01/19/2006 - 7:00 p.m. | dustin dustin dustin

Today's title comes from a certain skunk-headed individual who I have been coerced into hanging out with three, four days solid now. This is just a bit behind, so bear with me as usual.

Last Friday you already know about, Clybourne, Shelly flinging drinks, me not flinging game, something something. As I said, I'd gotten out of skiing and was pretty happy to just sit around all day and do jack. Or perhaps it was the opposite, I was bored and wanted to be out doing things. It's hard to tell with that whole bipolar attribute rolling the dice for me, eh? Anyway, let's say it was one of those. Decidedly late Spritz decided we would be going out with Dustin - and only Dustin - to the bars and such. We picked up some Blue Moon and downed those there while Dustin mysteriously put on an Illinois-Arizona game from last year. He had made the DVD himself.

My verdict is still out on Dustin. At times he can be fairly nice and funny and shit, but other times he's just plain weird. Examples scattered here and there. #1: I'm pretty used to most manly dudes referring to themselves as members of their favorite teams (as in, "We really had our defense on today"). Somehow, and I wish I had been less drunk as to remember, he somehow managed to use an "I" in reference to the Illini. And for the life of me, I can't figure out how he did. "I scored the winning point." No you did not, Dustin. You were crushing boxes of crackers in anxiety at the time. "I picked the best play for the opportunity." No that is equally doubtful, as the TV still rarely obeys your commands when shouted at. I can't figure it out.

So we walk over to the bars (finishing off my beer in the Trans building) and end up at Murphy's. Of course, of course. We are sure to meet many people here. I will tell you how it works. They will play pool, I will sit and try to choke down whatever beer they have given me and not punch myself in the stomach.

Strangely enough, though, Dustin did work up the courage to talk to some girl. Actually, that might an incorrect use of the phrase, because I don't think he was even scared like the rest of us. I guess you cross a certain line and there is nothing left to lose. It is a weird night when Dustin is the closest to getting some tail. Of course, this girl was an awful, awful nugget who said stupid things in a grating voice, but if you can play through the pain, more power to you, my man. I could never approached such a creature (at least without a highly-reflective shield). So Spritz is making friends with PoolShark (and Big Bubba, friend of PoolShark - "If you don't let him win, he will snap your twig arms") and Dustin is making time with the girl, and I continue to try and down the beer at even half the rate that the other two were at, laughing that I still believe nights like this could ever go differently.

We move upstairs and while Dustin carries on with the girl, Spritz and I sit gaily aside and watch some wedding party that has seemingly wandered into the bar. Good choice, peeps. He is actually quite drunk and is waxing poetic about something or other. It's a good thing I like misery more than the next guy, because this was about the worst date ever.

Dustin closes the deal (which is to say, gets her number) and we head over to Jimmy John's, where fate (in the form of Dustin) sends another bag of chips clattering to the floor. Five second rule clearly dictates I must take them. I watch from the table over as a large group of girls is purportedly seduced by a couple of older guys from the wedding party. How does one get rid of that shame, by the way? We walk back to Dustin's, briefly watch some softcore porn (on demand! "I demand Busty Cops... right now!"), and then Spritz drives us home. Clearly, he should not have been driving, but I am at the point where a car wreck could only improve the evening. He grabs some no parking sign and crams it diagonally into his SUV. When he realizes we actually don't need another ten foot tall pole in our house, he leans it against some fence, nearly touching the electrical wires and killing us both. We take a walk around the block while he smokes and grab an empty keg each from the house we stole the tapper from. A rare brush of conscience from him, though, and we are lugging the damn things back. Hubcaps were thrown as frisbess, a huge box fire was needlessly lit on the porch, and I am just about spent.

Here is an odd little conversation that Dustin and I shared:

Him: So, how many times have you had sex before?
Me: Uh�
Him: You�re a virgin? [I�m so glad this is everyone�s first conclusion]
Me: No� How many times or how many girls?
Him: How many girls.
Me: Well, just the one girl, but multiple times with her� Uh, yeah.
Him: Oh yeah? Yeah, I�ve had sex with 4 or 5 girls.
Me: Oh.
Him: Yeah, I�m really not sure about that last one. I woke up with her, and everyone said I did it, but I�m too drunk to remember.
Me: OK!

This came completely out of left field. I have no idea what to think of it. Is this what dudes sit around and talk about?

It is probably a good sight true that I woke up the next day a little pissy, but the following events did nothing to put me in better spirits. The wireless connection was down, so I went down to fiddle with the wires and shit, and Kyle tells me, "Oh. You're only going to have that for like another 20 minutes. I'm taking it to IMSA and then Cincinnati with me." Kyle Wild, you shithead. What a nice goodbye gift. How about a little advance warning, some time to get a new one, plans made, whatever. Instead, he just runs off with it. I mean, I expect that sort of thing with Spritz (When he's gone, I expect to wake up one day and find every major appliance missing), but it's lately seemed like Kyle has been trying to keep us pissed off and distant, maybe so we won't miss him as much. Well, no worries there, man. I was mad as hell all the way to Wal-mart and back as I purchased a new router and got the stupid thing working somehow.

Shelly tells me that Kyle had at least told her in advance, but that's sort of like assigning chores to a Downs baby. Or a Downs baby assigning chores to a Downs baby, I don't know. Either way, shit wasn't gonna get done. I stopped being pissy a while ago, but I actually have not seen him since, so it was kind of a stupid note to end things on.

Now Sunday I know I was all happy lurking in isolation, reading my stupid book and more or less living in an atmosphere entirely of farts and cheese popcorn feet. But somehow it was decided we would all get drunk and go to the gay bar. It was karaoke night, hosted by Dr. Science supposedly, and if any place was going to be rockin' on a Sunday evening, it was certain to be C-Street. They certainly don't respect the Sabbath after all.

So we�re drinkin� and eating cheese curds (fresh from Wisconsin) and watching �Star Trek� and waiting �til Jevon limps over (skiing incident) so we can hit Dustin�s and onward. Spritz once again drives and once again we are somehow all cool with this scenario (albeit less so when the bar is closing later and he still has a gallon full of gin in front of him). Tebben emerges from whatever dank lair he�s been lurking in (Allison�s vag) and decides to come out with us, and we start the excessively long trek there. It occurs to somebody that we don�t really know where this dive is. We ask some vagrants.

We get there, and they charge us cover. 4 bucks. On a Sunday night?! There better some damn amazing shit in there for four bucks on a Sunday. For four bucks, I want to see a dude suckin� another dude off, right there in front of me! I want streams of jizz flying through the air like streamers! I want some homophobe to storm in and get massacred by a mob of a million tiny flailing arms!

I guess drag queens will do, though.

Apparently we had come in on something of a special night. No karaoke, but in its place like a dozen amateur and pro drag queens of the highest order. At least most of them were drag queens. There was this one nasty bitch in this skintight blue spandex leotard thing, boobs all flopping out, legs so chock full of cellulite they looked like oatmeal-filled nylons, and I think she was trying to pull a fast one. �I�m ugly enough to be a dude being a chick.� One �girl� even ground up on my shit �cause I�s was dancin� so hot. I didn�t even have to pay a dollar.

I had not been entirely enthusiastic to go out at all, but I at least decided to dress in the spirit of the occasion. Girl jeans, OK shirt, glasses, vintage tie. And some dudes was wantin� it bayad! An entirely new experience, that. People being attracted to me and all. I was gettin' the eye from three or four guys, one dude was hovering around trying to dance, and one guy actually came up to Shelly to covertly ask whether I was a) single and b) gay. In that order. The latter was actually my favorite, probably because he reminded me of me the most. His name was Chad, and he was in the same nerd vein I occupy, often dancing by himself in just the craziest manner possible, probably because he was too shy for the most part. Shelly and I mostly danced together, for safety�s sake (or to be coy, who can tell?), but Chad made it into our inner sanctum for a few truly bizarre little numbers.

The nice thing about the gay bar is that you can act like a complete retard, and you don�t really feel like you�ll be judged for it. As such, I began flailing around with so little abandon that I�m pretty sure half the dudes there thought I was faking it. That�s right. I was acting too gay to possibly be gay. There�s a compliment right there when you think about it. Jevon and Dustin lifted me up on their shoulders while I twirled around. I threw my tie to Chad. Awesome. Also, there�s no worries about getting a chick there, because they�re all frickin� lesbians. Yay!! There were some pretty cute girls there (There were some pretty bulldyke Rosie O�Donnell-lookin� beasts there, too, but I am digressing slightly, so I�ll continue), but we already knew we had no shot because they were all grinding up on each other. In fact, probably the prettiest girl in the club made a pretty aggressive attack on Shelly, pulling her away from me and whoever and grinding up on her for a song or two. We tried to tell her to go for it, but would she listen?

The bad thing about the gay bar is that the only two gay people I did not want to see were there. Of course, there is a logic to that, but I was still slightly terrified, trying to hide from them the whole night. For one, there was Ace. Now, I have no problem with him, but apparently he does with me, and I didn�t need him all slapping me in front of his posse or some shit, so I avoided his mantrain whenever it passed our station. Even worse was the older gay man who freaked me the fuck out at the candy store. No, not Arnie (the guy I went on a date with). He was about as time around boys as I am around girls. No, I�m talking about the creepy middle aged man who had acted all nervous and covertly slipped me his number after inviting me to �play some pool� down at this �place he knew� (C-Street). The one I thought was going to be hiding under my car with a shiv? Yeah, he was there. Alone. Lurking in the shadows. Staring. Certainly not playing any pool. I tried to avoid his gaze from the second I saw him, but I�m sure I gave him at least a week�s worth of masturbation fodder. Until he disembowels his next eight year old Chinese boy.

We actually stayed until closing, and I will finally admit that I had a good time and that it had been worth going out. Shelly and I left the dance floor, gathered our poor manly friends huddled around the pool table, and headed for the one site of everyone�s drunken respite. The old T-Bell. Unfortunately, the damn lobby closed at two (I am just pleased with their use of the term � it�s right up there with Wendy�s asking if we�d take our food in the dining room), and we walked back to Dustin�s in shame. I hadn�t been very buzzed to begin with and was well sober enough to drive by now, but Spritz won�t give up his car come hell or high water, so I sprinted home and got my own.

We gathered the troops and headed back to Taco Bell, where I quickly rattled off our orders until the cashier said (and I quote), �Whoa� Slow your roll, home skillet.� Well, that alone was worth the trip. While we waited for them to actually process the meat (or whatever they do that takes so much damn time), vulgar things were drawn on my windows. Tebben ordered one of those Baja Blast lime Mt. Dews and immediately regretted his decision, as we all said he would.

Back at Dustin�s, Spritz�s car was gone, an unnerving sign. He apparently had ordered Jimmy John�s, eaten it, and then driven home to do donuts in the back parking lot. A paragon of logic that Spritz is. We all ate our disgusting homogenous slop (The Taco Bell Formula: With only beans, beef, cheese, sour cream, and taco chips, how many different entrees can one create? Answer: Infinity). Jevon revealed himself truly as Kyle Wild�s brother, with the added twist of years and years of aggressive military training. Yes, his eyes would dart about constantly, looking for weakness in the pack, anyone who might be slowing down on their consumption, but he would attack much, much quicker. �YOU DONE WITH THAT?!� �WHAT�S THE DEAL ON THOSE NACHOS?� You hadn�t finished your answer, and already his hand had darted towards your sad little soggy half-burrito. I gave Shelly the rest of my nachos because she hadn�t ordered anything, to her specifically, and he dives in with a piece of white bread he got from somewhere, arguing, �You didn�t order anything so you shouldn�t be hungry.� Uh, you just ate like ten tacos, so maybe you shouldn�t be there, chief.

Fast forward some, through work and all. To Tuesday night. My chronometer is a bit jangled, so I can�t remember what was when and if I told you about it. Let us assume, then, that it all happened at once. Spritz, Gautam, and I had gone to Wal-mart for Spritz to get some magic Nerf gun revolver that could be easily modded. Moded? Mod thing. Right. While Gautam shopped for his shit, I convinced Spritz to drive over to Meijer to look for extra darts and shit, making it back before Gautam had even noticed we�re gone. I know, it�s unimportant, but stupid games like that are practically the only thing that makes life worth living.

It was the, uh, first Dustin beer pong party of 2006. Can you believe it? I�m getting all mind fucked on who went and shit, though. Smacko, was your ass back? Yeah, you came. So did Gautam. And Draggin� BallZ made his glorious return, as awkward as ever. Actually, it was the (sub)standard Dustin beer pong party: Lots and lots of dudes, thinly veiled homoeroticism, forced drinking, one kind of chubby nasty chick. Shelly and I took turns mostly, as neither of us are great shakes at the drinking, which I�m sure got some derision from Dustin. He�s so fuckin� weird, giving me shit because I �do cardio.� Well, of course it sounds gay when you say it like that. I run, you cocksucker, and maybe it would do someone else a right bit of good.

Somehow I think everyone�s manhood is like this giant pirate ship deposited very careful on the pointed peak of a mountain. Very easy to fuck with. Very fucking stupid analogy.

The party degenerated, as it usually does, into a bunch of yelling. There were some flippy cup duels, Draggin� BallZ touchin� everybody all intimiately, and they seemed about ready to molest the one chubby nasty girl. I was mentally preparing myself, going, �OK, I have to save that girl�s life. She nasty, but she ain�t done me no wrong. I�ll prolly get massacred, but I can save her. Gotta do this. I�m a noble son of a bitch.� Luckily, the ass slapping mantrain derailed before I was forced into anything heroic. Afterwards, I tried to lure Shelly away with the promise of T-Bell. I wasn�t hungry at all (She�d made this huge pot of sponge chicken pasta), but drowning myself in grade F taco meat seemed better than this.

Oh man! Earlier, we were standing around watching beer pong or something, and somebody said something insulting to Dustin, and he was like, �I am the CEO of these parties, and I can ban you for life!!� I�m sure he was just joking, but what a sad little company nonetheless. I almost wish for a lifetime ban. Then again, I�d have nothing to do on slow nights. I guess I could start my own parties: Drink Tequila Until You Go Blind and Murder Some Nugget Night!

Shelly and I got out, smoked our candy cigarettes, and got fucked favorably by the cashier at Taco Bell. I did not need 4 damn chalupas, though. I did not even know what a chalupa was until this shit went down. On the walk back, I shat pretty heavily on everyone there at the party (obvious exceptions aside). This reflects more poorly on myself than anything. I still do not know whether to count those people as friends or enemies.