Category Archives: College Life and Behaviors

I used to be younger and much stupider

Cheating Death Pre-Papa K Style: Episode Three


Quick note to my mother: DON’T READ THIS!!

Okay… now that that is out of the way…

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Another quick note:  this is a story about my young stupid past.  In no way am I supporting this type of behavior AT ALL!  In fact… I hope the story discourages other young people from being as STUPID as I was!

So, to scare you straight, here are two other stories about when I almost died: Story One and Story Two.

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It was spring time and my college buddies and I decided to go on a spring break trip to Padre Island.  unfortunately… we decided to do this A WEEK before our spring break!  Every hotel worth its salt had already been booked for months.  So we had to settle for this cruddy motel in Port Aransas which was about 15 miles outside of Corpus Christi. 

After an over eight hour drive we finally arrived at our motel where they more than likely made snuff films and promptly decided after dropping off our luggage that we wanted to make the short trek to Mexico to kick off our spring break.

Our motel.  Looks rather homey doesn’t it?

The inside of our motel room.  What?

The town we focused our attention on was a border town right south of Brownsville, TX called Matamoras.

I need to point out that when I told my parents that I was taking this trip… they requested only one thing:  “DO NOT GO INTO MEXICO”!  But, as it is with most 20-year-olds, I lacked the ability to tell what was REAL concern passing through the lips of my parents…  and I didn’t listen.  The draw of being able to legally drink at age 20 was too much of a temptation for me.

Once we crossed over the bridge and made it past all the legless peddlers selling Chicklets for a dollar our eyes met all the little bars and clubs littered on the main boardwalk.  With our new-found power and without the fear of being underage we were uninhibited even walking by the Mexican police and their AK-47’s into these dives and drank ourselves silly. 

It’s amazing how many opportunities there are to waste a dollar in Mexico.  We paid to have our picture taken.  We paid for one of those silly sombreros.  We even paid a dollar to get ourselves electrically shocked by this one dude… it was ridiculous.  If you wanted to contract some flesh-eating disease… you could even get a tattoo!  Thankfully, I had enough wits about me not to get tattooed in Mexico. 

As the night went on we found ourselves in a pretty good crowd of American spring-breakers all coming across the border to go to some of the clubs.  We grew tired of the overcrowded Matamoras scene and decided to drive to Padre Island.  We exited the club we were in and started to walk back to the bridge that crossed back to our homeland.  As some inebriated strolls go… we kept getting hung up in conversations with other Americans, pause to take pictures with random strangers or being stopped by peddlers trying to sell shrunken heads.

As I had “broken the seal” sometime earlier, it wasn’t long before mother nature was making her call on me again.

I had to go to the bathroom.

Bad.

This was a problem because every club and bar had a huge line in front of it.  There was no way I was going to wait in line AND pay a cover JUST to go to the bathroom.

So I ducked into (what I thought was) a fairly secluded area and let it go. 

When I was finished, I zipped up then turned around and was met by two Mexican police.

I nervously smirked but they weren’t laughing.

“You can’t do that,” one of them said in broken English.

 

“Are you peeing on my street?  Don’t make me shoot your ass!”

I suddenly could clearly remember the stories I had heard about Americans going to Mexican jails and what horrible times they had.  I hadn’t realized the severity of my actions and perhaps thought that since I was in Mexico… I would have to do something much worse than public urination. 

This probably would have been true if I wasn’t peeing on the sidewalk.  I clearly wasn’t in my right mind as I emptied my bladder.

I apologized fervently.  I kept saying, “I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  I said this the whole time with my hand on my wallet.  I had heard that you could buy out the Mexican police.

“Okay… you can go but next time you go to Mexican jail!” one of them said as he adjusted his rifle.

They then parted and let me pass between them unscathed.  I hurried to my group and told them we needed to get out of here. 

My group had been oblivious to what had happened.  I could have been carted off, against my will, to film the real life version of “Mexico Chainsaw Massacre” and they would’ve still been trying to talk the guy down from selling his sombrero from $10 to $8!

We eventually made it back over the bridge and through the legless peddlers to American soil where peeing in public will undoubtedly get you arrested… but more than likely without the fear of getting murdered too.

POSTSCRIPT: 

 It wasn’t until looking back on this several years later that I realized how close I was to never being heard from again. 

Matamoras ain’t safe AT ALL.  It’s a border town full of crime.

I read an article about Matamoras not to long ago that sent a shiver through my spine.  It was an article about college kids that were being kidnapped by FAKE COPS in Matamoras EXACTLY around the same time I was approached for peeing in public!  These fake cops would target male, blond-haired college students.  Once they had them under “arrest”, they would drive them out to the middle of nowhere and sacrifice them in satanic rituals.  Once the sacrifice was over, they would wear the kids spinal cords as a necklace in future rituals.

I’m not even kidding.

Those cops that approached me… might not have been cops at all.

Someone was watching over me. 

The Limp Bizkit Inspired Rocker Goatee


In another lifetime, I was a founding member of a fraternity at the college I attended.  I was your typical fraternity guy.  I loved to party, I loved to hang out, I loved to kill random hobos… nothing was off-limits really.  If it involved cheap beer, sorority girls, hangovers and general craziness… I was in.  I was always the fun-loving, happy party guy to hang out with.  I never started fights, stole old ladies hand bags, lit bags of poop on fire or said hateful things to anyone (although for some reason I did have a penchant for stealing things only to return them the following day).  I lived the college experience and despite their being a few regretful moments… my overall experience was a good one.

I’ve never been one to be overly fanatical about music but at the time I was a particular fan of a band called Limp Bizkit.  You may remember them.  They were your rock/rap hybrid of that era and were quite popular.  Their front man, Fred Durst, was your super typical douchebag whose tough guy image was destroyed when he wound up dating Britney Spears. 

I’m Fred Durst and YOU… uh… well… you aren’t

I thought he was pretty cool and he had this goatee that he’d bleach different colors from time to time.  I had a rather sad-looking goatee that more closely resembled a patch of pubic hair than anything else.  I’d been sporting it for several years and being the kind of person who gets somewhat bored with my appearance I decided that I would bleach my pubic chin-hair because dammit… I was cool too.

If I was going to bleach it… I didn’t want to get it that peroxide yellowish-orangish hue you see some people get when they bleach their hair.  I wanted to get my goatee WHITE!  To do so, I had to bleach it about five or six times.  I achieved a white goatee… but burnt the living poop out of my chin underneath.  I successfully managed to use so much peroxide that I burnt all the first and possibly the second layer of epidermis on my chin.  With the absence of my pube goatees natural tint… these burns were quite noticeable.

I managed to barely pull it off for a while until my roots started to grow out and my skin started to scab over.  What resulted was a half white, half black goatee with scabs falling out of it.  I eventually had to shave off my beloved goatee and walk around looking like I had slid down a gravel embankment.

Unfortunately, I only have one picture on file of this said “rocker goatee”.  It was taken at a sorority date party shortly before all my fraternity brothers wound up in a bar room brawl with another, more-douchey-than-us fraternity (I was oblivious and busy dancing with myself).

Can you see it?  Let me zoom in a little bit.

Gawd I used to be so awesome.

What happened?

Maybe I should get Limp Bizkit back together?

Cheating Death Pre-Papa K Style: Episode Two


Wanna  read hilarious episode one available for your reading pleasure about cheating death?  Click this.

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“Pre-Papa K” was a point in my life that I did a lot of stupid things… but none stupider than a night shortly after I graduated college.

I got invited to go downtown (called “Bricktown” here in Oklahoma City) to attend a “going away” party for a girl named Raw Meat Eater (not her real name) whom I shared several college classes with.  Attending this get-together with me was another buddy and classmate of mine: Nicholi.  Nicholi did not (and still doesn’t) partake in the ritualistic drinking habits of most Neanderthals like myself.

Alcohol makes you do weird things

How incredibly blessed I was to have him there that night!  I may not have even had the opportunity to cheat death! 

The night started at a restaurant/pub called Coaches where I decided to drink Long Island Ice Tea’s (LIT’s).  While we were there I drank three of them… and they were particularly strong!

After Raw Meat Eater had her fill of Coaches, she decided she wanted to go to City Walk i.e. “7 Clubs In One… 7 Times The Fun”. 

Nicholi, the ever diligent friend, went along with everyone despite not being inclined to drink himself stupid.

Still at Coach’s.  About two LIT’s in at the moment (girls identities hidden… I’m sure they have jobs and husbands they want to keep)

When we arrived at City Walk, if I could have drunk LIT’s any faster I would have absorbed them through my skin.  After several glasses… I couldn’t even begin to tell you what happened.  The only real evidence I have of what happened, are a few mental snapshots, some pictures I took with a small throwaway camera and what Nicholi could tell me.

By the time Nicholi and I were ready to leave it was still fairly early.  We started making our way for the exit at around 10:30 or so, which was amazing considering how many drinks I had consumed in such a short time.   Much of the trek to the exit consisted of me trying to shake a huge booger off my finger I had just freshly extracted from my nostril.  After trying unsuccessfully for a minute or two, I wiped it on my pants before walking into the crisp nighttime air.

Shortly before extracting a booger from my nose…

Nicholi sheepishly smiled and apologized to anyone I yelled at that I indeed was drunk and not to take me too seriously.

After talking up every one walking by me and screaming at the top of my lungs about how great a lover I was, a cop on a bike actually came by and asked Nicholi if I was driving home.

“Yes I’m driving him home.” Nicholi said.

Fortunately, the cop accepted Nicholi’s answer as truth and continued on and I yelled after him, “SCREW YOU COP-MAN!  I’M DRIVING!!”

Nicholi assured me that he was only going to drive me in his car to find my car… because I had conveniently forgotten where my car was about four or five LIT’s ago.

Using the power of his unfaded brain… Nicholi tricked me into getting into his car.  Once I was safely buckled in and the doors were locked, he began driving me home.  I only realized this about halfway to my apartment.  I let Nicholi have it with a multitude of slurred curse words scattered in amongst my assurance to him that I NEEDED my car in order to get to work tomorrow morning!

Nicholi was unwavering despite how many times I cussed him out, “I don’t care.  You’re not driving.  You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

After enduring the 16 mile trek back to my apartment, Nicholi dropped me off at my apartment.  I stumbled up the stairs to the front door of my apartment still angry that my friend didn’t believe I was okay to drive!  With that final thought, I placed my hand on the door handle to the apartment when a “brilliant” (and completely drunk and faded) idea came to my head:  “It doesn’t take me very long to drive to Bricktown… I’m just going to walk back there AND GET MY CAR!”

I don’t remember anything for a little while after that thought.

The next thing I clearly remember is waking up on a golf course putting green.   Where the hell was I and what was I doing on the putting green of a golf course?

Yes… yes… it looked exactly like that!

While I gathered my thoughts over a quickly approaching headache I suddenly heard dogs barking VERY CLOSE to me and the only thing I could think to do was run.  I ran and scaled a chain link fence in a matter of milliseconds only to swan dive into patch of bushes, crack my neck and somehow wind up on my back staring up at the moon.

I laid there for a moment.  I seem to remember actually being pretty comfortable.  I was about as comfortable as you could be after falling several feet off the top of a chain link fence into the middle of a bush.  I even considered giving up my quest to pass out in this comfy bramble.

Alas… I could not give up.

I picked myself out of the shrub, dusted myself off and found myself walking through a residential neighborhood and in the back of someone’s yard.  Dogs started barking again so I started to run again until I reached what appeared to be the access road leading to the highway which would ultimately take me back to my car… 16 miles away.

After trampling along the access road for a while and diving head first into the ditch several times to avoid oncoming cars who might think I was a transient serial killer… I could see the highway.  Determined to not lose the highway this time, I made my way through a barbed wire fence only to  fall once again and rip the crotch area of my shorts.  I laid there once again contemplating falling asleep… but my drunk ass had a mission and I had to complete it.

I made it to the side of the highway after jumping over the concrete median in the middle of the highway and continued walking.  Each and every time a car drove by I repeated my ditch dive.  In some cases the woods on the side of the highway made for good cover.  I attempted to hide behind a concrete barrier at one point only to realize after I’d jumped over it that the hillside below was no less that ten feet below me.  After doing my best “Wile E. Coyote” impression, gravity savagely slammed me into the hillside in a tangle of my own limbs.  Once I picked myself up, I saw that if I had attempted to jump over the barrier about 30 feet ahead of me… it would have been over the I-44 overpass and I would have landed directly into oncoming traffic.

Taking a picture of myself to remember the moment I cheated death… and because I was bored…

Shaken and still little cross-eyed, I crossed the median of I-44 and continued on to Bricktown.

Gradually, the combination of continual walking and the realization that I actually almost dropped my ass off the I-44 overpass and through someone’s sunroof… I started to sober up a little bit and I first began to realize that this was a really, really stupid idea.

I looked at my watch and realized it was now about 3AM… I’d been walking for almost four hours.  I got my cell phone and called several people to see if they could pick me up… but no one answered.  It was 3AM after all.  It was at this more sober moment that I realized I was at the point of no return.  It was the same distance if I walked to my car or if I walked back home.  So I decided to continue walking to my car.

After several phone calls to myself to leave myself a voicemail to myself to never do this again, a run-in with a homeless man and multiple trips to the woods and alleyways to relieve myself… I finally reached what I had been walking to get to: my car.

Once I finally turned the door handle to my apartment where I had been a mere SEVEN HOURS earlier and limped into my bathroom… I couldn’t help but chuckle at myself in the mirror.  It looked as though I’d been in a fist fight!  I had a huge scratch that started on my left temple, went across my eyelid and ending at my nose.  I had scratches all over my arms.  My shorts were ripped.  My hair was filled with dirt and grass and my jeans were soaked well above the knee from walking through all the tall weeds.  My eyes were bloodshot to Hell.  The arches of my feet ached after walking 15+ miles in my flat soled Adidas shoes that were effectively ruined after putting them through so much.

I threw away my shoes, showered myself and promptly landed between the sheets of my old, hard, crappy twin-bed and fell asleep instantaneously.

I cheated death… and I was feelin’ it.

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I should have died any number of times that night.  I knew it when I began to sober up on my trek to the car.  I knew it when I woke up after I’d fallen asleep in my old, hard, crappy twin-bed.  I know it today.

Somebody was looking after me.  I certainly wasn’t doing a good enough job of it.

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Moral of the story: Don’t be an dumbass idiot face.

Scaring Little Girls (Other Than Mine) Is Hilarious


Despite being vehemently “anti-fraternity” for my first several years in college… I finally drank the Kool-Aid and joined one.  I actually held several offices during my stint.  One of these was community service chairman. I was responsible for several fairly successful projects that helped generate positive feedback for our fraternity within the community.    

 

I hit the gold mine of opportunities when I somehow got our guys hooked up to help “scare the kids” at a haunted house for the Campfire Girls. Several of our members, including myself, got to dress up as various scary individuals and got placed at intermittently throughout this pretty well constructed building that the Campfire parents had put together.

    

Since I orchestrated this whole activity, I got to choose the coolest mask of the bunch: Pinhead from the Hellraiser movies. 

 

   

I peed my own pants I scared myself so bad  

   

Aside from having the best mask… the Camp Fire Dads placed me in a relatively hidden spot where I was the last dude to scare these poor kids along their route through the haunted house.  It was pitch black in the haunted house and I hid in a little inset area along the wall that wasn’t able to be seen if you were walking along the straight path.   It was impossible to see me.  

   

I actually managed to scare everyone.  Even the older kids.  In fact… in order to scare everyone I didn’t even have to scream some intelligible phrase like, “ARRRGHHH”!!!! Instead, when I would jump out, I would start screaming, “MILK DOES A BODY GOOD!” or “DO YOU LIKE HELLO KITTY!” or “DON’T SQUEZE YOUR PIMPLES… INSTEAD PUT YOUR FINGERS ON EITHER SIDE OF THE PIMPLE AND PULL AWAY FROM THE PIMPLE.  THIS WILL STILL POP THE PIMPLE BUT WILL NOT RESULT IN ANY UNDUE REDNESS OR IRRITATION” and they would get just as scared because I was Pinhead.  Pinhead is still scary giving you advice on how to squeeze your zits.  

   

I could also hear which groups of kids were getting really REALLY REALLY scared before me.  So I thought I would capture their fear with a disposable camera I just so happened to have in my possession.  What resulted were two truly incredible pictures of some kids who were convinced that I was going to eviscerate them while giving them advice on what is the most efficient way to prevent forest fires.  These are the pictures of some of my most hilarious moments… and it comes scaring little girls.

   

   

   

“ALWAYS CHECK AND MAKE SURE ALL CANDLES ARE BLOWN OUT BEFORE LEAVING YOUR HOUSE!!!!”  

   

   

   

“BEFORE GETTING A TATTOO ALWAYS MAKE SURE YOUR TATTOO ARTIST GETS A NEW NEEDLE!!! YOU DON’T WANT TO GET AIDS FROM A TATTOO DO YOU??!!!”  

   

I throughly enjoyed scaring those little girls.  I hope I didn’t cause any permanent damage.

 

Uh-oh.

 

Here’s Me Pre Papa K Style…


Day eighteen of 30 posts in 30 days

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Here’s me pre Papa K style when I was twelve with my nephew Caleb, niece Rose and my first zit!  Yes… yes… I vividly remember it.:

There is it!  Do you see it!  Right there on my nose!!

Here’s me pre Papa K style as a monkey… or at least that’s what Dave and Busters says:

Here’s me pre Papa K style in college with a ridiculous chin pube goatee:

Here’s me pre Papa K style eating a giant bowl of lil’ smokies:

Here’s me pre Papa K style (on the right) in a skit I did in college where we were pretending to sell Hooters chicken breasts (not wings):

Here’s me pre Papa K style in front of a burning apartment complex with a look on my face like I just shat my pants:

Here’s me pre Papa K style as Superman for a Halloween party:

Here’s me pre Papa K style in an elevator in Las Vegas looking like I’ve sucked to much oxygen at the hookah bar:

Here’s me pre Papa K style… well… I don’t really know what I’m doing:

Here’s me pre Papa K style about to throw up on a Carnival Cruise:

Here’s me pre Papa K style (as Borat) when I met Jesus:

Here’s me pre Papa K style as a pasty white douche with a hot chick who eventually became my wife:

I ain’t got much today… sorry…

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What blog am I going to recommend you visit next?  Hmmm… let’s see…

How about Tales From The Dad Side?  He’s got some good stuff… and I like his theme.

Check him out… or I’ll subject you to more pictures of myself.

Pre-Papa K Accidentally Makes A Bad Joke And Saves The Day


Back when I was a newly christened college student, out of my parents house and ready to “Party Like It’s 1999” (Get it?  Because it was 1999 then!! AHAHAHAHAHaaaaah… right, back to the story) I made a fool of myself.

No, it wasn’t because I bleached my goatee until I’d successfully burnt off several layers of skin on my chin.

This picture is here in case you didn’t feel like clicking the link above to read the story about how I burnt the living crap out of my chin with bleach… I really was THAT stupid.

No, it wasn’t because I once went to Denny’s at three o’clock in the morning in nothing but boxer shorts and a purple bathrobe.

No, it wasn’t because I walked 16 miles down the highway still spinning on Long Island Iced Tea’s in the dead of night to get my truck I’d left downtown (that’s a good one… I need to write about that).

It was simply because I’m just a bad listener and frankly… am kind of an idiot.

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I was still getting used to living a life of freedom from underneath the watchful eye of my father and going where ever the hell I wanted… EVEN ON A SCHOOL NIGHT!! 

This one particular evening, my best friend/roommate and I went with some newly acquired friends of ours to a “rush” party for some fraternity I can’t remember the name of.  We went uninterested in ever rushing or joining a fraternity, because that’s where people go to “buy their friends”.

Hey!! Wait!!  That’s me in a fraternity photo (on the floor in the middle)!! I guess that would make me a hypocrite!

Anyway, we heard that there were fountains of flowing Coors Light, Keystone Light and Bud Light (a.k.a. friggin’ nasty shit but we didn’t know any better back then) at parties like this.  All we had to do was pretend that we were interested in rushing their stupid fraternity and they’d hand over the booze because we were then “potential rushees”.

Upon entering the house where this party was located I was forced to immediately assume that this fraternity was full of nothing but… you guessed it: cocky douchebags.

Hey!!  Wait!! That’s me again in a fraternity photo!!  I guess that means… you guessed it: I’m a cocky douchebag.

We were there early, or at least I thought we were, judging by the complete absence of any sorority girls.  Some drunk dude with a shirt two sizes too small waved us into the kitchen where him and some of his douchbag buddies were “bonging” beers.

“Hey!  C’mon in guys!  Welcome to the Cocky Douchebag party!” he said as his tight shirt was slowly suffocating him.

No… he didn’t look like this.  I know you were momentarily worried.

As a group we had a staunch belief in not hanging out with douchebags… but if free beer was involved almost any human being was acceptable to be around.  So, we entered the douchebag kitchen and slowly commented on what small towns in Oklahoma we were from and what our names were while scanning the kitchen for this free trough of cheap beer we’d heard urban legends about. 

We didn’t see one.

We continued the formalities of “getting to know” everyone in quiet expectation of at any moment someone would offer us an ice cold Keystone Light.  YUM!

Some dude with a popped collar and a hemp necklace asked me, “So what’s your name dude?”

Hey!! That’s him!! That’s the guy who asked me my name!!

I proceeded to tell him my first and last name.

STOP!  PAY ATTENTION!  YOU MUST READ THIS PARAGRAPH OR YOU WILL NOT GET THE UPCOMING JOKE:  My last name is of German origin.  Most people question it because (a) it’s fairly unique or (b) at some point in their life have known someone with my last name.

Popped collar douchebag then asked me, “So… are you rushin’?”

Without hesitation and because I was used to questions about my last name, I said, “Oh no… actually I’m German.”

All the douchebags at that point stopped what they were doing, my friends all sucked in an embarrassed breath and I stood there momentarily confused as to what the sudden silence was all about.

“Dude… I mean are you rushing the fraternity?”

The laughing in the kitchen gradually increased until it was nearly unbearable.  Loose tiles popped out of the kitchen floor, the refrigerator plug vibrated out of the socket and the douchebag with the tight shirt busted all the capillaries in his neck and forehead.

As a result of my idiocy, I successfully (and accidentally) broke the ice, saved the day and the douchebags showed us their stash of never-ending cheap beer located behind a false wall and shrouded with fake plants.

The only other thing I remember from that night was drinking an entire beer that was poured off a second floor balcony into my mouth.

And that hitchhiker we accidentally ate.

What?  I didn’t say it was a hilarious story.

The Hangover: Pre-Papa K Style (Part 2)


Read Part 1 here about how I came to look like this:

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Somewhere in the land between complete blackout and a consciousness I could hear a voice… but it wasn’t registering with me.  The words were there, but they weren’t coming together.  I don’t know where I was or why I was there or really what my name even was!

Suddenly the voice became very clear:  “Chris!  Wake up!  It’s 10:30!”  It was Flapjack (also protecting her identity because she is married to Wolfgang now), Wolfgang’s future wife.

Somehow… I suddenly came to and sat straight up.  “It’s 10:30!”  I said while immediately noticing the room was spinning and I was shirtless and had been laying on a dirty mattress in the corner of Brad’s little rental house.

“Yes… I’ve been here since 9 AM trying to wake you guys up!  What happened last night?” she said as she pointed to Brad and Wolfgang.

In perhaps one of the funniest moments I’d seen up to this point in my life… both of them were laying on Brad’s bed (fully clothed)… spooning each other.

An illustration of spooning

While understanding the barrage of questions Flapjack must have had at that point in time while also wishing I had a camera… I had a bigger issue at hand: I had told my dad I would be home at 9 AM to help him mow our lawn (all 5 acres of it).

I was an hour and a half late.  If I wanted to survive the wrath of my father… I needed to get home… NOW!

With the room still spinning and feeling as thought my head was being squeezed in a vice grip… I scrambled for my belongings.  I quickly realized I didn’t remember where anything was.

I found my shirt in the bathroom then went to the mirror imagining that I must have taken my contacts out and put them somewhere next to the sink before I passed out.  They were nowhere to be found.

It was at this moment I looked in the mirror while brushing a few stale Dorito crumbs off my cheek when I saw a very large rug burn the size of Mikhail Gorbachev’s birthmark on the right side of my forehead.

Yes… it looked something EXACTLY like that!  Except not so far up on my head.

With no time to investigate or contemplate what had happened I rushed to find my keys and hopelessly search a few other places for my contacts.

Upon realizing I was going to have to drive home without the aid of my contacts, a feat not exceptionally easy being that I have the eyesight of a shrew, I positioned myself in front of Flapjack and said, “Okay… how do I look?”

I can only imagine how silly this might have looked to her as I stood in front of her with my eyes looking as though every capillary had busted in them, I had a rug burn the size of McDonald’s cheeseburger on my forehead and a stench of sour alcohol about my person.

Without really missing a beat, she said “Chris… you smell like a bar.”

Great.  There wasn’t anything I could do about it.  I had to get home.

I barreled out the door without saying goodbye, leaving Flapjack and my two buddies to spoon a little while longer.

When the bright morning light hit my eyes my head literally almost exploded.  I understood what it must feel like for the unfortunate undead who get caught outside their coffin when the rising sun pierces the horizon.

This is how I felt.  Except I wasn’t wearing a helmet.  And I’m not that tan.  And I didn’t have a goatee.  Whatever… it was the best picture I could find to illustrate the way it felt.

Fighting back spontaneous combustion and the urge to retch, I climbed into my truck and took off.

I thought of different excuses to tell my father when I got home… but none of them really explained why I smelled like a dirty, beer soaked bar coaster.  I didn’t know what I was going to say.

It was 11AM when I finally pulled into my parent’s house… a full two hours from the time I said I was going to be home.  My dad was already on his Kubota tractor.   This was a blessing because the flying grass and dust that surrounded my father would mask the smell of the alcohol that was now pooling up as sweat on my brow.

Kubota tractor: front end loader, rototiller, lawnmower and supreme masker of kids with rug burns on their forehead soaked in alcohol

I carried myself to meet my dad somewhere in the middle of the yard.  I was prepared to take the full brunt of the tongue lashing I was undoubtedly going to receive.  I conveniently positioned my self in a dust cloud to mask any wafts of Southern Comfort my dad might catch in his flared nostrils.

Dad put the lawn mower in neutral and sat there, staring off into space with a look on his face like he was six and just lost his puppy.  For a few awkward moments we sat there and he finally spoke up, “Where were you?”

“Man, Dad… I just overslept.  We stayed up late and… uh… watched some movies!  I told them to wake me up at nine but they were still asleep when I left!” I said semi-convincingly.

I was ecstatic the smell of ground grass and dust was keeping my stench from eroding my dad’s olfactory senses… I’d really lucked out in that respect.

My dad then turned his gaze from whatever he was staring at in the sky to look at me and say something incredibly deep to make me think about what I had done… but stopped,  “What happened to your forehead?”

I was so wrapped up in my good fortune concerning the masking of my stank aroma that I had forgotten about hockey puck sized rug burn on my forehead.

I stammered.

“Uh… Well… you know how guys are dad.  There were other people over there and Brad always wants to show that he’s stronger than me so he challenged me to a wrestling match.  I just hit my head on the carpet that’s all.”

My dad just shook his head, lowered his gaze in extreme disappointment, sanctioned out my chores, then returned his lawn mower to “full mowing” power and took off… leaving me to stand there and think about what I’d done.

I was actually able to complete my chores… but not before I dropped behind a stone wall by the garage where I could not be seen and threw up my liver and small intestine.  Grass never grew there again.

————————————————————- 

You may be asking:  “So… how did you get that rug burn the size of a small cat on your forehead?”

It was a mystery for a little while.  I came to find out that Wolfgang also wound up with a bruise on his chest that ran horizontally from one underarm to the other.  Turns out he didn’t remember how he got that either.

Brad was the only one who could fill the memory gap… and he could barely do that.

Apparently… I was outside throwing up what can be similarly compared to crude oil when Wolfgang told Brad to “watch this!”  He proceeded to run up and punch me in the face.

After recoiling and regaining my composure… I chased Wolfgang back into the house where I promptly tackled him over Brad’s weight set.  Wolfgang landed on Brads curl bar, explaining the bruise on his chest, and I created a divot in the carpet with my forehead.

I envision it looking something like this… except I wasn’t riding a horse.  And I wasn’t a woman.  And I wasn’t outside.  And it was on carpet not grass… I think you get it by now that I have NO PICTURES of this occurance so I’m trying to keep you involved in the story and this is the best way I know how!

After that… Brad couldn’t even really remember.  He vaguely remembered cramming chips and crackers into my mouth to “soak up the alcohol”… but that was about it. 

I think that after slamming Wolfgang onto Brad’s weight set while mixing my forehead DNA with the carpet… I started to pass out on Brad’s dirty mattress in the corner of his room.  Brad must have worried I was never going to wake up so he tried to forcibly feed me junk food.  With no avail in getting me to regain the ability to function, he left me on discarded mattress to sleep it off (or die).  My contacts must have worked their way to the back of my eyeball… and dissolved into my head.

Then Brad and Wolfgang had a nightcap.

I’m kidding…  I think.

Believe it or not… this wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve done in my life.  I did walk 15 miles to get to my car once… but we’ll save that for another post.

The Night My Mom Kicked My Ass


My mother is a saintly woman. She’s the dainty wife to my father who was lucky enough to snag the former beauty queen over 40 years ago.  She was always the problem solver, always knew the right thing to say, never gave a hug that wasn’t full of love… and wasn’t afraid to kick my ass (literally) when it was called for.

I was 19 and just starting to exert some form of rebellion.  I was attending a junior college so I still lived at home.  I also, much to my parent’s dismay, had acquired a girlfriend!!  Shocking for me who a mere four years ago couldn’t put together a distinguishable sentence when a girl told me she liked my hat!

Her name was Marshmallow Wings, or something like that… I can’t remember.  She was really the first girl that aggressively pursued me and consequently, faced with female affection for the first time, I fell “in love” with her.

This scared my parents half to death.  I lived in this fantasy world where everything played out in my mind like a movie.  Somewhere in my mind I played this relationship out like the movie “Say Anything” i.e. our love was going to stand the test of time, we were meant to be together, I was going to profess my love to her one day by holding a boombox over my head, etc. etc. etc.

I also wanted a cool, tan colored trench coat.

High school (or immediately following high school in my case) romances are a joke.  Looking back on what I know now… I didn’t know a flying case of crap balls what I was doing.  But at that point… you couldn’t have convinced me otherwise.

Quick note… I’m not saying high school romances don’t ever work out.  My sister is a prime example of it flourishing (25 years and 12 kids!).  I’m just stating “as a whole” most high school romances don’t stand the test of time… especially for little shitheads like me.

Anyway, I was 19 and wanted to exert my freedom.  I wanted to stay out late and come home when I wanted to.  I was 19 and officially an adult.  Just because I lived in my parent’s house still didn’t mean I had to abide by their rules, right?

Wrong.

I usually was ordered to come home midnight or so because as my father always said, “Nothing healthy happens after 10 P.M.”.

I hated this.  I wanted to be like some of my friends whose parents could care less when they came home.  I usually left Marshmallow Wings in a heap of sadness because I couldn’t stand up enough to my parents to stay just a little bit later with her.

One evening, during winter break, I figured I had kept my streak of returning home on time long enough.  I did not give my mother a time of when I was going to be returning.  Rather… when she presented me with a time of 2 A.M. to be home, I vaguely agreed with her that it would be somewhere around 2 A.M..  I thought I created some cloud of doubt that I was actually going to be home at 2 A.M… and it was implied I was going to be home later.  The fact my mother said nothing… was my confirmation that she understood. 

I left to go to Marshmallow Wings’ house around 8 or 9 P.M.  I came home around 4 A.M.

I turned off the lights to my truck as I pulled in our driveway and gently coasted into my parking space.  I lightly opened and closed the door to my truck as I got out and tip-toed to the front door.

I wanted to make as little sound as possible so as not to wake up my parents.

I moved as though I was being watched by a motion activated security camera.  I extracted the keys from my pocket and stuck the key into the back door like I was picking the lock to a safe.

A good five minutes later I was in the house and shutting the door behind me like it was made of paper mache… any overly tense move and it would shatter.

Finally, I turned around and was faced with total, utter darkness.  The back door immediately opened into the kitchen so all I could really see were the vague outlines of the kitchen table and chairs.  My eyes were still trying to adjust to the complete blackness in the house as compared to the moonlit darkness outside.

This is what it looked like in the house.

I stuck my arms out to grab the wall and get my bearings as I started to make my way back to my bedroom.

“Good.  They’re asleep.” I thought to myself, “I ‘got away’ with it”.

Just then, I saw another vague outline… only this one was moving… straight at me.

My mother pierced her shroud of darkness like a cyclops who’s been waiting for the perfect moment to pounce its prey and immediately began wailing me about my head and face.

Initially, I didn’t even have time to get startled or scared because everything happened so fast.  Fear did set in though as I realized she just might kill me.

As I stumbled across the kitchen chairs and through the hallway to my room, she screamed, “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN YOUR FATHER AND I HAVE BEEN WORRIED SICK ABOUT YOU WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO US I AM SO MAD AT YOU YOUR FATHER HAS NOT BEEN ABLE TO SLEEP AND NEITHER HAVE I!!!”

She then started kicking my ass… literally.  I kid you not.  She followed close behind me as I covered my head and ran for the safety of my room kicking me in the rear the whole way there.

My mother was never mean to me, she never raised her voice at me and she NEVER EVER hit or kicked me.  So… I was led to believe I must have REALLY pissed her off by not coming home when I said I was… not when I implied I was.

Once I reached the safety of my room, I quickly realized that like a rabid dog she did not care that I had reached my room.  She crossed the invisible line of privacy and entered my sanctum to continue her pummeling of me while I tried to get a word in edgewise.

I eventually got enough space between me and my enraged mother that I was able to separate us by means of a locked bathroom door.  She briefly pounded the door to the bathroom as she had done to my head, face and ass cheeks just moments before.

She eventually finished venting her frustration with me, my head, face, ass and bathroom door.  She said one final thing through the bathroom door… and I honestly don’t remember what it was.  I think it had something to do with more physical harm if I ever lied like that again… but I’m not sure.  I was too busy huddling in the corner of the bathtub waiting for the door to get kicked down and the pounding to start again.

mom

My mom can kick your moms ass…

Eventually, after several minutes of silence, I assumed she had gone back to bed.  But I wasn’t willing to test my theory.  I was too scared to leave the bathroom for fear of my skull getting cratered, my chest getting collapsed or some kind of decapitation so I pulled up the bath mat and laid there until the sun came up. 

I think in my heart of hearts I knew I got what I deserved.  Any incident I created that resulted in my mother, the Mother Theresa of mothers, kicking my ass to prove a point must have been warranted.  She was only extremely worried about me and in a day and age before cell phones… her mind could have only gone so many places she didn’t ever want to think about.

A few months later, Marshmallow Wings broke up with me.  My mother wiped my tears away and assured me that life would go on despite the “only person I was ever going to love” was now gone.  The memories of her beating the snot out of me were now replaced with more familiar memories of her caring for me when I needed her the most.

My mother has looked up at me and told me how much she loves me many times since that incident.  I know she did it out of frustration and fear that her youngest was dead in a ditch somewhere instead of home in bed where he should be.  A fear I know now to be very real with a one and a half year old daughter aging faster than fruit fly before my very eyes.

I know that there’s a possibility moments like this may occur as my little girl grows into a young woman… a future I’m not willing to think too deeply about at the moment.  But if it does happen… it’s not going to be my kitchen I’ll be waiting in.

It’ll be his.

With a Louisville Slugger.

And a chainsaw.

Who knows… if she hadn’t kicked my ass… I may have never found myself in this wonderful position

The Hangover: Pre-Papa K Style (Part 1)


F to the Y to the I… this is purely a story that materialized over 10 years ago.  I was much much more stupid and in no way am I encouraging the activities I participated in.  This is simply the first part of a story that I look back on and say “I was a complete dumbass.”

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Back when I was 19 and dumb as hell (as most 19 year olds are)… I got alcohol poisoning.  I also suffered some memory loss (as alcohol poisoning tend to do).  I also wound up with a rug burn in the shape of New Zealand on my forehead.

Allow me to explain…

I was just starting to get what it was to rebel.  I was actually much older than most kids when I discovered how much fun rebellion was because I had been homeschooled for four years before I went to high school and my social development clock was about four years behind those who had experienced the angst and pressures of the public school system.  Aside from only one time at junior prom had I really even drank enough alcohol to get drunk… until this summer after my first year in college.

I had started a job working at El Chico, a Mexican restaurant with the flashy Mexican exterior and a Taco Bell kitchen.  Seeing that this particular evening was my first Friday evening experience being a waiter without my trainer… I got absolutely slaughtered by my tables.  I got stiffed twice and couldn’t seem to handle multiple tasks OR multiple tables.

El Chico = Taco Bell on steroids

This was the beginning of a perfect storm of circumstances in which I was becoming primed for a series of events which would lead to memory loss, dirty mattresses and a mysterious rug burn the size of a slice of ham on my forehead.

By the time my shift at El Chico was over and I’d hardly made any money… I was in the frame of mind to get crunk. 

I would appropriately dub this “circumstance #1”: just wanting to forget the night ever happened regardless of the consequences.

I was still living at home because I was attending a junior college at the time so I had told my parents I was staying at a friend Brad’s house who just so happened to be having a party that night.  Since I had worked late that night I pulled up to Brad’s house to find that most everyone had left to go elsewhere.

“What the heck!”  I said as I got out of my truck.  “Where’s everyone gone?”

My friend, Wolfgang (not his real name… I have to protect his identity since he’s a school teacher now), obviously was well on his way to channel the ghost of W.C. Fields seeing the way his stumbled over to me.

A young Papa K and “Wolfgang” in more sober times (Wolfgang’s true image concealed to protect his identity)

“Man… it’s just you, me and Brad dude!  We got tons of beer left because everyone left!  You better catch up!  Brad and I are freakin’ drunk!”

Thus we are faced with “circumstance #2 and #3”: anger at the fact I missed the party and missed the fun AND now I have to “catch up” to my friends’ current state of intoxication

Now faced with the fact that there were NO GIRLS at this party… I reluctantly changed from my salsa stained El Chico garb and into some more comfortable party clothes.

I quickly downed several Coronas seeing that I needed to “get” to where Wolfgang and Brad “were”.  Being that this alcohol abuse was a fairly new thing to me, I had no real concept of pacing myself.  I had to “catch up” to my friends.    Not having any kind of tolerance whatsoever… it didn’t take me long to get “there”.

Over my puffed out chest and through my double vision, I saw Brad pull out some cups and sit at his table.

Uma Thurman… as seen through my eyes that night.

“Let’s play a drinking game!!” he shouted.

I honestly can’t remember what we were playing or if we were actually playing anything at all!  I just remember it resulted in drinking more… and drinking faster.

Suddenly… Brad whipped out a bottle of Southern Comfort he had snatched from his father’s liquor cabinet.

“Let’s take some shots!” he ballyhooed!

Situation #4: liquor is bad. *urp*… I don’t feel so well…

As I’d mentioned before… I was new at this drinking stuff and as an “up-and-coming” drinker… I had actually thought about what I wanted to be “known for”: beer drinker or liquor drinker.  The image that came to mind when I thought about a beer drinker was a bloated, fat redneck as opposed to a distinguished gentlemen in a smoking jacket swirling his highball glass containing his Jack Daniels on the rocks when I thought of a liquor drinker.

I wanted to be a liquor drinker.

I thought I was a liquor drinker.

Boy was I off.

After the Southern Comfort had been revealed, the three of us came to realize there were no shot glasses.  All we had were regular glasses.  So… we carried on our barrage of stupidity by guesstimating what was a shot within our regular sized glasses.  A guess made nearly impossible when you’re processing things with a brain being rapidly depleted of its problem solving ability.

The glaze over my eyes could have been to cover a donut… but I hollered “pour me another” as I slammed my empty glass to the table after shoving yet one more shot the size of three shots down my gullet.

“Yeah…” I thought as the memories at this point in time start to fade away, “I’m definitely a liquor drinker.”

Wolfgang struggled with a shot… then sputtered.  He clumsily placed the glass which was a third full of Southern Comfort back on the table.

“I can’t do this!” He said.  “I gotta mix it with something… it’s too gross”.

He then proceeded to pour the rest of his Corona into the glass effectively mixing the two liquids into one horrible concoction.  He raised the glass to his lips only to slam it back to the table moments later with his face contorted in such a way that made you think he might have just drank from the septic tank.

I can’t even begin to tell you where I was at this point in time.  I mean, I know where I was physically… but mentally I somewhere between Mars and Saturn.  I don’t know what else I felt I needed to prove to myself or anyone else but I grabbed Wolfgang’s pint glass that was full of Southern Comfort mixed with Corona and said, “YOU PANSY!!” and subsequently downed the entire thing.

Situation #5: total annihilation.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!”  I said.

That is the last thing I remember.

———————————————————-

Stay tuned for Part 2… already written but to be posted soon…

Cheating Death Pre-Papa K Style: Episode 1


Let’s get away from all the drama shall we…

————————————————————————

From the chronicles of a complete college dumbass.

For those of you who don’t know… I was your typical college stereotype.  I was usually out all night, could sleep until noon (or at least five minutes until class), get up and eat McDonalds, call around to see where the next party was and do it all again.

For about a year, my best friend and I lived in an apartment that qualified as “section 8 housing”.  Section 8 housing was for a special class of folks whose income amounted to nothing more than a few frozen green beans and some stale Ritz crackers.  Unfortunately for us, these folks usually found a way to trade in their green beans and crackers for baggy jeans, stained NFL coats, stolen cell phones, guns and crack. 

This transformed them from just being poor to “gangstas”.

When we originally moved into the apartments, our leasing agent was nice enough to house us in a building with a bunch of other people fitting our “poor college student” demographic.  A “poor college student” is nothing like a “gangsta” insomuch they desire not to “cap” anyone or they aren’t “GONNA MAKE YOU BLEED SON!”  They really are just trying to make it through college so they can graduate, put in their hard work and pay their taxes so they can support the “gangstas” and their inability to take care of themselves.

An example of what we had to deal with…

In our quest to obtain the American Dream, we chose this section 8 housing because it was cheap and the leasing agent put us in a building adrift from the “gangsta” riff raff. 

Alas… that leasing agent moved away and was replaced with another.  As our friendly college neighbors graduated and moved to nicer complexes complete with swimming pools (no dead bodies!), rotundas (no gun fire!) and free Sunday morning continental breakfast (no dirty crack whores!) our new leasing agent replaced them with aspiring rappers, aspiring drug dealers and aspiring uninspired wastes of space.

In order to get to our cars each morning we would have to run in a serpentine fashion so as to avoid being a target for an early rising “gangsta” who got bored sniffing paint long enough to want to shoot something.

My roommate and I were especially annoyed at the constant disturbance these “gangstas” were causing and after numerous complaints to the leasing staff had done absolutely nothing (we fear their lives were more than likely threatened) we decided to take action.

But that idea for action was quickly squashed because we realized that we enjoyed living more than the momentary satisfaction we’d get out of screaming at Tupac’s brother and his emaciated Snoop Dogg look-alikes which would result in the complete separation of the skin from our bodies.

So… as I would try to sleep at night and the Bloods would talk about what they were going to do the next day to the Crypts right outside my window… I lay there wishing for one moment I could harness the power of lightning to fry them all.  That never happened… but something just as empowering did.

One particular early morning after a full night of partying and on my assent back to the third floor where our apartment was located, I strolled past the door of a known “gangsta”, one who I knew in fact frequented my window at all hours of the night.  As I glared at his door through my faded eyes hoping that I somehow might be able to channel the ghost of Genghis Khan into his bedroom… I noticed his shoes laying at his doorstop.

I stopped because I had a brilliant idea.  Mind you… a brilliant idea to an individual who’d just drank his weight in Keystone Light (the college drinker’s beer of choice: 30 ‘stones for fifteen bucks!! Couldn’t beat it!!).

A college boys dream…

How could I get back at these “gangstas” and stay undetected?  How could I fulfill my dream I’d had many a night as I listened to them caterwauling outside my bedroom window?  How could I inflict some kind of miniscule aggravation to the individuals who’d made me contemplate learning the fine art of torture?

Well… to pee in this guys shoes of course.

It was no earlier than 4 A.M. and not even “gangstas” stay up that late so I lowered myself to my knees (as to prevent any unnecessary splashing) and began the extraction of the processed beer that was already banging against the wall of my bladder.  I proceeded to fill the shoe and start on the other when I ran dry.

I stood up and nodded my approval at my handiwork.

I then walked the few short steps to the door of my apartment, walked in and passed out on my bed.

—————————————————————————

It wasn’t until the next morning, over a morning hangover, that I realized the severity of what I did.  I wasn’t upset at myself for peeing in a “gangstas” empty shoe, quite the contrary actually… I was feeling pretty good about it!  I envisioned the look on his face as he stuck his foot into that shoe and *squish*… “What the ‘bleeeeeep’?”  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  It would have been divine to see that look.  But when I sat and thought about what could have happened…

I could have been mid-pee and the “gangsta” could have opened the door.  Despite the fact it was 4 A.M…. anything was possible.  Then at that point it wasn’t me envisioning was his face looked like sticking his foot into a shoe full of pee… it was my face looking down the barrel of a shotgun, or the end of a machete or a syringe full of drain-o.

I shuddered at the possibilities of what could have happened.  I shuddered that I could have died last night!  All for peeing in a shoe!

Then I realized… I didn’t and the story was really funny.   So I told everyone.

THE END

I may not be able to cap someone… but I can discretely pee in the shoes of a “gangsta” when they’re not around.  I think that automatically makes me a “gangsta” right?