Thursday, March 12, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Ryan and the GILF
During one weekend over my sophomore year, my friend, Dipsom, invited me to go to a Los Angeles Dodger game with him and his girlfriend at the time, Kimbo. Now, when separated, Dipso and I are completely tolerable by most standards. We can interact in a group dynamic, garnering enough attention so as to nourish our starving egos. However, when together, and fueled by copious amounts of alcohol, our behavior is not deemed appropriate by much of society. Both of us try to talk over everyone else in the conversation and will constantly put people down just to make a point. With that being said, here is what happened.
Saturday morning, I wake up in a cloudy haze, trying to piece together the night before. I look down at my cell phone to check the time. I need to be sober enough to get over to the train station on time and get down to L.A. in less than two hours.
FUCK ME.
It is 11 a.m. when I finally muster enough energy to get off of my face and hop into the shower. I only have a couple of hours to regain full consciousness, pack up my shit, get some booze for the train ride, and get drunk all over again. It’s time to rally.
It is one in the afternoon; I have my backpack ready with a change of clothes, my laptop, and the necessary liter bottle of Grey Goose and 4-pack of Red Bull. These ARE necessities.
At two, I board the train. Now, the trip from Santa Barbara to Union Station in Los Angeles typically takes four hours, giving me plenty of time to fully submerge my corpus callosum with a hefty amount of the Goose.
The train is somewhat empty, so I see no reason why I can’t pull out my bottle of booze and openly drink it in front of both the Amtrak employees and small children. People start to give me funny looks as I fall over in the aisle when I try to make it to the bathroom every ten minutes. I don’t care, these people suck anyway. I continue to drink.
After nursing a few drinks, I notice a very cute girl sitting a few seats away that I will refer to as CuteGirl. She keeps looking over at me, but I can’t tell if she is looking at me like she wants to fuck or that I am a complete lush; I just decide throw my hat in the ring and ask if she wants to join me for a couple of drinks.
She accepts my offer.
Unfortunately, sitting right next to her is her friend, Fatty.
She is a sea-monster. Her entire face looked like it had just been beaten with a metal rake. And to top it off, tattoos were painted over every visible pound of her flabby white flesh. She was an exact knock off of Kelly Osbourne. Except fatter. And uglier.
Whatever, as long as I can talk to CuteGirl, Fatty can be easily ignored.
Over the next hour or so, CuteGirl, Fatty, and I casually take shots out of the bottle, and make small chit chat. Well, I mainly talk because both of them are completely useless vapid beings who just used me for my alcohol.
At this point, I am beginning to feel the warm fuzzy sensation of the alcohol as it seeps its way into blood stream and passes over the top of my brain. I begin to feel much more peaceful; maybe I judge these girls too harshly.
After a couple drinks, they get off somewhere between Santa Barbara and Who-The-Fuck-Cares. I have just been duped by CuteGirl and her fat friend. Alcohol-schmoozing whores.
I pass the rest of my trip by trying to sober up, interchangeably pounding bottles of water and relieving myself in the lavatory. Now, every five minutes.
I arrive in L.A. around 5:45 in the evening. Dipso is waiting for me at the curb to pick me up. He takes one look at me and just laughs. He remarks that my body odor resembles a bag of sweaty clothes that got drunk. To be fair, it was like ninety degrees outside, and I had a robust amount of alcohol trying to force its way up through my epidermis.
We drive over to his girlfriend’s apartment in Santa Monica. This is where the real drinking began. We start off the night with gin and tonics. The stronger type, where there really isn’t much tonic but plenty of gin.
Dipso and I are the by nature parasitic creatures; we tend to latch on to a healthy host organism, and sort of live off them in a quasi-symbiotic relationship.
As such, we feel no remorse in ransacking Kimbo’s apartment. Nothing is off limits. Both of us demand to be cooked food and made drinks, simultaneously making rude and offensive remarks about women and sexual exploits.
God I loved that girl. In all honesty, I don’t think you could find another woman as benevolent or patient in nature.
Being the democratic body of two, Dipso and I elect Kimbo as our designated driver for the evening. She is not very happy with this appointment. Not only is she not feeling well that evening, but she has to baby sit two drunken buffoons at a sporting event. I almost feel bad for this girl. If I were actually capable of such an emotion
Around seven, Dipso, Kimbo, and I head out toward Dodger Stadium. And because strong alcoholic drinks at the apartment are not enough in of and of themselves, Dipso and I fill up a couple of huge water thermoses with beer. I believe it un-American to attend baseball games not thoroughly intoxicated or yell obscenities at the opposing team and their fans.
For those of you who have never visited Los Angeles or experienced the misery that comes with trying to navigate your way across the town in rush hour, I would like to just say your life is much happier than most. But, to truly and accurately describe the experience, I need only three words:
IT. FUCKING. SUCKS. (Or at least when you are sober, and transporting sloshed, testosterone-fueled narcissists who can’t help but talk over one another)
The car ride over went a little something like this:
- We immediately hit traffic, and thus are forced to drive fifteen miles per hour.
- I am not satisfied with our current rate of velocity or progress. I make this fact known to everyone about how stupid traffic is and what terrible drivers other people are.
- Dipso and I drink a beer while sitting in traffic. Maybe traffic isn’t so bad after all.
- We finish our first beer.
- We crack our second beer.
- We finish our second beer.
- Dipso and I then proceed to test each other’s intimate knowledge of Seinfeld trivia. Arguing about some frivolous plot aspect that no one but us would know; loudly trying to explain what the underlying meaning was when Larry David conceived it.
- We crack our third beer.
- We finish our third beer.
- …….UUHHHH OHHH. Those three beers need to leave my body. FAST.
- I begin to sweat the urea out my skin instead of releasing it the conventional way. I make sure everyone understands my level of discomfort through immature threats of peeing in Kimbo’s car.
- Fortunately, we make it to downtown L.A. to stop off at the ticket agency.
- I pee on the side of some building.
Ten minutes after we pick up the tickets, we arrive at Dodger Stadium with no real damage done to either the car or ourselves.
I am giddy. Professional sports games are one of the only arenas where it is socially acceptable to get brazenly shit-canned, yell profanities at the top of your lungs, and act like a complete asshole. I take full advantage of the situation.
We are walking to our seats when I see some promotion for a credit card company, giving away free Dodger T-Shirts if you sign up. I sprint over to fill out my application.
The lady working this booth looks like she just got released from a methadone clinic. I’m surprised she even knew what credit was, let alone how to apply for it.
Instead, I fill out the form with complete horseshit; making up names, street addresses, and social security numbers as they pop into my head. I finish the application with the full intent of grabbing my new shirt and running off to find Kimbo to pay for my beer.
Unfortunately the washed up heroin-junkie turned Chase Credit Card Peddler wants to see some ID. I inform her that I do not have any form of ID, but that my friend can vouch for me.
She does not accept my proposal. Fuck this lady. I will be damned if I just wasted ten minutes of my life and don’t get my goddamn free T-shirt.
I try to woo her, but she is having none of it. I look down and realize she has left my application face up right in front of me. I take one quick glance at my SSN, and tell her to quiz me on it. She falls right for the bait.
I reel off the 9 numbers with ease, grab my shirt, and run off giggling.
Score:
Ryan – 10
Credit Card Cunt – 0
I eventually find Dipso and Kimbo in our seats, me sporting the new T-Shit with the biggest shit eating grin on my face. I tell them of my conquest and demand a beer.
To be honest, I can hardly even remember the actual game, or even who played. The whole game Dipso and I would request money from Kimbo so we could go buy $10 beers and $8 hot dogs.
Throughout the first three innings, my demeanor toward the other team is non-existent. I am too wrapped up in the ecstasy of free watered down beer and processed meat to even acknowledge the game.
However, this all changes around the fifth inning. Dipso and I become increasingly noisy and abrasive in our actions and comments toward the opposing team. Making loud and hateful slurs toward everything and one that wasn’t wearing Dodger Blue. Did I mention we were sitting right next to young children and groups of middle-class families?
Yeah, well Kimbo had to remind us of this fact, as we were far too intoxicated to realize that yelling “YOU FUCKING SUCK. YOU CAN’T HIT FOR SHIT. THE DODGERS ARE GUNNA KICK URRR ASS!!!!” in front of adolescents and their angry parents is not acceptable.
The seventh inning stretch rolls around, and the aroma of beer, hot-dogs, and baseball fill the air. The whole night has been surreal. I made sure it was going to stay that way.
Sitting directly to my left was a group of three women. I notice the oldest lady bending over in the aisle, trying to pick something up. I nudge Dipso and point at her remarkably tantalizing and taut ass. Kimbo rolls her eyes and remarks at what disgusting human-beings we are.
[SIDE NOTE: The three ladies I am referencing are: Daughter, Mama, and Granny. Granny had to be less than fifty, and was by all intents and purposes good looking, and would have been a lot hotter if she hadn’t hit the booze and cigarettes so hard in her formative years.]
Daughter, Mama, and Granny had been occasionally talking to me throughout the game, surprisingly not appalled and disgusted by my overall behavior.
I look up and notice the Kiss-A-Tron is up on the huge TV that stands over the centerfield bleachers. This is the time during a baseball game where camera men around the park isolate couples and force them to make out in front of fifty thousand screaming fans.
This was my chance.
I don’t know if it was pure instinct or just shameless inebriation, but I slide over one seat to sit right next to Granny, and asked her the following:
Ryan: “Let’s say you and me kiss and try to get up on the Big Screen?”
The mother and daughter laugh. I throw my arm around her, showing what a suave gentleman I truly am.
Ryan: “C’mon. It’ll be fun. I wanna get up there.”
At this point, Dipso, Kimbo and a few other people around our seats have heard my proposition and are now urging Granny to kiss me.
Ryan: “It will be awesome. We’ll be famous.”
She looks down a little and giggles, as if to invite me in. I move in like a lion attacking its prey. Disregarding the fact that the Kiss-A-Tron was not even directed on us, or even in our section, I can now proudly say, I have made out with a Grandma.
Saturday morning, I wake up in a cloudy haze, trying to piece together the night before. I look down at my cell phone to check the time. I need to be sober enough to get over to the train station on time and get down to L.A. in less than two hours.
FUCK ME.
It is 11 a.m. when I finally muster enough energy to get off of my face and hop into the shower. I only have a couple of hours to regain full consciousness, pack up my shit, get some booze for the train ride, and get drunk all over again. It’s time to rally.
It is one in the afternoon; I have my backpack ready with a change of clothes, my laptop, and the necessary liter bottle of Grey Goose and 4-pack of Red Bull. These ARE necessities.
At two, I board the train. Now, the trip from Santa Barbara to Union Station in Los Angeles typically takes four hours, giving me plenty of time to fully submerge my corpus callosum with a hefty amount of the Goose.
The train is somewhat empty, so I see no reason why I can’t pull out my bottle of booze and openly drink it in front of both the Amtrak employees and small children. People start to give me funny looks as I fall over in the aisle when I try to make it to the bathroom every ten minutes. I don’t care, these people suck anyway. I continue to drink.
After nursing a few drinks, I notice a very cute girl sitting a few seats away that I will refer to as CuteGirl. She keeps looking over at me, but I can’t tell if she is looking at me like she wants to fuck or that I am a complete lush; I just decide throw my hat in the ring and ask if she wants to join me for a couple of drinks.
She accepts my offer.
Unfortunately, sitting right next to her is her friend, Fatty.
She is a sea-monster. Her entire face looked like it had just been beaten with a metal rake. And to top it off, tattoos were painted over every visible pound of her flabby white flesh. She was an exact knock off of Kelly Osbourne. Except fatter. And uglier.
Whatever, as long as I can talk to CuteGirl, Fatty can be easily ignored.
Over the next hour or so, CuteGirl, Fatty, and I casually take shots out of the bottle, and make small chit chat. Well, I mainly talk because both of them are completely useless vapid beings who just used me for my alcohol.
At this point, I am beginning to feel the warm fuzzy sensation of the alcohol as it seeps its way into blood stream and passes over the top of my brain. I begin to feel much more peaceful; maybe I judge these girls too harshly.
After a couple drinks, they get off somewhere between Santa Barbara and Who-The-Fuck-Cares. I have just been duped by CuteGirl and her fat friend. Alcohol-schmoozing whores.
I pass the rest of my trip by trying to sober up, interchangeably pounding bottles of water and relieving myself in the lavatory. Now, every five minutes.
I arrive in L.A. around 5:45 in the evening. Dipso is waiting for me at the curb to pick me up. He takes one look at me and just laughs. He remarks that my body odor resembles a bag of sweaty clothes that got drunk. To be fair, it was like ninety degrees outside, and I had a robust amount of alcohol trying to force its way up through my epidermis.
We drive over to his girlfriend’s apartment in Santa Monica. This is where the real drinking began. We start off the night with gin and tonics. The stronger type, where there really isn’t much tonic but plenty of gin.
Dipso and I are the by nature parasitic creatures; we tend to latch on to a healthy host organism, and sort of live off them in a quasi-symbiotic relationship.
As such, we feel no remorse in ransacking Kimbo’s apartment. Nothing is off limits. Both of us demand to be cooked food and made drinks, simultaneously making rude and offensive remarks about women and sexual exploits.
God I loved that girl. In all honesty, I don’t think you could find another woman as benevolent or patient in nature.
Being the democratic body of two, Dipso and I elect Kimbo as our designated driver for the evening. She is not very happy with this appointment. Not only is she not feeling well that evening, but she has to baby sit two drunken buffoons at a sporting event. I almost feel bad for this girl. If I were actually capable of such an emotion
Around seven, Dipso, Kimbo, and I head out toward Dodger Stadium. And because strong alcoholic drinks at the apartment are not enough in of and of themselves, Dipso and I fill up a couple of huge water thermoses with beer. I believe it un-American to attend baseball games not thoroughly intoxicated or yell obscenities at the opposing team and their fans.
For those of you who have never visited Los Angeles or experienced the misery that comes with trying to navigate your way across the town in rush hour, I would like to just say your life is much happier than most. But, to truly and accurately describe the experience, I need only three words:
IT. FUCKING. SUCKS. (Or at least when you are sober, and transporting sloshed, testosterone-fueled narcissists who can’t help but talk over one another)
The car ride over went a little something like this:
- We immediately hit traffic, and thus are forced to drive fifteen miles per hour.
- I am not satisfied with our current rate of velocity or progress. I make this fact known to everyone about how stupid traffic is and what terrible drivers other people are.
- Dipso and I drink a beer while sitting in traffic. Maybe traffic isn’t so bad after all.
- We finish our first beer.
- We crack our second beer.
- We finish our second beer.
- Dipso and I then proceed to test each other’s intimate knowledge of Seinfeld trivia. Arguing about some frivolous plot aspect that no one but us would know; loudly trying to explain what the underlying meaning was when Larry David conceived it.
- We crack our third beer.
- We finish our third beer.
- …….UUHHHH OHHH. Those three beers need to leave my body. FAST.
- I begin to sweat the urea out my skin instead of releasing it the conventional way. I make sure everyone understands my level of discomfort through immature threats of peeing in Kimbo’s car.
- Fortunately, we make it to downtown L.A. to stop off at the ticket agency.
- I pee on the side of some building.
Ten minutes after we pick up the tickets, we arrive at Dodger Stadium with no real damage done to either the car or ourselves.
I am giddy. Professional sports games are one of the only arenas where it is socially acceptable to get brazenly shit-canned, yell profanities at the top of your lungs, and act like a complete asshole. I take full advantage of the situation.
We are walking to our seats when I see some promotion for a credit card company, giving away free Dodger T-Shirts if you sign up. I sprint over to fill out my application.
The lady working this booth looks like she just got released from a methadone clinic. I’m surprised she even knew what credit was, let alone how to apply for it.
Instead, I fill out the form with complete horseshit; making up names, street addresses, and social security numbers as they pop into my head. I finish the application with the full intent of grabbing my new shirt and running off to find Kimbo to pay for my beer.
Unfortunately the washed up heroin-junkie turned Chase Credit Card Peddler wants to see some ID. I inform her that I do not have any form of ID, but that my friend can vouch for me.
She does not accept my proposal. Fuck this lady. I will be damned if I just wasted ten minutes of my life and don’t get my goddamn free T-shirt.
I try to woo her, but she is having none of it. I look down and realize she has left my application face up right in front of me. I take one quick glance at my SSN, and tell her to quiz me on it. She falls right for the bait.
I reel off the 9 numbers with ease, grab my shirt, and run off giggling.
Score:
Ryan – 10
Credit Card Cunt – 0
I eventually find Dipso and Kimbo in our seats, me sporting the new T-Shit with the biggest shit eating grin on my face. I tell them of my conquest and demand a beer.
To be honest, I can hardly even remember the actual game, or even who played. The whole game Dipso and I would request money from Kimbo so we could go buy $10 beers and $8 hot dogs.
Throughout the first three innings, my demeanor toward the other team is non-existent. I am too wrapped up in the ecstasy of free watered down beer and processed meat to even acknowledge the game.
However, this all changes around the fifth inning. Dipso and I become increasingly noisy and abrasive in our actions and comments toward the opposing team. Making loud and hateful slurs toward everything and one that wasn’t wearing Dodger Blue. Did I mention we were sitting right next to young children and groups of middle-class families?
Yeah, well Kimbo had to remind us of this fact, as we were far too intoxicated to realize that yelling “YOU FUCKING SUCK. YOU CAN’T HIT FOR SHIT. THE DODGERS ARE GUNNA KICK URRR ASS!!!!” in front of adolescents and their angry parents is not acceptable.
The seventh inning stretch rolls around, and the aroma of beer, hot-dogs, and baseball fill the air. The whole night has been surreal. I made sure it was going to stay that way.
Sitting directly to my left was a group of three women. I notice the oldest lady bending over in the aisle, trying to pick something up. I nudge Dipso and point at her remarkably tantalizing and taut ass. Kimbo rolls her eyes and remarks at what disgusting human-beings we are.
[SIDE NOTE: The three ladies I am referencing are: Daughter, Mama, and Granny. Granny had to be less than fifty, and was by all intents and purposes good looking, and would have been a lot hotter if she hadn’t hit the booze and cigarettes so hard in her formative years.]
Daughter, Mama, and Granny had been occasionally talking to me throughout the game, surprisingly not appalled and disgusted by my overall behavior.
I look up and notice the Kiss-A-Tron is up on the huge TV that stands over the centerfield bleachers. This is the time during a baseball game where camera men around the park isolate couples and force them to make out in front of fifty thousand screaming fans.
This was my chance.
I don’t know if it was pure instinct or just shameless inebriation, but I slide over one seat to sit right next to Granny, and asked her the following:
Ryan: “Let’s say you and me kiss and try to get up on the Big Screen?”
The mother and daughter laugh. I throw my arm around her, showing what a suave gentleman I truly am.
Ryan: “C’mon. It’ll be fun. I wanna get up there.”
At this point, Dipso, Kimbo and a few other people around our seats have heard my proposition and are now urging Granny to kiss me.
Ryan: “It will be awesome. We’ll be famous.”
She looks down a little and giggles, as if to invite me in. I move in like a lion attacking its prey. Disregarding the fact that the Kiss-A-Tron was not even directed on us, or even in our section, I can now proudly say, I have made out with a Grandma.
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