The Other Iowa Flood

Date: Summer of ’07

Location: Cedar Falls, Iowa

Libation: A serious mixture of shit

So two of my Iowa buddies and a long time friend of mine head up to good ole’ Cedar Falls, Iowa for what other than a golf tournament run by a local sports bar.  One of my friends from Iowa is rather excited about the tournament due to the fact that it is at a nice course and two of the people on our team had played golf collegiately.    We arrive on Friday evening after what seemed to be 37 hours of looking at “non-eatin’ corn.”  Obviously, what else is there to do in the hometown of the Panthers than start drinking the boringness of the town away.  We begin a normal night of vacation drinking – from around 630pm to 600AM.  Mind you the tee-time is 730AM.  45 minutes of sleep later, I am on a driving range hitting balls in the freezing cold in July.  Miserable.  Luckily, after 4 holes (3 birdies and an eagle..), God intervened and opened the heavens.  Torrential downpours sent 155 young adults tearing toward the bar at 9AM.  Hello, Mr. Screwdriver.  The only way I could have gotten more OJ into my body is if while I was drinking it I was boning a box of Tropicana while some chick shoved full oranges in my brown eye.  

We leave the golf course around 130PM.  We needed lunch, so where do we go?  Of course the bar that the tournament was sponsored by.  We drink beers.  Then mixed drinks and beers. Then beers.  I think a quesadilla fit in there somewhere.  After drinking there for several hours, we re-grouped at home to “go out.”  

We hit a couple local hot spots that actually had women sans corn in their teeth and hair and we were DRUNK.  Time to take shots.  It’s around 11PM at this time.  First few shots go down okay and then someone snuck a Jager in on me.  Immediately run to the bathroom to crush the toilet with a full day’s work.  Miraculously, as I stood over the toilet, I didn’t have to puke anymore!  Hooray!  Hey, while I’m in here I might as well pee, right?  I begin to pee and then the vomit came back so violently I did not have time to stop peeing.  I am looking down puking all over the toilet and floor as I rocket-piss through my puke stream on and above the tank and stall walls.  It sounds like armageddon.  I finally finish and turn around.  Three dudes staring at me.  I don’t flush.

Lake it and Leave It

Date:  Fall Semester 2000

Location: Very Small Town Middle America

Consumption: Variety of alcohol mixed with pot

Two girlfriends and myself are on the road to camp out over night at the lake and we’re meeting the guys. Mind you, this was all very last minute, no planning whatsoever. We’ve had a ridiculous amount of alcohol mixed with pot except for the one driving, she’s just high on weed and holding a joint.  I suddenly have to pee really really bad. The girls want to pull over on the highway to let me relieve myself, but it’s not to that point yet.  Then suddenly it is to that point.  I can remember it so well, how much it made sense to ask my next question to the girls. “Is it ok if I pee in this bag?” This bag, was a Walmart plastic grocery bag.  Of course, the girls are like “NO!!! we’re pulling over!”

I’m standing on the side of the highway, it’s dusk, and I remove my pants completely and then my panties. I was told later that I didn’t want to pee on them. Anyway, my big loss for the night was I didn’t make it back in the vehicle with my panties and they were these great berry red silk ones that I had paid like 20 bucks for at Victoria’s Secret.  They could still be on the side of the road providing great tales to passersby…was this girl raped and killed, was she in a car accident that made her panties blow off, or was she so drunk she took them off in an effort to pee. Bingo!

We passed our exit to the lake so decided to use the on-ramp as the off-ramp, real smart. We made it to the lake, but since there was a lack of preparation for the trip, we froze all night despite being huddled together…and none of us bothered getting up when a raccoon invaded our food.

Ruined Khakis – by BumpyJunk

Location: middle of nowhere, Texas

Drank of choice: Original Bud and handles of JD

Trips to confession: still counting

OK, so some buddys of mine and I went to school in Oklahoma.  Every now and then, the limitless boundaries of fun in the great state of Oklahoma would drive us to Texas for some BYOB booby bar time.  We packed up and headed south with a bunch of 30-packs, coolers and maybe 40 bucks each.  The thing about these BYOB dance joints was the Tejas law allowed them to go full monty (does that even apply with chicks??).  Anyway, just off I-35 and North of Denton there was this joint that I think was simply called NUDE.  The only reason I believe this to be fact is the neon signage that can be seen from space read – NUDE.  We spent a decent amount of time there that night, drinking beer and killing some bottles of JD.  They had some sort of a VIP area in the back.  I have no idea if we paid for it or anything, but the management (loosely, looooosely defined) put us there and the ladies circled us like Phillip Fulmer’s family on a Krispy Kreme store.  It ended up being a great night.  A few of my friends had never really been to an all-nude joint, so they started out appalled but ended up with all sorts of bad things on, around and in their faces.  I don’t think the girls were supposed to actually touch you when they were in their birthday suits but (said “management”) allowed whatever so we went with it.  It actually got entirely out of control a few times and we ran off all but one of the other patrons since there wasn’t much attention paid away from our plywood palace.

<if I may interject a visual really quickly: I saw more stab wounds, botched appendectomy’s and prison tat’s than one man should ever see.  ever>

Back to the story – so, we took off about 4am, when the place closed down, with no booze or GW’s left.  I piled into the back of my buddy’s car and we headed to the border.  About 20 minutes into the ride, the guy next to me and the guy in the passenger seat in front of me called out what I had also been dealing with the entire trip…a really, really bad smell coming from somewhere near me.  We pulled over so a couple of us could take a leak and I got out to see what I had tracked in (figured it was on the bottom of my shoes).  Turns out, I had some rancid trail of something (sorta red in color) down the leg of my khakis.  I can’t bend myself in half, so had another guy smell it for me…was a mixture of crap and a few other as-0f-yet undetermined ingredients.  I threw the khakis away in the trashcan and continued the rest of the trip pantsless but without the odor of death in the car.

The end

I fought the crabs and the crabs won.

Date: 12/14/08

Location: Strip Mall Sports Bar/Home

Libation (Quantity): Frozen margaritas (3 pints), red wine (most of two bottles), possibly post-wine beers (undetermined)

Last Sunday it was 80 degrees here in the State Capital. Around 5:00, the Mrs. suggested we go sit on a patio somewhere and drink margaritas. We did this for a while. After arriving back at the house with half a package on from the pint-glass margaritas, I brought out the pound of stone crab claws we had bought earlier. As we don’t normally buy shellfish, I didn’t have proper crab-cracking utensils. A natural substitute seemed to be a pair of needle nose pliers. I cracked each one in the middle, put them all on a big plate, and sat down on the couch. Half a bottle of wine went down during the cracking process.

That’s when the war started. Crab isn’t easy to eat sober, but these little bastards were simultaneously delicious and absolutely impossible to remove from their shells. I went back at them with the needlenoses and a little mini-fork. I was so hungry, but at this rate I had a better chance of filling up on wine, which the Mrs. had stopped drinking after half a glass. I took a quick break to open the second bottle, and then got back at the claws with my hands. This worked well enough for a few minutes, until one of them attacked my finger. The picture doesn’t do it justice since it was taken several days after the incident, but it hurt like a bitch. If you’ll notice, it’s right where my index finger bends, and I do a lot of typing. I gave up, kept drinking, and threw the remains of the claws into the kitchen trash.

Needless to say, the next day at work I felt like pre-rehab Robert Downey Jr, if he was dating Maggie Gyllenhall’s character from Secretary. To make it worse, when I got home the entire place smelled like an unairconditioned San Fernando Valley porn shoot because of the trash. There is a reason stoners just order pizza.