Kim’s High Point of Summer Hilarity: And the Aftermath
I’m back after my summer long hiatus, bitches. And I’ve returned with plenty of new material, and have also been reminded of some old material, which I can use during those times I feel reminiscent. But first, I must vent that there are 18 Tim Hortons locations in Sudbury, Ontario…and one Starbucks, which is a kiosk inside Chapters and not within convenient walking distance of where I live. I have had zero good Starbucks beverages since I left Calgary on my way out here.
So there were many good times this summer, which ranged anywhere from nights at the Max, to floating down the river, to camping in the boonies and deciding that swimming 3 kilometers to an island was a good idea only to feel dizzy and end up with sore ears afterward, to attending a Kamloops GALA (Gay and Lesbian Association Party), to getting drunk in the mid-afternoon in Kelowna in 40 degree heat on the Carlos O’Brian’s patio, to going to Castlegar for no particular reason and drinking at THE (Read: ONLY) night club, to endless nights at Cactus Jack’s, to getting hammered at the one and only football game I went to watch in Kamloops and then taking the party to the bar…yes, it was a summer of endless nonsense.
One night, however, stands out above the rest in terms of me making a total ass of myself and annoying the shit out of my co-workers the following day. It was the weekend early in July that Ceire came up to visit. Now, these nights are generally messy, but this one was the worst of all time. I don’t know how I managed to not fall off the 4 inch pink stiletto heels I was wearing, but I deem myself a pro. The night started like every other when Ceire comes to town; dinner out (I think we actually went to Milestone’s instead of Earl’s this time), followed by pre-drinking at Katie’s place. Well we bought a 26 of Finlandia and began drinking. That coupled with the drinks at dinner and the 2 vodka Rockstars I drank while getting ready resulted in a pretty buzzed Kim before heading down to CJs.
So, we got to the bar and someone came up with the marvelous idea to see how much I can actually drink in a night before I pass out or puke. This meant actually keeping track, which is scary since I usually just wake up feeling like crap and with an empty wallet. And it began…We bypassed the inevitable line thanks to my lovely friend Jon who always works on Saturdays as a bouncer at CJs and therefore can’t share these joyous drunk experiences with me like he used to. Arriving at CJs before midnight gets you a free drink ticket, so we cashed that in immediately and one of the bartenders gave us some shots along with our drinks which was an excellent (yet terrible) way to start the evening.
We moved along and I ran into some more people I knew who bought us some shots. It dawned on me at this moment that half my problem in regard to hangovers is because of the fact that when people buy me shots, I don’t specify what I’m drinking and end up with a shit mix of whatever in my stomach, which is generally terrible. Sour Jacks are definitely the worst and I recall drinking at least a couple of these that night. There were two nights this past summer that I turned down alcohol due to being too drunk, and this night was not one of them.
The night soon turned into a whirlwind of bluriness and drunken nonsense. I vaguely recall having some stupid incoherent conversations with people. I’m sure I made some friends; I’m sure I pissed some people off. But what did it matter? I was having a blast. The weird thing is, I don’t know who the hell I was hanging out with because Ceire and Katie do not factor in most of the memories I have of that night. Katie said after this that she wasn’t with Ceire for most of the night either. Oh well, we all made it out alive.
In any case, Elisha and Mike Warrington, two co-workers of mine arrived at the bar later in the evening and heard of my glorious plan to see how much I could drink. It was about 12:30 or 1 at this point in my life and I’d had about 20 ounces thus far. I was feeling great and should have stopped. But I didn’t. Mike apparently bought like 8 Jagerbombs between 5 of us, and one was supposed to be for Ceire but she either declined or mysteriously disappeared, I can’t remember. But of course, being the good Samaratin that I am, offered to drink hers. There was Mike, Elisha, and I and then two bartenders that we knew, who started drinking with us, which was hilarious. So I polished off the two Jagerbombs and noticed there was still one left, so I did that too. I’m fairly sure everyone at the bar cheered for me at this point because I remember making a big deal out of the fact that I was going to chug some Jagerbombs and then I remember cheering. Then I remember Elisha buying me a Holy Water type shot. Then I remember…Jon leading me into Cam’s car to go home.
Cam says I passed out in the car and slept the entire way to his house, drank some water when I got there and was KO’d. But this wasn’t before I told him I had finished the night with a count of 32 ounces of booze. I’m actually not proud of that, I think it might be somewhat dangerous to consume that much alcohol for a person of my size.
I woke up the next morning, for the first time in my life, actually genuinely confused about where I was. I asked out loud “HOW DID I GET HERE?” and then realized everything was ok. I made a good life choice, calling Cam for a ride home, otherwise who knows where the road would have taken me. I had some pretty random texts in my cell from the night before, all indicating potential bad life choices I could have made. I worked at 11:30 the next day, and Cam started at 11 so he drove me home before his shift and I actually didn’t feel that bad at that point, because I was obviously still drunk.
I rolled into work at 11:30, STILL drunk and feeling displaced and incoherent as to what was going on around me. I managed to be okay until about 2 when I started feeling like absolute shit. This was a new phenomenon for me, I mean, I’d been hungover at work before, but never to the extent that I was that day. Dizzy, sweaty, I genuinely felt like I was going to die. And then it happened for the first time in my life…I barfed at work.
But it wasn’t just a little bit, it was like full on projectile vomiting. It SUCKED. I felt a bit better after round 1 and went back to work, but I knew it wasn’t over. Round 2 was even worse, mostly because there was nothing left in my stomach so a lot of horrible dry heaving ensued. I begged to go home, but my evil managers spawned from the clutches of Satan and felt that I should pay for my sins the night before and made me stay. I tried to tell them it was a cleanse, but no one was buying it and every time I ran to the back to puke, I could see them (no names mentioned) getting more and more pissed off. In retrospect, it’s funny, but that day I wanted a meteor to descend upon earth and crush Wendy’s more than anything. Just so I could die, or go home if I made it through the natural disaster. It was the longest shift of my life. I finally stopped puking around 5, and worked the last 2 hours feeling tired, shitty, angry, bitter, and resenting my decision to find out how much I can drink.
Every other hangover I experienced during the summer paled in comparison to that one. Worst day after drinking ever. And I’m not sure I can qualify the statement that I can drink 32 ounces of alcohol since I barfed so profusely the next day. However, in my defense, if I hadn’t had to work, and just slept it off, I think I would have been alright.
Kim in Vancouver: The Finale
As I said, I rarely went out in Vancouver because of the inevitable hassle it presented. Not to mention that between the program at school and my job at Starbucks, I was pretty busy most of the time (for more on this, see post: The Canucks Lose, But I Win). The last week I was there, I decided that I’d been a hermit long enough and it was time for me to grace the City of Vancouver with my always entertaining drunken presence. How the night life had survived without it is beyond me.
My last night there (I feel slightly nostalgic as I tell this tale) began at the BCIT dorms, where my roommate Shane and I were joined by one of my co-workers, Lillian and her husband, and then later by Tyler and Lu (two more roommates) and Sari (another co-worker). I hadn’t eaten much that day but that didn’t register in my one-track “let’s get drunk” mind. I began pouring blueberry vodka/waters like they were going out of style! If there’s anything I should have learned through my years of drinking and drunken nonsense experiences, it’s that I should always eat first. Nothing good ever comes of nights when I don’t. Ever. But at the very least, they make for amusing stories.
I noticed shortly after I began drinking that Tyler wasn’t around. It was his idea to go out to begin with, so where was he?
A side note about Tyler: I think he secretly hates drinking. For some unknown reason, he can’t drink much and I have my strong suspicions that he doesn’t enjoy it anyway. Confirm/Deny, Tyler?
I went and banged on the door to his room, ultra obnoxiously, but he didn’t answer so a few minutes later I decided to call him. To my surprise and utter dismay, he was SLEEPING! I don’t know how he didn’t hear me banging on his door, but that’s besides the point. This was the time for drinking, not the time for sleeping!
Tyler came upstairs shortly after and I was glad because it was time to get this drunken ball rolling, and I had ordered pizza upon realizing that I felt slightly tipsy after only three drinks (yikes!) so I figured I should eat at least a little bit. The two slices of pizza I ended up having didn’t prove to be enough to nullify my assholery for the night. But nonetheless, prior to it’s arrival, I was extra excited like I always am for food.
While I had polished off at least three or four vodka/sodas and everyone else had a drink or two, including Lu who had been getting ready and had a shower beer, Tyler hadn’t started drinking yet and he had been up for at least five to ten minutes. As precious time ticked by, Tyler didn’t go for booze. Instead, he whipped himself up a good ol’ 9 p.m. protein shake! He did have a drink or two after finishing the shake since Lu and I harassed him about getting into the party mood. In retrospect, it’s probably a good thing he had that shake before going out. Or maybe it wasn’t…I’ll let you be the judge of that.
After a few more drinks, it was time to go out. Lillian’s husband recommended we go to Lotus, and he had to “take care of business” there. My mind immediately raced to thoughts of drug dealing and other scandalous activity, but apparently he just had to drop off a CD. Far less exciting than I had hoped for. I really wanted to hit up Granville Street and check out the club scene there, since there’s always more people for me to befriend and more attention to be had, but consensus said: Let’s go to Lotus. We decided to take the bus to the SkyTrain and then head downtown that way. I was immediately opposed to this idea, since public transit makes me angry at life. Always full of “those people” preaching about something or handing out pamphlets about things I’ll never attend nor do I care about. Or the dreaded situations where “that person” talks to you and makes you most uncomfortable as you contemplate getting off immediately and switching buses or trains to avoid making Level One conversation with “that person” any longer. I was determined not to sulk that night, though. It was my last night in Vancouver and I refused to turn into a clone of an America’s Next Top Model contestant, crying and feeling sorry for myself when absolutely nothing in my life sucked. Also against my case was the fact that everyone else thought taking public transit was a great idea so I poured myself another vodka/soda and chugged it to mentally prepare myself for what transit could potentially have in store.
By the time the bus came, my last drink had hit me full throttle and it was I who was “that person” on public transit. Yelling obnoxiously and creating a giant scene, singing random songs off-key and horribly. Talking to people and complimenting them on random pieces of their outfits or hairdos, some extremely sarcastically and others with a grain of sincerity. I must have pissed off a few people at best. I noticed that everyone else in our group sat at the front of the bus, presumably to give the general public they impression that I was crazy and there were not in any way associated with me. Lu and I, who were clearly the loudest of the bunch, headed directly to the back in an immediate pursuit to make friends and to make a scene.
During the bus ride from the dorm to the SkyTrain, I mostly just yelled about nothing and sang. Once I saw that Sari and Lillian were sitting with another employee from the hotel at the front of the bus, I decided to have a conversation with her (which was mostly one-sided) from the back of the bus, telling her how great it was that we were going out and attempting to persuade her to join us. My attempts, which were mostly incoherent, went unrewarded and she headed off on an Eastbound SkyTrain while I was Westbound and was sure to let everyone within a 10 Block radius of me know it.
Once in the SkyTrain station, I decided it was an excellent idea to start talking to the Transit Police, and to tell them how great it was that they were serving and protecting me. I received a few requests from the group to stop my nonsense and just get on the train, but those Transit Police liked me, I know it. After I got on the platform, I began declaring my love for everyone on the Eastbound Train, including the girl who worked with us at the hotel. Everyone seemed to be quite responsive to my declarations of admiration for each and every one of them and I recall seeing smiles and waves coming from the train, which filled me with glee. I could have conveniently neglected to see a passenger or two attempt to throw a projectile at me and miss, but I’d like to think I was the star of the SkyTrain Show that night.
After getting on the train, my nonsense didn’t stop. It also didn’t slow down. It went full speed ahead and I started talked to every person in our train car. I found out one guy was from Scotland and headed to a party, annnnnd that’s about all I remember. Everyone else’s stories must have been dull because Lu and I decided the car we were in was boring, as we loudly declared, and ran into another car at the next stop. The next car was actually significantly more lively, which made me like transit a little more than I had an hour earlier. A group of guys in the car were also going to Lotus and I guess I felt some intangible bond between us because of it, since I seem to have deemed it necessary to tell them all about the reasons I didn’t like going out in Vancouver nor did I like taking the SkyTrain. I said hi to a lady that was sitting with her boyfriend and she gave me a death stare. Any ordinary person would have cut their losses and realized that lady didn’t want to be friends, but not me. I just decided that I had to “break down her barriers” and eventually she would see that I’m like Spanx: Uncomfortable at first, but after you get used to them, you wonder how you ever lived without them.
As I walked back in forth inside the train, greeting new passengers at each stop and saying goodbye to everyone who got off, I was sure to express my dismay for the fact that this lady wasn’t my friend every time I was within earshot. I also decided that loudly yelling Journey songs was a way to entertain not only myself but those around me. I don’t know what it was; my undying devotion to being friendly to everyone in the train, my singing, or my declarations that not having this woman’s approval were chipping away at my self esteem, but the woman finally smiled at me and laughed when I told a lame joke. “What’s red and goes up and down?” “A TOMATO IN AN ELEVATOR” har har har. I’m a regular comedian. My stop came sooner than it seemed to when I’ve taken the train sober mid-day. All the passengers staying on the train said goodbye to me, and I made my grand exit yelling some ridiculous farewell statement as I got off. I was a hit.
We headed in the direction of Lotus and all I remember saying for the entire walk is that there would be a line at the bar. No one really seemed to take me seriously, and I can’t really blame them because I had been saying dumb shit all night, but we arrived at the bar and there was a massive line. Lotus, like I said, is far from the other bars in downtown Vancouver but there’s two other bars directly beside it, Lick and Honey. Lick, as you can probably infer from the name, is a lesbian bar. I did not want to go there. I wasn’t showing enough cleavage, it would have been a lose/lose situation. I’d been to Honey once before but I didn’t like it and couldn’t remember why. In any case, getting to the other bars was a long ass walk and would have required us to get back on the SkyTrain or take a cab. Consensus says: Stay and go to Honey.
There were only about 4 or 5 people ahead of us waiting to go in, but the wait still seemed like an eternity. I mean, they don’t serve liquor outside the bar. I like Mexico because you can drink on the streets. That’s besides the point.
We got in maybe ten minutes after we got there and I was immediately reminded as to why this bar didn’t rank high on my list of favorite places to get intoxicated. They played Oldies. I’m a total Top 40 type of person. I can’t get enough Flo Rida. Something about Sugar Sugar and The Twist doesn’t get me in the mood to party. Oh well. We had gone too far, it was time to pump up the jam and just get drunker to bear with the music.
A couple vodka sodas, a vodka redbull, a jagerbomb, and a liquid cocaine later and the place seemed alright. Mostly because when I get drunk, borderlining on Loser Pissed, my attention span becomes similar to that of a hummingbird. Plus I started having to pee every two seconds and whatever genius designed Honey decided that only two bathroom stalls would be sufficient in a ladies washroom. Small bathrooms in bars piss me off, but TWO STALLS!? I should have just peed behind the cushions on the giant lounge couch we had staked claim on! Perhaps it would have been the incentive needed to add a stall or ten.
After bathroom trip number 50, I made some shocking observations: Tyler was MIA, Lu was off dancing, Sari had gone home because the last SkyTrain leaves Vancouver at 1, Lillian was texting, and Shane was still drinking. But where was Tyler? Shane told me Tyler was “really drunk” and had run off the bathroom. I don’t remember seeing Tyler again for the rest of the night, although I’m sure I did at some point. I remember dancing a little with Lu toward closing time, and I remember a brief conversation with Lillian about an after hours club called Gorgomesh. After hearing about this glorious place where I could party until 7 in the morning, I decided that Shane, Lu, and I HAD to go. Lillian was going to wait for her husband outside; remember he had gone to Lotus to drop off a demo of sorts; and Lillian graciously said she’d wait with Tyler outside and make sure he got home okay, since he was beyond done and there would be no after hours partying for him. She told me the next day that he puked on the sidewalk.
There’s a blank spot for a little while between closing time at Honey and where I start remembering us walking and if someone could fill me in, I’d be forever grateful. I could have done something amusing or legendary and can’t remember, thus detracting from my story! Lu and Shane were the only ones with me at this point and the thoughts that linger in my mind are those of Lu complaining her shoes hurt and Shane doing some silly walk. I was probably just yelling randomly about anything and everything as I tend to do.
Anyway, I remember leaving the club and then I remember us walking around a corner and seeing a 7-11. We had decided to walk to Gorgomesh despite the fact that none of us had ANY idea where it was and Lillian had warned us that it was expensive to get into and a long way away. Upon seeing the 7-11 sign gleaming in the night, we decided that Gorgomesh was a silly idea and loading up on junk food was a much better one. We walked into 7-11 and what I saw next made me laugh out loud.
Apparently some drunken fool had bought nachos and spilled them all over the floor. That’s not really funny. But the worker was trying to sweep up cheese sauce off the floor into a dustpan. The corn broom was creating horrible cheese sauce smears across the linoleum and turning it a horrendous shade of burnt orange. Oh geez…the things some people do. I ended up buying a bag of chips and a water, and Lu got an entire box of Pizza Pops. While I was waiting for her to microwave them, I guess I decided that since I had already paid for two items, it was buy 2 get 2 free night because I took a Drumstick ice cream thing and a container of candies. I would declare that at this point, I was loser pissed and had absolutely no inhibitions what so ever. Where the hell was Lance at this point? (see The Canucks Lose, But I Win for more about the lovely Sir Lancealot)
So low and behold, Lu microwaved the entire box of pizza pops while they were still in the box and plastic wrappers, lololol…which is one of the funniest things I’ve seen in quite a while. We went outside and hailed a cab New York style and the cabbie immediately put a stop to our shenanigans as I stared at him, sloppily licking my stolen Drumstick. I looked next to me and Lu was holding three pizza pops in her hand with no napkin of any sort, and Shane was devouring Mojo Fries, a whole plate of them. The Cabbie told us he wouldn’t take us unless we put our food in the trunk. Thinking I was being ultra sneaky, I shoved my open ice cream into my purse; an action that I would regret full heartedly the next day. Lu and Shane obediently put their food in the trunk, but I was hungry and I’m pretty sure having the Drumstick melt all over the trunk would have been a much worse life choice than completely covering the inside of my purse in chocolate. At least the latter didn’t cost me anything other than my dignity and some laundry detergent.
I hid behind the drivers seat and ate my Drumstick on the ride back to Burnaby. I don’t remember what we talked about, all I remember thinking that I should have taken a milk chocolate Drumstick instead of a dark chocolate one and then throwing my wrapper out the window (I’m horrible: a thief and a litterbug!) and then my memory jumps to trying one of Shane’s Mojo Fries when we got back to the dorms, which were so old and cold by that point that they were actually hollow… and super disgusting, can’t leave out that detail.
I didn’t puke that night but I passed out in my clothes immediately after we got back to the dorms, and spent my last night in my dorm bed drunk as drunk can be. We got home at about 4:30 and I woke up 5 hours later with a horrible headache, the spins, Rum Bum, and gummy candies stuck to my face and all over my bed. The worst part? I had to move out that day. I begrudgingly dragged my ass over to the gym and bought a Gatorade, which is like my hangover Kryptonite, and it gave me enough energy to get all the stuff out of my dorm room and into my car. I made the three hour drive to Kamloops without any issues except discovering the chocolate mess on the inside of my purse, which I had completely forgotten about. I pulled my sunglasses out to find they were covered in chocolate. All my coins were coated in chocolate also, as was my brush. Damn bad drunken decisions to hell!
It’s almost as though the magical effects of the Gatorade wore off as I arrived home because I started feeling like an absolute bag of shit. But regardless of that, I made my mark on the City of Vancouver. And Tyler made it home safely, aside from the sidewalk barf. I think he felt worse than I did the next day. My only regret is not buying a bigger water the night before because my mouth was drying than the Sahara. But I sure am glad I didn’t get a hotdog…the rum bum would have been upgraded to a Level 5 Global Alert if I had.
Susan, Kim, Sabrina.
Sabrina and I truly look nothing alike. READ ON!
Sidewalk Swimming Lessons! Line Up Here!
So this story takes place in two parts. The first part being the time I got my precious fake I.D. snatched from my grasp, and the second part being the time I was mad because I was 18 and prohibited from entering a drinking establishment I had patronized so many times before. My anger resulted in me acting like a complete tool for attention, as per usual.
Let the story begin.
When I was 18, I lived with a roommate, in an apartment, which was probably a bad idea since I was extremely unproductive and drank far more than any human should on a weekly basis. (See the beer bonging a mickey of Captain Morgan’s story for proof on this allegation.) But regardless of my reckless drinking activities and several eviction warnings, I prevailed and never got evicted nor did I end up with alcohol poisoning. I also managed to show up for work everyday, on time, with a uniform on. No comment on my physical or mental state, however. Chalk one up for me.
Side Note: My roommate is one of my favorite people in the world. Last I heard, she and her boyfriend had moved to Lethbridge, Alberta but I haven’t heard from her lately which makes me super sad because Sabrina is great.
Back to the story. When Susan, Jenn, and I were about 17, we decided that the bar was a new and exciting world we had to become acquainted with. Back in these ancient times, the British Columbia Department of Motor Vehicles was presumably run by monkeys because altering an I.D. was as simple as buying a silver craft pen from Michael’s. Susan perfected the art of licence alterations and could expertly change the 4 in 84 to a 1 so we were instantly 20. She even changed the “U” in Jenn’s June birthday so it said “JAN” since Jenn needed a quick alteration in early 2003. So she happily altered our I.D.’s so that we could frequent a club called Rivers which, TRAGICALLY, no longer exists. All was well and the bar was immense amounts of fun until morality reared it’s ugly head.
I was 18 when I got rid of my N. What the hell is an N? I’ll translate: Graduated licencing. We lucky souls here in B.C. get to start with an L at the ripe age of 16, eventually do a road test and graduate to an N, then get a “real licence” after 18 months of driving around with a telltale bright green N stuck to the back of the car. This also meant a crisis for us renegades who altered our licences with art store pens because the evil souls at the Motor Vehicle Branch *gasp* shredded the old licence when we passed the road test to get rid of the lame N. My mom booked me a road test to get rid of my N. This was horrible; practically the end of the world. SO BAD that I wanted to resist getting a grown up licence until I was actually 19 because my beautifully altered licence was about to be shredded and replaced with a new *BIGGER GASP* alteration-proof one that, and I quote, “ELIMINATED FRAUD.” BAHHHH! This meant the time and experimenting we had done with craft pens from Michael’s was no longer applicable. Susan was an expert in a dying trade. She may as well have taken up blacksmithing. The new licence had our birth year emblazoned in the corner in GIANT numbers so the “84” stood out like The Rock at a midget convention. Life sucked. I should have just failed my road test and kept my N. But anyone who knows me knows that failing would have been a giant blow to my ego, intentional or not. I passed the blasted road test; and I passed it with flying colours. I watched helplessly as the evil gargoyle at the Motor Vehicle Branch pryed my altered licence from my grasp and put it through the shredder. The counter separating me from that shredder was far too high to jump in the heat of the moment to seize what was rightfully mine and run out guffawing in victory. So many good times we had shared, that licence and I. Our time together was over. I was 18 again and I wasn’t happy about it.
Side Note: Don’t ask me how these people at the MVB didn’t notice we had changed our birthdates. Maybe they didn’t look; or care. I guess they’re not paid to be legal enforcement agents but still, we were totally committing fraud. Oh well. I got away with it, and that’s all that matters. CONTINUE ON!
We wouldn’t go down without a fight though. We tried everything to alter my dumb new licence, from peeling off the plastic top layer (it peeled off the numbers with it and thus was an epic failure) to scratching out half of the giant 84, trying to make the 4 into a 1 as we had done on the smaller numbers on the original licence. No dice, the scratching was brutally obvious.
My ability to continue attending drinking establishments as a minor looked grim. Following my series of unfortunate events, my friends took heed and did not sign up for the road test to get rid of their N’s so they could keep their precious altered licences. Bastards. I was the odd one out. Thoughts involving me, wine coolers, and Ravensburger puzzles flooded my mind. And they weren’t even real wine coolers since I had no I.D. to show at the liquor store; they were the 0.5% ones from Safeway. In less than 24 hours, I’d already had enough. I had to find a way to beat the system…
Like a beam of light, she appeared. Sabrina rescued me like a mother bird lifting her baby birdlette back into the nest. She couldn’t stand to see me in that state; so vulnerable and sober, drowning my sorrows with grocery store coolers. It just wasn’t right. So Sabrina did what any good roommate would do; she gave me her old licence. Being as how she’s 2 years older than me, her licence said I was 19 and granted me entry into my beloved clubs. The only problem was that Sabrina and I look nothing alike. (See picture). That could have been an issue but I soon learned that averting eye contact or smiling extra large seemed to fool the bouncers into thinking I was, in fact, Portuguese and had blonde hair.
Everything went well with Sabrina’s I.D. until the beginning of July, 2003. I had been successfully using the I.D. to get into Rivers for six or seven months when suddenly some new bouncer got hired. I’m not a fan of change to begin with, but my crew and I had become so familiar on the bar scene that the bouncers didn’t even really look at our I.Ds anymore. So when the new kid on the block asked me for my licence, I thought nothing of pulling it out and handing it to him. My friends and their damn dirty altered I.Ds were granted entry to our favourite watering hole without any problems, but as the new guy stared at Sabrina’s picture on the I.D. I handed him, then stared back at me, I knew shit wasn’t gonna fly. 4, 3, 2, 1…DE-NIED. And to make matters worse, the douche kept the card! To this day, I don’t know what came of the card. My friends are great so they left too, saying they wouldn’t go in without me, which was cool of them, but I knew this sympathetic attitude wouldn’t last the long, horrible 4 weeks before my 19th birthday.
Sure enough I often found myself watching movies and “pre-drinking” with the gang before they went out and I staggered off to bed, alone, drunk, and pissed off. But then a miracle happened. A new girl, Carly, started work with us that summer and she was a young’un like myself, and she had the misfortune of being born in December! I had found a partner to drink with when everyone else went to party their faces off in the club because drinking with even one other person is significantly cooler than drinking with zero other people.
One night I confided in Carly that one of the things I missed most about going to the bar (it had been about 2 WHOLE WEEKS since my I.D. was confiscated in cold blood and I was having withdrawal symptoms) were the bar hotdogs that were so conveniently placed outside ready and waiting for drunk partiers with the munchies to spend $3 on a weiner, (containing God knows what), and add a variety of cholesterol filled toppings. We decided that night that we HAD to go downtown for bar hotdogs. But that wasn’t all. Buying bar hotdogs doesn’t make you center of attention, am i right?
For some reason, earlier that day, Jenn, Carly, Susan, Sabrina, and I had gone to Superstore after work (yep, we all worked together, it was cute) and I bought a whole bunch of inflatable nonsense. I had an inflatable pool, beach ball, water wings, and probably some other junk that was so useless I don’t even remember. I even bought a pump because blowing things up makes me dizzy if it takes a while. So that night, Carly and I decided that we’d arrive downtown in style, inflatable pool, water wings, and ball in tow. We also decided that the pool had to have water in it. A dry pool wouldn’t do.
Looking back, I’m not sure why we didn’t just fill some pails with water and bring them down with us, but apparently this simple idea eluded us. That’s ok, that would make for a less interesting story.
So we decided to blow up all of the stuff BEFORE going downtown and quickly discovered that the inflatable pool didn’t fit inside my Sunfire (which has since been replaced, bless it’s little Pontiac heart), nor did it fit inside my trunk. So we did what any logical people would do. Nope, we didn’t leave it behind; we strapped it to the roof of the car with bungee cords. This seemed like the most innovative idea of all time to us at that moment. But then came the question as to how we were going to fill the damn pool…
We decided to worry about the minor “filling the pool” detail later, so we drove downtown and contemplated filling the pool in the river and then walking it back up to the sidewalk in front of the bar. It was a Wednesday night so our festivities were staged to occur in front of the Max, a local dive that does a Buck a Beer function every Wednesday which is truly awesome (see story People Really Do Jump Trains…) We decided the river was too far from the Max, but that sneaking into a downtown hotel pool (which was about 10 blocks away) to fill our inflatable apparatus was a much more plausible idea. So…we did it, and struggled out with a pool full of water, and somehow managed to get it back on to the roof of the car with minimal spillage. It was truly a Buck a Beer Day miracle.
We rolled over to the Max, pool sitting proudly a top my domestic automobile, full of chlorinated, stinky pool water. Upon arrival at the bar, we adorned our water wings, and full snorkle gear (which, by the way, we found in my storage closet), and carefully placed the pool on the sidewalk directly adjacent to the hot dog vendor, directly across the street from the bar. And, yep, we sat in our pool, wearing our gear, eating our hot dogs. We had orchestrated this all to be complete at about 1:45 so that when drunkards started pouring out of the bar at 2:00, we’d be the center of attention, a true spectacle!
And that we were. Around this time, almost everyone we knew was of legal age and at Buck a Beer night. And when they came out of the bar, they honestly didn’t look very shocked. Most of the people I party with in Kamloops, I’ve known since I was a tot and my nonsense very rarely shocks them anymore. But our efforts didn’t go unrewarded! Many people we didn’t know came over to see what the hell we were doing and made comments about our water wings. I think they thought we actually feared drowning in our 1.5 foot pool. Ha, fools.
We sat outside in our pool for a solid hour and when we went to leave, I discovered that someone had stolen my sandals. I later found out it was a guy named Steve who used to work with us that wanted to punish me for my idiocracy. It didn’t work. Since that night I’ve gone on to pull many bigger, better, and more amusing stunts. And increased my supply of $5 Wal-Mart sandals ten-fold. The only thing that concerns me is that he may, in fact, be somewhere today wearing my blue sandals.
If I couldn’t go into the bar, damned if I wouldn’t have fun outside of it. My bar hotdog was a slight disappointment, however. It didn’t taste as good since I wasn’t totally obliterated. I also still have those water wings. I wear them everytime we float down the river and always end up with legendary tan lines. I doubt they’d even prevent me from drowning, but I like to look cool wearing them anyway. And I really doubt that to this day anyone else has dragged an inflatable pool downtown to swim in outside a bar. Victory truly is mine.
The Canucks Lose…But I Win.
Monday night was one of few nights I’ve actually had fun since living in Vancouver. There’s many reasons for my lack of enthusiasm toward the party scene at the Lower Mainland. For starters, I live in Burnaby which is somewhat far from downtown Vancouver. By far I mean, not really far at all but far enough to be inconvenient and expensive to get to. Getting there consists of either an expensive taxi ride or taking the lame bus/Skytrain combo which inevitably leaves me in a bad mood for the remainder of the evening. Transit people are weird. One night when we took the bus downtown a guy wearing a top hat that resembled The Penguin was sitting at the front chatting up the driver. I gave this guy the benefit of the doubt, which I shouldn’t have, because this guy was just riding around on the bus route for fun, talking to the driver. Yep, that’s pretty much what his entertainment agenda for the night consisted of. Sounds like a blast. Imagine the conversation…”So what did you do last night?” “Well I totally hung out on the city bus, man. It was AWESOME.” Ugh, lame. Someone get this guy a Sudoku book.
Next reason going downtown pisses me off: parking. Parking is like backwards diagonal words in a word search puzzle. Hard to find and annoying as fuck until you find them. That about sums it up.
In any case, some of the girls from work wanted to go for dinner on Monday night. I was down for this. We have fun at work and I amuse them with my constant sarcasm and witty remarks so how could I lose in this situation? Then I found out they wanted to go into Vancouver for dinner. I began to mentally morph into Godzilla (See the post: Annoyed by a stethoscope: What a Day for more on this) “WHY!!?!?!?!?” I whined…like, literally whined…Apparently the restaurant they wanted to go to had excellent Greek food. Damn them to hell! I’m a huge sucker for Greek food. I love it (and subsequently stinking like garlic for days afterward). So we ended up heading into Vancouver to this Greek restaurant Stepho’s.
No sooner do we arrive to this establishment and go inside and the lady tells us to go wait OUTSIDE. Never in my life have I had to line up outside a restaurant to wait for a seat except this one time in Mexico, but that’s different because it’s a different country, obviously. Begrudingly, I trudged out the door, feeling knee-high, cold, and exposed. A victim to the elements. I hated Stepho’s. Worst restaurant ever.
So Lisa and I decided to go down to Starbucks (there’s one on every corner in Vancouver and mark my words, I put them to good use). We got three of our trademark Peppermint Doppios (English translation: 2 shots of good ol’ espresso with 2 pumps of peppermint syrup. Delicious). I dared to be different, because that’s how I roll, and ordered an Iced Americano. Coffee keeps me alive, I’m fairly sure on this.
When we got back to the restaurant, the others had been permitted to enter the sacred facility. So we quickly finished our drinks because, believe it or not, some people still frown upon bringing food and beverage from another establishment into their establishment. I think that notion is silly and archaic. We got a table pretty quickly after that and my spirits lifted quickly upon seeing the cheap prices on the menu. $9.95 for a Calamari dinner!! It was like the thrift store of Greek restaurants. I loved Stepho’s. Best restaurant ever! The dinner was delicious and we had a couple rounds of drinks and decided to carry on the festivities elsewhere. But not before excessively bugging one of the waiters, whose name was David, or as we dubbed him “peacock.” This guy was strutting his stuff harder than Kate Moss on a catwalk. Chest out, shoulders back, he truly was a happy pigeon strutting to and fro.
So we asked this guy to take a picture of us and started plaguing him with annoying questions. “What do you do?” “Where do you live?” All the basics. He told us that he was also a trainer at Fitness World and he was going to work out there after work. I laughed a little at this since it was 10 p.m. and who the hell works out at 10 p.m. on a Monday when there’s partying to do? For some reason, we decided at this point that asking for anyone and everyone’s phone number was a great idea, and we started with Captain Peacock/Pigeon. He didn’t hesitate. Oh no, he practically pounced on the chance to give us his number. One down, so many more to go.
Still on a quest to find somewhere fun to go next, we began asking other Stephos employees for their input. If we hadn’t gotten any, I would have started asking patrons, so it’s a good thing the staff were happy to help. The guy who rang through our bills told us that the Odyssey was fun, and drinks were all $3 on Mondays so we decided that we couldn’t go wrong. Even Jagerbombs were $3…this place was a God send.
The phone number collection continued as we drove toward the Odyssey, while we blasted some choice music in the form of “Don’t You Wish Your Boyfriend Was Hot Like Me?” Lisa rolled down her window at a stoplight while this music was blaring and yelled at the guy next to us “Do you have a phone?” Followed by, “Can I get your number?” This became the mantra for the evening and so many other people would fall victim to our clever ploy to get their phone number for the sole purpose of us drunk dialing them later in the evening. Except for that one guy in sweat pants who had just gotten off the bus who totally denied us.
We parked and started walking in the general direction of the Odyssey. Truth be told, none of us had any idea where the club was, (or what it was) but luck would have it that we walked by possibly the classiest pub in the West End (har har) called “Two Parrots” and in we went. Tequila was on sale so we didn’t hesitate to order four. It was then that I noticed an extremely hot guy sitting on the other side of the bar alone. He was wearing a Canucks jersey and perhaps grieving their recent loss to the Chicago Blackhawks, thus ousting them once and for all from the playoffs. But the real question of the evening was: WHY is this hot guy here by himself?
Side Note: *Not to be a total downer but I predicted before playoffs even started that the Canucks would be off to a roaring start, and give hope to Canadians everywhere. I also predicted that the Canucks would then let us down. I want to thank the Vancouver Canucks for not making me look like a fool and winning the Stanley Cup.*
This guy seemed like a prime candidate to become friends with us so we invited him to “come closer.” Which, in retrospect seems pretty creepy, and now that I’m saying it out loud to myself I picture the evil witch from Snow White and her bony finger beckoning me to come nearer. Ewwwww. *Shudder.* Why did we say that to him? No wonder he wasn’t very talkative.
We found out this guys name was Lance and that he worked at Earls downtown. And, because I know you were all wondering, he was at the bar by himself because his roommates went home to grieve the Canucks loss but he decided to stay behind and drink more. That made Lance gain some points in my book! Anyone that puts drinking above feeling sorry for a sports team major loss is pretty neat-o in my opinion. But Lance quickly went downhill on my coolness scale. He literally had nothing else to say after initial introductions had concluded. Damn. So hot, but so so boring. Ironically, Lance is about the only guy we met that night whose number we didn’t ask for. Even more ironic, he left his phone sitting on the bar when he went to the bathroom so we could have easily extracted his number from it plus had some fun time with his contacts. But we didn’t. I guess we represent the shred of humanity that people can still have faith in.
We decided that Two Parrots wasn’t where we wanted to spend the rest of our evening. So we set out to find the elusive Odyssey nightclub. I’d say we got sent on a wild goose chase, but that’s a huge exaggeration, so I just won’t say it. Someone told us to make a right where we should have made a left (cough Lance) and we ended up on a street corner with two guys from Mexico named Alberto, and uh….I totally can’t remember. The funny part about this interaction was that Alberto was holding a Mango Fuse beverage, and I decided to comment on it. Why? I have no idea. I probably just wanted to hear myself talk. But then Sari took the Fuse beverage to a whole new level and actually drank some of it…this beverage that belonged to a complete stranger. He could have had mouth herpes!!! But he didn’t so all’s well that ends well. She said it was good but I’ll take her word for it and buy my own Fuse sometime rather than drink Stranger-Fuse.
After the infamous Fuse sharing experience we continued walking in the wrong direction because we believed it was the right direction and ended up at the Holiday Inn.
*Now, it should be noted that there’s a front desk clerk at the Delta Hotel, which is where the Starbucks kiosk we all work (in my case, worked) at is, named Bob. I decided one day, totally on a whim that I wanted Bob to be my friend and wouldn’t let up until he agreed. It took some serious effort and a “BE MY VALENTINE” sign in the middle of May but I’m fairly sure Bob and I are BFF now. (lols…)*
So I saw the clerk inside the Holiday Inn, who looked nothing like Bob by the way, and decided he was going to be my “Holiday Inn Bob.” So I went inside and worked my magic. Much to my delight, this guy paid attention to me right away and I didn’t have to spend hours trying to crack him or make any foolish signs. It was a good thing too because I don’t carry around Chalk Markers like the ones we have at Starbucks that have come in handy on so many occasions.
I asked my newfound front desk clerk friend for directions to the Odyssey, and he seemed quite familiar with it. He was also quite overly pleasant and strangely enthusiastic that we were going to the Odyssey. Weird. But his positivity was contagious so we eagerly left and trudged onward! Sari was quite upset that Alberto and his Fuse were no longer on the street corner where we had left them. But fear not! Before we parted ways they unleashed the evening’s mantra on them: “DO YOU HAVE A PHONE?” “CAN I HAVE YOUR NUMBER” and low and behold, we had Alberto’s number.
Eventually we laid eyes on the Odyssey, whose logo was emblazoned by neon red lights stating that this location was, undoubtedly, the HOTTEST GAY BAR IN VANCOUVER. Wow. My excitement went up a few notches. It was also somewhat clear to me why the Holiday Inn employee knew exactly where this place was, but Lance did not. *Lightbulb On.* We walked toward the entrance and had to stop to pose for a couple of pictures with the naked male poster on the wall outside. I pretended to lick his crotch region and have since been called a pervert. ha ha ha.
So we walk into the club and Sari asks the guy collecting cover “Are we allowed to go in?” lol…the guy looked sort of confused but was undeniably jolly and declared that of course we could go in. So, we paid our cover and entered the Hottest Gay Bar in Vancouver. It was pretty pumping, although it was Monday night. Guys without shirts on everywhere…guys dancing…guys who had absolutely no sexual attraction whatsoever to me. We got a drink each but soon decided we should call some of our newfound friends to get them to come over to this hotspot since they liked us more than the clientele at the Odyssey did. We called Alberto first and Peacock/Pigeon second. The story is even better because they both showed up. I guess the four of us are pretty charming because we managed to make at least two friends on the street that night. No sooner had he arrived, Peacock/Pigeon hit the dance floor with a vengeance and was SERIOUSLY shaking his goods. It was actually quite disturbing. I have mocked him once or twice since but I don’t really do the dancing justice; it was that intense. Alberto played it cool and just chilled with us in safety away from Tornado Peacock/Pigeon that was ripping it up a mile a minute on the dance floor and causing a serious ALERT in my mind.
I was driving so I maintained my sobriety like a champ, but Sari got pretty toasted, which was entertaining. Lisa was ok…I’d say buzzed at best and Sarah’s boyfriend picked her up and whisked her away to safety away from our evil Gay Bar clutches. As the night trudged on, I felt depressed a total of three times upon seeing extremely attractive men that had nothing but platonic interest in me. Each time, I expressed my disgruntlement a loud, knowing that I could change nothing, but still needing to declare my irritance. Nothing overly exciting happened in the time we were at the Odyssey other than watching Peacock dance, and discovering a poster for Thursdays regular event called Shower Power, where men undress in a shower. Sari, Lisa, and I have decided that before the end of the summer, we need to attend a Shower Power because, well, it would make a good story and be ultra entertaining.
The night came to an end because Sari was done for and Lisa had to work early. I also had to be at school to edit at 7:30 the next morning, but it was my last day of actual school work so I felt I could show up tired and lethargic, two categories in which I didn’t disappoint. We bid adieu to Alberto and Peacock parked his GT Mustang in the relative vicinity of my fine piece of Japanese machinery, so we got to watch him display his over abundance of testosterone one last time as he ROARED off into the evening, totally revving his car past 4 in an attempt to prove that it is tough.
What I learned from my night out with the Starbucks girls and random guys we picked up along the way is never to underestimate the potential quality of a busy Greek restaurant; DO collect phone numbers like an insane person, and follow up by calling the people whose numbers you get because they might end up being fun; go to Gay nightclubs only on evening where your self esteem is exceptionally high because you will get absolutely no attention what so ever; learn more about sports in attempt to engage random hot guys at dive bars in further conversation than would be possible if you knew nothing about sporting events currently going on. Lance, if you ever stumble upon my blog, I still think you’re hot but I’m not creepy enough to show up at the Earls you work at and strike up a conversation. Or am I? hmmm…
People Actually Do Jump Trains. I Know Because I’ve Done It.
Living in Interior B.C. the options for things to do are few and far between. There’s lots of amazing areas to go camping at, the option of bowling, hanging out at people’s houses, hitting up the patio at local eateries in the summer, going to pubs, clubs, bars, casinos, and hockey/football/soccer games and tournaments. But you’ll notice a common denominator on all of these potential entertainment options. Alcohol is readily available (and necessary) at them all.
I, of course, use any and all of these opportunities to drink because people need to be entertained and I’m best at doing so when intoxicated. One football game I even went so far as to drink Jager out of a random person’s sandal flask for the art of being a drunken fool.
Despite all these possibilities, one event in Kamloops draws people to it on a weekly basis and has since I was a young lass attending illegally with a terrible fake I.D. which later got confiscated. Maybe I’ll tell that story sometime but it truly depresses me. This event is THE event of all events and even as I get older, I don’t enjoy it any less. Some of my friends make fun of me for still going to this occasionally but I don’t care, it’s fun to play cougar-for-a-night and hit on young, illegal boys. Usually I get too drunk to coherently form sentences let alone flirt with anyone so take that last sentence with a grain of salt.
This is event is the ONE…the ONLY…Buck a Beer night at the Max. Every Wednesday. When I started going like…hmmmmm 8 years ago (God I’m old), pints were $1. Then the City of Kamloops made some ridiculous law that all alcoholic drinks couldn’t be sold within city limits for less than $3. While this definitely sucked, the Max outplayed the City (sort of) and just started selling larger glasses of beer for $3. Not that this beer is good. It’s pretty disgusting, and I suspect it’s Pilsner or T.N.T or some other toxic brew. I don’t know why I get so excited about this night, I don’t even really drink beer very often. They also sell Long Islands for $3.25 and without fail, I always drink like 20 of them and I always throw up and have a terrible hangover the next day.
Flash Forward (I used to love that show on Family Channel btw): In recent times I’ve gotten so drunk at the Max on Long Islands, JagerBombs, Southern Comfort and soda that I ended up passing out on the sidewalk outside the bar at the end of the night, drunk dialing everyone in my phone, and sleeping on the bathroom floor like a pro. I haven’t been back since but I’ll go again…Oh yes, I will go again indeed.
This night at the Max I’m going to tell you about is probably the most epic and I don’t think anything can or will compare to it as far as Buck-A-Beer nights go. It started out like so many other nights, hanging out with a couple of the girls, Andrea and Kristen at Kristen’s house downtown, having a few drinks, the usual. Arrival at the Max has to be early otherwise you’ll end up in a line the size of a small African nation. Undoubtely there will be annoying people in said line. Undoubtely most of them will be female, wearing skanky clothes, talking about how if they expose their boobs to the bouncer they will get in faster. Ironically, it’s always the larger girls that step up to the plate on this. “YEAH, I’ll show him my boobs, they’re big, he’ll let us in fast for sure.” It actually makes me feel uncomfortable. Not so uncomfortable that I’m willing to step up to bat and reveal my precious lumps but uncomfortable enough to feel sorry for the bouncers for having to look at those thangs.
This night was no exception. We dicked around, drinking and talking far too long at Kristen’s house and arrived to a massive line taunting us from the cab. Sometimes when I start thinking that being skanky would pay off in situations like these, God rears his head and squashes my epitome as if saying “Nope, you behave. We’ve come this far, don’t ruin it now.” I looked up at the door and the whole world began to go in slow motion. This guy I know from the local football team was working the door. He’d let us in, I was sure of it! I wasted no time bounding up the stairs to greet him in a merry tone and in we went.
Hahaha, some of you haters were expecting that I was going to get shot down, weren’t you? Lol, jerks. That wouldn’t happen. Onward!
So we went into the bar and I’m sure I rocked a Long Island or two. To be honest, I don’t remember. I just looked around and saw a jackpot of people I knew which always makes for a good night. Soon I was doing rows of shots with my wonderful friend Jon, who plays a major part in the story of the rest of the night. The night at the bar was just the usual, but pretty fun. Dancing, drinking, shots, bathroom lines, putting down skanky and/or unappealing people in a feeble attempt to boost my own self esteem. The usual.
2 o’clock came too fast that night. You know some nights when it hits 2 and you actually feel sad, not wanting the night to end? This was one of those times. And I wasn’t about to let it go down without a fight. Jon had offered Kristen and I a ride after the bar, and had a couple of other friends with him. Andrea had made off some other way, unless it was by Segway, it’s uninteresting so who cares. Jon, Kristen, the other friends, and I emerged from the bar and the door opens on to a set of stairs. No, I didn’t fall down the stairs (though I have), I stood on top of them and used it as my personal telling point. “TO DENNY’S!” I declared. The crowd did not erupt in cheers, the crowd did not start a slow clap…but people paid attention to me which was A-OK.
So, to Denny’s it was. The only problem was that we had to get to the car, and Jon wasn’t willing to play chaffeur so we had to walk to it. And it was on the other side of the railroad tracks. No one’s ever really sure what I do when I wander off or talk to strangers but I continue to do it because I guess it amuses me in some way, shape, or form. So I did my usual “making friends” routine, which is more likely to consist of me saying stupid things to a random group of people who clearly doesn’t care, laughing hysterically, then trying frantically to find my friends. Of course when I was done saying my bit to some people, I noticed my friends were gone. I did know that the car was in a parking lot on the other side of the train tracks though, so I headed that direction. No sooner did I get close to the tracks, a train came.
The general area that the trains run through that’s near the bar is actually a train exchange so the trains usually go really slow through it. This train tonight, however, was going at a medium pace (all you Adam Sandler fans can appreciate that). It looked like a long one…and I wasn’t prepare to wait OR go over the walking bridge because it seemed really overrated…so I decided to jump the train.
Essentially what one must do to successfully jump a train is wait for the perfect moment, then grab the small ladder that’s located between cars, hoist yourself up, walk across the plank that separates cars, and jump off the other side. Easier said than done, especially when that someone is me and I’ve had way too much to drink. But as they say, alcohol makes you feel like a superhero, and that I did. Along came the train. I waited. And waited. And waited. And then it came…the perfect moment. I grabbed the ladder, hoisted myself up and…landed on my stomach. I was covered in soot off the train. Head to toe, even my face was black. It was awful. I even got some in my mouth, along with whatever fungus was growing on that train car. Then train was going at a pretty fast pace by this point and I was scared to stand so I dragged myself along the plank to the other side and no joke, dive rolled off into the mud.
Yep, I was a disgusting mess. But I was right at the parking lot Jon parked in, which was nice. As I wandered over toward him, Kristen, and the others, they started laughing hysterically, knowing exactly what I’d done. They didn’t even question why or how. They just knew. See, my friends expect this kind of BS from me, and I’m now under obligation to deliver. Usually Jon drives a nice Mustang but it was in the shop this night and he was driving a PT Cruiser. As if to punish me for not only jumping the train and getting covered in crap, but also for making them wait while I pulled this stunt, Jon made me ride in the hatch…and for some reason they had found 2 more people that needed rides and since Jon was fairly intoxicated, he rode in the hatch too and Kristen, who was mostly sober, drove. Jon’s about 6’5 and like 200-somewhat pounds. The hatch was small. I got squashed. It was the most uncomfortable car ride of my life. I kept carrying on about wanting to go to Denny’s but somehow in the 20 minutes I’d wasted jumping the train, everyone had decided Denny’s was a no-go. Annnnnngry. :(
I don’t know where or how long it took to get there but we ended up at some random person’s house. I think it might have been to drop one of the newcomers off, but when we stopped, I busted out of that hatch like someone had pointed a shotgun at me. And bolted inside this person’s house covered in train soot and mud. What a dick move…lol, but funny. So I ran into their house and down the hall and found the washroom, it seemed quick too. I didn’t lock the door.
I guess I had made so much noise that I woke up the parents of WHOEVER this was. Next thing I knew some random lady I’d never seen before (but could have seen AFTER this incident and not realized it) was standing in the bathroom staring at me like I just materialized from a beam of light. Understandable. I didn’t even know why the hell I was in there. I remember her asking me why I was covered in black powder and why I was in her house, both questions which probably elicited blank stares from me. I think I just left after that and probably didn’t even give this lady a legitimate explanation for why I was in her house.
Back into the hatch I went. So uncomfortable. From the lady’s house to my house, I sang random annoying songs and as Kristen turned up the radio to try to drown me out, I sang louder. It was great. I ended up puking that night, and being extremely hungover the next day. But all in all, it was worth it because I totally successfully jumped a train.
A Poem At Starbucks
Twas the night before Friday when all through the lobby
Not a creature was there, not even a doggy
All the pastries sat in the case with care
In hope that a customer soon would be there
Then what to their wondering eyes should appear?
A customer, from the escalator, ordered a beer
I said “We have beer, but the kind with a root”
He sad “No thanks, carbonation makes me toot.”
He turned to leave and fell flat on his fanny.
I should probably quit leaning because here comes Danny!
A Poem For Lisa
Twas the night before Hump Day when all through the city
I noticed that between my butt cheeks felt pretty gritty
I didn’t know what the hell I should do
So I went to work at Starbucks and took a massive poo
Then what to my wondering eyes should appear
Lisa walked into the changeroom and started coming near
“No!” I shouted “Don’t come over here!”
“The aroma of this crap will make your eyes tear!”
Lisa ignored my urgent warnings and came even closer
“EW!” She exclaimed, “It smells like burnt hair in a toaster!”
I was embarrassed and my ass was on fire
Lisa reminded me of the time she blew out her tire
She said “I drove many miles on just my metal rim”
“But you should probably lay off pastries because you stink Kim.”