Altered States

Highs and Lows of Sports in 2011

Fri, 6 Jan 2012 16:23:37 -0600

It’s been such a crazy year in athletics, I thought it would be a good idea to review the 2011 sports world. State College, PA, is off the list of top ten towns to raise an underprivileged family, Tebow is better than you, and CP3 left NOLA for second billing in Kia commercials.
After Commish David Stern shut down the deal with the Lakers for Lamar Odom, it was strange to see Chris Paul eventually show up in LA anyway. I was upset at first, but after further review, at least now I don’t have to deal with Khloe Kardashian making a new reality show in New Orleans.
Blake Griffin received a great Christmas gift in newly acquired teammate Paul. It would be nice to see him win a championship, but it’s going to be hard to do that in the West.
It was hard enough to be a basketball fan in New Orleans with Chris Paul. This season’s going to be painful.
Speaking of Jesus’ birthday, how about Tim Tebow? It’s easy to be a hero when your defense keeps you within six points. The Patriots and the Bills finally figured out how to stop him for 60 minutes. I guess NFL defensive coordinators work faster than the Pennsylvania justice system.
Tebow’s such a nice guy. It really is hard to hate him. Try all you want, but there’s just nothing bad you can say about Timmy.
Something’s going to happen that will ruin his career. They’re going to find a hooker in his trunk, he’ll fail a drug test for smoking pot, or he will get caught running a pump-and-dump scheme with the real Rudy (that really happened; Google it).
That would be as big of a disappointment as Aaron Rodgers being named the NFL’s MVP ahead of New Orleans’ favorite son. But a Tebow scandal is more likely than a Saints player getting the credit he deserves.
The NFL (or No Fun League) continues to disappoint with the pussification of pro football. Five years ago, the hit that James Harrison put on Colt McCoy would’ve been on the “Jacked Up” segment of Monday Night Football. (How awesome was “Jacked Up”? “C’mon Man” is OK, but I miss watching players inflict pain on one another.) Instead, Harrison got suspended for a game … bullsh—t.
If anything, they should make the sport more violent. These players sign up to get hit. Baseball’s a contact sport; football’s supposed to be a collision sport. If you don’t want to hit or be hit, play golf.
This two-hand touch on the quarterback rule is horsesh—t. These guys are criminals and dog murderers. You’re telling me they can’t be tackled too hard?
Take a look at the guys who used to play the sport, wearing thin leather caps to protect their skulls, using no mouthpieces. That’s when men played the game.
Every year, the Bowl Championship Series ignites controversy between college football fans everywhere. This time, we have LSU playing Alabama again. So we have to beat Alabama twice to prove we’re the best team in the country and they only have to beat us once. At least it’ll be an interesting game.
It’ll probably be the total opposite from the Baylor-Washington matchup in the Alamo Bowl. Credit the offenses all you want, but that was a terrible performance by both defenses. I can’t believe Baylor forced a turnover on downs at the end of the fourth quarter. Poor tackling, one fumble, terrible coverage, hundreds of yards of offense … it was fun to watch.
Like the old saying goes: Offense wins games; defense wins championships. That’s why the No. 1 and No. 2 defenses are playing in the biggest game in the country.
If that doesn’t seem unfair enough, the Saints are going to have to beat the Falcons three times in one season. But at least they have a playoff system in the pros.
My high school alma mater won the LHSAA State Championship, my college is in the National Championship Game, and the Saints are on pace to win another Super Bowl. This could be one helluva trifecta for me in football this year.
As it shakes out, 2011 was a fun year to watch sports. Hope everyone had a great New Year’s and a Merry Christmas. Happy Friday! Enjoy the end of football season.

Look What the Cat Dragged In

Fri, 2 Dec 2011 21:39:25 -0600

New Orleans has been a known haven for celebrities, especially since the migration of Hollywood to the Dirty South. The city is definitely home to some colorful characters, and on any given day, an ordinary person can find himself conversing with the movie and music industries’ elite.
It was the Monday night after Po-boy Fest, and my buddy was in town. He’s in the Air Force and has been stationed in Seattle for the past two years. On this particular night, he was back in town to see everyone for the holidays before being deployed to Turkey to serve our country overseas.
It was about 9 that night when we all went out barhopping in Midcity. It was a slow night. As I said, it was a Monday, and everyone was probably still hungover from Po-boy Fest. So after a few hours of drinking and shooting pool, we decided to head to the Quarter for something a little livelier.
It probably wasn’t a good idea to drive, but after missing the streetcar because I had lost my keys and we had to backtrack to two or three different bars to find them, and not having sufficient funds for a cab ride, driving was our only option. So we were driving.
We were all pretty wasted, and the only way to figure out who was gonna drive was for the person with the fewest DWIs to get behind the wheel. And, of course, that person was me. (What can I say? I’m a good drunk driver.)
Our first stop was Verti Marte. Verti Marte is a small grocery store in the French Quarter that sells some of the best sandwiches in town. We ordered an All That Jazz po-boy and sat on the steps outside and stuffed our faces.
After our bellies were full, we walked down to Bourbon Street, trying to find a bar that was still doing three-for-one beers and mixed drinks. Bourbon Street Blues Company was already closed, so we walked into a little place across the street.
It was a small dance joint, and just like every other place we went that night, it was dead. But they had three-for-one, so we sat at the bar and enjoyed our drinks.
It’s cool to have someone in the armed services with you, because it seems that everywhere we went that night, when my buddy’s Air Force deployment came up in conversation, whoever we were talking to immediately bought him a drink.
Just as we were about to leave, this 60-something-year-old guy with perfect hair came strutting through the door. My buddy looked at me and said, “Dude, is that Rod Stewart?”
I looked at the guy for a while, studying his features. Then I decided I was going to walk up to him and just ask him.
“Excuse me, sir. Look, I don’t want to put you out, but are you Rod Stewart?”
He leaned toward me and said, “Shh. Don’t tell anyone, mate.”
So we sat and bullsh—tted with Rod for a good half an hour before the DJ recognized him. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a special treat for you tonight. Rod Stewart’s in the house. Rod, get your old ass up here.”
Rod blushed and shook his head. “I’m not getting up there,” he said with his thick English accent.
“If you’re not coming to me, then I’m coming to you,” the DJ said as he jumped off the stage and walked over to where we were sitting with a cordless microphone.
“All right, all right,” Rod said as he gave in and sang “Maggie May” along with the music playing over the speakers.
It was really cool to see Rod Stewart, but I think if it came down to it, I would much rather meet Mick Jagger.
Happy Friday!

White Boy Wasted

Fri, 4 Nov 2011 15:26:49 -0500

Urban Dictionary defines “white boy wasted” as “the highest level of being f—ked up. done mostly by white teenage kids with alcohol and/or other drugs.”
It was late on a Friday afternoon, and my neighbor Chantel and I were sitting, shooting the sh—t on the stoop in front of our house in midcity New Orleans.
Chantel and her boyfriend Eric had lived across the hall from Blek and me for almost a year.
“Hey, Johnny. How you doin’, baby?”
“Ahh, same old same old. Where’s your man at?” I asked. “Haven’t seen old Eric in a while.”
“Ooo, baby! He’s staying by his momma’s house.” She sounded a little agitated by my question.
“Whaaat?! What’s going on?” I asked, concerned but more interested to see what was actually going on with Eric. He was always such a character, fun to hang out with, and to be honest, I kind of missed the guy.
“Oh, baby! We had to take a break,” she said. “He been gettin’ too white boy wasted.”
“What’s white boy wasted?” I asked, feeling stupid for not knowing the term.
“Come on now, Mr. Johnny. You never heard of white boy wasted?”
I hated to admit it, but I’d never heard the term.
“That’s when somebody gets so drunk they can’t handle their liquor,” she said. “You know … He’d be coming home fallin’ down, throwin’ up, talkin’ all loud, yellin’, breakin’ stuff, and ackin’ like a little college frat boy that can’t handle his drank. Come on now; you mean to tell me you never heard of white boy wasted?”
After she said that, it struck me … All I do is get white boy wasted and then write stories about it for Red Shtick.
Just as I was concluding that thought, my roommate Blek came walking out of the house. He must’ve overheard our conversation.
“Hey there, Mr. Blek. How the hell you been, baby?” she asked as he sat down to join us.
“Hey, Chantel. I’m doing well. How you been, girl?” he asked, giving her a hug and kiss as he jumped into the conversation.
“Oh, baby. I’m paying my bills, working my job. You know, the usual. How’s that pretty little girlfriend of yours?” she asked.
Like I said before, he must’ve overheard our convo from inside. “Oh, she’s doing well. In fact, she’s ‘white girl pregnant.’”
“Oh no!” she started. “Pregnant? Hold up, hold up. What’s white girl pregnant?”
Blek replied with no hesitation, “That’s when a girl decides that she needs to make enough money to raise a child before she actually makes the choice to become pregnant.”
Oh sh—t. He didn’t just say that.
We all went silent for a while. Then Chantel broke the awkwardness.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” She busted out in a fit of laughter. Then we all started balling laughing on our front stoop.
“Oh, Blek that sh—t was racist as sh—t, but funny as hell! You know I’d beat you if I didn’t love you so much, baby.” She continued to laugh and beat the steps with her fists as tears streamed down her face.
That was it. All this time, my column has been titled “Altered States” (great title), but at the same time it could’ve easily been called “White Boy Wasted.” I mean that’s really all I do … I get white boy wasted and write a column based on my exploits as a wasted-ass white boy.
It’s been a hell of a run. And it continues to be, but now I have the best term for what I’ve been for the past four years … white boy wasted.
Happy Friday, guys! Hope y’all all had a Happy Halloween.

Mysterious Bed Switch

Fri, 7 Oct 2011 22:01:56 -0500

You’d think most roommates would be happy to come home to a beautiful, naked girl lying in their bed, but unfortunately, in this particular situation, that was not the case.
Lately, living in New Orleans has been great to me. I’ve been on a nice scoring streak as of late, probably batting .325 heading into the playoffs in October.
I brought home a sweet little girl from out on the town. We quickly moved from the couch to my bedroom and consummated our wild night of debauchery.
My roommate had been working the night shift and had been coming in at 8 in the morning.
I woke up around 6 and noticed my squeeze from the night before was not in my bed. I didn’t think much of it; she probably woke up, realized who she was in bed with, and decided to split while the splitting was good.
A couple hours later, my roommate woke me up. He had just come in from a long night of work.
“Johnny! Get up!” He was shouting. I didn’t know what was going on. I remember thinking that someone may have broken into our house.
“What? What? What’s going on?”
“Hey, man! Who the f—k is in my bed?”
Oh no. I guess this girl must’ve gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and never made it back to my bed. She made it to Blek’s bed instead.
Or maybe she had slept with Blek before on one of his previous sexual exploits and muscle memory just kicked in. “Well, the last time I slept here, I was in this bed…” perhaps she thought.
Or maybe she was a psycho stalker who was stalking Blek and was now using me to get to him, thinking, “Well, when he comes home and sees me naked in his bed, he won’t be able to resist.”
Whatever the situation, I hopped out of bed, walked into Blek’s room, and there was no one; she was gone. Then we noticed the bathroom door was closed.
“Alright,” I said. “I guess she’s in there. I’m going back to bed.”
Blek shrugged his shoulders and went to sleep as well.
I awoke a few hours later, and the girl was now back in my bed, snuggling up next to me. We started to mess around, and I started to pull the covers off of her.
“Wait a minute,” I thought. “What is this?” I was pulling Blek’s sheets off of this girl like a magician pulling a never-ending handkerchief from his sleeve. She didn’t just have the top sheet. She even had the form-fitted sheet wrapped around her.
Blek must’ve startled her when he came in from work. So she pulled his sheets around herself to shield her naked body from Blek’s eyes, then fled to the bathroom to escape the embarrassment.
It was hilarious. Well, I thought it was funny. The girl was extremely humiliated.
Later, I found out that Blek thought we were doing the nasty in his bed. So he was a little upset, not to mention he only had a comforter to sleep with in our hot-ass apartment.
The next day, I washed Blek’s sheets, made his bed, and left a little Post-it note reading:

Dear Blek,
Most roommates would be happy to come home to a naked chick in their bed, but I guess your girlfriend wouldn’t appreciate it. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Love,
Johnny

Hope y’all enjoyed another adventure in the life of Mr. Valentine. Happy Friday!

Boys Will Be Boys

Fri, 2 Sep 2011 14:16:03 -0500

As the Jordan Jefferson saga continues, college football analysts seem to be having a field day, while Tiger fans can only shake their heads in disgust — or maybe cross their fingers for a new starting quarterback.
During the scuffle, Jefferson was allegedly seen kicking someone who was on the ground. A sports analyst was talking about the incident and said, “Once you kick a person who’s already down on the ground, this is no longer just a ‘boys will be boys’ situation…”
So that’s when you cross the line? When you kick a downed opponent? If anything, that seems like the best time to kick someone, when he’s on the ground.
I’ve seen several bar fights. Never have I seen a person get kicked while on his feet. Who throws a kick? This isn’t the UFC, Roadhouse, or Walker Texas Ranger. It’s a bar fight.
So, apparently, boys cease to be boys when they throw cheap shots? Really? The majority of bar fights are nothing but cheap shots. C’mon, man!
At the time of writing this article, no arrests had been made and authorities were looking for another party involved in the incident. Les Miles was probably trying to get someone from the practice squad to take the rap for Jefferson’s stomps. (If I were Les, I’d go with a kicker or punter.)
LSU opens its season against the Oregon Ducks in Jerry Jones’ super stadium in Arlington, TX. If the Jordan Jefferson fiasco isn’t bad enough, I heard on the radio that Oregon star cornerback Cliff Harris was arrested after an eventful traffic stop.
It went something like this:
“Aww sh—t they pulled me over. What the hell y’all f—kin’ wit me fo? Speed limit’s 50 just doing 124.”
“Yeah, son, where’s the gun?”
“It’s at home wit the dope.”
“Oh, you a smartass, huh?”
“Nah, that’s my little joke.”
“How about I tow your car in?”
“Ain’t no need to be provoked besides everything up in here done been smoked…” (Ha, a Nelly reference.)
That’s right. The cop pulled him over for doing 120.
When the officer approached the vehicle, he smelled weed. He asked Harris, “Who has the marijuana?” Harris told the officer he didn’t have any because they smoked it all. Harris was cited for speeding and driving with a suspended license.
I think this whole bar fight thing was instigated by Pac-12 fans. They sent a bunch of SEC haters down here to antagonize and provoke Jefferson into a fight. Now LSU, an SEC team, has to open its season against Oregon, a Pac-12 team, without its starting quarterback, and we have to hear about how all these bullsh—t conferences can compete with the SEC.
I’d love to see the Tigers skull-drag those losers without Jefferson or Jarrett Lee. Why not just start Zach Mettenberger, send a message … But I digress.
With all of this off-field controversy, I can’t help but think about Peyton Manning’s temporary replacement, Kerry Collins (aka Tom Collins). Collins is my idol and an inspiration to functioning alcoholics everywhere.
You know you’re good when you get called out of retirement to fill the shoes of one of if not the greatest NFL quarterbacks of his time, and you’re an alcoholic. Way to go, Kerry. Good luck this season, from one alcoholic to another.
Another great drugs-and-sports story is the story of Dock Ellis pitching a no-hitter while on LSD. There’s a great video on YouTube titled “No Mas Presents: Dock Ellis & the LSD No-No.” It’s an audio recording of Ellis’ accounts of the events of that day playing over a little cartoon video: “…They knew I was high, but they didn’t know what I was high on.” Great story; check it out.
My old roommate used to eat Ecstasy before our soccer games. He scored at least one goal in every game that he played on the MDMA, and for that whole season, there were maybe four games when he didn’t score. Those were the games when he wasn‘t rolling on X. Pretty impressive, right?
Hope you all enjoyed a few short stories of drugs and sports. Happy Friday! Go Tigers!

Cloud 9

Fri, 5 Aug 2011 14:07:44 -0500

This wasn’t the first time I was tricked into snorting something that I THOUGHT was cocaine.
I remember hanging out with this guy Mikey who I used to buy pot from. We were at his house watching Always Sunny when I spotted a plate on his nightstand, with four or five neatly cut-up lines of some sort of powder.
He saw me eyeballing the stuff and asked, “Hey man, you wanna do a little bump?”
“Sure,” I said. I should’ve known better, because these were skimpy lines, and they weren’t exactly white in color (more of a brownish).
So I ripped one and sat back on the couch. “F—k,” I thought. “That’s not coke.”
He told me it was heroin. We were dancing with Mr. Brownstone, and I had to chill at his house for a couple of hours until I was straight to drive without falling asleep. My eyelids had never been so heavy, and I melted into the sofa looking at Always Sunny drowned out by the music in my head.
But that doesn’t even come close to this Cloud 9 stuff.
A guy I used to smoke with in high school came into the bar one night. He was f—ked up. “Hey, Johnny, you still cool?”
I told him that I still smoked a little weed from time to time. He told me he had something … I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I asked him to repeat himself four or five times; still nothing intelligible.
“Look,” I said. “Let’s step outside and smoke a cig.”
We walked to his truck. He uncovered two little lines of something on his center console and handed me a straw. So I ripped one of the little lines.
I was looking at the other one … “Was just one going to be enough?” I thought. At the same time, I was wondering, “What is this sh—t? F—k it.” I ripped the other one.
It didn’t taste like coke, but it didn’t burn my nostrils like crank.
Finally, I could understand what my buddy was saying (I guess because we were then on the same level). He was saying “Cloud 9” — the bath salt — synthetic, fake coke.
It used to be legal. You could get it over the counter at your local convenience store, packaged in a bright-colored, mini, zipper baggy, right next to the “spice,” or fake weed with the image of a little Jamaican smoking a joint on the package.
They recently made the stuff illegal because some kids had done too much and overdosed. Technically, it was NOT an amphetamine; it was a combination of two other chemicals called fen-phen. So you could do this stuff and still pass a drug test.
It wasn’t long before it kicked in. I was feeling pretty amped, and the guy told me, “I hope you don’t have to go to sleep anytime soon…” as he rode off.
I didn’t give it any thought at the time. I was going to be at work for another four hours. How long could this fake high last, anyway?
Four hours later, I was still at the bar. I had organized the back office, restrung my guitar, and cleaned every inch of the bar, including wiping down every picture on the wall, the ceiling fans, the barstools, the poker machines … and I was still zinging out of my mind.
My heart was beating something like 120 beats per minute, and I was afraid that if I stopped moving, I would collapse of extreme heart failure.
Four hours after that … still at the bar, still cleaning … It was about to be daylight, and I had to be back at work in eight hours. A friend picked me up from work and told me I could crash at his place.
Crashing was not an option. Every time I tried to close my eyes, I could feel my eyeballs jumping back and forth in my skull. I tried my best to chill out and relax, but there was still no end in sight.
I showed up to work that afternoon: no sleep, no shower, same clothes, looking like a crackhead. By far, the worst drug experience of my life.
I would try anything twice, but I wouldn’t advise anyone to take these “bath salts” or even smoke that “spice.”
Say NO to fake drugs. If you’re going to do drugs, do the real stuff, not some mad scientist’s tweak on nature. At least coke comes from a plant, so you know it’s somewhat natural.
Hope we all learned a valuable lesson here today. Happy Friday!

Chewed Up and Spit Out

Fri, 1 Jul 2011 15:28:55 -0500

The life and times of Johnny Valentine in New Orleans consist of several raw, bizarre, and outlandish happenings, including, but not limited to: sexual encounters; car chases; Tasers; ZZ Top-looking beards; a Ron Jeremy lookalike; free T-shirts; random gunfire; a streetcar pulled over by a cop; one raging, MDMA-driven Rush concert; drifting down Bayou St. John on inflatable pool toys; an official boob autograph signing; a crazy blonde duct-taped to a barstool; Pabst Blue Ribbon commercials (“Drink it, ya’ a—hole”); streetcar fights; broken teeth; BB gun sniping; three-piece suits in the summer and court dates; one exploding truck; my (may God rest her soul) deceased grandmother’s car (for some reason, I just can’t get rid of that cigarette/wet dog/old lady perfume scent; I’ve tried shampooing the seats and interior, Christmas tree air fresheners, Febreze … any suggestions are welcome); Entergy parking lot feuds; climbing a fire escape to smoke a bowl on top of an eight-story building (the buildings in downtown New Orleans are not very high; Spider-Man would not be very effective in this city); failed marijuana cultivation experiments; cocaine-fueled parties with a certain local brass band; meeting Master P and Silk backstage at House of Blues; pulling a “trust fall” on my landlord; passing a Standardized Field Sobriety Test; firing shotguns off the bow of a speeding boat; hitting a naked bicyclist with a water balloon; …
I’m sure I can come up with plenty more examples upon request, but you get the idea … enter random, crazy sh—t here: _____.
If I can only keep my sanity long enough to retain these stories, I can most certainly put together a book of New Orleans memoirs of Johnny Valentine. That’s a big “if.” Especially with the amount of Xanax consumed in the past few months. I swear, that drug’s like a mind eraser.
I woke up the other morning, fully clothed, shoelaces still tied, lying facedown on the small love seat in my living room. I was scared for a second, feeling the initial shock of not knowing where I was, then the secondary shock of “what f—ked up sh—t did I do last night that I may have to apologize for?” I know I’m supposed to feel some awkward sense of guilt or shame, but for the most part, I don’t.
Some may even say the city’s eating me alive. And why shouldn’t they? It happens all the time.
A young college graduate ventures out to the big city of New Orleans to start his illustrious career as a criminal defense lawyer. He soon finds out his job is highly demanding, and he needs to calm his nerves after work with a few cocktails. (It’s a well-documented fact that the occupation most likely to lead to alcoholism is New Orleans attorney.)
A few innocent, post-work cocktails coupled with some weed have now turned into all-nighters at the bar.
Pretty soon, coffee and Red Bulls aren’t cutting the mustard anymore. He needs something stronger: Adderall, cocaine, meth …
Before he knows it, he’s lost his job, his girlfriend, his car, and his Garden District apartment. Now the only people he has left in his life are the vagrants at the bar. And the only place he feels at home is in the bathroom stall at some dive bar doing lines of coke off of the back of the toilet.
Thank God I’m not a lawyer.
Today is Friday, and the Scorseses, my favorite new favorite band, will be performing at Bayou Beer Garden. So that means there’s no end in sight for this journalist.
It’s gonna take extreme determination and unyielding courage to continue to pursue this lifestyle. But if I’ve learned anything about myself in these turbulent times, it’s this: If you think you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, be glad it’s just ice cream.
Happy Friday!

Fun With Stun Guns

Fri, 6 May 2011 16:01:45 -0500

There’s something amazingly terrifying about that crackling sound of a 5.8 million volt stun gun. How are those things even legal? I know it’s endless entertainment for a bunch of drunks: Taser trivia, Taser drinking games, who screams the most like a girl while being Tased…
Some lady came into my bar the other day and sold me a nonlethal (unless used on someone with a pacemaker or titanium ribs) stun gun. There was just something about that sound that made me have to have one.
It’s funny. That’s the second weapon that I’ve received in the past two weeks. (Pretty good, right?) Yeah. One of my regulars gave me a .32-caliber pistol and a box of bullets for the price of a dinner special: $14.95.
The best Taser story I can remember was from a Venice fishing trip last summer.
My buddy Bald Bull was cooking and preparing food for 20 of us. He was busting his ass, slaving over the grill, and had promised himself he wouldn’t drink until after he finished cooking and preparing food for the lot of us.
So Bull was going through DTs, angry, just trying to prepare food for all these loud, outrageous drunks, when Dopey walked up.
Dopey is a 6’4”, 260-lb, wildly annoying, sloppy, drunk bastard. He’s one of those guys that just can’t handle his liquor. This guy acts like an awkward, pigeon-toed kid who just hit puberty. When he’s got one too many drinks in him, he starts bumping into and breaking everything, tries to hang all over everyone, spits all over you when he’s talking to you — just a huge, sloppy, drunk testicle.
So he walked up to Bull, who at the time was chopping up onions, bell peppers, and stuff like that. Dopey started picking at the food and bugging Bull. Keep in mind: Bull’s stone sober and Dopey is in rare, drunk, and goofy form.
“Hey, you fat, sloppy a—hole,” said Bull. “You see this?” He held up a huge butcher knife. “If you don’t get away from here, I’m gonna stick you with this all the way to the handle!”
Dopey’s happy-go-lucky expression immediately left his face. I think he thought Bull was actually going to make good on his threat. So Dopey walked away, and we all enjoyed a great meal.
Later that night…
Dopey was so drunk, he was lying on his back on a picnic table, whining about how bad his back hurt and how he couldn’t get up off the table.
Bull looked over at me, pulled out his Taser, and said, “I betcha I can get his fat ass up.” Bull put the Taser on Dopey’s leg and Tased the ever-living f—k out of him.
Dopey jumped up, screaming, “Holy sh—t! Bull stabbed me! Bald Bull stabbed me!” He actually thought Bull had stabbed him.
Now, at this point, everyone had gathered around, and Dopey had pulled down his pants to inspect his leg for blood or a stab wound. So there we were, 20 people gathered around, laughing our asses off, watching Dopey dance around in his drawers, trying to convince himself and everyone that Bull had stabbed him.
Just when it couldn’t get any better, Bull sneaked up behind Dopey and dropped his boxers to the deck. That huge, awkward, pigeon-toed drunk standing in front of everyone naked as can be probably has to be one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.
Hope you enjoyed it, too. Happy Friday! Don’t Tase me, bro!

St. Pat’s Day Butt Bite

Fri, 1 Apr 2011 11:58:53 -0500

Poor Blek. I almost feel sorry for him. The kid had no idea what he was getting himself into when he agreed to meet us after work on St. Patrick’s Day.
He was stone-cold sober when we met at about 8 p.m. at a bar in Mid-City New Orleans. I’m sure he knew I would be pretty tore up at that point, but he didn’t know I was bringing this guy we met with a huge, green, Sam Elliott mustache and ridiculous, sequined, green cowboy hat. This guy was out of control, but understandably so.
When I ran into this St. Patty’s Cowboy (around 4 p.m.), the first thing he did was ask me to hold out my hand. He then poured a pile of Molly (pure MDMA) into my palm and told me to eat it.
Don’t take drugs from strangers, right? Zing! Holy sh—t!
I was feeling super terrific, and everything was so bright and colorfully stimulating. The taste was horrible, however. But luckily, the Cowboy was prepared, and he offered me a swig of Jameson to wash down my tasty burger.
We were at a huge block party at Third and Magazine streets, and we proceeded to venture down a path of totally irresponsible fun, until a few hours later when my roommate Blek called.
He wanted to meet me in Mid-City, but he was totally unaware of the situation that I was bringing along with me.
At first, I thought it would be a good idea to ride with the St. Patty’s Cowboy, but after he hit 60 mph in a 20 zone on an eighth-of-a-mile stretch of road four or five times, I bailed and got my own truck.
We made it back to Mid-City. I tried to warn Blek of the severity of this dude’s situation as we sat down and smoked a bowl. Meanwhile, the Cowboy drank a whole liter bottle of V8 juice from my fridge, wiped the red from his green ’stache, and said some crazy sh—t about how he should’ve had a V8, then we headed out to another block party within walking distance from the house.
After making it to the bar, we ran into some friends, had a few drinks … It seemed as if everyone wanted to f—k with the Cowboy. And why not? He was an easy target. But then we ran into Bubba.
Bubba was a 250-pound male cheerleader/cheerleading coach. He was kind of a dick, but only because he probably got picked on his whole life for being the size of an offensive lineman but deciding to hold 90-pound, bratty, high school sluts over his head during the halftime shows instead of playing in the real game.
Anyway, Bubba dared the Cowboy to bite some random girl on the butt cheek. Of course, the Cowboy was all for it.
I told him if he actually bit a girl on the ass, he would have to disappear. We would not be able to protect him from any hostility whatsoever.
Well, he did it. He grabbed a girl, one hand on the back of her upper thigh and the other on her hip, and he sunk his teeth in deep. He bit down so hard, she probably got bruised. Then he made a stealthy getaway through the crowd of drunkards, not to be seen again.
My roommate decided to seize the opportunity, and he started hitting on this girl who just got her ass bit and her friend.
Blek is as smooth as they come these days. He’s rocking a beard that everyone compliments him on. He looks like Santa Claus would’ve looked in his early 20s — a beautiful, full beard, but not hobo length (more like lumberjack length), and not yet grayed with age. Also, his belly isn’t shaped like a bowl full of jelly, but he is awful jolly. Just picture a cool-ass, young, brown-haired Santa: That’s my roommate.
After we made it clear that we had never seen or met this “alleged” ass-biter, it was no problem getting the girls to give us a ride back to our house to hang out and get to know each other a little better.
As we pulled up to the house, I saw the Cowboy’s car still parked in front. F—k, I thought. He must’ve gotten lost trying to get back to his car. We’d better get these chicks in the house before he comes creeping around the corner.
I was rushing to unlock the front door when I saw the Cowboy coming down the street. Oh sh—t! Busted!
“Hey, what’s up, you bunch-a losers!” he yelled as he got closer to the house. Then I think he realized what was going on. “Oh snap, are you the girl’s ass I bit?”
That was it. Done deal. The chicks jumped into their car and the Cowboy into his. Blek bitched about it for a few minutes over a bowl, then we decided to head out to another bar and try it again.
Happy Friday!
R.I.P. Pooloo

Burger King Beat Down

Fri, 4 Mar 2011 18:17:00 -0600

There I was, in a Burger King parking lot at 5 in the morning, picking myself up off the ground. My face had just been tagged several times by the fists of some punk college kid.
As I staggered back to my feet, stunned but not knocked out by the attack, I rubbed my jaw and tongued the inside of my cheek. Something was different; something was out of place in my mouth. Then, I spit a small piece of one of my back teeth into my hand.
I paused for a moment to figure out how I had gotten to this position. The short answer: I was trashed (surprise).
My buddy and I were on the way home after a night out when we decided to stop and get some late-night munchies. After we got our food, a car pulled up, and two guys approached my side of the Jeep, shouting for me to get out.
In hindsight, we should’ve just rolled out. But for some reason (drunkenness), I thought I could defuse the situation. Besides, I didn’t want this to end up like one of those “World’s Wildest Car Chases Caught on Tape.”
You ever realize how much alliteration the announcers of those shows use?
“This is officer John Bunnell. These two, terrorizing, tumultuous drunks drive dangerously down the dark, damp highway, hoping to haplessly hurry away. But thanks to the long arm of the LAW, these liquored-up loons will be locked up for a long time.”
I stepped out of the passenger side of the Jeep and measured up the two young kids. They looked to be fresh out of high school. It was late, and they probably had a little buzz and built-up testosterone. I’m sure they just wanted to find a drunk to beat on.
Well, that’s exactly what they found. I was so hammered, I could barely stand. I leaned back into the Jeep and told my buddy, “Hey, I think I’m gonna try to just hit this kid and jump back in the car. So put this thing in gear and get ready to roll.”
Wow! What a great idea! Right?
I don’t remember so well, but I think the guy was accusing me of yelling something at them as they had passed us earlier in the parking lot. It may or may not have been true, but the guy was heated and looked ready to fight.
After a minute or so of him yelling, I was exhausted with his bullsh—t. “Look, pussy. You gonna bark all day or you gonna do something?” I said as I leaned forward, putting my chin out, welcoming his best shot.
Great idea, right?
Bam! Bam! Bam! He nailed me two or three times, and I fell back on my ass in the Burger King parking lot. I guess I ordered the Whopper.
I had no intention of getting into a physical altercation with those children, but after seeing that piece of tooth in my hand, my adrenaline spiked. I looked up to find my attacker and his accomplice fleeing to their car. Eh-uh!
I dashed after the kid that hit me, tackling him to the ground. Before I could go to work on his face, my buddy was pulling me back to his Jeep, shouting something about the cops coming.
I didn’t care about cops. My pride was hurt, and a piece of tooth was no longer in my head. I broke free of his grip and ran back to the two kids’ car.
The guy who hit me was sitting in the passenger seat as I spit blood on his window, trying to antagonize him to get out and finish what he started. He tried to pop me by quickly opening the car door, but just as he went to push the door open, I kicked it back shut on him, putting a huge dent in the side.
All of a sudden, there was a girl shouting from the back seat, “Hey, that’s my car!”
“F—k you and your sh—tmobile, bitch!” I shouted back.
They sped off, and I got back into the Jeep. We got back to the house, ate, and passed out.
After all that, I feel like an ass. I’m a grown-ass man with a college degree and a job. And I’m still getting in fights in a fast-food parking lot.
Maybe, one day, I’ll grow up … maybe. But then, what would I write about?
Happy Friday!