Thursday, June 07, 2012
Your sophomore of college is an odd year. You have one year of the awesome college experience under your belt and consider yourself a real pro when it comes to drinking and slaying puss. Your first year, unless you were blessed with a great fake ID, is likely based around house or frat parties for socialization and brain cell destruction. When you come back to town for year two, most normal people are sort of tired of the party scene. You don’t really feel like waiting in line for 20 minutes for a cup of Natty Light when some 400 pound douche is holding the tap and making those with cocks wait forever for a refill. God, I hated that. But as I said, unless you were fortunate, bars weren’t really too realistic of an option either. And that made for some odd nights. Sophomore year is definitely the worst year of the collegiate experience.
From what I remember, I hated going to parties but didn’t want to abuse sneaking into bars for some underage consumption. The point is, and how I got through things, was to get obliterated at the house before going out for the evening and thus I wouldn’t care about shitty parties or undercover bar cops. I did this for a year. I wouldn’t recommend it but I’m not not recommending it either. Breaking news: getting piss-wasted in college is the best. You have to make due.
Anyway, one Saturday night in early 2001, G$ decides to do what he normally does and puts down a 12 pack while playing Madden or something before it’s time to head out. We had a buddy that was in one of those nerdy frats and they were throwing a box social or whatever that night and going there was the plan. It wasn’t a date rapey, BRAH frat but it wasn’t exactly the place to be either. It was just sort of…there. But, like I said, a friend lived there and he invited us over so we obliged his request.
I’m already drunk as hell when we get there as evidenced by my thwarted attempts to stand up in the bed of my friend’s truck while he was driving through town (a poor man’s Teen Wolf impression). From what I can recall, the party was what we all expected in that it was about half as full as they wanted it to be and the ladies there looked like they would have fit in better at a slaughterhouse. Like I said, this house was not known for much but it was definitely better than sitting around our condo and watching our dicks get smaller. Sensing that he was losing us, our host invited us down to his room for some 6way anal love/access to his stash of hard liquor. Since the only other option was probably something gross like kegged Natty Ice, this was a welcomed idea. I pictured fountains of Grey Goose and barrels of Captain Morgan; this was going to be HEAVEN!
What I got was a full bottle of El Toro tequila. Now, if you are not familiar with THE BULL, please do not make it your life’s mission to sample it. All that you need to know is that instead of a twist-off cap, it features a twist-off red plastic sombrero. It truly is the worst of the worst. With all that said, the 6 or 7 of us down there just kept passing it around. After about the second time around the table, I couldn’t help but notice that my friends were bowing out of our journey to the bottom of this bottle. In fact, once it got to about a third or quarter left, it was just me with no partners. I said, FUCK IT AND FUCK YOU, and housed the rest because I AM AN ATHLETE. How I did not throw up, I will never know. It seems physically impossible for me not to, doesn’t it?
Normally, this amount of horrible alcohol consumption would turn a man a ghostly shade of white and render him worthless for the rest of eternity. Yet that did not happen to me on the evening in question. Actually, the opposite thing happened and all of my blood rushed to my face and started getting me all salty. For some weird reason, I was PISSED at nothing and everything at the same time.
We headed back to the party upstairs and I’m just trying to stay calm and fight off THE BULL inside of me just dying to gore some poor sap. My buddies, however, did not want to see that. They banded together and cooked up this huge lie about some guy talking shit about me and that he wanted to kick my ass. Normal me would have tapped these liars in the scrote and carried on. Not on this night though. I demanded that they show me who was running smack at the King. They picked some random guy who was dancing with the only attractive broad at the party. I just stared daggers at that guy for, I don’t know, 5 minutes while THE BULL gathered steam in my nether regions. He was ready to charge with his nostrils flared and no matador in the world would stop him (not even El Matador Tito Santana). This guy was completely oblivious of my rage (as he should have been since he did nothing to me and was just trying to get laid). My friends kept it up; getting my blood hotter and just waiting for me to explode.
“FUCK THIS SHIT! Barrett, pull your truck around because we’re out of here.” And then I made my move much to the delight of my peers that just watched me empty that EL TORO bottle. I grabbed the completely innocent guy by the shoulder (thus breaking up his grinding rhythm with the hot girl), forced him to look me in my bloodshot eyes, and landed a right hook to the temple. From what I am told, he fell backwards and knocked down the girl he was dancing with after they bumped heads. I didn’t know though because as soon as I made contact with this poor bastard, I had already started running out the door like a true champion. I’m pretty sure that that was the only punch that I’ve thrown in my life (/makes sad face).
Somehow, we made it out of the house without anybody stopping us, all of my boys are giggling like fucking assholes as they ran, got back into the truck, and headed home. For some strange reason, I was really proud of myself for setting that punk bitch straight. That was short-lived, as you can imagine, once they all told me that that guy said nothing about me. Boy that was a shitty feeling. Sucker punching an innocent guy makes one feel extremely remorseful. I have never even considered putting El Toro up to my lips again and hardly ever touched straight tequila after that night.
So if you’re out there, unfortunate soul that got a close-up with my fist, please accept my humble apology. It was a really shitty thing for me to do. But I hope that maybe you got a pity fuck from that girl later that night. If I was able to help with that then I’m glad that I could be of assistance to your penile cause. That might have been my last foray into BRAHdom. I never want to go back. This ends my public service announcement against El Toro Tequila.
This story is to be used as motivation for the Boston Celtics tonight. Finish the fucking job, fellas, end that fucker’s night/season! Unleash the awesome power of THE BULL!!!