As I'm sure many of you remember, the Beach Boys had a hit single called "Surf City". Well, this post will not make another mention of that tune, but as you can see is similarly named. The title refers to a certain date with destiny that my friends and I have coming up this weekend.
I believe Jim Nantz may have coined the phrase "A tradition unlike any other", and that my friends will be lived by both myself and Steve Dixxx this weekend when we visit the place I have renamed "Babe City, USA"... Augusta, Georgia.
There will no doubt be plenty of babes to speak to and celebrities galore (we stood next to Will Ferrel last time we attended) not the least of whom is one Freddy Couples. Boom Boom, as those of us who pretend to know him personally call him, is a different sort of babe. The kind of babe that redefines the word itself and knocks the world off of its axis. Usually the word is left to describe only the most attractive of females, but Freddy is an iconic male babe who I will no doubt be following this weekend in his attempt to win a second Green Jacket. By the way, to Brez, that green jacket you wear around Randolph Macon's campus looks ridiculous and you should discontinue its use entirely then you should promptly go to the store and buy underwear so you actually have some to wear.
In the coming weeks, look for posts detailing each vulgar moment of our trip to Augusta. There will most assuredly be lushing, swearing, and gay jokes to tell.... be prepared.
Now that that is out of the way, I'd like to reminisce about my weekend past and let you in a little story that may well just gross you out.
I first must apologize for my lack of posting recently. I have been jibbed and gabbed by my friends (who actually don't even read this) about how I was letting my second blog fail. Rest assured that was not my intention. I've simply been caught up with trying to perfect my recent switch from a "modified tidal wave" hairstyle to the more business-esque and frat boy "combover". It's taken a lot of time and effort, but I think the transition is nearly complete.
Anyway back to the basics. Last weekend I went to Richmond to visit some buddies and take advantage of some underage high school chicks. The latter never came to fruition, but I like to think that's only because of the enormous faux pas I made mid-afternoon on Saturday.
As many of you know, I suffer from a very deadly and serious disease known as Celiac Disease. Basically I can't ingest gluten or my top and bottom end completely fall out. It's difficult to eat out because you'd really be surprised about all of the things that have gluten in them. Friday night, I decided to try the Vietnamese specialty "pho" because nothing really says "Hey, I'm all alone on Friday night", like reminders of the Vietkong and a 12 pack of Woodchuck Ciders.
So along came Saturday and my buddies decided to grill out. Having driven to Richmond early in the morning, I had neglected to eat anything and decided to go straight back to drinking. 12 "chucks" later and still on an empty stomach... I was hurting. That's when I realized that pho was made up of broth that clearly had gluten intertwined into the special techniques of its deliciousness.
To make a long story short, or atleast shorter than I could make it, I gambled with a fart and lost. Discouraged and inebriated, I ran to the downstairs bathroom where there, of course, was no toilet paper. I called out for help, but my cries were useless. No one would understand the inner workings of my stomach. My underpants already soiled, I decided that the only way out was to use them for clean up.
The nasty mess got worse after I had neatly disposed of the Undergarments Formerly known as Hanes. With no underpants and no real clean up happening, it was only a matter of time before my khaki shorts were ready to go the wayside. As we pulled into my other friends house to get ready for the evenings events, his gasp only confirmed what I already knew. My khakis were in fact, ruined.
Luckily, Nick had a shower and I had brought a change of clothes. Disaster averted... The evening unfolded farely sparse of events, other than when I drunkenly called my ex and casually told her, "I hope you're still doing really well as a slut and everything. You should kill yourself, talk to you later". No blood, no foul right???
