Sunday, April 05, 2009


A Night of Culture

I had to work yesterday for the first half of the MSU game, but was looking to go somewhere to watch the second half. I had talked to my buddy Kevin earlier in the day and he told me that he was at the bar with 5 Mile and Fake Jason Bennett. (He is fake because when my group of friends met him we already had a friend whose name was Jason Bennett and we needed a way to differentiate them, so we started calling him Fake Jason Bennett. But some of my friends like 5 Mile and Hodges and Bubs knew Fake Jason Bennett before they knew the Jason Bennett I was friends with, so they started calling him Real Jason Bennett. So basically we’ve made it more confusing than it ever was and accomplished nothing but giving the two Jason Bennett’s nicknames neither of them want.)

ANYWAY, I decide to meet them up at the White Rhino, where they’ve been since 2. (I didn’t realize this until I got there.) When I show up, the place is packed and Kevin is nowhere to be found. From the look and sound of it, 5 Mile and Fake Bennett aren’t the only ones who’ve been drinking all day. Everyone was loud and obnoxious. The place is the epitome of a Redford bar and has been a neighborhood staples for decades. (It’s the old Bullwinkles.) If you didn’t know where the bar was located and had to guess based only on the clientele, Redford would be one of your first guesses. I find 5 Mile and Fake Bennett sitting at the rail, and immediately realize they are both on walking blackouts.

5 Mile tries to put me in a headlock as his way of saying hello and Fake Bennett just keeps calling me a “sandbagging son of a bitch” and laughing. I fight off 5 Mile and tell him to relax only to have him stare at me – his eyes glazed like Krispy Kremes – and ask “what?” like he doesn’t know he's acting like an asshole. I can already tell this is going to be a shit show.

After telling me that Kevin left awhile ago to eat dinner with his family, 5 Mile gets up from his seat and lets me sit down so that he can stand and hit on the lady next to him. She was in her late 30’s and a bleach blonde. She had big boobs, but her gut made her look like she was doing an impression of a beanbag chair. Fake Bennett agreed with my assessment. How do I know this? Because he kept whispering it to me every 5 minutes. And by whispering I mean yelling.

“She’s got nice tits, but man I can’t handle that spare tire she’s got on her gut. Do you see it, JFunk? That gut? So many rolls dude! Big tits though!” I kept agreeing with Fake Bennett as quietly as possible, because I was pretty sure the Beanbag Lady or her boyfriend - who looked like he loved to fight and was good at it - would hear us considering that she was sitting right next to me and he was one seat away. But the close proximity of the boyfriend didn’t dissuade Fake Bennett’s brutally honest critiquing or 5 Mile’s blatant flirting. I don’t anything could’ve. They were fucking hammered and in their own world.

After about 20 minutes, Fake Bennett is nearly falling asleep. His girlfriend keeps elbowing him whenever his head is about to hit the bar. 5 Mile is still talking to Beanbag and has now made friends with her boyfriend and his meathead buddy. 5 Mile then decides that he and Fake Bennett need to drink the Raspberry Bombs that have been in front of them since I got there. Fake Bennett’s girlfriend wakes him up so he can do his. I watch Bennett down his shot and I grimace in sympathy. Fake Bennett immediately winces and puts hits head down on the bar and rests it in the crook of his bent elbow. He waits a beat and then gets up and race-walks to the bathroom.

I turn around to face 5 Mile to let him know that Bennett is about to barf only to see 5 standing like a zombie, with his chin completely covered in puke. I look down and there is a mess at his feet. He’s just standing there doing nothing.

“Jesus, 5 that’s disgusting. Wipe that shit off,” I yell as I throw a stack of napkins at him. He leaves the napkins, grabs the hard plastic mug that the Raspberry Bombs came in and proceeds to use the rim to scrape and collect the puke off his chin. Then he quietly pukes/spits a little bit more into the mug and places it on the back edge of the bar for the bartender to take it. He does this with no sense of urgency or embarrassment. At this point, I’m ready to throw up from the display. I pour some of my beer in the mug to cover up the puke a bit and give 5 some more napkins.

5 Mile then tries to explain his actions. “That wasn’t a Raspberry Bomb. That was a Cherry Bomb. I fucking hate cherry. I can’t do it. I fucking hate cherry. I don’t like anything cherry…except Hostess Cherry Pies. Seriously, I can’t do anything cherry – that’s why I puked.” Yeah, it was that cherry flavoring that made him puke, not the fifty shots he did before that. Fake Bennett returns from the bathroom and announces that he threw up 7 times. 5 Mile decides to celebrate this news by ordering another round of shots – this time making sure they are raspberry and not cherry.

For the rest of the game things went relatively smoothly. 5 Mile kept hitting on the Beanbag Lady and Fake Bennett had stopped dozing off and was now concentrating on trying to break up with his girlfriend. When the game ended, 5 Mile tried to collect on a $20 bet he made with the boyfriend of the beanbag before the game that State would win. They were joking around with each other about the bet, and the guy put a twenty on the bar under 5 Mile’s beer. 5 Mile didn’t notice this, so Fake Bennett leaned over and grabbed it when no one but me was looking.

“Bennett, put it back, man. You’re gonna start a fight over that,” I pleaded.

“Naw, it’s fine. They won’t even notice. I’ll use it to pay the tab anyway.”

He then filled out a Keno form and gave it to the bartender along with the twenty.

“How is that paying the tab?”

“Well once we win, it will.”

And that’s when I tapped out. I’d had enough. It was only a matter of time until one of these two drunks pissed the wrong person (or each other) off and cause trouble, and I didn’t want any part of it. There was no way I was going to catch up to them buzz-wise – not that I wanted to – and it’s no secret how little fun it is to be the only sober person in a group of drunks. So I waited until 5 was in deep conversation about Michigan versus State, and Fake Bennett was telling his girlfriend that he could kick her ass at ping pong and I got out of my seat and bee lined to my car, never looking back.

I don't hear from 5 again until this afternoon. We had the following text message exchange:

5 Mile: What a damn train wreck yesterday was. Holy hell.
Me: No shit. You were a mess.
5 Mile: Shit happens. It was all pretty much a disaster.
Me: Where'd you end up?
5 Mile: We went to Doc's and then stayed at Bennett's.
Me: How'd you get to Doc's? Do you remember it at all?
5 Mile: We got there by cab. I remember being at the bar and all that, just not leaving Doc's. End of the nite was a blur. Did make out with a twiz at Doc's tho...weird.
Me: I bet that twiz loved the taste of your vomit.
5 Mile: It was masked with beer and alcohol. She didn't stand a chance of knowing.
Me. So solid by you.
5 Mile: I'm a very clever lad.
Me: Ha. Classy too.
5 Mile. I'm all about class. It's my new thing.
Me: And now you get to be classy all over again on Monday nite.
5 Mile: It won't get rowdy like that again tomorrow. I can't do it if I wanna survive. Would make the week be garbage.
Me: Word.

Friday, April 03, 2009


Don't Call It a Comeback

Sorry for the lack of content on here recently. Here's a video montage of a bunch of TV reporters getting hurt to tide you over until I put up some original content.

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