Sunday, June 17, 2012

beer and loathing in treasure island casino part 2: the cycle of life. and a lot of piss


We stumbled into the casino like drunken seniors on the last day of high school. I was immediately hypnotized by all of the flickering lights, grinning in wonderment like a simpleton taking his first shower. Oh, how I enjoy anything shiny and a lot of. I also have ADHD so go figure. The other thing I noticed was the army of old people plugging change into machines, moaning and spending their kid's inheritance, waiting for death like defiant, bored teenagers. I myself look forward to getting old (if that happens) and wearing jeans and t-shirts that say ridiculous things like "I'm vegan AND racist" and recounting to whomever how I "once ate so much pussy, I had to unbuckle my belt and take a nap in a lazy boy." I'll be the old man who farts as loud as he can in public, grinning and shaking my head at you as you turn to see who could possibly be so rude.

I'm not much of a gambler, but I was called by the sweet siren of the slots, flickering lights and all. I slid one quarter into the beast, pulled down it's arm, watched as it's eyes rolled back into the same color and shape and finally cry out as I pulled $100 from it's belly on the first try. Yes. I magically turned 25 cents into 100 fucking dollars. Which of course meant that I was going to magically turn that into beer and whiskey.

We found our way to the auditorium which was surprisingly small with cafeteria style seating. I ordered us a round of whiskey and beer and continued to do so til the $100 was gone. Shortly after Bobcat had begun, 2 things of significance occurred, the first being some asshole under the influence decided to heckle him, and the second being holy shit I had to piss. I will concede that I have a bladder the size of a squirrel's and once I tap the seal, it's on. Although drinking a beer every 15 minutes also creates some pressure that's not ordinarily present. Now, being lazy, drunk and a dude-and by dude I mean having a wiener which allows dudes to piss pretty much anywhere quite easily-I decided to piss in my empty glass under the table. This system proved infallible, and as I filled each empty glass, so did the hatred in my heart for the heckler.

As Bobcat performed, batting down each annoying interruption (arbitrary questions such as, "where is your wife, Bobcat?"or just yelling out nonsense-anything to distract the show because "Daddy made poo-poo owie" or whatever reason he needed attention in a public forum) by the asshole seated in front of us, I decided I would do some batting of my own. The plan was simple: after the show, Brian would walk up to the heckler with a full glass of my urine and I would "accidentally" bump into him, soaking him with the seeds of piss he'd sown. However, our muscle control and coordination were sorely weakened by the copious amounts of ingested alcohol, and I basically fell into Brian who basically fell into...the dudes girlfriend. Her shirt was completely drenched-even her hair would not escape the yellow rain of revenge. So we chose the only reasonable option we had-we ran.

We grabbed a case of beer from off-sale, as we clearly hadn't had enough to drink, and hopped into the barf-filled flaming van, laughing hysterically onto the freeway like a pack of hyenas.

"A good hearted woman in love with a good timin' man."

As we pulled into the alley behind our house, an object appeared before us, laying there like a sacrificial lamb. It was a sofa, caught like a deer in the headlights, left to fend for itself in the cold, cruel world by some heartless home departers. As harsh as it seems, sometimes the only humane referendum is to put an animal down and in this instance, it was the only choice we had. I glanced over at Heath and saw something I hadn't seen before-it was the eye of the tiger. The tears come quick to us both, as the realization washed over us. I offered my hand and as he took it, turned his attention to the ghastly task at hand and floored it.

By the time we hit the couch, we were going a good 50 mph, and I can honestly say, my brothers and sisters, it never knew what hit it. The front end went up and over the beast, launching us skyward as if we were it's chariot to heaven. I could hear the narration of Waylon Jennings in my head, wondering "how the good ol' boys were gonna get out of this one" as the van came slamming down on the concrete. What was left of the carcass had become trapped between the front and rear axle and a shower of foam and sparks danced in the air-a dazzling and bittersweet display of the cycle of life. As the back end rolled over what little was left, we held each other and took solace in the knowledge that the sofa was in a better place.


And then we all totally blacked out.




Monday, June 4, 2012

beer and loathing in treasure island casino

So we decided to go see Bobcat Goldthwait at Treasure Island Casino. My only references to Bobcat were Police Academy II and the fact that he opened for Nirvana, which is unique only to Bobcat. I don't think Steve Guttenberg was ever asked to open for Nirvana. In fact, after several Police Academy sequels and Short Circuit, the request Steve Guttenberg got the most was probably "dude-could you just knock it off?" And whatever assholes are asking for "Three Men and a Bride" should be taken out back and beaten with a shovel. Actually, that's kinda harsh because more than likely my mom is one of those assholes. Tom Selleck, Ted Danson and Steve Guttenberg? What mom wouldn't want to be passed around like a doobie in that trifecta of machismo? Crap. That's a horrible image and I apologize for any discomfort it may have caused you-unless of course you're into it-then shame on you, mister. Man-this shit got derailed and fast.

So we decided to go see Bobcat Goldthwait at Treasure Island Casino.

At this point in my heathen career, I was reaching the pinnacle of savagery, sustained by the attributes and traits it requires. Like the saying goes, "young, dumb and full of cum." Except instead of cum, I was filled with bad ideas and no filter whatsoever - the last person you'd want to be in public with. I was also at the age where a hangover was more of an "owie" or a "boo-boo." Not like present day where it feels like I gave myself terminal cancer in one evening and need to summon my family into my bedroom for last goodbyes, or make sounds and smells on the shitter the next morning that would compel the good samaritan to call an ambulance. No, this was the spring of my youth as an aimless, angry lunatic who was determined to make partying into a career, well before I would fathom limitations, and anyone divergent was a total dick. I also had congenial allies with bad ideas of their own and we totally fuckin' partied, mang.

One such friend, we'll call him "Heath", was the owner of a Ford Econoline that he had smartly painted black with flames.

Hello, trouble.
This was the go to vehicle for getting pulled over and doing the sobriety test in your underwear, getting searched and thrown in jail for a miniscule amount of weed, spending the night in a ditch after filling it with instruments after a punk rock show, and so on. Chances are if you were getting into this van, you were shit-blasted or well on your way.

We stopped at the liquor store for party favors. Our beer of choice back then was J. Ruppert's, the reason being it was $7 for a case. Now, when a beer company sells a case of beer for $7, they really can't expect it to be consumed responsibly by those who know when to say when, unless it was "when are we gonna get another case of J.Ruppert's? I'm not yet blacked out." We certainly didn't drink it for it's full body and aftertaste-you don't use a beer bong to luxuriate in the flavor of shitty beer. You suck it down like the world's gonna end and start making poor decisions. Buying a case of beer for $7 seemed almost miserly, so we bought 2.

The mud-sprayingest of cheap beer

We picked up our friend and fellow heathen Brian and were eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin' and gonna do what they say shouldn't be done, whoever said that. They sound like total dicks. This was when drinking and driving seemed downright hilarious. Even in the face of death you would've offered him a beer and a ride. As the sun went down, so did the beer. We made our way to the casino,  basking and baking in the ignorant glow of guileless youth. By the time we pulled into the parking lot, we were pretty much hammered, having drained our munitions down to a few strays. The bad idea of shot-gunning one last round seemed genius in it's simplicity, and we were all seasoned veterans in the appreciation of bad ideas. After showing our beers who the boss was, something happened to Heath that occurs after ingesting too much, too quickly on top of too much already-he barfed. And since he was the one who had been driving, he barfed all over and through the steering wheel, onto his shoes, and it's final resting place on the floor mat. This was met with teary-eyed laughter and hearty approval. After surveying the damage and cleaning off his shoes, Heath blurted out the only reasonable response to the situation: "Fuck it." Yes, fuck it indeed.

That's when things started to get out of hand...

COMING SOON-part 2 in which gambling and urine lead up to the destruction of property.

P.S I can't find J. Ruppert's knickerbocker beer so either they don't make it anymore or we drank all of it.