tales has already shipped off, the room seems a lot more spacious and lesbian free.  Oh, just for the record, if any guys are ripping on me for not liking lesbians, please let me clarify.  I’m not talking about hot schoolgirl lesbians that you see on the Internet, I’m talking about softball players and the WNBA.  After sharing a little bit of California tobacco, the new group grabs a taxi and heads to, where else, Beale Street.

Day 4 – 11:00pm

Since this is my 4^th night in a row boozing on the same ¼ mile strip, I’ll just give you the key parts as not to be too repetitive.  Since I’m with Dan The Man and local neighbor women, we spend the majority of the night at B.B. King’s; this place is probably the busiest that I have seen it all week.  Unfortunately, it’s mainly swamped with the Mississippi State college crowd, which until now has not been large in show.  Dan The Man and I start the night out with 4 shots each, so basically I’ll be bilingual very shortly, speaking both English and Retard.  Like clockwork, I stumble out of the restaurant solo and hit the streets.  Oh, and if I haven’t mentioned it yet today, FUCK IT’S COLD!  The mother ship beacons me in and before I know it, I’m sitting alone at the Tap Room bar.  I can only smile as Rob pours me a much-needed Rogue Dead Guy, you know, to even out the shots.

Rob  “So how’d your team do Florida?”
Me  “It was an abortion.”
Rob  “Messy huh?”
Me  “You got it.”
Rob  “Sorry brotha.”
Me  “Hey, you win some, you lose some.”

The time has come for me to say goodbye to my dear friend Rob.  It’s a little past midnight, and due to our 6am departure, once I leave Tap Room tonight, I will not be returning.

Me  “Rob, this is where we part ways my friend.”
Rob  “Oh yeah?”
Me  “Yup, leaving in the morning, going to find my friends (anybody) now.”
Rob  “Well man, keep it real.  Here’s a shot of Whiskey for the road.”
Me  “Dear God.”

I take the shot, we hug it out, fistbump, and then I wipe the tear from my cheek.  I rush back to B.B. King’s before I forget where I am.  When I get inside, I head right to the bathroom.  Once at the urinal, I spend a fair amount of time searching for my frozen member and stretching it out as best I can so I look respectable incase the guy to my right has wandering eyes; another guy approaches the urinal to my left.  Gadzooks, it’s our Quarterback!  The QB and I know each other, but not well.  You know those people you recognize from all over town, but you’ve never actually had a conversation longer than the “what’s up” head nod?  This is that type of relationship and I find this the most appropriate time to formally introduce myself.  While we are both still peeing, I give him a pat on the back and lead in with an introduction…

Me  “Hey QB, good game man.  Things could have gone better, but good season.”
QB  “Thanks man, glad you guys came up here and supported us.”
Me  “I mean, the papers are gonna call you a bum and say you cost us the game and that you’re a clown and blah blah blah, but you can’t buy into any of that shit.”
QB  “Uh, I guess not, thanks?”

Now if you haven’t seen Along Came Polly, this might just seem gay and not funny.  He’s still relieving himself as I finish, so as I flush, I awkwardly rub his ear with my other hand…

Me  “Mazel, good things.”

I finish with a football style palm-to-ass goodbye.  Either he had seen Along Came Polly or he was too drunk to notice, because he did not punch me.  Actually, he was a great sport and even posed for a picture.

When I finally make it back to the table and find my “friends,” I’m handed another shot.  See ya!  Let’s fast-forward 3 hours.

Day 5 – 3:00am

The rest is broken memories, pictures, and hearsay.  At some point, apparently I ran into Lora, or as Cola calls her, “the mean one.”  I think Lora is awesome, but Cola disagrees; allow me to digress for just a brief moment.

During the previous 4^th of July, we had a giant neighborhood block party; I mean fucking GIANT.  We staged it in front of Wild Bill’s place, which happens to be located 3 doors down (accidental band reference) from Lora’s place.  We had kegs, golf carts, and slip n’ slides; it was like MTV’s the Grind (if you don’t know what that is, fuck you, you lucky young bastard).  Anyway, Cola and Lora had never met or spoken before, and here was their introduction…

Lora  “I’m not going fast on the slip n’ slide, what should I do?”
Cola  “Take your top of.”

It’s been awkward ever since, back to the story.

Amanda also informed me that as the club emptied out, there were 3 girls dancing together downstairs.  Dan The Man and I approached the threesome and impressed them with our dance moves.  Apparently they were more into dancing with each other than us, so then we decided to impress them with our smooth game.

Me  “I’m down with lesbians.”
Dan The Man  “Yeah, even ugly ones.”

They were not into our smooth game; I’ll never truly understand lesbians.  Alright, enough is enough, it’s time to get out of Memphis while I still have my dignity (wallet) intact.  Back in West Memphis, I briefly remember a casino?  I can only imagine that at some point I was stumbling around Southland Park; I guess I’ll need to get tested when I get back to Orlando.  When I’m finally in the room, Cola is actually just waking up to get ready for the drive home.  Apparently I had my headphones on and was rocking out to my iPod.  Cola later informed me that the other end of my headphones was plugged into nothing and that I was trying to jam it into my cell phone.  My cell phone does not play music.  I drop dead on the bed for about 20 minutes before I am woken up.

Day 5 – 6:00am

Since we are making the drive back in 1 day, it has been predetermined that we will get up and leave super early.  This is good for everyone except me; I’m more intoxicated now then I was 20 minutes ago when I went to sleep.  I shove everything I think I own into my bag and then head to the van.

Day 5 – 6:45am

I’m phasing in and out as I realize we are still parked.  I’m too drunk to move, but not to drunk to notice that I’m the only one in the van.  Finally Cola opens the driver side door as I lay lifeless in the back row.

Me  “Dude, man, meh, ah, what’s going on?”
Cola  “We were eating breakfast.”
Me  “Why am I in the car?”
Cola  “We didn’t want you to go anywhere.”
Me  “Why didn’t you leave me in the room?”
Cola  “This was funnier.”

Before I can call him an asshole, I pass back out.

Day 5 – 12:15pm

Once I wake back up, I feel great.  Somehow we have gotten lost; apparently Cola’s GPS only leads us to danger, and this great breakfast joint called Michelle’s.  Whenever you go on any adventure, you always end up somewhere amazing that you can never find again; Michelle’s is said spot.  I’ve Googled the shit outta this place and have come up empty-handed.  It’s somewhere about 5 hours south-ish of Memphis; if you know, please do tell.  The food here was so plentiful and cheaply priced that Rizzo couldn’t stop himself from flexing.  Since it’s Sunday, Michelle’s is offering some sort of Church Buffet Special.  We may not be much for Church, but we’ll take God up on his kick ass Buffet.  With a menu that looks this good, how could we say no?  It’s the kind of stuff your mom cooks, well, if your mom was related to your dad before they got married.

Remember how I told you my mom forced us to take an Amish-style map along?  Yeah, me neither because The Memphis Chronicles – Part 1 seems like a fucking year ago because I’m a terrible writer.  Anyway, Cola’s GPS wasn’t worth the cardboard it was printed on, and for some reason our MapQuest directions didn’t work in reverse.  The old school map was the only thing that got us home (this was before phones could do everything).  However, we all made it back successfully, even Sketch-mo.

So what did we learn from this voyage?  Well, in short, Memphis is cold so don’t waste your time.  Besides that, let’s list a few:

• Vans are awesome (I honestly can’t believe I don’t have 1 fucking picture of this thing, it’s very upsetting).
• Only pour urine out of a moving car when Sketch-mo is behind you.
• West Memphis is actually in Arkansas.
• Don’t listen to idiots that don’t know what a “green jacket” looks like.
• Cell phones can still work even after they are soaked in water overnight.
• Rob the Bartender kicks ass.
• Drunk gambling can be awesome if you win money.
• 90lb girls who drink with me will throw up.
• Baby Voice Bill has no game.
• Vegetarians (lesbians) are weird.
• People from Mississippi hump cows.
• It’s very wrong to pour water on your friend’s crotch and tell him he pissed himself.
• Last but not least, always listen to your mother.

So what’s next?  I’m thinking something tropical, perhaps Spring Break in Key West?  Who knows, maybe I’ll spend my nights on a pier, run from the law, meet the Joad family, avoid a drive-by, befriend homeless teenagers, hell, I might even get laid!  But that’s really just speculation…

AFTERMATH:

My roommate found this link on Forbes.  Apparently they did a study of the top 10 most miserable cities… Memphis?  Holding strong at #2. http://www.forbes.com/2009/02/06/most-miserable-cities-business-washington_0206_miserable_cities_slide_3.htmlhttp://www.forbes.com/2009/02/06/most-miserable-cities-business-washington_0206_miserable_cities_slide_3.html

The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Day 3 – 6:30pm

I always find it amazing that the “3 S’s” can instantly sober up even the wildest of idiots.  For those of you unfamiliar with the term “3 S’s,” it stands for Shit, Shower, Shave.  I’m not sure if this is an acronym that girls use, but for us boys, well I guess we’re just that simple.  Complete with my UCF shirt and rejuvenated appearance, I take a solo walk to the Mexican restaurant, Margaritas, to meet back up with Wild Bill.

Once inside, I grab a seat at the end of the ghetto-rigged 2 table arrangement that seats about 8; it’s Wild Bill, Sketch-mo, Sanford, and Lora and her friends.  At this point, I have still not seen Amanda and the rest of that crew.  I sit into a very awkward conversation; for some reason, Wild Bill and Lora have told the waitress that they are married and have a kid.  They are getting a To Go order for one of Lora’s friends, but are pretending it’s for their fictional child.  Yes, at times my friends are even dumber than me.  As the waitress takes the order, I waste no time interrupting in a humorous attempt to steal the table’s thunder.

Waitress  “And what will your son be eating?”
Me  “Cock, if he’s anything like his father.”

My attempt is successful; people laugh as Wild Bill is shamed.  He gives me the stink-eye to show his disapproval of my remarks.  I smile and cheers him with someone else’s Margarita; we are friends again.  After we have slammed a few margaritas and the To Go order is intact, it’s time to get back to the room and start the heavy pregaming.  Real quickly on the margaritas, allow me to digress for just a moment.

Tequila does not taste good.  The idea that anybody would want to mix it with sugar juice and drink it even slower is just asinine.  If you are reading this and thinking “Hey, I like Tequila,” you are dumb.  Nobody drinks Tequila for the taste; we drink it because it makes us feel not dead inside.

As the girls go back to the room to change and Wild Bill follows them to watch, I call Amanda and head to her upstairs room.  She told me that she had just finished eating at the Mexican place right before Wild Bill got there.  Once inside, I see she is with Alexa, Kristin, Jess, and a new face, Dan.  Dan sits in a chair in the corner drinking alone while randomly insulting all of the girls in the room.  I like Dan immediately; he is the man.  Dan The Man informs me that he drove the entire way, and that girls are very useful during long drives.  After I chug a couple beers with Dan The Man, I make fun of Amanda and then exit the room.

Back in Lora’s room (which if you remember shares a wall with ours), the party has grown to about 10 or so.  I see that Wild Bill has put on his party face as he leans over to whisper something to me.

Wild Bill  “I just saw Holly’s butt.  Woo Wee!”
Me  “What are you, 7?”
Sketch-mo  “Yeah I know right?!”
Wild Bill  “Just shut up Sketch-mo.”

As the party continues to grow, we feel it’s best to move it to the lobby.  The group fires up a couple card games as I polish off a mixed drink and a Tilt.  We are starting to run low on refreshments, so Lora drives Rizzo and me to a sketchy gas station to pick up some beer and a few more Tilts.  Upon our return, all UCFers that are staying at Days Inn are now in the lobby.  Cola, our future accountant, takes a head count and realizes that we cannot fit 15 people into a single cab.  We turn back towards the booze as we wait for our transportation to arrive.

Day 3 – 9:45pm

I jump into the back of one of the van-style taxis with Amanda and her friends; Dan The Man snags shotgun and brings his Days Inn beverage along for the ride.  Once we reach Beale Street, it looks like a completely different place.  The street is packed beyond belief; this is what we had originally envisioned, apparently we just had to wait until night 3 to experience it.  There are beer vendors in the streets, drunk kids already throwing up, beautiful UCF people everywhere, and even a few obnoxiously ugly people from Mississippi State; life is now amazing.

Once all taxis are unloaded, it’s time to split the heard; with groups this large, you generally never stick together for more than 10 minutes.  Our room and Amanda’s room stick together and hop into the first bar we see, B.B. King’s.  As we get IDed, both Dan and Rizzo are using passports because they don’t have IDs; they fist bump and become instant friends.  We manage to find a large enough available table in the middle of the crowded bar.  Once we sit down, Wild Bill leans in for another whisper.

Wild Bill  “Have you ever hooked up with Amanda?”
Me  “You are an idiot.”
Wild Bill  “Just checking.”
Me  “Does this mean you’re gonna try?”
Wild Bill  “I can’t predict the future.”
Sketch-mo  “Hey, what are you guys talking about?”
Wild Bill  “Eyes down Sketch-mo.”

Have I ever hooked up with Amanda?  This is a question I have been asked so many times; allow me to digress for a very disturbing moment.

No, I have never and will never hook up with Amanda.  For those of you who don’t know our situation, my nickname for Amanda is “Mom.”  This is not because she is caring and helpful; this is because she physically resembles my mother.  I would have referred to her as “Mom” throughout this entire story, but I did not want to confuse anybody.  So with that in mind, let’s rephrase Wild Bill’s question.

Wild Bill  “[Have you ever hooked up with someone who looks like your mother]?”

No Wild Bill, I have not.  Furthermore, you know that I call her “Mom” so why would you ask me this (multiple times)?  That would be weird, uncomfortable, and in some way probably incestuous.  This reminds me of another disturbing conversation that I’ve been trying to erase from my mind for years; readers beware.  One time while I was at the Wife Factory (Strip Club), I asked one of the Future Wives what the weirdest thing a guy has ever said to her was.

Me  “What’s the weirdest thing a guy has ever said to you?”
Future Wife  “This one time a guy asked me for a lap dance because he said I reminded him of his granddaughter.”

Take a moment to wipe your projectile vomit off the screen.  Some people are just fucking weird.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve never gone to a family reunion with a wad of singles in my pocket.  If you are normal, Wife Factories can be a good time.  I mean besides, guys like Wife Factories because “they are funny and not a turn-on.”  Girls, if we (men) tell you that we like going to a Strip Clubs because it’s “funny and not a turn-on,” we are lying to you; we like going because strippers are hot and obedient, and yes, we want to have sex with all of them.  I’m not sure where this is going, but the bottom line is Amanda = No Sex, Strippers = Cool; back to the story.

Once at B.B. King’s, Dan The Man is working some magic at the bar because he actually works at the B.B. King’s in Orlando, so he is scoring some sort of discount.  He returns with several shots; I rip a couple and then take to the streets alone.  As I’ve mentioned before, I’m somewhat of a wanderer.  I think it must be my ADD or something, but whatever the case, I can’t sit still for too long.  I walk into another bar called Club 152 and find Lora and Elsie drinking at the bar.  I brag about my poker winnings and suggest that we spend it; we begin ordering all sorts of random shots.  Some girl next to me shouts my way.

Some Girl Next To Me  “Hey, do you work at the UCF Gym?”
Me  “Yes, I do.  Would you like a shot?”
Some Girl Next To Me  “Obviously.”

It’s easy to make friends when you are handing out money in the form of alcohol.  I look back to the girls and notice that Lora has wandered off somewhere.  Elsie and I exit and head towards, where else, Tap Room.  As we cross the street, we run into Wild Bill and Casey.  I tell them that we are going to visit Rob the bartender; they agree to meet us after they find [some member of the crew, I can’t remember who].  After giving Rob an overzealous hug, Elsie and I sit alone at the bar and continue to pound drinks; nothing good can come from this, especially for Elsie.  She is drinking as fast as I am, the only problem is that she weights maybe 90 lbs, soaking wet.  All of a sudden Lora appears as if from nowhere and since Elsie is once again safely a part of “the buddy system,” I hop back to the streets.  Oh in case I haven’t mentioned this yet tonight, FUCK IT’S COLD.

Day 3 – 11:30pm

Every time I blink, the population of Beale Street seems to double.  I see a large group of UCF fans jumping wildly in a circle in the middle of the street; I join the madness and start hopping up and down like a diehard fan (crazed idiot).  Out of nowhere, I’m bear-hugged from behind and lifted off the ground.  Holy Smokes!  It’s AJ (from The Key West Chronicles) and Baines (from The Cross Country Chronicles coming eventually).

AJ  “Where have you been?!”
Me  “All over the place, when’d you get here?”
AJ  “Today.”
Me  “So why did you ask me where I’ve been?”
AJ  “Huh?”
Me  “Never mind.  Where’s everyone else?”

AJ and Baines point to the rest of the drunkards who are in the middle of the jumping circle; apparently I had been jumping with people I actually knew.  AJ high-fives me a skittle and I accept it.

Baines  “Who are you here with?”
Me  “A bunch of people.”
Baines  “Where are they?”
Me  “No idea.”

As if they could smell the insanity, Wild Bill, Rizzo, and Cola appear from out of the shadows; Dan The Man, Amanda, and others follow close behind.  Our original group is now reuniting in the middle of the freezing street.  Just when all is well, trouble comes a brewin’.  A Mississippi State circle has formed and they are challenging us in a very West Side Story fashion; although, instead of the Sharks vs. the Jets, it’s really more like Team Good Looking vs. Team Inbred.  These Cow Humpers have also gone with these very annoying cowbells as their weapon of choice.  Wild Bill accuses Team Inbred of being a bunch of “Sister Kissers.”  We agreed.  The kids gather around Mom and take a picture.  After street security unnecessarily intervenes, I invite Team Good Looking back to Tap Room as if it were my own bar.  Once inside, more trouble is a brewin’.

Day 4 – 12:45am

Inside Tap Room, Lora informs me that Elsie is a bit on the fritz.  And by “a bit on the fritz,” she means face down at the bar.  There’s nothing more complicated than being drunk and having to take care of another drunk person, but we’ve all been there.  The original plan is to toss her in the back of a cab and let the Gods protect her; but fearing that she might get gang-raped by a gaggle of locals, I’m elected as the designated guardian.  Once we make it to the hotel, I toss her over my shoulder and carry her to her room.  I tell the cabbie to stay put and that I’ll be right back because this is a round-trip.  With Elsie out cold, I fruitlessly search through her purse for her room key.  Ultimately, I can either toss her in our room or leave her on the staircase; I believe in Karma so I throw her in our room.  I also believe in vomit, so I place her on Sketch-mo’s cot “just in case.”  I run to the cab and catch my ride back to the madness.

Day 4 – 2:00am

Having just completed my good deed for the year, I reward myself with a Fat Ass sized Rogue Dead Guy back at Tap Room.  The massive crowd has dispersed, but Cola and Rizzo still grace the bar.  There is a walk-up window connected to the bar so people can order drinks from the street; it’s also useful for harassing Cow Humpers.

Rizzo  “Hey you!  Who’s better in bed, your mom or your sister?”
Me  “Do you know what the internet is?”
Cola  “Yeah, what they said.”

The funny thing is that most of the Cow Humpers are real adults and not college kids; although, at 2 in the morning there is no such thing as respect for authority.  I ask Rizzo as to the whereabouts of Wild Bill.

Rizzo  “Oh, you mean Baby Voice Bill?  He’s trying to score with your mom.”
Me  “Oh, that should be funny.  And please call her Amanda because I don’t like sound of ‘Wild Bill scoring with my mom’.”

Alright, the time has come for you to learn all about this man, Wild Bill; allow me to digress for more than a moment.

I first met Wild Bill (formerly Big Bill) my sophomore year of college; he was a fraternity brother of mine.  Yes I was in a fraternity, and no I do not have a tribal band tattoo.  We became good friends my junior year when we ended up living in the same neighborhood.  Big Bill lived with his brother and Sanford, and I lived down the street with Rizzo and Sketch-mo.  Our place basically became the community rec center; we had a Jager machine, a Kegerator, and a full liquor bar, so I guess we brought this upon ourselves.  Big Bill would come over, we would get all liquored up, and then go out to a local watering hole (sometimes we would just cruise around in my borrowed golf cart, but that’s a whole nother story).  I started noticing the crass and hilarious things that Big Bill would say to strangers; not that I didn’t do the exact same thing, but I guess it just seemed funnier when somebody who was 6’4” 240lb said it.

On the way out to Vegas for my 21^st birthday, Big Bill asked the stewardess (flight attendant) if the in-flight movie was United 93; right then the nickname Wild Bill was spawned.  Wild Bill reared his brash, shameless head all over the place; like the time a sweet innocent girl asked Wild Bill if she could use his stool because he was only sitting on it half the time.  His response:  Sorry, chivalry is dead sugar tits.  Another time, we were leaving The Library (the one with booze, not that weird place that’s like Blockbuster except with books) after a Friday afternoon happy hour; about 3 doors down is an Italian ice place at which several of my friends (female) worked.  I was talking to one of them, Jessica, and she noticed that Wild Bill’s knuckles were all fucked up (we had a punching bag), so she asked what happened.  His response:  I just got done teaching my girlfriend a valuable lesson (relax, he was kidding, I think).  These are just a few instances of Wild Bill, but like most people, this man has many different personas.

Personally, I only have 2 versions; regular ol’ jolly me, and The Russian.  The Russian is who I become after I drink too much vodka, start speaking a made up language, and then urinate on myself; this version is not a fan favorite.  Another friend of mine, Dez, has a couple.  There is Full Price Dez; this version works at a bar and offers his pals no discount whatsoever.  And then there’s my personal favorite, Too Full Dez; this version eats so much that he goes into a food-coma on the couch and repeats the phrase “I feel like I’m gonna throw up” like a broken record.

So far in this story, Wild Bill has been brutal, witty, and hilarious; I think now it’s time you learn about the rest of the Bills.  Let’s begin with Office Bill (aka Whistleblower Bill, a term coined by my friend Griff Dawg).  Whistleblower Bill holds a position at a bank for which he is more than under qualified.  Furthermore, if he’s not texting on the job, he is somehow miraculously using up another vacation day.  The kid has more vacation days than me; I’m currently unemployed.  Whistleblower Bill?  Not for me.

Next up, we have Gummy Spine Bill.  Gummy Spine Bill gets walked all over by anyone and everyone; this is still a mystery to me because Gummy Spine Bill has the same physical dimensions as Wild Bill.  Gummy Spine Bill is also stupidly sketchy.  Often, he will call me and say he’s on his way over to hang out; then, when I call him back hours later because he is a no-show, he says “Oh sorry man, I can’t make it.”  Read that sentence again, it makes sense, I promise.  Gummy Spine Bill also gets pushed around and overruled by all of his roommates, even though he is the eldest and the largest.  Gummy Spine Bill?  Not for me.

Next on the menu, Baby Voice Bill.  You know when your buddy picks up his phone and changes his voice to “little bitch mode” because he is talking to his girlfriend?  Welcome to Baby Voice Bill.  Baby Voice Bill loves to come out when he’s “running game” on a girl or talking to a waitress; again it’s always funnier with him because of his larger-than-life size.  Baby Voice Bill speaks to women, and sometimes authority figures, in a tone which implies that he’d like to pet them softly.  Baby Voice Bill?  Not for me.

With most people, you can tell which version you’re going to get according to their level of alcohol consumption; in Big Bill’s case, it’s always a complete guess.  Big Bill has several other versions, but the aforementioned are the dominant ones.  In any case, unless you’re a stranger, you are always praying for Wild Bill to show up at the party.  Anyway, where was I?  Oh right, basically even though Amanda has understandably low standards, she knows Wild Bill far to well to fall for Baby Voice Bill; back to the story.

Day 4 – 3:00am (estimate)

By this point, the booze has once again started to take a toll on my memory; if not for the skittle, I would have blacked out hours ago.  After a few incoherent phone calls, I somehow manage to meet back up with AJ and Baines.  They, along with the rest of their buddies, are at a place called Rum Boogie Café; it is located at the end of Beale Street and across from Silky O’Sullivans (the place at which I had made friends the previous night).  This place seems a little too busy for my liking, and after unsuccessfully attempting to order chicken wings, I take back to the streets.

The time has come for me to find my original group; if not I fear I will wind up being just another pillaged victim of a local meth-head.  Things are very hazy and the streets are still packed, so I turn on my drunken recall and head to our original place, B.B. King’s.  Once again, God favors the drunks, because Eureka, I have part of the crew!  It’s Dan The Man’s crew (formerly Amanda’s crew) along with Rizzo, Cola, and Sanford.  Wild Bill is nowhere to be found, but unfortunately Baby Voice Bill is residing with the rest of the group.  I’m also glad Alexa is here, because I had entrusted her with my camera earlier since I tend to lose things when I drink.  She did however take about 15 pictures of herself; she’s hot enough so I’ll show one here.  Rizzo leans over…

Rizzo  “Hey, you want a skittle?”
Me  “Where’d you get that?”
Rizzo  “AJ.”

I take the gift; Rizzo and I are nothing but smiles.

Day 4 – 4:00am (estimate)

After another round of shots and a Miller Lite, It’s about time to head back to the hotel.  Once outside, I no longer notice the cold.  Finally, I have reached a BAC high enough to keep me safe from below freezing temperatures.  The streets are beginning to thin out, and the cops are kicking everyone off Beale Street.  They are literally telling us that we cannot stand on a particular corner, but the “other” corner (5 feet away) is not a problem.

Rizzo  “Oh ok, so you want us to loiter on the other side of the street?”
Dumb Cop #1  “Yes.”

We flag down a cab; this time it happens to be a 15 person passenger van.  I don’t think we needed that much space this time around because I’m fairly certain that other parts of the group had already gone back (I’m not positive though).  As we all pile in, we notice Sketch-mo talking to a presumably underage sex solicitor behind a tree in the distance; we break up the probable jail time situation and throw his ass in the van.

As I completely say goodnight to my memory, the rest is once again hearsay.  On the way back, Baby Voice Bill sat shotgun and kept fucking with the cab radio volume in a poor attempt to befriend the driver.  I sat in the back row doing my patented Fake Pass Out at least 10 times; as usual, I fooled no one.  Once we got back to the hotel, things got even better.  As we entered our room, Elsie had decided to throw up; good thing I had placed her on Sketch-mo’s cot “just in case.”  He gets angry with me, but I reraise him with more anger until he settles down.

Me  “What was I gonna fuckin’ do?  Leave her outside?!”
Sketch-mo  “You could have put her on the floor or something?”

Wild Bill (formerly Baby Voice Bill) walks by…

Wild Bill  “Just shut up Sketch-mo.”

I cozy up to Cola in our shared bed as Rizzo finds himself sleeping solo.  Why you ask?  Well Wild/Baby Voice Bill has big plans for this evening.  He decided to rent his own room so that he and Sanford could conjure up some sort of sex party with Amanda and her friend.  Even with my eyes closed and brain turned off, my mouth still runs on its own.

Wild/Baby Voice Bill (to Amanda) “Yeah, so I think I need to get a new room cause Elsie threw up in mine.”
Me (laughing) “Never gonna happen.”

Cola can’t help but to laugh; this only fuels my autopilot wittiness.

Wild/Baby Voice Bill (to Amanda) “Me and Sanford are gonna split it, you guys should stay with us.”
Me (eyes closed) “Everyone in this room can smell your desperation.”

I will give Wild/Baby Voice Bill his due credit; his ploy worked.  The 4some ended up sharing a much overpriced and very sexless room.  Our room has emptied out; Elsie was carried back to her place, Sketch-mo is sleeping in vomit, Rizzo is sleeping like a king, and I’m the big spoon as I clutch Cola tightly.  Tomorrow can’t come soon enough; it is GAMEDAY!

Me (talking in my sleep) “Ha, Wild Bill, ha…”

CONTINUE ON TO PART 5 (FINALE)

The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Day 3 – 10:00am

It’s another gloriously cold morning as I awake still feeling silly (drunk) from the previous night.  I’d say on average I wake up 7 days a week with the taste of stale beer in my mouth, today is no exception.  Oh, I had mentioned I woke up missing something, well at this point I haven’t noticed yet, so we’ll get back to that.  Like clockwork, Cola is already awake, Sketch-mo is curled up in the fetal position on his baby cot, and Rizzo and Wild Bill snore away like lumberjacks on 500mgs of Ambien.  After I shower and brush the ethanol crystals off my teeth, I do a bed cannonball right in between the members of the 200+ club awaking them both.

Me  “Rise and shine pumpkin.”
Wild Bill  “What’s the big idea!?  Real fucking cool!”
Me  “We’re burning daylight, let’s go big guy.”
Rizzo  “Go away.”
Me  “Come on, who’s hungry?”
Rizzo  “Go away, nobody likes you.”
Me  “You want to gamble?”
Rizzo  “Alright I’m up.”

Cola sits in the corner practicing his poker skills against no one as the others ready themselves.  The Days Inn offers a free “continental breakfast,” so we decide to save some cash and check it out.  Of course, Wild Bill keeps it classy as he engages in conversation with the concierge.

Wild Bill (sarcastic) “How’s your breakfast?  I hear it’s topnotch!”
Concierge  “Well, it ain’t no Ramada Inn.”

Apparently Ramada Inn is the breadwinner when it comes to the sub par hospitality industry.  Take another moment to laugh condescendingly.

Me  “So where’s the continental breakfast?”
Wild Bill  “Yeah, so is it crab legs or lobster?”
Concierge  “Ha, you boys are funny.”

Ultimately she points us in the direction of a coffee maker and a microwave.  Next to the microwave sits several generically packaged old Danishes, a few hot chocolate packets, and a single orange.  I pick up a Danish and throw it directly in the trash without opening it just so I feel like I get my money’s worth.  Wild Bill takes a bite out of the orange with the peel still on and then baseball hucks it across the parking lot.

Day 3 – 11:30am

It’s time to devise something of a plan.  Cola and Rizzo are heading to Tunica to play cards; Wild Bill and Sketch-mo are hanging around Memphis with Sanford, Lora and some others to do touristy shit like visit Graceland or something.  I decide to jump into shotgun with the gamblers.  We 3 amigos peel out of the parking lot as I shout obscenities at Wild Bill while simultaneously giving him the finger.

As we head towards Tunica, we must once again drive through sketchy downtown Memphis.  We had done this a couple nights ago, but it was too dark to see just how rundown this area actually is.  Again I wonder why I have had this image in my head of Memphis being some sort of magical place; truth be told it’s probably one of the most desolated and depressing places I have been to in my life.  I mean, despite 1 street of drunken chaos, Memphis really brings nothing to the table.  Just when we think we’re out of the ghetto, I see someone who, according to their license plate, is a hustler.  Once we’re no longer in the smell proximity of any Memphis scavengers, Rizzo and I find it an appropriate time to fire up another California cigar.  Minutes later, I pass out; when I wake back up, we’ve made it to Tunica.

Day 3 – 12:15pm

If Southland Park was like Vegas with AIDS, Tunica is like Vegas with Down syndrome.  On our first venture, we had stopped at Grand Casino because it’s the first one you see; today we have gone a bit farther and will try our luck at Gold Strike.  Once Cola wakes me upon arrival, I hop out of the van like a giddy kid arriving at Chuck E. Cheese’s.  Rizzo and I have coat hanger sized smiles on our faces while Cola looks stern as he visualizes winning millions and never having to work again (start working).  Upon entry, this place isn’t half bad; the casino is very open and seems to only house half of the amount of degenerates that I was expecting.  As I walk pass the female security guard with street cred, she throws a complementing smile back at my involuntary one.  Next, she gives Rizzo a friendly wave and welcomes him to Gold Strike.  Once she spots Cola, she stops all 3 of us and immediately demands identification; allow me to digress for just a moment.

Like I’ve stated several times, Rizzo and Cola are childhood friends of mine; I met them when I was 8 years old, they lived in the same neighborhood as my cousin.  Rizzo always hated when I was in the neighborhood and never wanted to “play” while I was around.  My contention is that he was threatened by my awesomeness; he was the neighborhood stud when it came to sports, and when I was around he finally had some decent competition.  Although, truth be told he was always a little better than me (wow, I guess I can be humble).  As for Cola, well let’s just say he was the kid who always showed up wearing sandals so he would get grandfathered into the “All-time QB” position and not have to run while we played football in the streets.  Ok, I’m getting off topic; Cola has always been the eldest of our group, yet apparently he looks like he’s 7 years old.  Anywhere and everywhere we go, he gets IDed; whether it be to a bar, the dog tracks, a dirty movie theater, Celebration Station, or even a regular movie theater, it does not matter.  The kid might as well just strut around in Overalls while slinging a fucking Yo-Yo; back to the story.

Me  “You weren’t going to ID us until you saw this fucker (Cola) right?”
Female Security Guard With Street Cred  “Uh huh.”
Me  “Isn’t it funny that he’s older than [Rizzo and I]?”
Female Security Guard With Street Cred  “I’d say it’s more ironic than funny.”
Me  “Oh a wise ass huh?”
Female Security Guard With Sense Of Humor  “You boys have fun.”

Once inside, we take an escalator upstairs to the poker room.  They only have a couple tables open, so all 3 of us sit down together.  Generally when you go to play cards with friends, you don’t sit at the same table because you want to take other people’s money; today we are left with no choice but I don’t really care.  Not only are we seated at the same table, but we are also sitting right next to each other; Rizzo in the middle, Cola to his right, myself to his left.  This table has no idea what has just hit them.  The 3 of us are actually decent poker players, I mean all it takes is a little bit of smarts (to be decent, we aren’t professionals or anything), but judging by the Fu Manchu which extends beyond the reasonable chin level and down the neck of the man who sits across from me, he is lacking said smarts.

The waitress comes by to take our order, by doing so she is adding all sorts of fuel to this fire.  My morning (1pm) drink of choice, as well as Rizzo’s, is a Mimosa.  I’ve never been much a fan of Bloody Marys, any drink that requires Tabasco sauce is not for me; unless of course I lose a bet and bitterly order someone else a Prairie Fire (warm Tequila with a dab of Tabasco sauce).  Cola starts pounding Red Bulls to heighten his senses thus optimizing his level of play.  Our waitress returns with the drinks before we even have a chance to buy-in, she is now my new best friend.  Like most college kids, I never have any cash on me, except when I’m on vacation.  I have 200 bucks in my pocket, so I have yet to notice my missing credit card (yeah, that’s what I woke up without).  We each buy-in with 100 bones, and this is when the fun begins.

Day 3 – 1:00pm

Remember how I previously stated that if you are a serious poker player, I am your nemesis?  Well today, much like most days, I will not be making many friends.  Let’s also keep in mind that I was a tad loopy when I walked into this casino, so now it’s just a matter of moments before the Hair Gel Effect takes over.  If you are not familiar with this term, allow me to digress for just a moment.

The Hair Gel Effect mainly refers to losers with Faux-Hawks, but for all intents and purposes, it’s a simple concept which anyone can understand.  If you have had gel in your hair the previous night, then all you have to do is wet your hair in the morning to reactivate the old gel so you can look just as stupid today as you did yesterday.  The same holds true with drinking; if you were fall down stupid drunk last night, all it takes is a few drops of alcohol to reactivate last night’s level of awesomeness.  So what may just be 1 or 2 morning cocktails quickly spirals into a repeat shit-show, hence the Hair Gel Effect; back to the story.

I have already sucked down my 2^nd Mimosa before having played a single hand.  Like I mentioned early, the best way to get sauced-up for cheap at a casino is to play poker.  Cola has already taken a few big pots and is up about 100 bucks, Rizzo sits about even, and I’ve just lost a few blinds so I have about 90 bucks in front of me (we are playing at a 1-2 No Limit table).  As the 3^rd round of Mimosas arrives, I start with the table talk.

Me  “So Tunica huh?  You guys got like a Walmart here or something?”

The gentleman seated to my left wearing a cowboy costume did not understand my sarcastic and condescending tone, so he proceeds to give me directions to the local Walmart.  I respect his integrity and we become friends.  Just then, Rizzo takes a big pot off some chump across the table.

Me  “Woo Wee, looks like the next round’s on you!  Or actually, that guy!”

I point at That Guy, he is not amused.

That Guy  “[Rizzo] got lucky.”
Rizzo  “How do you figure.”
That Guy  “Ran me down.”
Rizzo  “Sir, I flopped the nut straight.”

That Guy mumbles and trails off as he tries fruitlessly to verbally retaliate; just then our waitress arrives.

Me  “Hey new best friend, another round please.”
New Best Friend  “Sure boys.”
Rizzo  “This time, just a splash of OJ, you know, for color.”
New Best Friend  “Oh I’ll take care of you guys!”

Rizzo tips her with That Guy’s money and I tell him thanks; again he is not amused.  Cola and Rizzo have been tipping huge on all the rounds, so New Best Friend loves us.  We appear extra suave because I’m sure the kind of tip she’s used to getting is some drunken snaggletooth telling her to wear a baggy shirt to help cloak her muffin top.  Right after she returns with round 4, I am ready to play my first hand.  The people at the table should take notice of this and assume my hand is really good, but they don’t.  I have pocket Kings or KK if you will; I raise to $10 before the flop.  2 people call me, That Guy and some dude with a facial tattoo that just screams “hire me.”

Me  “Oh no, not you sir!”

That Guy grunts.

Me  “Ok, so honestly guys, what do you have?”
Hire Me  “Aces.”
That Guy  “Me too.”

I do not believe either of these lying degenerates.

Me  “Oh man, I only have Kings.  Looks like I’m fucked.”

That Guy and Hire Me let out a little laughter as the flop comes; it’s 2, Q, K rainbow (all different suits).  I have 3 Kings, and right now the best possible hand.  I’m first to act, so like a sneaky son of a bitch, I check.

Me  “Well I flopped trip Kings, might as well check.”

Rizzo and Cola know that I actually have trip Kings because they have seen me do this time and time again.  That Guy bets $10 and Hire Me folds; the turn card is a meaningless 4.  I check again.

Me  “Might as well keep slow playing because I think you’re gonna bet.”

I am right, That Guy bets because he is stupid.  I just call; the river is a useless 7.  There is no chance of a flush, so I have the nuts (best hand).  Now any poker player will tell you that I should make a value bet here (a bet that is substantial, but just small enough where it’s almost worth it for That Guy to call), but I believe That Guy to be incredibly stupid so I check again.  I am right; he is incredibly stupid and bets $20.  I reraise to $60 and he calls with little hesitation.  The table is shocked when I flip over KK; they are baffled by my honesty.

Me  “I told you.”

That Guy has just been cleaned out and leaves the table unsatisfied (he didn’t show his hand and I didn’t ask to see it).  Hire Me laughs and praises himself for getting out of the hand early.  The Walmart directions guy in the cowboy costume congratulates me.

Walmart Cowboy  “Wow, great hand!”
Me  “You dress silly but I like you.”

I have just won about $150 dollars, so between tipping the dealer, the blinds, and throwing Rizzo and Cola a few coins for the previous rounds, I’m up about $100.  I invite Walmart Cowboy to join Rizzo and me in our next round of Mimosas (now basically just champagne with an orange hue).  He agrees so I hug him and then flag down New Best Friend and put in our drink request.  We have only been playing for about an hour, but each one of us is up big; Cola is actually up about $400.  I make a general announcement to the table.

Me  “Don’t you people have jobs?  Christ it’s 2pm on a Friday.”

The majority of players shoot me dirty looks then stare back at their cards; Walmart Cowboy laughs like a hyena and then cheers’ me.  Some chubby Asian guy does not like me insulting his day job and decides to fight fire with fire.

Chubby Asian  “Why aren’t you at work?”
Me  “Because I work at my college gym and it’s closed.”
Chubby Asian  “College huh?”
Rizzo  “Yeah, ever heard of it?”

Chubby Asian cannot compete with our tag team wit so he gives up.  I had forgotten I was playing poker until the dealer asked me to fold or call; I call without looking at my cards to show how ballsy (drunk) I am.  There are a lot of people in this hand, so I decide to look at my cards.  I have pocket 5s.  When the flop comes 5, 5, 4, I am again first to act so I bet $10 and then announced that I have pocket 5s and everyone should fold immediately.

Me  “I have pocket 5s, I suggest you all fold immediately.

Walmart Cowboy is practically passed out on the table; apparently he too is currently experiencing the Hair Gel Effect.  Rizzo and Cola are also in the hand, so heeding my warning, they both fold immediately.  Hire Me looks me up and down then folds.  The action is to Chubby Asian.  Chubby Asian apparently received his GED from the same high school as That Guy because he calls my bet.

Me  “You saw my pocket Kings like 10 minutes ago, I’m not lying.”
Chubby Asian  “We’ll see about that.”

Yeah, we will.  I don’t even look at the turn card, instead I just eye-fuck Chubby Asian and announce a $20 bet.  Like a pussy, he looks at the table and then calls.

Me  “How are you going to explain to your children why daddy can’t afford braces?”

The river comes, again I don’t look.

Me  “$40.”

Chubby Asian is eyeing me up big time.  He looks very serious; I look like Nick Nolte’s mug shot.  Chubby Asian exhales and then says…

Chubby Asian  “I’m all in.”

I call instantly and flip over pocket 5s.  Everyone at the table is laughing except for Chubby Asian.  I explain to him how he has only himself to blame.

Me  “You have only yourself to blame.”

He buys back in and stays at the table as I order another round.  I have just won a $300 dollar pot.  We continue to play for a little bit longer, but by this point we are all growing tiresome of this crowd and we are getting pretty hungry.  The dealer tells us that it’s our lucky day because they have a Steak and Lobster Buffet on Friday and Saturday.  I ask him if he considers a surefire case of Salmonella lucky?  Confident that the booze will shield our stomachs from any form of bacterial infection, Rizzo and I decide to give it a whirl; a sober Cola also agrees, apparently he’s just a natural daredevil.

Day 3 – 2:48pm

Once back downstairs, we stumble into New Best Friend at her server station during our search for the buffet.  She points us in the right direction as well as fills up 2 full glasses of straight champagne.  We get to the buffet but there’s a slight problem, the Steak and Lobster Buffet doesn’t kick-off until 3pm.  Since we have absolutely nothing to do, we just wait it out.  While waiting, we count up our winnings very publicly.  Between the 3 of us, we sat down at that table with $300 in play, now, combined we have over $1000.  With $700 extra dollars, you can be sure tonight’s festivities will be extra sloppy.  Cola has the most profit, he’s up $350.  I’m up $250 and Rizzo is up a little over $100; not bad for a couple hours of drinking.  Unlike Cola who intends to save his winnings, I do not.  I plan to invest mine, well I guess if you consider booze and possible hookers an investment.  As we wait for 3pm to roll around, Rizzo uses his Adam Sandler-style good looks to befriend the cashier.

At the stroke of 3, we pay our $15.99 each and attack the buffet.  I’ll be honest here; the food was actually pretty good.  The lobster tails/steak cuts were small and it took forever to get seconds, but for 16 bucks who’s gonna bitch?  After we get our money’s worth, we decide to pack up shop and part ways with Gold Strike.  I contemplate lining my pockets and sneaking some food to Walmart Cowboy, but by this point he’s probably out cold.  Once outside, Cola starts to get that junkie itch.  Gold Strike shares a parking lot with the Horseshoe Casino, so Cola uses his “I mean, we’re already here” argument to get us to go in with him.

Cola finds the poker room, and Rizzo and I decide to try our hands at Blackjack.  Rizzo can’t seem to catch a break, but I’m still on a hot streak.  We get a round of Crown n’ Gingers to keep our hands company.  Rizzo loses about 50 bucks, but since I go up $100, I toss him $50 (that’s how we roll).  Cola comes huffing and puffing into the Blackjack area.

Cola  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Me  “How much you lose?”
Cola  “Quickest $150 of my life.”
Me  “Whatever, you’re still up, let’s ride.”
Cola  “Fucking guy ran me down.”
Me  “Blah blah, we’ve heard it before Cola, shake it off.”

Cola plays 1 hand of Blackjack in a desperate attempt to regain his lost winnings; he loses 25 bucks in 3 seconds.  I throw him 25 bucks for being the designated driver and we all leave smiling.

Day 3 – 5:30pm

Once we pile back in the car and hit the road, I take my wallet out of my back pocket and proceed to jam my winnings into it.  This is when I realize that my credit card is missing.  Losing a credit card is a shitty feeling, losing it while in a foreign area, even shittier.  The best part is that I lost it last night, and since I was still roaming around hours after my brain shut off, it could be anywhere.  Also, cellular phone technology at this time doesn’t exactly make it easy to look up numbers; my particular phone is debatably half a step above a beeper.  After I search my pockets and do some detective work with the found receipts, my best guess is that my card is at Silky O’Sullivans.  I get their number through 411 and proceed to call multiple times while the phone just rings endlessly.  Since Beale Street is on the way to the hotel and I really want my credit card back, we stop by the bar.  I hop out and run inside while Cola circles the block; I see a female bartender.

Me  “Hi, I was here last night, think I left my card.  Do you remember me?”

She does not smile, she remembers me.

Me  “Uh yeah, so about that card?”

She goes to the other side of the bar and returns with my card.  Eureka, I’m whole again!  Although, something seems a bit off…

Me  “So was there a tab with this?”
Debbie Downer  “We took care of it.”
Me  “Um what does that mean?”
Debbie Downer  “You are a very generous tipper.”
Me  “What the fuck?”
Debbie Downer  “Please leave sir.”

I contemplate verbal abuse but find it better just to leave quietly.  Later I found out that my bill, including tip, was only 20 bucks.  I once left a card at a bar and was charged an extra $100, for some reason I was actually not drinking (heavily) and kept a copy of my receipt.  I proudly went back there later in the week and told the hot 20 something bartendress to go fuck herself.

Once back at the hotel, our room is empty.  I receive a text from Wild Bill saying that he’s at the adjoining Mexican restaurant.  He also alerts me that Amanda and her friends have arrived and the city is now alive with college kids.  After I throw on some UCF paraphernalia, it’s time to join forces with all the parties at our hotel and really throw things into high gear.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 4

The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Day 2 – 9:00am

You know that friend who wakes up early as fuck and always seems to be energetic and without a hangover?  Well ladies and gentlemen, I am said friend.  I wake up feeling oddly refreshed and ready to rage.  The greatest thing about a vacation is the ability to drink at any time of the day without judgment and condemnation.  Also, there is no greater feeling in the world than waking up with more money than what you went out with; today I had this feeling.  It was only an extra 40 bucks, but not being 10 grand in the hole after a night of black out gambling is always a plus.  Despite this good fortune, this morning I do in fact have a problem.  I cannot find my jacket that I wore to the casino last night.  I search high and low and it’s nowhere to be found.  Besides being the “morning person” friend, I’m also the type that gets hung up on particular problems until they are solved.  I won’t be able to rest until I find my jacket; allow me to digress for just a moment.

The jacket I’m talking about is not the typical “trash bag turned makeshift poncho” which I’m accustom to wearing.  It is a very nice (expensive) jacket that was a hand-me-down from my pops, not to mention that it keeps me warm while residing on this intolerable iceberg that is Memphis.  My dad, who is a great man for reasons not limited to putting up with my consistently high levels of retardation and funding all of my legal expenses over the years, does in fact have 1 major flaw.  My pops is the only Florida resident that I know who has a coat fetish.  The man really does have a strange obsession with heavy winter jackets.  A Floridian with a closet full of jackets is like a Hollywood blvd street hooker with a moral compass: a complete waste.  Anyway, back to the situation at hand.

I call the casino and ask to speak with a representative from the poker room.  They must have misunderstood me and though I asked to speak with a GED recipient with Down Syndrome.  The conversation we had is as follows:

Me  “Yes, I was there last night and think I left my jacket behind.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “Oh, ok.  Well I haven’t seen anything.”
Me  “Um ok, well can you check the poker room?”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “There’s nothing in the lost and found sir.”
Me  “I understand, but can you check the room, I think I left it on the back of a chair.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “I’m sorry sir, we have nothing.”
Me  “Ok, well I know it’s there because I wore it out and when I got home it was gone.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “Maybe you are mistaken sir?”
Me  “Maybe you’re adopted.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “Excuse me sir?”
Me  “I’m the reason your parents got divorced.”

This conversation goes on several minutes longer until I become completely frustrated with the tard and just hang up.  The only person in the room who’s awake is Cola, so after a few minutes of pleading I get him to drive with me back to Tunica so I can search the casino and find my missing apparel.

Day 2 – 10:00am

I recognize the long entranceway as my drunken recall begins to set in.  I walk my haggard ass through the card room trying to relive last night like some sort of forensic investigator, Cola follows.  I speak with the card room manager (different person than GED Recipient With Down Syndrome).

Me  “Have you seen a jacket?”
Card Room Manager  “Nope.”
Me  “It’s dark green, I left it here last night?”
Card Room Manager  “Sorry, nothing.”
Me  “Are you related to GED Recipient With Down Syndrome?”
Card Room Manager  “Excuse me?”

Cola calms me down, and we abandon this conversation as we continue our search.  Just as hope begins to completely fizzle away, something catches my eye.  A lone chair sits at the far side of the poker room, folded up resting on top of it, my jacket.  You have got to be fucking shittin’ me.  I spoke with multiple retards and asked them just to check and here, in plain view of everyone, I’ve found it.  I have some words on the way out, but I won’t scare you with the details.  The entire point of this tangent?  Don’t ever listen to fucking idiots.  If you lose a phone, wallet, girlfriend, car keys, whatever it may be, don’t settle for some lazy redneck telling you that you are wrong.  Now that I am whole again, I can begin to enjoy myself (drink).

Day 2 – 11:00am

Cola and I head back towards West Memphis as the others are still sleeping.  We have several groups of friends coming up to meet us for the bowl game, so I’ll lay it out real quick.  We are the first group to make it to Memphis, and apparently the first people from Florida to ever visit this city.  Our neighbor Lora and her friends are coming today, and our other neighbor Amanda and her friends are coming up on Friday.  These two groups will also be enjoying the fine lodging of Days Inn.  Our last group of amigos, my buddies AJ, Baines and some other friends, are driving up Friday and lodging elsewhere, most plausibly in a gutter.  So, while we wait for the rest of the troops to arrive, we’ll spend most of today exploring actual Memphis and finding local hot spots at which to eat and drink.  We make it back to the hotel and Wild Bill is enraged.

Wild Bill  “Yeah, one of you is real fucking comedian.”
Me (to Rizzo) “What’s he barking about?”
Rizzo  “He woke up and found his cell phone in the bathroom sink with a steady stream of water running over it.”
Me  “Oh my God, that’s awesome.  Why is he mad?”
Rizzo  “He thinks one of us did it as a prank.”
Me  “Has he ever considered that his own drunk ass may have done this?”
Rizzo  “No, he’s dumb.”
Me  “Wild Bill, calm down, no one ruined your phone but you, dumb dumb.”
Wild Bill  “Yeah right, this isn’t a funny joke.”
Me  “10 to 1 odds it was you, fuck-o.”
Wild Bill  “Whatever, fuckin Sketch-mo!”
Sketch-mo  “What did I do?”
Wild Bill  “Just shut up.”

As you can see, our conversations tend to go on longer than needed and never result in anything that comes close to making sense.  After some ranting and raving, everyone gets dressed, and then we pile in the van and head on down to Beale Street.

Day 2 – 12:00pm

Once on Beale Street, we all discover that we are way underdressed.  Once again, it is cold as fuck!  Also like the previous night, it is a ghost town; nothing but tumbleweeds and homeless people.  We do however manage to take the customary picture of Cola standing under a cola sign.  We also walk passed a closed bar called Silky O’Sullivans (I will be embarrassing myself here later in the night).  Besides Three 6 Mafia and some guy named Elvis, Memphis is also known for its amazing BBQ joints.  First, we stumble passed the Pig, whose slogan is “Pork with Attitude.”  Wild Bill and Rizzo flex alongside the mascot, but ultimately we feel we can do better and carry on down the street.  Not knowing which one to attack first, we devise a plan:  Let’s find a homeless guy and turn him into our tour guide.  This didn’t take long as we spot one about 10 yards in front of us.  We approach…

Me  “Excuse me sir, you look like you might be familiar with the area.”
Homeless Guy  “Yesa sir, this herea mya streets.”
Wild Bill  “That’s a lovely accent you’ve got, New Jersey?”
Homeless Guy  “Say what?”
Me  “Ignore him, we are in search of the best BBQ in Memphis.”
Homeless Guy  “I know da place!”
Wild Bill  “So you are indeed homeless, right?”
Homeless Guy  “Ah Hell na!  I’m a pimp.”
Rizzo  “Really?”
Homeless Pimp  “Ya’ll knows it!”
Wild Bill  “I bet you are.”
Me  “Ok, where’s this BBQ joint, we’re starving.”
Homeless Pimp  “Follow me.”

It’s generally frowned upon to follow a Homeless Pimp down a back alley in an unknown area, but we as a group are relying heavily on the “Safety in Numbers” theorem.  After snapping a picture with Homeless Pimp, he leads us to the secret spot.  Apparently it’s customary to tip your Homeless Pimp Tour Guide, so Rizzo pulls a wad of Costa Rican money from his pocket and hands Homeless Pimp a “colón” (a currency far more stable than most other third world currencies; some people are just downright ungrateful.).  He is less than thrilled, so I, fearing that he may in fact bite us, I throw him 2 unstable American dollars and an air high-five.  He departs, leaving us bumvenon-free as we enter Charles Vergo’s Rendezvous.

Day 2 – 12:45pm

I can’t tell if the food here is really good or if I’m just overjoyed because I’m on vacation, but regardless the service is a bit on the fritz.  All of the waiters have massive amounts of street cred and dress like they’re working at Steak n’ Shake sans the doofy little hat.  When it comes to ordering, there’s really only one choice, the full rack of charcoal-broiled pork ribs.  A full rack of ribs combined with several pictures of Miller Lite, now if that’s not a great lunch I don’t know what is.  After catching a buzz and scarfing down a meal which probably took several years off my life, it’s time to take back to the streets.

Once back outside, the phrase “FUCK IT’S COLD” runs through my head again.  I’m not really sure how this came about, but for some reason we find it to be a good idea to go bowling.  I’m fairly certain we were just looking for an indoor activity that served booze.  Nothing beats a good bowling alley bar; allow me to digress for just a moment.

The summer after my freshman year of college was a snoozefest.  Like most stupid 19-year-olds, I thought it’d be great to spend the whole summer with all of my old high school friends again, so I went back home to Clearwater.  Well, the first 2 days were cool, and then everyone went their separate ways, leaving me alone with my parents for 3 months (nothing against my parents, but living with real adults again after having already been living on your own for a year really fucking sucks).  So after re-securing my old high school job as a restaurant cashier, I needed to find a place to drink at night.  Since the city was filled with Hometown Heroes (people who never left), I had to hunt out a secluded bar where I could drink alone and avoid them at all costs.  Looking back at it now, it kind of seems like I was a Hometown Hero at this venture in my life, ironic.  I found a distant bowling alley in Clearwater called AMF Lanes and spent way too much time there (this was actually the 2^nd bowling alley I scoped out, the first one was already littered with Hometown Heroes).  I was like The Dude, except instead of White Russians, I was drinking overpriced pitchers.  One day I decided to actually bowl, and within a month, I had my own ball and shoes, and had joined a league.  The point here?  Bowling is more addictive than meth; back to the story.

We end up walking into an area known as Peabody Place.  Much like Southland Park which we had visited last night, this place also seems to be HIV positive.  It is an extremely dumpy makeshift outdoor mall with a bowling alley underneath.  Somehow this place has the balls to enforce a dress code; I’m guessing it’s just a weak attempt to keep all gang activity to a minimum.  Somehow my sandals and beanie make the cut, and we grab a lane and argue over who’s getting the first pitcher.  Wild Bill, a notorious cheap-ass, also refuses to pay for bowling shoes, so he attempts to bowl via socks; I go barefoot, mainly because I was scared to wear the “loner socks” I was offered.  It’s not long before we cause trouble.  We are drinking in the “undesignated area” and have been spotted by a worried employee.

Worried Employee  “Excuse me, you fellas can’t drink here.”
Wild Bill  “Why, cause we’re not black?  You a racist?”
Worried Employee  “No, there’s no food or drink in this area.”

The area he’s referring to is right by the lane, where the ball return and computer are.  Every bowling alley I’ve been to gets pissy about this; I guess they just don’t want stupid drunk kids spilling booze on the expensive shit, oh well.  Another thing I’ve noticed, all bowling alley employees tend to take themselves and their jobs way too seriously.  So instead of apologizing like a nice, considerate, normal person, Wild Bill decides fight fire with fire.

Wild Bill  “Spilling beer on the floor might up the resale value of this dump.”
Worried Employee  “Sir, please do not drink in this area.”
Wild Bill  “I’ll drink in your sister’s area!”
Worried Employee  “I don’t have a sister, sir.”

After empty threats of kicking us out come our way, I calm Wild Bill and we resume our barefoot bowling as Worried Employee walks away.

Sketch-mo  “That guy was a douche.”
Wild Bill  “Just shut up Sketch-mo.”

We bet a pitcher per round, and after 3 rounds I haven’t spent a dollar.  Unfortunately, my bowling score has an inverse correlation with my BAC; the higher the BAC, the lower the score.  On the 4^th and final game, I am unable to break 100, but Wild Bill does even worse and has to buy the round.  It’s about time to leave the recreational activities behind, and get down to some serious drinking.

Day 2 – 3:30pm

After a very short and very cold walk back to Beale Street, we pop into our first watering hole, Tap Room.  To me, this place is heaven on earth.  I’ve never really been much of a club guy, dive bars are definitely more my thing, and Tap Room is definitely the dive bar of Beale Street.  If a barstool, good conversation, and a selection of about 30 beers on tap sounds good to you, then we are on the same page.  The only thing wrong with this place is that they do not tolerate the use or sales of illegal drugs.  Our bartender is Rob, and he is the man.  He recommends Rogue Dead Guy Ale, so we order a round.  Before I know it, rounds 4 and 5 go down the hatch.  Feeling loopy, Rizzo, Wild Bill, and I continue to chat it up with Rob.

Me  “Yeah, we’re here for the bowl game.  This town seems fucking dead though?”
Rob  “Don’t worry about that, things will be crazy tomorrow night.”
Me  “Right on, well what’s going down tonight?”
Rob  “Oh man, you gotta come back tonight and check out this place.”
Rizzo  “Oh yeah?  Why’s that.”
Rob  “There’s a kick ass band playing.”
Wild Bill  (skeptical as always) “Yeah I bet, what kinda music?”
Rob  “Blues Rock.  They sound like a cross between Ray Charles and Slayer.”

Take a moment to laugh condescendingly.

Rizzo  “Well that’s something I gotta see.”
Rob  “Rock n’ roll brotha!”

Just then, 3 familiar faces stroll into Tap Room; it’s Lora, Elsie, and their friend Casey.  I am thrilled that the UCF population has just about doubled.  Now that we finally have female companionship and no longer look like a bi-curious boy band, it’s time to go from loopy to sloppy.  We decide to break out a mid-day game of quarters to help kick things into high gear.  Spirits are high and smiles are big; after about a 3 hour afternoon stint at Tap Room, we part ways with Rob the bartender and head back outside.

Day 2 – 7:00pm

After 6 hours of competitive drinking, the fun has only just begun.  After stumbling around in the streets, we decide to head back to the hotel so we can put on some warmer gear.  Even after the unsafe levels of liquor consumption, it’s still noticeably cold outside.  I swap out my windbreaker for a hoody, and my sandals for shoes.  In all honesty, there’s really no logical reason for me to go back out in public, but the last time I listened to logical reasoning, I woke up cold and alone in a parking garage in Colorado during a blizzard without a jacket (don’t ask).  We grab a van-style cab and shove 8 bodies into it.  With Memphis presenting no other option, we roll right back to Beale Street.  On a side note, I have not eaten anything since lunch; this will soon lead to my demise.

Day 2 – 9:00pm

After walking up and down Beale, I end up right back at Tap Room (big surprise).  By this point, things are beginning to look a bit fuzzy.  Right as I enter the bar, someone sneaks up behind me and welcomes me back with a giant bear-hug.  Gadzooks, it’s Rob the bartender!

Rob  “Florida!  What’s up brotha!”
Me  “Drunk local!  Livin’ the dream!”

Rob is no longer working, so now he is a patron.  I feel like we have only been separated for about an hour or so, but it appears that somehow he has managed to drink a handle of whiskey during our hiatus.  Rob orders me and the crew a round of shots on the house, he is the man.  After a few more shots, I’m in trouble; allow me to digress for just a moment.

When it comes to drinking, I have something of a tolerance (if you can’t tell).  One time in high school, a buddy and I finished a double power hour (approx 14 beers in a 1 hour time span) and then 2 hours later I passed a field sobriety test (don’t worry I wasn’t driving, the asshole cop was just trying to get me for underage drinking and public intoxication).  That was when I was 16.  However, I do know my vices; beer I can drink for hours upon hours and still remain coherent, but once I start to hit the hard liquor aggressively, lights out.  My freshman year of college I earned the nickname of “The Russian” at a random house party.  I got this name because I got so shit-housed that I was speaking a language which people called Russian because apparently not even I could understand what I was saying.  Because of this, I no longer drink vodka (true story).  So what’s the point?  Well let’s just say thanks to Rob’s hospitality, I won’t be making any friends tonight.

As the night grows later, the group begins to separate.  Wild Bill disappears, and Sketch-mo follows Casey as he continues to try and slip her the sleazy.  Lora and Elsie went to go check out other bars on the street, so it’s Cola, Rizzo, and myself holding strong at Tap Room.  Rob is still partying with us and has some people he would like me to meet.

Rob  “Hey man, come with me, I want you to meet some folks.”

Rizzo and Cola stay behind as I follow Rob to the other side of the bar.  I’ve definitely met some solid groups of characters in my day, but Rob’s “folks” were a whole new breed.  He introduces me to 5 guys sitting at a round table; I felt like I was meeting the cast from True Life I’m a Recreational Killer.  By this point, I’m way too charming (drunk) to fully comprehend what is going on, but the best I can piece together is that this was a biker gang and they were interested in recruiting new members.  Fearing that they would mistake my kindness for weakness, I excuse myself and link back up with Rizzo and Cola in an attempt to stick to our “Safety in Numbers” theorem.  Moments later, I have to go to the bathroom.

Me  “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Cola  “Why are you telling me this?”
Me  “Whatever.”

I stumble off in an unknown direction; allow me to digress for just a moment.

Another one of my character traits (flaws) is my instinctual ability to become a drunken wanderer.  Most people have this friend, the one that just walks to nowhere once they have a high enough BAC.  This doesn’t happen to me as often as it used to, but I have had my fair share of alone adventures.  One time around the beginning of my collegiate career, I was drinking at a local UCF watering hole called Devaney’s.  For some reason, I felt it was the appropriate time for me to leave, and I also decided that I need not tell anyone else of my impromptu departure.  I guess my original plan was to just walk home (which happened to be about 3 miles away), but somewhere in the mix I went the wrong way.  I later had to put in a desperation call to a sleeping Rizzo to come find me.  Unable to put together coherent sentences, I had the clerk at 7 11 clue him in on my whereabouts.  There was another time when I left a tailgate my freshman year and somehow ended up at a random gas station far away from the stadium.  Again I needed the clerk’s assistance to relay my whereabouts to my safe ride, this time it was Cola.  When he finally found me, I was standing in the middle of OBT (an Orlando street with massive amounts of street cred) giving random bystanders the middle finger.  These 2 instances also happened to take place before I stopped drinking vodka.  So what’s the point?  Well, I said I was going to the bathroom, but I failed to mention that it would be at a different bar.

Day 3 – 1:00am (estimate)

I somehow meander my way over to a bar called Silky O’Sullivans.  As I prance around the bar friendless, I decide it’s time for me to impress the bartendress.  First, I impress her by being rich and buying us both shots, next I show her that I am a master linguist by saying “thanks toots” after she rings me up.  From this point forward, I have no memory; the rest is just from pictorial evidence and hearsay.

Rizzo, who appears with a yardstick jagerbomb, and Cola make their way over to Silky’s and I casually throw them a head nod as if my disappearance act had never happened.  Cola listens in as I continue to impress the bartendress.

Me  “So you should come back to my hotel.”

Actual Statement:

Me  “Soo you finde tohopa ridecok wthsche achoehdns tafev!”

Actual Thought:

Me  “I am so smooth.”

I’m not sure why the bartendress isn’t wooed by my courting of her, but now I must reach deep into my bag of tricks.

Me  “You should make out with that other bartendress, and then I’ll kiss both of you.”

Actual Statement:

Me  “Asonsgsv hosnvsoe asbudfgm voosao!”

Actual Thought:

Me  “I hope you’re not focusing on the stream of urine that’s running down my leg.”

Just because I stopped drinking vodka doesn’t mean that other hard liquor can’t do the trick.  This charade goes on for way too long, and instead of stopping me from looking so good, Cola and Rizzo just decide to sit back and enjoy the show.  Cola told me the gist of the conversation was me propositioning 2 bartendresses for a threesome.  He also mentioned that they were not attractive and appeared to be a mother/daughter combo.

Day 3 – 3:30am

One of the best (worst) things about Beale Street is that the bars are open until 5am, although tonight that will not be necessary.  It is clearly time to go home as we attempt to reconvene with the rest of the group.  Wild Bill and the girls appear as if from nowhere, and they are accompanied by Sanford, another UCF champion who has just made it to Memphis.  Once Sketch-mo comes waltzing out of the darkness,  we leave Silky’s and wait for a cab.  While waiting, I find it an appropriate time to enter a questionable diner and demand a slice of pie.  We are no longer on the tourist-friendly Beale Street, but instead we wait on a side street that isn’t exactly in the safest of areas.  Cola drags me out of the diner before I incite some sort of reverse Rodney King riot.  Once we make it back to the hotel, I hit the bed like a sack of bricks.  Once again I wake up missing more than just my dignity.  If I had a nickel for every time I’ve woken up missing something, I’d have like 2 bucks, and that’s about the price of a Tilt; it’s a vicious cycle.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 3

The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

(click the LINKS within the story for pictures)

There are a few things every man (dumbass) must do in his life:  Punch a wall, wet the bed after being old enough to vote, wake up in a field on the wrong side of town alone and cold at 2 in the morning only to have a homeless man help you find your cell phone the next day, are just a few things that should be on the list.  However, the #1 thing that must be done is the quintessential college road trip.  If you have yet to do this, I’m sure you’ve heard one of your idiot buddies drone on and on about how awesome his road trip was, and if not, well here’s mine.

Day 1 – 7:00am

Generally, the day after Christmas is not an auspicious one.  There are no more presents to open, it’s no longer socially acceptable to drink in the morning, and you’re stuck trying to piece together a last minute New Year’s Eve plan, which for one reason or another always turns into a huge let down.  Well my friends, not this year.  It’s the morning after Christmas and my vacation is just getting started.  UCF has had a winning football season (whodathunkit) and my friends and I are driving to Memphis to cheer them on in the AutoZone Liberty Bowl against Mississippi State.

For this trip, we start with 5 journeymen.  Cola, Rizzo, Wild Bill (you might remember him from The Denver Chronicles), Sketch-mo, and myself.  We have rented a minivan in Clearwater and will be leaving from there.  Cola, Rizzo, and I are already in Clearwater visiting family, so it’s only Wild Bill and Sketch-mo that have to get up 2 hours earlier than us and make the drive over from Orlando.  We all meet at the Enterprise Rent-A-Car at the corner of Sunset and 19.  Cola, Rizzo, and I get there right as the store is opening up at 7:30am.  One major concern that we can see is that there is not a minivan anywhere on the lot.  The minivan guru working the counter alerts us that the van is “in route”.  As Cola begins the paperwork, I continually ask Minivan Guru what his stance/policy is on drunk/stoned driving.

Minivan Guru  “Whatever, just try not to wreck.”

Minivan Guru clearly deserves a raise.  Right about the time when my comments are turning from playful to menacing, trouble arrives.  Wild Bill has just rolled up and barges into the shop.

Wild Bill  “Ok, so where’s this drunk sex bubble of a van?”
Me  “Wild Bill, what’s happening my man!”
Wild Bill  “Ready to rock n’ roll.”

Sketch-mo walks in, we give him a head nod.  Cola signals over to us that there’s a situation with the paperwork.  Apparently they need the signature of at least 2 drivers, or of anybody that might actually be driving the car.  At this point, I do not have a license due to legal complications, and I believe that Rizzo’s license was also on the fritz.  Wild Bill steps up and forges Sketch-mo’s signature.  Problem solved.  Another bit of paperwork we had to fill out was the name of each state we will be driving through (Florida to Tennessee).  Since we’re a nonfunctioning pack of idiots, this was much harder than expected.  The directions we have MapQuested do not include all the state names.  We randomly guess what we think will be near our vicinity.  Wild Bill continuously shouts Mexico, Minivan Guru is not amused.  After a drawn out stint in the office, we see our baby come screeching into the parking lot.  We were expecting some piece of shit that we could set fire to without any consequences, which is not exactly what we got.  Well, it was a Kia Sedona, but this minivan was brand new!  I mean brand fucking new.  It had all the stickers on the outside and the seats and floors were still covered in plastic.  It also had an odometer which read “3”.

After inspecting the van, we are ready to rock.  Wild Bill and I hop in the van as we follow the other 2 cars back towards Cola’s house.  Cola and Rizzo live in the same neighborhood, so after dumping off Sketch-mo’s car at a nearby shopping plaza, we reconvene there.  With the minivan parked in front of Cola’s house, we begin to load our luggage plus a cooler that we cram in the back next to Sketch-mo.  My mom had handed me a road map earlier in the morning just in case we got lost.

Me  “A paper map?  What are we, fucking Amish or something?”
Mom  “Just in case.”
Me  “But we have printed directions and a GPS?”

I continue to explain how we will never get lost because “men don’t get lost, we just sometimes subconsciously decide to take a more rugged route.”  I have also put too much faith in Cola’s old school GPS, it looks more like a Pop-Tart with a coat hanger sticking out of it.  We are definitely not Amish, but we are dumb and will ultimately have to rely on this paper map to get us back home.

We say goodbye to the Cola family and dive into the van; Cola sits driver, I take shotgun, Rizzo and Wild Bill occupy the captains’ chairs and Sketch-mo is stuffed somewhere in back.

Day 1 – 9:00am

As we leave the neighborhood, the level of excitement begins its steady climb.  It is a 14 hour trip, so we have plenty of time to mentally prep ourselves (get drunk in the van) for the city of Memphis.  We rock out to Beating Heart Baby by Head Automatica.  The drive up to Memphis is long and cold, really fucking cold.  I decide to roll with my window down and let the scrubs in the back get smacked around by the cold breeze.  Like gentlemen, we wait until about 10:30am before we start drinking.  At this point in my life, I, as well as Wild Bill and Rizzo, have a mild Tilt addiction (the green one, not the orange one, which has a weaker alcohol percentage and tastes like berry flavored piss).  If you haven’t had a Tilt before, pick one up.  It’s like Sparks but it doesn’t taste like cancer.

Once we make it to Georgia, we immediately pull over and find a gas station.  For us Florida boys, picking up a 40oz is mandatory the second it becomes available.  Yes, we do have quarts, but that extra 8 ounces can turn things from “ugly” to “good enough” real quick.  By this point, we are already starting to feel a bit loopy, oh well it’s vacation.  It isn’t long before we decide to take it from loopy to sloppy.

Day 1 – 1:30pm

Again in a gentlemanly fashion, we wait until after noon to begin our hard liquor consumption.  Wild Bill pulls out a flask of Jack and passes it around.  Rizzo and I swig hard, Cola is driving so he declines, and Sketch-mo is skipped because Wild Bill tells him that Jack is “not for babies”.  It’s about this time when we also light up our first California Cigar.  We exhale in Cola’s face in weak attempts to get him to “join the party”.  As Rizzo and I become more lovable (intoxicated), we constantly hound Cola for the opportunity to drive.

Rizzo  “Cola, let me drive.  I’m ready.”
Cola  “No.”
Me  “How bout me?  I’m so good I don’t even need a license.”
Cola  “No.”

Allow me to digress for just a moment to explain to you this man, Cola.  I have been good friends with Cola since I was about 8 years old.  Had I not grown up with him, it would be safe to assume that I would have never spoken with him in High School.  Well good thing we did grow up together, because Cola is the most stable person I know.  Cola rarely drinks so, being the great friends that we are, we always harass him and offer him large quantities of free booze.  Unlike most sober people, Cola is very fun to be around.  He blends in with us booze bags so well that you would never know he’s not an idiot.  Since he’s known me since childhood, he is also one of few people who can decipher all (most) of my drunken babble with little difficulty.  Furthermore, he is a great man to whom I owe my life (on several accounts).  Cola, I love you sir.  Moving on.

Day 1 – 4:00pm

As we near the outskirts of Atlanta, the amount of “pee breaks” has become absurd.  And of course none of us have to pee at the same time, so we are literally pulling over every 20 minutes.  The solution?  Well, it’s time to be men.  We decide to refill the 40oz bottles ourselves.  Pissing into a beer bottle in an over-packed minivan is a lot more of a challenge than one might think.  Also, the beer bottle opening is too small to jam a penis into (maybe not Wild Bill’s), so you have to somehow make a secure connection between the tip of your dick and the bottle.  We make no such connection.  As I try to fill up my 40, urine goes everywhere.  All over my hands, my jeans, and the floor, I don’t think I got any into the actual bottle.  Rizzo and Wild Bill have the same results.

By the time we have all finished draining our respective lizards, the minivan just wreaks of urine and alcohol. Oh well, so much for that “new car” smell.  Wild Bill does not like the stench of urine and decides to be smart.  He rolls down his window and starts to empty the bottle.  It is extremely windy, so not only does urine get splashed all over the side of the van, but it actually comes back in the window and soaks a sleeping Sketch-mo who sits behind Wild Bill.  This mixture of urine and cold wind wakes Sketch-mo.  He is not happy.

Sketch-mo  “What the fuck.  What is this shit?”
Wild Bill  “Go back to sleep, just a little fresh mountain rain.”
Sketch-mo  “It’s fucking urine.  You’re a fucking moron.”
Wild Bill  “It’s sterile, why don’t you stop being a baby, Geez.”
Sketch-mo  “You just got piss all over me.”
Wild Bill  “Man, do you ever stop complaining?  It’s always something with you.”

By this point of the drive, it has become pitch black outside and extremely cold.  I would also like to add that everyone, with the exception of Cola, is incredibly charming (old man drunk).  Somewhere in the middle of Alabama, we hit a Flying J to fill up on gas and pee once again (we have learned our lesson from the previous urine debacle).  Once we enter the store, I notice that we are surrounded by a crowd of people whom I can only assume will not be voting for Obama.  Rizzo and I wander around the store, and eventually find ourselves mystified by an unheard of product.  Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you to the Pickle Sickle.  It is exactly how it sounds, frozen pickle juice on a stick.  And that is exactly how that sounds, fucking terrible.  If you just threw up in your mouth a little bit, then we’re on the same page.  We pass on the Pickle Sickle and decide to grab another 40.  Rizzo and I are stoked because we are very close to our destination (so we think).

Heartbreaker Clerk  “Hey boys, is that all for ya?”
Me  “Yes mam, we’re on vacation, living the dream.”
Heartbreaker Clerk  “Oh yeah, where to?”
Rizzo  “Memphis.”
Heartbreaker Clerk  “Well you’re getting close, it’s only about another 3 hours.”
Me  “Awesom… wait, what the fuck?  Did you say 3 hours?”
Heartbreaker Clerk  “Yup.”

I look at Rizzo and without having to say a word, he reads my eyes.  He immediately races back to the cooler and grabs a 2^nd pair of 40s.

Me  “Well played.”

As we stumble back to the car, we see Cola filling her (it’s a minivan) up, as Wild Bill and Sketch-mo continue to bicker about the urine incident.

Me  “Good news, we’re almost there.”
Cola  “How far?”
Me  “3 hours.”
Sketch-mo  “What the fuck?”
Wild Bill  “Shut up baby boy.”
Cola  “I thought you said we were like 30 minutes away?”
Me  “Yeah well what do I know?  I’m a hammered dumbass from Florida.”
Rizzo  “Well said.”
Me  “Thank you sir.”

The circus piles back into the van and just like that we’re back on the road.  Moments (hours) later, we arrive in Memphis, kinda.

Day 1 – 10:00pm

We arrive at our hotel, Days Inn – West Memphis.  One of the funny things about our hotel is that it isn’t actually in Tennessee, it’s in Arkansas.  Another hilarious feature is the Mexican restaurant attached to it called Margaritas (we’ll be patroning this place in the nights to come).  We fall out of the van like a group of drunken buffoons, and then make our way to the lobby.  We let Cola (the only sober one) take care of the room situation at the front desk.  We divvy out the room keys and find it appropriate to assign Wild Bill and Rizzo to the same bed.  They are the only journeymen who are currently members of the 200+ club so this seems to be the funniest option.  Cola and I bunk up, and Sketch-mo shells out another 50 bucks to rent a sad little cot for himself.

After we toss our belongings into the room, we waste no time searching for food.  During the ride up, our diet consisted solely of Beef Jerky, Combos, and liquor.  Oh, and Wild Bill had also eaten half a bag of Cheetos, the other half he proceeded to throw at the back of Cola’s head throughout the duration of the ride.  After a very short drive, we spot an Applebees and decide that it’s a “good enough” option.

Day 1 – 10:30pm

Reality starts to rear its ugly head just as we sit down to eat.  For some reason, we were all expecting the streets to be painted red with blood, and the bright lights of Vegas to be shining all around us.  I’m not really sure why we thought this, since the reality of the situation was that it’s the Wednesday night after Christmas and we are tucked into an Applebees in West Memphis, Arkansas 30 minutes from closing time.  This is just a detailed way for me to explain that it was a ghost town.  There wasn’t anyone under the age of 30 and/or with a full set of teeth within 100 miles.  Instead of griping about the situation, we just order Long Islands and chicken wings.  After a solid 12 hours of drinking, I have absolutely no idea how in the hell this picture came out so flawlessly. I mean seriously, we all have our eyes open, we’re all smiling, we all appear coherent, and somehow we all manage to do these things simultaneously.  On a side note, I can’t really smile, and definitely not on cue, so generally I stick my tongue out or make some sort of stupid face.  I had a teacher in High School who told me it was because I had an “oddly shaped upper lip”, he is no longer with us because I killed him.

Shortly after mauling through our food, it’s time to go because they are closing.  I spot a local crack whore outside the front door and ask her what’s happenin’ in Memphis.

Me  “What’s happenin’ in Memphis?”
Local Crack Whore  “The tracks.”
Me  “Are you asking me to do heroin with you?”
Local Crack Whore  “No, the tracks.”

She points in the distance to place back towards our hotel.

Me  “Oh, like a dog track.  Got ya.  Dibs.”
Cola  “Need you really call dibs on her?”
Me  “Yes, dibs.”

We drive back to our hotel and park the van.  The “race track/casino” that Local Crack Whore had pointed to is well within walking distance.  Allow me to introduce you to a little West Memphis hidden gem known as Southland Park.  If you ever get the chance to go here, don’t.  This place is as grimy as any place named Southland Park could possibly be, or as Wild Bill so eloquently puts it…

Wild Bill  “Wow, nothing but garbage men and homeless people.”

Wild Bill is correct.  Not only is this place a complete dump, but it also boasts a crowd comprised of the cast from the unaired “Survivor: Landfill” season.  I rarely get the chance to feel like the classiest person in a room, but this was one of those moments and it’s oddly unfulfilling.  We sit down at a $3 blackjack table located next to the food-stamp slots.  The felt smelled like our van (urine-soaked) and I’m almost certain the dealer had a mousetrap hanging from his beard.  After only a few hands, we have to get out of here.  Usually I’m the kind of person who seeks out sketchy/grimy hangouts, but not this place.  Southland Park was seriously identical to a homeless shelter, except with maybe a more entertaining carpet pattern.

Before we stumble out, we figure we might as well grab at least one cocktail.  As always Cola, looking like he’s 11, gets IDed and holds everything up; then we have another problem.

Bartender (to Cola) “You’re going to need to take off your hat sir.”
Cola  “Excuse me?”
Bartender  “You can’t wear your hat in here.”
Cola  “Are you kidding me?”

This is about to get out of hand.  Cola has had one cocktail, and like usually, he always gets a bit “punchy” (although in this scenario, I don’t blame him).  Here come his Cola Muscles.

Cola  “That [homeless person] has one on.”
Bartender  “He is not at the bar.”
Cola  “At the bar?  This is like a fucking lemonade stand without wheels.”
Me  “Cola, calm down, don’t get all Italian on us, we’re leaving.”
Cola  “This fucking guy, this shit really pisses me off.”

Cola curses a lot after one cocktail.  I pull him away as Wild Bill and I finish the insults.

Me  “Let’s get out of here before someone steals my shoes.”
Wild Bill  “This fucking dump, we can’t wear hats but that [homeless person] can shit on the floor?”
Lemonade Stand Employee  “It’s about time you fellas take off.”
Wild Bill  “That’s what you sister said when I put the condom on.”
Lemonade Stand Employee  “What did you say?”
Wild Bill  “I meant to say that I fucked your sister, you’ve probably been there.”
Lemonade Stand Employee  “I’m calling security.”
Me  “This place has security?”
Wild Bill  “Yeah who is it?  Hangover Hank?  Boxcar Willy?”
Me  “This place is like Vegas with AIDS.”

Wild Bill and I look back and realize the rest of the crew has already left.  We fumble our way outside, angry and goofy eyed.

Day 2 – 12:15am

As we reconvene in the streets near the hotel, we realize it’s getting late.  It’s been a long day, so now we have two options.  We can either go to sleep, or we can get in the van, drive to Tunica, Mississippi (40 minutes away), find a casino, and carry on with the debauchery.  Welcome to Mississippi.

Remember my previous explanation of Cola being a stable guy?  Well, every man has their vice.  While he has no problem being reasonable and responsible when it comes to substance abuse, there is little he can do when it comes to passing up a card table.  I once met Cola in Vegas; my flight had arrived several hours after his.  When I first see him in the hotel, we shake hands and then he tells me he’s already down a G and needs to borrow some money.  What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help support his habit?  Back to point, Cola pours out his drink and is more than happy to pilot us to the Grand Casino.  On the way out of town, we roll passed the FedExForum.

Day 2 – 1:00am

By this point, all of my senses are starting to fade (even I have my limits).  The only clear memory I have of this casino is that it had a super long driveway from the highway exit to its front door.  Once inside, we split up between the poker room and the blackjack tables.  Rizzo, Wild Bill, and Sketch-mo are downstairs playing blackjack and Cola is with me in the poker room but at a different table on the opposite side.  I am in no condition to be out in public, much less gambling, and by no means should I be left alone at a poker table.

I’m really not much of a gambler, although I’ve had my intoxicated moments.  Back when I was a freshman in college, I got into the online poker craze.  One night, Rizzo and I had a case race (a game where you see who can finish a case of beer first) and then ate a bowl of Jell-O shots.  Needless to say, we did not play wisely.  Lucky for us, we were able to make up our losses playing craps on the SunCruz Casino boat the following night.  There was another incident a year later where I woke up $1500 in the hole, but we really don’t need to pull at that thread.

Now when I gamble, I still stick with poker, but I only play so I can get free drinks.  I usually fold every hand and just get hammered.  Sometimes I’ll play a hand or two, and that’s when things get dicey.  I publicly call out my cards and harass everyone at the table.  If you are someone who acts serious and wears reflective sunglasses at the poker table, then I am your nemesis.

About 1 hour and 4 Crown n Gingers later, I black out much too violently to recall any exact dialogue (don’t worry, we gamble again with a more hilarious outcome).  I had started falling asleep at the poker table, which apparently is frowned upon, so I was asked to leave.  I wait downstairs by the blackjack table and watch Wild Bill lose his ass and become progressively angrier, thus his slurs become exponentially racier and more prejudice.  Once Cola is done losing about a hundo or so, he corrals us back into the van.  I wake up in the morning missing more than just my dignity.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 2