Drunken Mischief

Spirit Airlines Sucks

2009-10-12T07:50:00.000-07:00

Back in January I flew with Spirit Airlines. While I blame myself for being stupid enough to fly with an airline whose name implies the probable death of it's passangers, I have no one to blame but the airline for losing my luggage and then treating my like garbage before denying my claim (please read my letter to Spirit below)

But a small victory today and I read this: http://atlanta.bizjournals.com/atlanta/stories/2009/09/14/daily96.html

...Suck on that Ben Baldanza (Spirit CEO/Peter Griffin lookalike):

http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/220271

My Letter to Spirit Airlines

To Whom It May Concern:

Spirit Airlines lost my luggage 8 days ago on a flight from Costa Rica. I filled out a “Luggage Service Report” and have called daily to try to get this taken care of, and only heard from the local number yesterday. The woman told me she had no idea where my luggage was and that I had to deal with the corporate office, which I’d actually already left messages with as soon as I got back. I have heard no response. I called the sales office (let me guess, India?) and was flat out told there was “nothing I can do”. I’ve visited your website several times to complain but I get about 2 sentences in and your server times me out (I’m literally typing this in Word and having to paste it in the complaint box so I can get this in on time. This is unacceptable, and needs to be responded to IMMEDIATELY so I can file my claim with both Spirit and my insurance company. I literally had 90% of my clothes in that bag; let me paint you a picture of my life right now: I wake up in the morning and steam clean one of the two pairs of boxer briefs that weren’t in my bag (let it be known they were not cheap either). I then precede to squeeze into POLYESTER pants that haven’t fit since Bush’s first term in office, and roll up the sleeves on my dress shirt to hide the elbow holes. Unless you’re a hobo or MC Hammer, this is no way to live. Please respond to me as soon as you get this. I can be reached at (555) 555-5555, or via email at drunkenmischief@gmail.com.

Seamus O'Brien

UP Review

2009-06-04T14:41:00.000-07:00

My sister and I recently went to see a movie about a curmudgeonly old white man who is bitter at the world following the death of his wife. When a fatherless Asian youth trespasses on his property the two become friends and the old man becomes the boy's mentor as they both find their way through a dangerous world. Sound familiar? that's because it's the exact same plot as Grand Torino. Nice work Pixar, I haven't seen plagiarism this blatantly obvious since Kim Kardashian copied JLo's ass.That being said, the animated version of Clint Eastwood's masterpiece has a lot to offer that was left out of the original including a talking dog, a flying house, and the first cartoon miscarriage. You hear that Clint Eastwood? A cartoon Ed Asner 1 UPped you and he didn't even have to get shot by gangmemembers to do it. Up gets 5 out of 5 stars.

What a fine Sunday

2009-03-16T20:16:00.000-07:00

I spent this past weekend in Chicago on a business trip with several of my colleagues and while I enjoyed myself at times, I could not wait to get home to Boston. We had to check out of the hotel Sunday morning but didn't fly out until 6:35PM so there was a lot of time to kill, and kill it I did:

12PM: I finish packing and check out of my hotel room. I managed to get out with 3 bottles of lotion, 1 bottle of conditioner, and 2 bars of soap but was unable to squeeze in the 4 rolls of toilet paper I'd manage to procure from a lovely maid named Karen, who I named Maria Bo Jangles as I feel "Karen" is far too pedestrian.

12:15PM: I make my way down to the lobby and meet up with my coworkers. Some of us were in Chicago for the last 2 weekends in a row and were ready to kill ourselves, when out of my periphery I saw a shining beacon of hope atop the elegant staircase at the Palmer House Hotel. I knew it had to be a dream but a paper sign read it as clear as day "MeTV Brunch, 11-1 Featuring Betty White". BETTY WHITE?! I just about lost control of my bowels and became more disappointed than ever that I hadn't been able to fit the toilet paper in my bag, but even skid marks couldn't take me down from my Betty White high. I was over the moon, and knew I had to make meeting Betty White a priority. I went to my coworkers Ted and Molly and expressed how important it was that we meet her. "We have to make our move NOW" I commanded with all the fervor of a mongoose eating a hen "I'm sure we'll be able to expense it, surely the company knows how important Betty White is!" They agreed without a moment's hesitation and we we hastily made our way to the entrance. As we walked up the stairs I panicked. There were so many older Midwestern ladies, all of them decked out in their finest pant suits and shoulder pads. I was obviously no match for them and realized I'd receive almost no face time with Betty with competition like that. They'd sit down next to her and reminisce of their memories of St. Olaf whilst feasting on cheesecake. I was sorely disappointed but at the end of the day it's just Betty White. That being said, had Beatrice Arthur been sitting in that room I'd have stormed the door with a tank just to see a glimpse of her angelic face.

6:35: After sitting in the airport for about 4 hours and getting yelled at by a bitter airline worker, I board and am seated in the row right next to the exit with about a yard and a half of leg room in front of me. I was thrilled and all I could think of doing was laying down and sleeping until the plane landed, but the plane hadn't even finished boarding when the passenger sitting next to me decided to start a conversation. "Long day huh?" the asked. She was a cute, petite Indian girl (dot not feather) who obviously wanted me to ask why it had been a long day, and being the upstanding young citizen that I am I decided to tolerate it. "Why's that?" I asked. "Well my connecting flight to New York was canceled so I've been in the airport since noon". "Where are you coming from" I followed up. "Wisconsin, I was there for the National College Curling Championships." I grabbed armrests to keep from jumping out of my seat with excitement and had to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing. Obviously God was making up for the fact that I hadn't met Betty White earlier in the day. "Curling? I said with a grin similar to that of the Grinch forming on my face. "How did that go?" I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat thinking of what I could ask her. "It was great, oh my God it was like so much fun. I mean 40 curlers in one hotel? So crazy! We stayed up until like 5!" I couldn't control myself and definitely laughed a little but did everything I could to keep it going as it was the highlight of my weekend "I can imagine!" I said "Sounds crazy!" "You have no idea, but we totally got robbed. One of our teams got 3rd, one got second, but my team....well we got put with a group that was just way out of our league. So unfair, they were like pros!" "Jeez Louise" I said, "sounds like you got robbed!" I managed to ask her a few more questions before the stewardess safety rundown ended the conversation, but those five minutes were enough to last me five days so I have no regrets. What a Sunday.

A Bon Jovi Christmas: 2008

2009-01-01T23:10:00.000-08:00

Immediately after I was let go from my sales job, I was rehired by a completely different division within our parent company. I was told that in order for me to get this position, they were actually letting someone else go. This was unfortunate but I needed beer money and wasn’t about to turn down a job based on principle, and besides, my moral compass has been out of whack for some time now. I felt as if I had been given a second chance and knew right away I’d be doing things much differently. My days of sending e-cards and surfing the web for deals on Flat screen TV’s from my work computer were over. If I was going to be taken seriously I had to step up my game considerably, and that included getting eyeglasses. I’ve had 20/20 vision all my life and have always felt that my lack of eyeglasses hindered my intelligence. Being the company sex symbol was all well and good, but if I could combine my rugged good looks and obvious charisma with a facade of intellectualism, there would be no telling how far I could go. I also began to reinvestigate the possibility of buying a vest but with things being what they were with the economy, this was no time for excess spending, and I determined getting in incredible shape would be enough. But before I began a rigorous fitness regime filled with creatine and 6 mile runs, I thought a celebration was in order. My friend Sasha’s band happened to be in town that night and everyone who had been laid off was going. The concert started at 10 so to keep up with my schedule I started drinking at my apartment at 7, and had a mild buzz going by the time I arrived at the bar to to see the show. I was giddy, not only did I have a new job to celebrate, but I was also given 2 ½ weeks off paid until I started; tonight was clearly a night to get drunk and I headed straight for the bar. I was pleased to see the bartender was a high school acquaintance. I was surprised to see him bartending considering his full time job was actually the same position I’d just been hired for. “Steve” I yelled ecstatically as if he was my long lost Siamese twin, “How are you man!? Guess what, I actually just got hired to do the same job you do. We’re going to be working together, isn’t that great!?” He looked confused for a second, and then nodded and made the most ridiculous fake smile I’d ever seen. “Um, I guess I’ll just take a Corona” I said changing the topic. He didn’t seem to be overly jazzed about working with me but that wasn’t about to stop me from enjoying myself. About a week later while talking with one of my new coworkers on the phone, it came out that Steve had actually been the person fired so that I could have the job. Fantastic. Not only had I blissfully told a man I’d taken his job right before the holidays, I then proceeded to order a beer from him and tip him a dollar. By the time I started the job every one of my new coworkers had heard about my run in with Steve and thought it was hilarious. Normally I’d take pride in being the center of attention, but this did not bode well for my efforts to paint myself as professional. On top of that, I hadn’t remembered to buy my fake eyeglasses beforehand, and telling everyone I met I was wearing contacts didn’t seem to have the same intellectual effect. I made it s point to buckle down and work incessantly from 9 to 5:30 everyday and always be wearing a winning smile. I was amazed at how well my strategy working, and couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it earlier. My life was just like Michael J. Fox in “The Secret of My Success” and nothing could stand in my way. This false sense of security would be my downfall.
In spite of the crumbling world economy and devastating cutbacks, our company made it a point to have not one, but two non denominational holiday parties. The first was a tame get together for friends and family in the company’s main building. The second party was a staff only Masquerade ball to be set in a downtown club. I sensed that debauchery was afoot but in my new, professional role I viewed myself more as the high brow critic than the person being judged. I’d show up in a crisp tuxedo with slicked back hair and Phantom of the Opera mask and nurse the same brandy all night long, casually exchanging saucy banter with the female executives. “Oh Shaun, you’re perfectly sinful!” they’d laugh, “We simply must set up a lunch at Dante next week to discuss your future with the company.” I was on a fast track to riches and glory, until I got the better of myself. The day of the Holiday Masquerade Ball my division of the company held its Secret Santa gift exchange. According to my new success plan, I needed to use every aspect of the workday to highlight my numerous skills. Since this was a fun event, focusing on my creativity seemed to be the best idea. I wasn’t about to give someone a run of the mill Rubick’s cube or Starbucks gift card; I had big plans. The year prior, my Secret Santa had given me a bottle of wine, a scented candle, and a Peabo Bryson CD and deemed it the “Get your Groove on Kit”. This was exactly the sort of gift I would give so I stole the exact same idea, only per my new mantra, made it more professional. I spent well over 20 minutes photoshoping a label for The “Get Yo’ Groove on kit 2008 Deluxe Edition”, complete with a picture of a disco ball, a king sized bed, and the cover of the Dirty Dancing DVD. Since this was the deluxe edition, it also seemed behooving to put in a little something extra, so I added a can of Blade Panther body spray. Needless to say the recipient of this was mortified, but the crowed roared with laughter. I couldn’t help but be pleased with myself. It might not have been the most professional gift, but I was now leaning toward a healthy balance of professionalism, and being the center of attention. I had a few more celebratory glasses of wine, and then headed home to prepare for the masquerade ball.
I showed up for the party at 9 and was given 2 drink tickets for the bar. My first thought was “Thank God I drank a bottle of wine before I left the house”, my second was “who can I use to get more drink tickets?” The usual go to Mormon who worked with me was lost to the first round of layoffs, but there were still the recovering alcoholics, and as usual I took full advantage of them. I then proceeded to coax tickets from upper management , followed by scavenging the floor for fallen soldiers. When I’d collected about 11, I was ready to start enjoying myself. I mingled and exchanged witty banter just as I’d planned, and at this point I was by no means the drunkest person in the room. At around 9:30 our CEO made her speech from the stage. When she finished the dancing started and I noticed a couple of people discreetly dancing on the stage and thought , “Gosh that seems fun”. Then as if God was testing me, at 10:30 pm on the dot, Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” began to play. Now I consider myself to be a man of strong self control, but there are some things I have no control over, and one of them is my body whenever Bon Jovi comes on. Without thinking, I immediately jumped up on stage and began to do what was later described to me in great detail as “some sort of rain dance”. This of course involved excessive head bobbing and air guitar playing. I forgot all about my professionalism and continued to rock out on stage long after Jon Bon Jovi had finished singing, and left only to get drinks. I stayed on that stage for 2 hours, but when it became crowded and trendy, I decided to make my exit.
I managed to find my roommate, my old manager, and some coworkers from my previous position. They were dancing just as hard as I was and It seemed like a good place to call it a night. We continued binge drinking and dancing until the lights came on at 1:30 and we were asked to leave.
When I got to work on Monday I’d forgotten all about my professionalism, and my only concern was finding someone who’d been drunker than myself to start gossip about, thus taking any negative attention off of me. There was nobody. I tried to keep a low profile until things blew over, and took a corner seat during our staff meeting. Things were going smoothly and the meeting was almost over when the President said in his Swedish accent, “And I didn’t know we had our own Bon Jovi.” After only 2 full weeks at my new job, I’d blown any shot at advancing my career, and am basically a huge joke. Phenomenal.

sorry

2008-12-03T19:57:00.000-08:00

having trouble pasting the rest of the text on "Testees" when I have time I'll retype it and post it.

Testees

2008-12-03T19:53:00.001-08:00

My roommate Matt had been living with my other roommate Alec and I for about 2 months when I came to the unfortunate conclusion that he was much more interesting than me. I had a stable job selling reasonably priced travel to baby boomers, with respectable insurance, barley able to make ends meet. I was living clearly the dream. Matt on the other hand bounced from job to job and had no insurance or stability of any kind, whatsoever. He’d come home after his random jobs and tell us of his day bottling beer, or selling cell phones, or something equally fascinating. It was clear that he had things all figured out, and while I still considered myself the looks of the apartment, there was no questioning that he was the charisma, and I wasn’t about to stand for that. After 23 years of living outside the box and relying on my raging, uncontrollable attention deficit disorder to help me stand out, I’d finally become a boring salesman. What a catastrophe. I knew something had to be done. I thought the most appropriate course of action would be to observe Matt in his day to day life. After closely stalking him for several days, I noticed that he had a strong affinity for partaking in college research studies. I was astonished that I hadn’t yet considered a scheme which would not only increase my interesting level five fold, but potentially harm me physically or mentally to a degree worthy of a class action lawsuit. This was my ticket to riches and popularity, and I wasn’t about to pass that up.
I searched hither and yon for the perfect research study, but sleep deprivation and eating disorder observation were all that Craigslist yielded for me. And while I toyed with the idea of taking up Bulemia for a while to make the cut, I’d invested far to much of my parents money in orthodontia and teeth whitening to throw it all away on weight loss. I thought it was a lost cause until on day while cheating at my Soduku puzzle in a local paper, I saw an add for a Testosterone Mediation Reasearch Study. There wasn’t much information provided in the ad, but fate had grabbed me by the balls and given me an opportunity, who was I to spit in her face? I immediately wrote down the phone number and made a mental note to call that night. About a week later while cleaning my room, I found the number and remembered my ambitions. I immediately googled the organization running the study and found that although they were not entirely reputable, they did have a respectable website and that was good enough for me. The study seemed pretty reasonable. Their plan was to inject the participants with steroids for a 10 month period and study the outcome, and after which time the participant receives a $1,000 check. This was perfect. Not only was I going to have enough money to buy the big screen Mitsubishi TV I’d had my eye on, I’d also come out of it with the body of Carrot Top, and minus the blazing red fire crotch, and isn’t looking like Carrot Top every man’s dream? I ran with lightning speed to Matt and pitched him the idea (I’m unhealthily codependent and refuse to so much as go to the grocery store alone). As I expected he was in, so long as I perused it first to let him know how it went. DEAL!
The next morning I called the research lab and spoke with a charming woman whose voice soothed me in a way I hadn’t experienced since being captivated by Teen Choice Award Nominee Liv Tyler in Armageddon. Clearly this was a reputable establishment, and I made my evaluation appointment right then. I was unbelievably excited and it was all I could talk about for the entire week before. “I’m starting a strict, laboratory controlled testosterone study soon” I’d brag to my coworkers, “don’t worry, I’ll remember you all when I’m toned and popular.” Finally the day of my appointment arrived and I was downright giddy. My days of being boring and predictable were numbered, and I couldn’t wait to get my injections started. The second I arrived at the testing lab I began to regret my decision. The facility reminded me of the mental hospital in the movie House on Haunted Hill, only Ali Larter was nowhere in sight, and I remain convinced that the receptionist was in fact the ghost of Eleanor Roosevelt. The researcher assigned to examine me was no better. He was a nice enough fellow but he’d clearly just immigrated to the United States from a country where godless savages roamed free and medical degrees are traded for sex. I half expected to wake up an hour later in a bathtub filled with icecubes, minus 1 kidney, but that would have actually increased my “interesting” level much more than steroids, so I decided to stick around and see how things played out.
Although I had serious doubts about his legal status in our country, the doctor was extremely nice and I started to feel more comfortable in the situation. He went over the basics of the study and then handed me a 12 page synopsis to read while he left the room briefly. The first thing that caught my eye was the possibility of hair loss. At this stage in my life I’d been trying for months to grow a mane as thick and voluptuous as John Stemos’ circa 1992, and the thought of losing all of my gains for money made me hesitant. I continued to read in the hopes that the conditions would improve but things only took a sharp nosedive after I read the following:
“We will ask to record your erection response to a sexual stimulus. You will be asked th watch an erotic video in a private room while you wear a device called a RigiScan. The device is a small box with a wire attached to two loops with sterile covers. You will be told how to place the two loops around the base and the tip of the penis. The loops fit snuggly, not tightly, and will allow the device to record the degree to which you may have an erection while you are watching the erotic video.”
My chin hit the table. I was shocked at what I’d just read, and in although I was impressed by their use of hygienic penis covers, and intreagued by the prospect of singing “Dick in a Box” and meaning it, I started to seriously consider the possibility that this might not be the study for me; a suspicion which I confirmed after a little more reading, I learned that participating in this study could result in shrinkage of my testicles. That was the last straw. Watching my hair fall out of my head while my penis was trapped in a box was acceptable, but not if my little treasures were put in harm’s way. I knew now that I wasn’t going to go through with this, and my next task was to figure out a way to get out of the situation. Being honest and forthcoming with the doctor was the logical and mature route to take, but given the fact that I’m a red hot coward I decided to just go along with it as if I was still interested. The doctor came back into the room and asked what I thought. “Sounds great to me! Where do I sign?!” He showed me where to put my signature and I signed wondering if this was in anyway binding. The doctor said I’d wait ½ hour and then go in for blood tests. I agreed, told him I’d see him shortly, then got my parking validated and drove as fast as I could to work where I sat trembling in a corner for the better part of the morning before telling coworkers my story. “Wow” one of them said, “maybe you should just try a sleep study.”

Smints and Muggings

2008-11-22T11:14:00.001-08:00

My Junior year of college I spent a semester studying in Granada, Spain. Although my Spanish was sub par and most of the women there had mullets, it became my second home. I lived in a dorm with 6 other Americans, among them were Alex, Kristina, and Natalie. In addition, I’d been flirting with another American girl named Jennie for the past 4 months but made absolutely no headway.
Three days before I was supposed to leave Spain everyone was going out. Alex and Kristina had a hot dinner date, Natalie was hitting up the clubs, and I didn’t wanna be left out. Earlier in the day Alex and I were out shopping for some sweet Spanish memorabilia to take home with us, and athletic shoes. He suggested I ask Jennie to go out that night for an evening of drunken mischief, and as I was feeling unusually confident I rang her up and made the plans. She said she was going to get tapas with her friend Beth but I still viewed it as a date and hoped it would end in penetration. After I bought an España shirt Alex and myself went to the tomb where Queen Isabel and King Ferdinand are buried, no pictures were allowed to be taken in the building but I didn’t particularly care for that rule and so I took one anyway. The second I did my camera broke and started beeping. Some Asian tourist heard and apparently thought it was her place to “shoosh” me, however I made it quite clear through my blasphemous hand gestures to her that it most certainly was not. The camera eventually fixed itself, but I knew God didn’t want me taking anymore pictures, so I put it away.
That night when Alex and Kristina had already left I went to meet Jennie at Correos. We were meeting at 9 but I arrived a little early, sat on the steps and played with my camera. It broke again, only this time the lens wouldn’t go back in. Not wanting to have a bulge in my side pocket any bigger than the one that was already there, I put the camera in my right cargo pocket of my shorts and called my Mom to tell her the sad news about the camera. She consoled me and after I hung up I waited for the girls to show. They did and we proceeded to go to a tapas place down by the river. By about 9:30 we had started drinking, and by about 10:30 we had gone to a fair amount of Tapas bars including LAX, where I consumed several more tinto de veranos. From LAX we headed to Omsaka (something like that) where we met up with Jennie’s other friend who she had called, and he was a guy. He was disheveled and reminded me a little of Sean Penn in “Fast Times at Ridgmont High”. I hate Sean Penn. Displeased with this I decided that drinking more was the best way to feel better. Then we went to a bar called Druids where I again though more alcohol was a very good idea indeed. I chatted with the bartender and text messaged people who weren’t cheating on my in front of my eyes. Alex had apparently texted me earlier to go to GranVia but I missed it, then he sent me one saying to go to Mae West. I turned to invite the others along but when I saw Jennie talking with her latest conquest (who was NOT me) I decided I’d leave alone. I was somewhat drunk at this point and it wasn’t until I arrived at Mae West that I realized I was wearing shorts and sandals, unacceptable unless you’re a Brazillian supermodel with double Ds. I sat outside and waited for my friends to come out so we could do something. I tried to text Alex again but my phone ran out of minutes so I just waited. Then along came Cole, Tommy, Chris, Giles and some other to go to the club. I told them I wanted to go in but couldn’t because of my outfit, but Giles insisted I give it a try. I did and surprisingly the bouncers looked me up and down and still let me in without any trouble.
Once inside I immediately found Alex, Johnny, and Matt, and no sooner did I see them than Johnny gave me a Heiniken. I downed it within minutes then went to the bar to buy another, plus one for Matt and Alex (Johnny didn’t want one). I was pretty drunk at this point, and I don’t know if it was the strobe lights or the techno music but it wasn’t very long before I found myself dirty dancing with Natalie’s sister on the stage. I had to leave several times to go to the bathroom, and on the third time I barely made it to the bathroom without tripping there were so many people (plus I was a little drunk, and as Pete pointed out the next day I was’t walking too well anyway). I decided not to go back and that it would be a much better idea to walk home alone. So at around 3:30am I started my walk back to San Ildelfonso.
I went onto the main road but then decided that a back road would be much faster so I took that. I was just walking along eating my Smints (frutas silvestres flavored) when some very unfriendly Spaniards came at me from behind. I think I tried to run at first but due to the slight stagger and sandals I was unable. They told me to get on my knees and I somehow understood. I remember them laughing and me thinking “at least they won’t find the camera in my cargo pocket” as if cargo pockets were some fucking invisibility shield that Spanish people hadn’t discovered yet. No sooner did I thing that then they reached into my right cargo and took out the camera. This was the last thing I remember.
Flash forward. I wake up and I’m no longer in Granada. At this poing one of two things happened (my memory is still a bit fuzzy). The first is that I woke up in a white building with flowers in vases. It was a nice place, and the best disctiption I can think of for it is the police station from the Fast and the Furious, only what it would have looked like if it weren’t a police station. There was a portly fellow with a mustache sitting at a reception desk. Feeling desperate I asked him “Tienes habitaciones libres?” (do you have any free rooms?) to which he replied whith a stunned look on his face “Este es un mortuorio” (This is a mortuary) I understood what he was saying and decided that even if they did have rooms this was not a place I wanted to be. I somehow left the building and crossed the road to a ditch. (The other, and more likely version of this is that I originally woke up in the ditch, then went into the building, then went back to the ditch). I was on a hill next to what looked like a wide road but with no cars on it. There were no buildings around except for the mortuary, and at the bottom of the hill there was a highway with lots of traffic. It was still pitch black so I couldn’t see more than a skyline off in the distance but even then I was concerned because nothing about this skyline reminded me of Granada. I tried to crawl down the hill to get to the highway but then realized it was a bad idea as I started to slide down it hitting every shrub along the way. I climbed back up, and laid down in the ditch where I passed out. At about 8am when it was light I got up. I didn’t walk more than 200 feet before I found a cab waiting. I told him I had no money but he still took me. I slept through most of the cab ride because I was real tired on account of I slept in a morgue-ditch the night before. When we got to San Ildelfonso I walked inside and made a beeline for Alex’s room. Before I even knocked I had two concerns. First that he might not be there, and second that he’d ignore me because it was 8:30 in the morning. I knocked and called his name. “What is it?” he asked with a less than enthusiastic tone. “I need your help, I got mugged” I told him with the composure of a 9 year old foster child who just met her new pedophile father. He didn’t say anything and the door swung open within about 1.5 seconds. He asked if I was okay and I told him yes, and I just needed my cab paid for. We went down, he paid, and we came back up to my room where he proceeded to check me for stab wounds. He asked how hard they hit me and up to this point I hadn’t even considered that they might have hit me. He then told me to look in the mirror at which time I realized he might have been right. I called my parents (at about 1:30 AM their time) and told them the news, and asked them to cancel my credit cards. After that I reached into my pocket, the only thing left was the box of fruit flavored Smints I’d been eating right before I got mugged. I pushed the button to release one of the Smints to ease my nerves and relax my soul with their strawberry deliciousness. It was then when I received the greatest shock yet; when I pushed the button nothing came out. The muggers had eaten every last one of my fucking Smints, and left me the box as a tease. It was the equivalent of giving a girl a shot glass in a Tiffany’s engagement ring box. It was unacceptable and it was at that moment my mugging was complete. They stole my wallet, phone, and my camera, and my dignity. All that I can forgive, but when they ate my Smints they fucked with the wrong man, one who will have no problem going to the ends of the world leaving innocent casualties in my path in order to smite the Smint thieves and send them back to the bowels of hell from whence they came.
I recovered of course. Two days later Alex, Pam, Natalie and I boarded a bus to Madrid from where we would each fly out of Spain. About 10 minutes down the highway outside Granada I looked up and saw a very familiar hilltop. That was where I had been, and it is there I will begin my quest to lay waist to my muggers and there loved ones.

The Scavanger Hunt

2008-11-22T01:50:00.000-08:00

I was 23 years old when I got the best news of my life. My company was going to have a scavenger hunt around Boston, and I was put on the most fun team. We weren’t necessarily the go-getters of the office, and our chances winning were about the same as an all midget team winning the final four. But we were the most fun/heaviest drinkers and knew it would be an event to remember. Among my teammates was my friend Megan Waring, whom I happened to sit next to at work. Megan is one of my best friends for two reasons. First of all, she plans to make a name for herself now and then have later-in –life babies. I respect and admire a woman who has such aspirations, and although I would absolutely never marry one for fear of my babies developing in a rusty, cobweb ridden womb, I think it’s the best choice for some people. The second reason Megan and I are friends is because she taught me about non-compliments. One day following a particularly negative styling experience at the Lords and Ladies hair salon in the mall, I walked to my desk and sat down next to Megan. She looked at me for a moment at a loss for words before saying, “Well someone got a hair cut!”. Without even thinking I thanked her, and then realized that she’d never actually passed a judgment on the haircut, just acknowledged that it happened. “What do you think?” I asked. “I think I’ve made it pretty clear” she said, “It’s awful.” “How was that making it clear?”
“I made a comment about you getting a haircut, but never vocalized an actual opinion. This is known as a non compliment. It keeps you from being a blatant liar, while at the same time allowing you to laugh at people behind their backs and leave them unaware.” I was still mildly confused so she decided to demonstrate. Our friend and fellow scavenger hunt teammate Kathryn happened to be walking by right at that moment wearing pants that were so bright yellow I almost had an epileptic seizure just from looking at them. “Ooo, those are some yellow pants!” Megan said, “Thanks!” Kathryn replied, and kept on walking. It was one of the most amazing things I’d ever witnessed (although donkey shows and midget porn also rank high on my list.) Megan had basically just called her pants fucking ugly and she walked away smiling. I spent the rest of my day testing this new skill. “you’ve got a baby!” I said to one woman whose child’s face looked particularly similar to a baboon’s ass. This simple act of enlightenment from Megan solidified our friendship indefinitely.
Megan was just excited as I was for the scavenger hunt. It was a week before the big night and we were already neglecting our work responsibilities (more than usual) and plotting both strategy and wardrobe. Although wearing pieces of flair was not encouraged by management, we took it upon ourselves to go above and beyond. Bandanas seemed like the logical choice of attire, and although I was driven to secretly buy everyone gang colored bandanas and see what sort of shenanigans might ensue, I used my better judgment and went with black. Megan and I decided that team spirit was more important than sales and numbers, so we left work to go to the mall and buy the bandanas. Apon arrival at the mall, it occurred to us that not having grown up in trailer parks, we had no idea where one might buy bandanas. We went from store to store asking where they kept their bandanas, but found nothing. 2 hours later we were just about to give up, when we walked by a scarf cart. It was run by an Asian woman whose nametag said Shin Yee. Shin Yee was about 4’11 and all but accused us of theft for even looking at her stand, she followed us around in a circle as we looked at her silken neckwear and barrets. “Where are the bandanas?” Megan demanded (she has no patience for arrogant shop keeps, and even less patience for Asians.) “They there!” the woman screeched pointing to a pile of black bandanas. They were exactly what we were looking for. “Cuanto cuesta por favor?” Megan asked the woman in Spanish. She knew full out the woman was Asian and not Spanish. She did this to be funny and it worked. I almost died laughing right in front of Shin Yee, and I’m pretty sure I farted a little. “They $5 each.” She said. Megan almost lost it. “That’s bullshit! $5 for a piece of cloth? I’ll give you 25 cents each.” “THEY $5!” the woman shouted back. Bad move. “Listen bitch, I’ll give you 50 cents each and that’s that. I’m buying 8 black bandanas from you right now and last time I checked they aren’t exactly in high demand. How many have you sold this week anyway? Ok, here’s the money.” “NO. NO SALE. $25 for 8 final offer or you go!” “Megan jumped back frightened. “We’ll take our money elsewhere” She said, and stormed off. I followed behind laughing hysterically. Megan walked into a CVS near the news stand and looked at me with concern. “How are we going to do this?” She asked. “Do what? I’m not paying $5 for bandanas, that’s rape. We’ll wear something else”, “No you dumb shit, I mean how are we going to steal them?”. I had never stolen a thing in my life and I had to admit that the idea of taking money from bitchy Asian woman gave me a rush that can only be paralleled by watching a midget try to reach the yogurt shelf in a grocery store: pure poetry. But I am also a self described chicken shit and immediately told her it was a bad idea. “Well then we need to suck it up and pay because I’m not going back without those bandanas” We agreed and Megan spitefully paid Shin Yee $25, then muttered “bitch” under her breath while walking away so we’d have the last laugh.

At exactly 5:30 on the evening of the scavenger hunt our team got together to prepare. Everyone now had a black bandana, and thanks to the efforts of an equally enthusiastic teammate named Rachel, we also each had a yellow kazoo. Being the go getter that I am, I thought it would be an amazing idea to get everyone eye black to officially label us the most bad ass scavenger hunt team in the history of reasonably priced tour operators. Having never played football myself, I had no idea what substance was actually used for eye black, but imagined that is must be black shoe polish. This was an assumption I would come to regret in about 5 minutes when my eyes began to burn in a manner I can only assume is very similar to the effects of mustard gas. Nevertheless, we carried on with our journey. The majority of the search took place in Boston’s North End, the largest Little Italy in America. As such, most of our tasks were horrendously stereotypical and ranged from thing like spinning a pizza on your fingertip, to filling a cannolu, to sharing a “Lady and the Tramp” moment with an “Italian stallion”. A tear of joy streamed down my face as I thought of how fortunate I was to work for a company that thought political correctness was as silly as I did.
One of the tasks read “Do a human pyramid in a daring place”. My killer instincts and burning desire for police confrontation lead me to suggest doing the pyramid in the middle of the highway, an idea which was not well received by the rest of the group, and I vividly recall hearing the word “retard” get thrown around pretty liberally. We continued to walk through the back alleys of this rough and tumble neighborhood trying to figure out where in the world we would be doing our pyramid, when we came across a “Pea Pod” Truck. Pea Pod is grocery delivery service, and one which Megan was more than familiar with. “I can’t come out tonight” she’d say at least twice a week, “Pea Pod is coming, I’m so excited!” Aside from the scavenger hunt, I’ve only ever seen Megan get really enthusiastic about 2 things in her life. One is pulled pork, and the other is Pea Pod, and she’d turn down a satchel filled with orgasms to have either of those, so you can imagine how excited she was when she saw the truck up close. “Oh my God, this is it. We’re doing the pyramid inside the peapod truck!” I’ve never had much of a head for figures and so I forgoed taking physics in high school to pursue woodworking, but my special senses were fairly well honed and after looking inside the back of the truck it seemed as though the only way 8 people would fit into it is if we were to get an Italian butcher involved. The truck was packed with boxes of groceries and dry ice and a pyramid just didn’t seem likely, but a collective decision to attempt it was made. It took a little convincing and cleavage from our female teammates, but the truck driver eventually caved and actually agreed to take the picture for us. As one of two men on the team, I had the joy of being on the bottom, which in this case entailed kneeling on a tray of dry ice and a 20 lb frozen turkey with multiple women on top of me. While this scenario had played out in my fantasies many times before, the actual act was nowhere near as sexually gratifying as I’d anticipated, and the orgasm that ensued was underwhelming to say the least.

Our next order of business was to find a foreign tourist with a passport and take a picture with him. In no time at all we spotted a man in his mid twenties, sitting on a bench with a camping backpack, reading a map and wearing capris. While there was a slim chance that this was just your run of the mill gay camper, we were fairly certain that he was European, and rushed up to him before we even had time to consider our options. As we arrived at his feet and huddled around him, it suddenly occurred to us that 8 Americans in black bandanas, yellow kazoos, and eye black might not have been the welcome wagon he’d anticipated when he got off the plane, and he was clearly looking for an escape route. But again, the cleavage of my female teammates managed to get us out of another sticky situation unscathed, and made a mental note to look into the feasibility of getting breast implants when this was done.
It seemed as though most of the items on the list required the persuasive curves of a woman to get the job done, and I was beginning to feel unimportant. I needed to get the credit and respect I rightfully deserved, and the opportunity appeared to have presented itself. Our next task had something to do with getting chop sticks from a Chinese restaurant. As we approached the restaurant I noticed that the person working the checkout desk was a woman. This was my opportunity to shine and use my legendary mediocre charms to earn our team some points. Everyone was behind me and agreed that I was the man for the job. I saw a few girls from a competing team walking out of the restaurant laughing and I knew they’d failed. As I’d proved earlier in the week at the bandana shop, Asian cougars are my bread and butter, and I had the cockiness to back that theory up. I sauntered oh so slowly to the counter. She was wearing a white stained smock and a white stewardess looking cap. She was busy stapling receipts to brown paper bags sopping with grease. Just one look into my baby blue, European American eyes and she’d be magically transported our of her greasy, ho hum existence, into the world of her fantasies. “Look out Madame” I thought “your prince has arrived”. I leaned in with my hands spread wide on the counter and just smiled. “Can I help you?” she asked, “Yes actually, you see my company is having a scavenger hunt and….” I stopped mid sentence. The second the word “scavenger” left my lips her friendly demeanor changed and I knew I’d made a terrible mistake coming here. Her eyes filled with fire and Damian’s theme song from the movie The Omen began to play in my head. I was horrified, I turned to run and in the time it took me to lift one hand off the counter I’d already been hit by 2 fortune cookies. “This business, no fweebie!” was all she said. For the first time in my life I knew what it felt like to be in an action scene from “The Matrix”. As I ran down the steps my group just looked at me with disappointment, but not surprise. We moved on to our next task without saying a word.

We’d finished almost every task on the list and by now it was almost 8 PM, the deadline for meeting up at the bar to continue celebrating. Our group was the second to arrive and we were starving. None of us had had anything since lunch and most of us had eaten light under the assumption that there’d be copious amounts of food. There was none. “It’s coming” the company directors told us “Go grab some drinks for yourselves while they’re getting it.” I happily went to the bar to quench my thirst, and after a brief argument with my colleague over the appropriateness of ordering tequila on the rocks at a company function, I settled on two beers and started to mingle. Everyone was already a few drinks deep by the time the food finally came out, and the combination of empty stomachs and running around for 3 hours straight helped the alcohol kick in sooner than we’d anticipated. Spirits were high and everyone was having an amazing time. At 9:30 an announcement was made that the open bar would be closing in 30 minutes and they’d be opening up to the public. We all mad a mad dash for the bar and ordered multiple drinks to ensure we wouldn’t have to spend a dime all night. At one point I accidentally knocked over one of the manager’s beer with my elbow which should have been the first sign I needed to slow down, but alcohol was like a drug to me, and I needed my fix (I didn’t really understand the concept of “addiction” at this point). By 11 o’clock everyone was feeling good and the dance music came on. It should be noted that my dance skills are horrendous, and on more than one occasion doctors have approached me to make sure I wasn’t having a seizure. I hate to dance and swear up and down that I won’t dance every time I go out, but after a few Coronas I start to think I’m the greatest thing since Fred Astaire. Tonight was no exception and once I saw my coworkers dancing I couldn’t resist. I was a sight to behold. I was like Kevin Bacon in Footloose if they filmed the movie with the same shaky camera they used for The Blair Witch Project. At one point I noticed a senior team member doing a split in the corner and took it as a personal challenge. When I was in first and second grade I went to a gymnastic class every other week and now had it in my head that I was Jet Li. I challenged her to see who could go down further. The rest of the details were blurry but I can tell you that it did not end well for me, and served as a sobering reminder that I wasn’t at all sober. I decided I needed to get back to what I was good at, dancing. My problem was the DJ was horrible and seemed to have an affinity for horrible music. I knew it was my responsibility to crank this party up, which is when things went from bad to laughable.
I hopped up onto the DJ’s platform to request a song. I knew he’d barley hear me over the song “Dancing Queen” blasting from the speakers, so I yelled my request as loud as I could. “Will Smith! We need some Will Smith!” Keep in mind it was 2008 and to my knowledge it had been years since Will Smith last released an album, but I knew what the moment called for. “Sorry” he said, “I played “Switch” earlier, that’s enough for one night”. “What’s wrong with Will Smith?” I asked, “He’s wholesome and never swears in his music.” Sign number 86 that I’ve been drinking is when I hear new rap music and start singing Will Smith’s praises to anyone who will listen. “He’s so much more talented than them, and he’s a good guy! You know he got a scholarship to MIT?! He’s earned what he has!” I was a hot mess but even I could take a hint. DJ Eurobitch had no patience for my antics and I knew it was time to give up. It was at this exact moment that I turned to leave, tripped off of the platform, and face planted onto the dance floor. A coworker helped me up and suggested it might be a good idea if I were to leave. The next thing I remember was waking up at 7AM the next morning with no memory of how I got home. I was almost too horrified to go into work.
I was one of the first people in the office as usual, and looked pretty presentable. I kept thinking about last night and tried to remember if I had done anything mortifying. People finally started coming in around 9 and everyone looked like death. At least I was presentable, that’s a start. I knew it wouldn’t be more than an hour before the pictures of the night before were saved to the company server. Somewhere along the line, someone at work decided to be collectively masochistic, and ever since all drunken pictures have been put up for all to see the next day. And then they came, I looked through them and was stunned. I was wide eyed and bushy tailed in every photo. I looked so put together compared to everyone else. Still nervous, I kept looking and nothing. When I saw several pictures of another male coworker lifting several shocked female coworkers, I knew I was off the hook for getting the train wreck of the night award. I sat back and laughed at him in the picture, happy it wasn’t me. “What a fool” I thought, but as I looked closer I noticed something on the floor in the corner of one of the pictures and zoomed in. It was me, planted face first on the dance floor with several people watching. Once again, I proved to be a huge asset to my company.

My Life as a Newsie

2008-11-17T22:17:00.001-08:00

It was in October of 2008 that I began to suspect my stellar sales job was in jeopardy. The combination of me neglecting all of my daily responsibilities and the global economy getting sodomized by sub prime mortgages was an unfortunate mix that I knew was an early sign of imminent layoffs. My company had been doing poorly in the prior months and the stock market crash only fueled our desperation. In times of crisis, I like so many Americans turned immediately to the comfort of alcohol. In the past, I would have qualified as what most people refer to as a social drunk, but in these dire times I had turned to full blown alcoholism to quell my woes. A glass of wine after work generally ended with me waking in a pool of what I could only hope was my own saliva, next to several empty bottles of Merlot. It soon became common practice for me to drink on work nights, but one particular Sunday evening I decided to get especially inebriated. There happened to be four of us in my apartment one night, and with even numbers like that there was no excuse to avoid doubles drinking games. I don't remember much else from that evening but I do vaguely recall fishing a ping pong ball out of the trash can, and 3 minutes later drinking a beer it landed in. I was a mess.

Upon awaking the next morning with a deadly headache and churning stomach, I popped 4 Advil and decided it would be a good idea to avoid operating heavy machinery and simply take the subway into work. The ride in was excruciating to all of my 5 senses, and a 6^th and 7^th I didn't even know I possessed until that moment. There were so many unfortunate smelling people on the train that I began to feel nauseous, and I almost vomited twice after having seen an older Hispanic woman with a hang-toenail who was inexplicably wearing flip flops in October. Disgusting.

By some miracle, I actually managed to arrive at work early and even had time to order a breakfast in the cafeteria beforehand. A good sign that I've enjoyed an evening heavy with mischief and debauchery is if I arrive early to work, and appear amazingly sober by most accounts. At my office Christmas party the year before, I showed up ready to rock out at 8pm after having already shared a 12 pack of Miller high life with my roommate Alec. Upon arrival at the party, we both downed fistfuls of nips we'd smuggled in. Fast forward 6 hours and 20 drinks later, Alec and I both managed to stumble into a cab home (a cab I called by screaming "MR TAXI MAN!" at the top of my lungs until someone stopped, and it wasn't until I heard giggling that I realized my boss had been behind me the whole time. "Don't judge me!" I yelled at her, and then hopped into the cab). Even after that tomfoolery I still arrived at my desk with a smile on at 8am. Another good sign that I've been out drinking heavily comes about 2 hours into the morning when I sprint faster than a Kenyan being chased by a cheetah to the men's room and barely manage to loosen my tie before I projectile vomit into the toilet, usually with several witnesses watching.

This morning was a lot like the morning after the Christmas party, so I decided it was a good idea to take it easy. I spent the first hour of the day researching chicken incubators on Wikipedia for no reason whatsoever. Wikipedia happens to be another addiction of mine, and it's gotten to the point where I break out into cold sweats if I so much as attempt to watch anything on the Discovery channel without a laptop handy. After having my fill of incubators, I edited the Sherri Lewis page in Wikipedia, and by the time I'd finished not only had she been the voice of Lambchop, she was also a highly decorated Green Beret, and a former concubine of Adolf Hitler. What a life she's lead. After reading my work over I could not stop laughing and decided I was still drunk. Upon coming the realization that you're still drunk at 11AM on a Monday, most individuals would think it a good idea to calm the fuck down and try not to draw any attention to themselves. Unfortunately, I'm not that smart. I noticed an email in my inbox from the Vice President of Sales addressed to the entire sales team. It read:

"Now is the time to think of anyone (and anywhere) you can distribute our catalogs! As Rachel said, we do have extra catalogs in the mail center and I would encourage ALL staff to take 10-20 of them to pass out – to friends, families, doctors offices, strangers on the T, etc! Test your sales and marketing skills!

Who is going to be the first one to stop by and pick up some catalogs and gift cards to help get the word out?"

Now I fancy myself a go getter, but mostly I just like to joke around with people, particularly our Vice President who is a spitfire herself. In a drunken moment of genius, I decided it would be the funniest thing ever to send a reply which I completely intended to be a joke:

"I'll volunteer to stand in front Government Center in the morning and hand them out like those guys that hand out the "Metro". I'll even wear the reflective vest."

Clearly she wasn't born yesterday, and being the spitfire that she is she immediately replied:

"I KNEW you would be the first! How about you try it one morning this week and let me know it goes?

Just one hour – maybe 8:30-9:30am?"

I quickly sobered up. How do I get myself into these situations anyway? Oh that's right, I drink. Every person I knew in Boston took the subway and got off at the Government Center station before work. I would look like an idiot. I heard a noise from above and looked up. It was God laughing his ass off at me, and then crying a little for having created such a fool. What a corner I'd backed myself into! I briefly considered my options. I could confess my drunkenness and hope that she took pity on me but that was highly unlikely, so I decided to make the best of it and use it as an excuse to get a vest I'd been eyeing. I committed to handing out 50 catalogs.

The morning finally came and I was dreading it. The prospect of standing in the cold rain and handing out catalogs like Christian Bale in "Newsies" was about as appealing as getting a colonic at an Abba concert. I hated it. I drudged through the rain to the subway station nearest to me, and decided that that would be a fine place to whore out my company. I looked around and all I could see were ethnic teens. This was not our company's target demographic, and judging by the way they were looking at me, I wasn't what they were used to seeing either. I knew my only option was to leave the stack of magazines, go back to my apartment to watch an episode of "Who's the Boss?" on demand, and then go back to work and tell everyone it was a huge success. Two weeks later I was laid off.