I think I have given you all enough time to digest my previous story involving a Taco Bell excursion of a lifetime and so on and so forth, so part 2 of my weekend can be illustrated safely at this point.
SO, as many of you well know or participated in, Saturday night was Brian and Seth’s 21 Birthday Bar Crawl. What a mighty event it was. Mighty referring to the large crowd of drunkasauruses that “crawled” and the enormous volume of alcohol that was consumed therein. It was a successful night, what little of it I remember.
The night began around 6:00 p.m. central daylight time with some heavy pregameage and a few rounds of bags. Finally the group got riled up and headed out. The agenda went as follows: Jake’s, Q-Bar, 808 which turned into SpoCo on account of 808 getting squirrely and trying to charge us cover (wtf, mate), and then Brother’s. Now, I can’t tell you much about the bars because I retained probably around 12% of the entire night, however I do know that I got kicked out of two of the bars and marched right back in, most likely because I didn’t understand what was happening. This time it wasn’t because of passing out on a sticky table or acting belligerent, however; it was simply because I was underage.
Anyway, everywhere you went there was a screaming orange blur to be seen, and what a glorious sight it was. At some point I wandered off from the group and decided to purchase a gyro. I cut somewhere around 35 people in line, and no one seemed to notice. The gyro fella asked me what I wanted on my gyro, which was a problem because a) I couldn’t form words due to my startling BAC, and b) I don’t know what goes on gyros sober. So I probably told him to do whatever he wanted, and I stumbled off with my prized treat.
I must have been really into my gyro while I was eating it, because by the time I finished it, I realized that I had wandered off and was now near Kinnick. In case you are unfamiliar, Kinnick is a CONSIDERABLE distance away from the bars. I don’t know WHAT I was doing. I realize I am “off course” and continue to forge onward, hoping I was going in the remote correct direction.
Eventually I stopped at an intersection in dismay and waited for a cab to come by. None did, and a man kept trying to hug me. I fended him off for some time until I decided to hitch a ride.
The car of choice ended up being a silver four door that stopped at the red light. I knocked on the window and they let me in. I was welcomed by two African American gentlemen that introduced themselves as “Weezy” and “Marques.”
The first thing I said was, “…You’re not gonna kill me, are ya?”
They said no, and I told them I needed to get to Jefferson and Lucas. Apparently these hoodrats were unfamiliar with the Iowa City area, and they drove around forever while I tried to give them vague directions. I was too plastered to even know which direction was up, let alone give street directions. Ten minutes or so go by and I am discouraged, so they just pull over and let me out in a neighborhood. Next I remember something about stopping for a moment near a crowd on a porch, and asked them where Jefferson and Lucas was. They pointed, and I was well on my way again, by myself, in the dead of the night.
Finally I came to the sign that said Jefferson & Lucas, but I was so disoriented, I couldn’t tell which house it was. Nearly in tears, I stood and leaned on the sign, until the house came into focus and I was over-joyed. The night ended peacefully, even though I could have been raped and killed.
So…don’t hitch hike. That’s the moral of the story.
In other news, that Cho guy, what a freak, eh? More on that later.
Meanwhile, our room had reached the epitomy of horrific disastrousness. It appeared that Hurricane Katrina ripped through, depositing the entire contents of a Lousiana household on the floor of our dorm. You could LITERALLY not move anywhere. It was an obstacle course just to get from the door to my computer chair, which by the way was also covered in clothing and silverware and dried macaroni noodles. We had rotting sandwiches and bowls with sour milk remnants just scattered about, causing our room to reek of decomposing plant matter. It was terrible.
Finally, Nick decided that something had to be done and actually started the cleaning himself. This sparked some motivation in Amy and I, and we continued to engage in warfare with our room in the form of a wicked cleaning bonanza that you had to see to believe. Years later, our room is a tidy, well-kept living space. NICE.
WELL, Veishea is in T-minus 30 hours and some odd minutes. I CAN’T WAIT!! It’s going to be a shit fest full of food, beer, festivities, and beer. SEE YOU THERE!
“I think I might be gay.”