Due to the overwhelming response from Chris Walker Vs. The Guy Who Wanted To Race Me. I’ve decided to continue dipping into my back catalog to entertain you. Today, I’m going to share what might be my favorite story ever. It has everything: violence, romance, destruction, and chicken wings. Granted, it’s a bit long but if you’re a fan of all the things I mentioned (and I know I am) you’re going to love it.
I was a sophomore in college, living in a shitty apartment with the Wild Indian and his crazy girlfriend who we’ll call ShitFucker’s Mom (because we called her dog ShitFucker). I hated living in this apartment because I hated living with ShitFucker’s Mom so I drank a lot. Wild Indian is borderline genius so he studied all the time; I was undeclared so I did just enough to get a B average before eventually becoming a Communications major. In other words: I was having fun while he wasn’t. One random Thursday night a bunch of people came over; Wild Indian was studying in his bedroom. I would occasionally knock on his door, check up on him, and sneak him a beer while ShitFucker’s Mom sat on his bed, squawking like a pterodactyl.
Around 3:00 AM a ragtag assortment of friends: The Doe, X5, and whoever else was left over, were getting ready to go out for food and I invited Wild Indian along. He decided to come. Just as we were heading out the door ShitFucker’s Mom started having a hissy-fit, telling Wild Indian he couldn’t go. Wild Indian just gave me the “What can I do?” look. I could’ve let it go and left without him but I’d had enough; ShitFucker’s played this game way too often. it was time to take a stand.
I sent Wild Indian outside with the other guys and manned the door while ShitFucker’s Mom launched into frenzy. I told her, “Listen, you never let him come out with us. All we’re doing is going out to get some food; this is bullshit; he’s going.” Wild Indian was my best friend and I was sick of watching this psychotic bitch ruin his life. ShitFucker’s Mom slapped me in the face, stomped into the kitchen, and started screeching. I screamed, “You’re fucking crazy!” That made her start smashing beer bottles in the sink. I tore over to the kitchen counter and yelled at her to stop. Midway through my yelling she picked up another empty beer bottle and swung it at my face, barely missing me. “Whoa,” I countered. “You’re insane. I’m out of here.” I left the apartment.
Suddenly, as if the heaven’s parted and God himself spoke down to Earth, a boomingly loud “Chris!” erupted into the night air. I swear the ground shook. Wild Indian looked at me again and said, “You guys just go without me.” After living with this Satan Woman for too many months, having my personal space violated and disregarded, being slapped, yelled at, and having a beer bottle swung at my face I decided I just wasn’t going to let it slide. She was a plague upon our once happy home. I ran back into the apartment and confronted her.
She was on Wild Indian’s bed when I entered the house. I got right into her face, told her she was a bitch, told her she wasn’t welcome in my home, she wasn’t paying rent, get the fuck out and then – thunk. Followed by thunk. Followed by another thunk. Mid-screaming match she had picked up a beer bottle and struck me across the face once and then twice on the top of my head. The beer bottle never broke. A couple seconds went by before I realized what had happened. I was just standing there thinking, “Did she just do what I think she did?” I was like a dog when you bop it on the nose and it forgets what it was doing.
After realizing “Yes, she really did just hit you with a beer bottle,” I told her to wait right there while I went and got my sledge hammer (I used to carry a sledge hammer around with me but once again, another story). When I came back with it she had her cell phone in hand, claiming she was calling the police. That was my cue to leave.
I told The Doe and X5 what happened and they drove me to Big Thunda and Tito Kastro’s apartment first, then Supergene’s apartment. Somewhere in-between those two drives I called my girlfriend at the time and left her a message like this:
“Hey cutie, it’s me. It’s Walker. Well, I just got smashed over the head with a beer bottle. I’m bleeding a little. Nothing too bad. I think I have a concussion, I might be bleeding internally. Oh well, well, if I die tonight I just wanted you to know I thought you were pretty cool. Anyway, yeah, I might die. Gimme a call back.”
She never called me back.
The following morning I woke up feeling like death. I was shaking, my head was pounding, I was destroyed however; I still made it to school. This was my first substantial encounter with The Name That Shall Not Be Mentioned. I was sitting in the University of Las Vegas, Nevada Student Union, half-alive, telling a group of friends about night’s shenanigans; I had long hair at the time and The Name That Shall Not Be Mentioned was sitting beside me, pushing my hair behind my ears and baseball cap. I thought she was an angel and she really was… for about four months. Then we endured what I now refer to as The Two and a Half Years of My Life I Want Back.
Sitting in my first and only class of the day, I told myself, “Do not die from internal bleeding, do not die from internal bleeding,” for a full hour. Afterward, I called Tito Kastro and he told me to meet him at the cabanas at Bally’s Hotel and Casino. The cabana fridge was stocked solid with beer. Having a hangover, mild concussion, and slight chance of internal bleeding I did what any reasonable person would do: I started drinking.
Beer number one was hard to get down. Beer number two was a little easier. By beer number three I no longer felt pain. I was born anew through the medicinal power of barely and hops and whatever else. I received zero “Are you okay?” calls from the current girlfriend.
After hanging out at the cabana all day, we went to a Greek talent show, or something, back at the UNLV Student Union. The Name That Shall Not Be Mentioned was there and she invited us out to eat with her sorority sisters. We went, and I spent the next two nights hooking up with her on a pullout couch.
If you couldn’t tell, I’d given up on my other relationship. She never called me back; it was clearly time to move on. I finally got ahold of her the following Monday night. First I said, “You didn’t even think to call you when I told you there was a possibility of me dying?” I don’t remember her answer. Then I said, “Do you still have my 49ers t-shirt? Alright, I’m going to swing by and grab it.” When I got to her dorm room she had the t-shirt in hand. I took it from her, smirked, waved, and walked away. She blurted out, “You’re not even going to talk to me?” I never looked back.
The following morning I was sitting at the dining table, eating cheerios, when ShitFucker’s Mom sat down across from me. She apologized for hitting me in the face with a beer bottle. I told her not to worry; I was over it. And I really was. Sometimes a crazy bitch smacks you in the head with a beer bottle. It happens. If you can’t forgive and move forward you’re not a real man.
Posted: April 20th, 2006 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Uncategorized | No Comments »
Here’s a great thing to do if you’re ever in downtown Reno: leave. It sucks.
That’s an unfair thing to say. For tourists and newcomers to the Reno area it’s probably a great place to mingle with morally vacant co-eds and drink copious amounts of alcohol. For me, it’s always a redundant high school reunion and “Who’s Who” of characters from my past. It gets old quick.
Friday night Dong Wang, Chuck, and I went to the Eldorado Hotel and Casino to attend this thing called the Nevada Beer Fest put on by some local alumni organization. Which one? I’m not sure nor do I care. The entire point of this excursion was to: 01.) drink an excessive amount of beer for twenty bucks; 02.) deeply offend a lot of people; 03.) get my buddies laid; and 04.) entertain myself and friends at the expense of others.
I’m proud to say I knocked three of four out of the park.
We started pre-drinking at my house which was probably not the greatest idea since it defeats the goal of taking full advantage of a beer fest. Kind of. In my opinion it’s like stretching before the big game. You don’t just go out there and start playing, you warm up and prepare yourself, you know? We killed a sixer of Budweiser while watching the Dave Attell’s Insomniac Tour DVD featuring Sean Rouse, Greg Giraldo, and Dane Cook. If you don’t own it you need to.
Showing up to the beer fest an hour late, the place was packed. They’d already run out of souvenir glasses so we only had to pay $20 instead of $25. The price decrease was good and the lack of trinkets was no big deal as I figured people would get drunk, leave their souvenir glasses lying around, and I would then take one – which is exactly what happened. Bad part was I got too drunk and left my stolen glass lying around somewhere and it too disappeared. Not a big deal though, they sort of sucked anyway.
Extremely soused and halfway through the beer fest a posse of “emo kids” walked past us. Dong Wang knew one of them and told me, “Emo chicks think they’re so cool. Those girls won’t even talk to you unless you wear eyeliner and cry.” That made me laugh. Emo chicks? Give me a break. And how about emo guys? Wow, you’re in touch with your feelings, good for you. Stop pouting and making out with your same sex friends, move out of your parent’s house, and get a job somewhere other than Hot Topic, you oversensitive douchebag. How did My Chemical Romance putting out a hit record make you cool? Oh, that’s right, it didn’t. You’re an idiot.
By the way: the band Thursday sucks, if you’re interested.
One of the emo girls came over to talk to Dong Wang. Mid-conversation I leaned over and said, “Hey, I didn’t know the leader singer of Fall Out Boy was going to be here,” referring to the only guy in her group. The joke went right over her head or maybe she didn’t notice her friend trying to pull off the long sideburn, stupid hat, semi-flannel shirt uniform the leader singer from Fall Out Boy is always wearing on TRL. Either way, she left immediately after the comment.
At some point I ran into a girl I used to date. For this story we’ll give her a Native American pseudonym: Drinking Proud Chest. Why? Evidently her tits are her greatest asset. I guess she grew some good sized cans after a couple years of maturity and alcohol. News to me but everyone else seemed to be in awe over them so why not, she can have an Indian name to commemorate them.
Dong Wang and Chuck were absolutely flabbergasted when I told them I dated Drinking Proud Chest so I made it a point to talk to her, if only for their amusement. Pretty soon Drinking Proud Chest and I were reminiscing on the long, long, time ago in a galaxy far, far away when we dated for roughly five minutes. Sometime during the talk she said, “Yeah, but you never got to see the twins, did you?” I said, “Twins? What twins? We used to take your baby sister for walks in the park.” Then she told me she was talking about her tits. I don’t know if I ever saw them. Obviously they didn’t leave much of a lasting impression.
The best was later in the night when I was annoying the shit out of Drinking Proud Chest and her friend when the friend asked me, “Are you staring at her boobs?” I had to laugh. 01.) No, I wasn’t. I know how awesome you girls think Drinking Proud Chest’s tits are but I really wasn’t staring. I was probably off in my own alcoholic dream world, to be honest. I never look at clothed boobs for more than a second anyhow because it’s a waste of my time. If I want to gawk at boobs I’ll just go home – there’s someone there more than happy to show me hers at moment’s notice without all the “blah, blah, blah,” and nonsense. 02.) Even if I had been looking, so what? It’s not like I even had to try; they were on display like they were at a fucking car show. Here, I’ve got this automobile out on the showroom floor but don’t look at it. Don’t you dare look at it! I don’t want you to look at this car but I’m putting it out here for everyone to see. I’m even going to talk about how great the car is but don’t look at it, you pervert! Please. It reminds me of the spiel Greg Giraldo goes on in the Insomniac DVD I mentioned earlier.
He’s hilarious, by the way.
Side Note: I’m only making a big deal out of this because I found it so hilarious how many times these girls brought up the boobs. If you read this, Drinking Proud Chest (and you know who you are): you’re great but I don’t give a shit about your tits. I understand how incredible everyone thinks they are but they don’t stand out as a pinnacle of excellence, sorry to disappoint you. Furthermore, if I see you out in a social setting again and the boobs come up I’m just going to talk incessantly about my giant dick to level the playing field.
After, during, or before the tit incident Chuck and I were over at this martini bar called Roxy where a guy we knew, I think his name is Drew, was drunk and talking about how mean people were in high school. It’s like dude, that was six years ago – move on, who the fuck cares? Cool part was he was with this really nice couple. They were high school sweethearts (I think) and actually ended up getting married. I hung out with them for a while and insisted they come over for dinner sometime since I’ve become such an epic cook. I doubt they’ll call though because I was really drunk and probably scared the shit out of them.
Oh well, these things happened.
I saw my friend Golden at a bar called Brew Brothers. She has friends who are sisters that make out with each other and get into fist fights with guys. It’s great. Never a dull moment with that crew, and I thought I was out of control. I hung out with them briefly but spent most of my time in Brew Brothers texting the Mrs.
After that I was hanging with Chuck and an old acquaintance I was trying to hook him up with – we’ll call her The Red. It was great; I was talking to The Red, building Chuck up while exposing all his vulnerable lady traits (which girls love) when The Red told me, “You have to be the best wingman ever.” Speaking of wingmen, I learned (and later forgot) the migration pattern of birds from these two relatively sober girls who showed up way too late in the game. I almost felt bad for them. They were way too nice and way too sober for our level of debauchery. I hope I didn’t horribly offend them.
Hands down, the highlight of the evening h
as to go to drive home incident. This fucking chick, I don’t even know what to call her. How about: The Tease.
The Tease started off cool. At the Heineken booth, at the beer fest, they had an Amstel Light blanket. As the Heineken guys were tearing down their booth Dong Wang and I convinced The Tease to go get the blanket. She got the Heineken guys to give it to her and I gave her high accolades for doing so. Then I forgot she existed until I was telling Dong Wang to take her home and bang her.
It was when Dong Wang was telling me he was going to take The Tease home that I was like, “Great, let’s get her to drive us to my house while we’re at it. Tell her my place is yours, say whatever you want – I’ll play along.” It ended up working. We were walking to the parking garage and I was saying shit like, “Yeah, dude, don’t forget I’ve got your keys,” because if I can promote my friends by claiming my shit is theirs – so be it. I don’t care. We got to the parking lot and it turns out The Tease drives an old school, convertible Jeep. I was like, “Yes, this chick is awesome. Date this girl, Dong Wang!” She got the blanket, she drove a Jeep, how could she possibly be bad?
I’ll tell you how.
Driving out of the parking lot, Dong Wang tells The Tease to drive us back to his house (my house), which is on South Meadows. She freaks out. “What, I’m not driving to South Meadows. My parents live out there. I can’t drive to South Meadows.” How the fuck did she even let us in the car if she had a problem taking us somewhere? I told her it was no more than 10 minutes away if she got on Highway 80 but she just wasn’t having it, “I can’t drive that far.” Then, The Tease took us with her to get gas. Great, just what I wanted to do. While Dong Wang and I were alone in the car I told him, “All right dude, you need to get your fucking A-Game on. I’ll act passed out so you can sweet talk this girl. Do whatever you have to, just get her to drive us home.”
To Dong Wang’s credit he laid it on thick – just not thick enough. There was no way this chick was going to drive us to my house. So, I came out of my fake coma and said, “Alright, take us back to the fucking Eldorado. We’ll get a ride there. This is fucking ridiculous.” I was pissed. On the way out of the Jeep I threw the Amstel blanket at Dong Wang and told him we were keeping it for having to endure the bullshit. The Tease didn’t say shit. It wasn’t until I was out of the Jeep, blanket in hand, that The Tease begged Dong Wang for the blanket back. At first, I wouldn’t give it to him – I’d rather throw it in a trashcan than return it. However, I quickly became bored so I threw it back at him just so we could get off the side of the street.
This was our conversation in the elevator ride back to the Eldorado:
Me: Why’d you give her the fucking blanket back?
Dong Wang: Because she asked for it.
Me: Who cares? After that shit we deserved it.
Dong Wang: Yeah, but I wanted to hook up with her.
Me: Okay, are you hooking up with her?
Dong Wang: No.
Me: Then why the fuck’d you give it back?
Dong Wang saw the logic, reluctantly, and hopefully learned his lesson. Probably not though, as we were both wasted. Back in the Eldorado we found Chuck; I was mean to an old girlfriend of his (sorry) and we all decided it was time to leave.
Several miles and bags of Del Taco later we were all on my couch, happily watching Dane Cook, laughing about things we will never remember. Overall, I’d say the debauchery level was high and the night was good.
If we hurt your feelings, sorry, you’re oversensitive.
UPDATE:
I just got this message from The Red:
Very entertaining Walker, I’m proud to see that a quote of mine has made your blog. It true, you were spitting some good game for your buddy there! good times. I have to say, you gave The Tease quite the hard time though. I have to hand it to her for retaining the sweet blanket she schemed for. Maybe I’m biased because she’s my little sis and I taught her well, to steal as many alcoholic trinkets as possible. I do agree that the driving bit was lame- major loss of points on her behalf.
EDIT 1: I’d like to make a correction, upon arriving home I was just informed I do NOT get to see the Mrs.’ chestal region at moments notice by the Mrs. herself. I am now in trouble. See the sacrifices I make to entertain you?
EDIT 2: Oh yeah, another thing, contrary to popular belief (the Mrs.’ opinion) I did not spend half the blog talking about an ex-girlfriend’s tits. I spent half the blog making fun of a ex-girlfriend who is far too into her own tits.
I’ve said it before: women, they read what they want.
Posted: April 18th, 2006 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Uncategorized | No Comments »
This incident occurred when I lived with the Wild Indian in Las Vegas. The Wild Indian and I were at a fraternity brother’s apartment for a party. It was early in the fall semester so all of our pledges were there. I’m typically mean to pledges but on this particular night I was being uncharacteristically friendly. One pledge, I think his name was Paul decided to capitalize on this moment of congeniality by challenging me to one of my favorite past-times: a drinking contest.
I told him, “Fine, you want to drink with me? We’ll drink all night.” He was game. We drank until 2:00 AM when the beer ran out. He was drunk and it showed. Nevertheless, he wanted to continue. He was saying stuff like, “Walker, I love you, man. I love you. You can’t drink worth shit but I love you.” By this point, I should have seen the sign that said: YOUR NIGHT CAN ONLY GO DOWNHILL FROM HERE, but what can I say, I was drunk and missed it. I told Paul, “Fine, we’ll settle this. It’s 2:00 AM; I’ve got a sixer of New Castle and a four pack of Guinness at my apartment. We’ll go there and drink them all. If you can keep up you’re good by me and I won’t give you shit for the rest of your pledge period.” And it was on.
We got back to my apartment, and no one was home. Paul stumbled in and sat down on the couch. I gave him a New Castle and we started drinking. Within a couple minutes of chit-chat awkward moment one occurred.
Paul says to me: “Dude, you got any pornezzi?”
Me: “Any what?”
Paul: Pornezzi!
Me: “The fuck is pornezzi?”
Paul: “You know: porn?”
Me: “Oh. I don’t know. We might.”
Paul: “We should watch one.”
Just so happens, the Wild Indian and his girlfriend had been watching porn in the living room the night before and left the tape in the VCR. How convenient. Personally, I found Paul’s request strange but being drunk and feeling the need to oblige my guest I turned the tape on. It got uncomfortable quick. I started beer number two; Paul was still on beer number one, quickly on his way to losing our drink-off. I decided it was time for a cigarette.
The porn was still playing in the background when we went out onto the patio. I ignored it and smoked. Regardless of the events taking place I tried to have a normal, drunken conversation when awkward moment number two happened.
Paul says to me: “Hey Walker, you ever race before?”
Me: “Like running race? Yeah.”
Paul: “No, you ever raced before?”
Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Paul: “You know, when you jack off and see who can cum the fastest.”
Me [awkwardly]: “Ha. Ha. No, man. Can’t say I’ve ever done that before.”
Paul: “Walker, we should race.”
Anyone a little freaked out by this? All of you? What a coincidence, me too. As you might imagine, the uncomfortable level skyrocketed from mild to extreme. I tried to laughed it off, finished my cigarette, and headed back inside. I didn’t know what to do; I wasn’t sure whether to be mad or scared or what. I couldn’t believe what this guy just said. I grabbed beer number three and tried to compose myself, tried to let it go. Paul hadn’t finished beer number one. The porn was still on. There were two couches in my living room; I sat down on the empty one. Awkward moment number three took place as Paul came over to try and sit down next to me. I mean right next to me.
Me: “All right, dude, I’m calling it a night. I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket and you can sleep on the couch. I’m going to bed.”
Paul: “No Walker, I’m going wherever you’re going.”
Me [laughing]: “No dude, seriously. I’ll go get you some shit. You can sleep out here.”
Paul: “Come on, Walker. Let’s go to your room.”
Me [really trying to laugh]: “Seriously, I’ll go get you a pillow.”
I figured if I could just give him a pillow, leave him in the living room, and lock my door he’d sleep it off and I’d take him back to his dorm after some much needed rest. I would have driven him back immediately but we’d been having a drinking contest all night; I had no business driving. I got off the couch and headed toward my room when the fourth and final awkward moment transpired: as I was walking Paul got up and threw his arms around my shoulders, from behind, saying, “Walker, I want to come with you.” I spun around and shoved him off me. He stumbled back and I told him, “Alright, that’s it. You’re going home.”
To this day I don’t know why I didn’t just knock him out or throw him out the front door and leave him to his own fate. You always think you know what you’d do if a situation like that happened but when it actually does, you have no clue. It’s weird. I drove him back to the dorms doing 80 mph in a 45 mph zone. En route, he fell asleep. By the time I reached the dorms I felt sober from the overabundance of adrenaline. I pulled him out of my Jeep and left him.
I couldn’t go to sleep. I was too wired, too frazzled after what had just happened. On the drive home I was playing all the awkward moments back in my mind thinking. I couldn’t go back to my apartment so I went back to Big Thunda and Tito Kastro’s apartment. I called my fraternity brother, Boosie, whom had been with us early in the night, and told him what happened. He laughed at me.
After that I went to another fraternity brother’s, Supergene, apartment. (Just a word of advice: when you’re a big white guy, it’s never a good idea to break into a place where four black guys live especially when two of them are borderline thugs. You’re asking to get a.) beat up, or b.) shot.) I told him what had happened. He laughed at me, too. He was about to get up to watch football all day at a sports bar so I joined him. Later that night, we had a fraternity meeting where I told everyone what happened. They all laughed at me. After the fraternity meeting was the pledge meeting. Paul actually showed up. He tried to talk to me like nothing happened but I just stared at him with a “you tried to rape me” look. He didn’t pledge past that day. In all honesty, he could have. You’re gay? So what; who cares? I’m just not going to jack off with you at two in the morning.
Posted: April 14th, 2006 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Uncategorized | No Comments »