It was about 9:30 on a Thursday night when I cruised up to the Frat House on Willow in Uptown New Orleans. The Frat House is a high-dollar bar that’s usually filled with spoiled, rich bitches and Tulane fraternity fags. Normally I wouldn’t find myself in this venue, but on this particular Thursday, Vanilla Ice was scheduled to rock the joint.

Now, I’m not a huge Vanilla Ice fan, but for those of you who read my stories regularly, you may know that the Ice Man and I have a bit of a feud brewing.

The bitterness began a little over a year ago at a show in Hammond. He flung Jägermeister and water all over everyone in the crowd, including me. I got my revenge by bashing him, his performance, his wife, and his life in an article I wrote, titled “Vanilla Ice: The Coldest Show in Town” back in May of 2008 in Red Shtick.

When I heard that he was going to be playing a couple of blocks away from my house, I jumped at the chance to get some real revenge on this roided-up, washed-up, six-foot-four, “dress like I’m a gangsta and think I can rap,” stupid, big-headed piece of dog feces.

I had just bought a bicycle a couple of days prior and had been getting around the city on bike. I figured I’d try to be environmentally conscious. Besides, it’s way easier and faster to get through traffic on a bike, not to mention it’s easy to find a place to park a bike, or so I thought…

I showed up at 9:30 to pay the cover and get a wristband so I could come back later, around show time, and not have to deal with a line. As I was chaining my bike up to a railing on the front steps of the building adjacent to the Frat House, I looked up and spotted an NOPD patrol car parked across the street.

This is not unusual, because the Frat House is notorious for facilitating underage drinking. It’s not uncommon to see a pack of giggling tweenage girls slipping in the front door with their sisters’ and cousins’ IDs so long as the girls are cute and/or have money.

While waiting in line to get in, I met this guy giving away a couple of free tickets, so I snatched one from him and offered to buy him and his girl a drink once we got inside. So I bought a round of drinks, and after I finished my drink, I got up and went out to get back on my bike. There was only one problem: no bike.

I was furious: “F–k! I just bought this mother f–ker two days ago,” I was griping to myself. “Who could’ve stolen my bike in a period of ten minutes with the police parked right across the street? AHH!”

I guess this would be the best time to tell you readers that I was completely waxed on a stomach filled with Crown Royal, Miller Lite, and, oh yeah, three 10-mg Valium. I was slurring and sloppy.

“OK, calm down, Johnny V. Let’s take a couple of deep breaths and walk over to the COPS and ask if they saw anything,” I said to myself.

“Excuse me, officers. I had my bike locked up over there, and I was only inside for about ten minutes. Did you guys, by any chance, see anything?” I asked as calmly and politely as possible.

Of course, it probably sounded more like: “Cuse me, occifers. I him ma bike loxed up there. See someone steal it by nee chance?”

The officer’s retort was lashing: “How would you like it if someone chained their bike to your front porch, you little punk? That’s a residence, son. You can’t just chain your bike up to people’s houses! What are you, stupid?”

I tried to explain that I had just got that bike and I didn’t know that I couldn’t chain my bike up right there. It just looked like a building; I didn’t know it was someone’s home. But my drunken explanation was misinterpreted by the COPS as spoiled Tulane fratboy backtalk.

After trying to plead my case for about ten minutes, they decided to stop f–king with me. “Look, man, we got good news and bad news. The bad news is the people who live there were complaining about the bike, so we cut the lock and impounded your bike,” they said.

“You saw me lock it up. You couldn’t say something to me before I went in the bar?” I tried to argue back.

He cut me off: “Wait a minute, punk. You want the good news or do you want some more bad news? Bad news like you spending the night in jail for PUI (Pedaling Under the Influence).”

“Sorry, sir. Sorry! I apologize. Sorry.”

“We impounded your bike at the Frat House,” one of the COPS said. “Ask the guy at the door. He’s got your bike.”

What a dick! That must be what employers look for on a police officer’s resume – Achievements: Dickhead for all my life…

I gave them a fake “Oh, thank you guys so much. You guys are awesome.” Then, under my breath as I walked away, “F–k you! You cock-sucking f–kers!”

I talked to the bouncer, and he brought me to the back storage shed and pulled my bike out. I asked him if I could leave it there for a while, because now I didn’t have a bike lock, and I didn’t want it to get stolen again.

So I sat at the bar on the back patio and thought about the situation over a beer: Are these guys messing with me? I don’t trust these dirty bastards. I’m too wasted to tell if I’m getting dicked around. F–k this. I’m out.

I grabbed my bike out of the shed and tossed it over the fence. Then I jumped the fence and took off back to my house.

A couple of hours later, I returned with my bike in the back seat of my buddy Vick Dooley’s car. We went in and enjoyed the show.

By the way, I did get some revenge. I tried to throw a drink at Vanilla, but he was already soaked with water and drinks that people were splashing back at him. So I did the next best thing: I gave him a shoe wedgie.