Whiskey Tear Chronicles:

Whiskey, bourbon specifically, has been the cause of many of life’s most interesting moments (I would use the word “memorable”, but let’s not kid ourselves here). To say my life has been a trail of tears since my introduction to this Kentucky fire water would be a bit of hyperbole (depending on who you talk to of course, my dad would label it worse than a trail of tears), as many of the stories this elixir has provided me with are now patches sewn Into the fabric from which I am made. I still remember the first time I had a shot of Jack. I was at a graduation barbecue my freshman year of College. Charcoal, cigarette, and marijuana scented smoke danced around the air, clinging to my skin and nostrils, causing me to smell like the last Dave Matthews Band outdoor venue. Some hot chick I barely knew was pouring out Old No. Seven like tomorrow was never coming. Till that point, I had been scared to death of hard booze, as I could hardly handle my shit with any more than a beer or two in me, and I didn’t want booze to change who I was. Then I stared at her breasts again, and threw a shot of that goodness down the hatch. My first bourbon-burn took me by surprise, and my pain escaped with same growl I make to this day when shooting bourbon, one similar to that of the fabled Chupacabra. Basically, I was right to be scared in my younger, more naive days. That shit changed me all right, but can’t undo what’s been done, so why give a fuck now!

The recollection of these bourbon fueled adventures could warrant a blog of its own, but fuck that. Who the fuck has time to write a blog about black-outs? Who the hell would read that? Wait. What? Instead Hangover Day will be the medium in which these adventures are relived as I feel fit to share them. Now read the first entry, which happens to be the story I tell every new person I meet:

Canada

Canada is America’s ecologically conscious, shred-tastical, lower-drinking-aged hat. There was a time when we went up every year to shred mountain bikes in the famed Whistler Bike Park, and attempt to shred the sheets with every foreign chick we saw in the village each night (every chick was obviously foreign, as we were god-fearing AMERICANS). That lasted about two years, and was about 5 years ago. Regardless, I was old enough to drink legally within the borders of the Great White North upon both times I visited there, and many Canadian adventures were had. My sophomoric visit to this heaven will be the adventure we focus on in this entry.

There was a crew of five of us this year. We were leaving from Tom’s house, so Frank and I drove over the hill, Wilbur drove across the ghetto, and Xavier lived in Washington, an hour from Whistler, that fucker. Those of us not from evergreen state piled into Tom’s truck and prepared ourselves for a 14 hour drive. Well, due to Mother Nature being a major cunt, and regularly scheduled pit stops, that 14 hour drive quickly morphed into a 23 hour drive. Fuck that. Regardless, sleep deprivation was ignored, and shredding commenced every day of our visit.

On day three of this adventure, a Wednesday to you non-participants, we all got gussied up to have night out on the town. Before leaving the condo, the call was made that only whisky could be consumed that evening. Pretty sure I made that call, as we had ingested a few cocktails during our pregame exercises, and once you’ve tasted blood, it’s hard not to kill again. Frank decided to be a pussy, as he claimed to still be hung over from three days before. Fine with us, that dude turned out to be a fucking drag anyway. Xavier, Tom, Wilbur and I wished Frank good luck with his evening knitting, and wandered into the wildness of the night.

We bounced from bar to bar, starting shit everywhere we went. The adventure was especially rad for Wilbur, as this was his first experience bar hopping. Ah, to be nineteen and in Canada again.

“I’m going to take that fucking banner.” He pointed lazily at the corner of the bar.

“Enter to win free Breast Implants!” Wilbur was right to want that, it was fucking cool.

“How the fuck are you going to get that down?” I had to ask, but we were all curious as to what he’d come up with- the thing was hung about 15 feet up, and on his best day, Wilbur was 6’1.”

“Fuck you man, you’ve been a fucking dick this whole trip. I’m tired of your shit.” Hostility flowed from Wilbur’s mouth like ash and poison gas from Mt. Vesuvius. (He wasn’t completely wrong though, I was being a dick to him all week, but that’s what he gets for growing up with me.)

“Alright, chill the fuck out” Tom piped up. He had been watching Wilbur and I banter all week, and finally interjected. “You figure out a way to get that down, we’ll make sure no one hassles you.”

Wilbur had a thousand yard stare. His glazed eyes met all of ours, and then looked over to that banner. It was reminiscent of Squints Paladores’ face right before he tried to kill himself for the Wendy Peffercorn broad in Sandlot. He knew what needed to be done, and without hesitation his chair flew to our table top, and he pushed the whole wobbly set up towards the banner.

We couldn’t believe that shit. He got about half way there too, but for some reason everyone working in that bar stopped him. He insists he could’ve gotten away with it, had we just “shut the fuck up and helped” him. Why do that when we can laugh hysterically?

It was probably good they told us to leave, that place was dead anyways. Off to the next and final bar for the night, The Bullpen. Probably the best bar in the whole of Canada, The Bullpen went off on Wednesday nights. It was filled with live music, hot ass sluts, and whiskey. Fucking perfect.

We were there for all of three minutes before Xavier got sucked into some hipster chick’s tractor beam. Made sense- He did own a fixed gear. Three seconds after that, before I could even process the fact that Xavier was already throat deep with a girl, Tom walked up to me.

“You better go talk to that fucking chick over there now.” I turned and saw this girl raping me with every part of her eyeballs.

Now, it’s no secret that I am a bit of a pussy when it comes to talking to girls, but the fire in her eyes, Tom’s eyes, and the whiskey had changed me that night.

“Yup”

Tom and I walked over there, and were surrounded by hot women. Tom, being the pussy woof he is, danced with all of them, except the girl who had her crosshairs on me. If being a wingman was an Olympic sport, Tom would have Gold.

It wasn’t long before I too was throat deep in this chick, her hands in my pants. I couldn’t believe it.

“Let’s get out of here and see that hot tub you have in your room.”

“I like that.” The whiskey was making me cloudy, but I knew sex was imminent. “Keep it cool” I thought

“Before we go though, I need to find Wilbur.” The words escaped before I could get her to stick her tongue down my throat again.

“Oh. Ok. Well here, this is my number. Call me when you’re ready to fuck.”

Holy Shit. I had blown it, but she fucking saved it. My jaw hit my boner. Why aren’t more girls like that?

I nodded, quickly ran out of the club, proclaiming Wilbur’s name as I exited. Cold Canadian air made me realize just how fire-water fucked I was. Real, real drunk.

“You guys seen Wilbur?” I slurred to a group of locals. Though stereotypically categorized as nice, loving people, these hockey lovers were not happy to talk to me.

“You fucking tourist. Go back to the states.”

“Whoa. Fuck you pal. I’m looking for my buddy. Thought you might have seen…” I blacked out at this moment. I’m absolutely positive more words were said, as I came back to earth with this dude’s hands clenched around both my shoulders.

“I told you to fuck off.” He was clearly upset with me.

“You don’t know who you’re fucking with man.” Things were very clear now, yet I couldn’t stop the words from starting a fight. My brain was telling me to stop, but my animal like instincts were rolling. I shook from his hold, and landed (what I thought was) a solid right hook to this dudes jaw (probably a limp wristed slap). His head slowly turned from the place my hand had put it, and his face lifted as he lunged back to return the favor I had so kindly bestowed upon him. Lucky for me, his friends were there to help him. My head became a speed-bag between fist and cobble stone, as one of his homies kicked me in the ribs, and the others stopped anyone from breaking this beat-down up.

I came back to earth again, this time from a concussion, with The Bullpen’s Irish bouncer snapping his fingers above my face. He sat me up next to the club, and made sure I didn’t go anywhere before I gave my statement to the cops. I told this nice Irishman that I too was a descendant of the Emerald Isle, but he didn’t seem to care that my family was from County Cork. The police arrived, informed they had apprehended the gentlemen that beat the shit out of me, and told me to go home.

“Can I get a ride? I’ve never really been fucked up like this before, and not to call you guys liars, but I don’t want these guys to fuck me up again.” Yeah, I was scared. You get beaten up whilst drunk and try to act like Tommy-Tough-Nuts.

“You don’t want to go anywhere with us, now do you, eh?” The interviewing officer said

“Well, I mean I guess not.”

“Yeah. We’d be taking you somewhere- aboot as different from where you’re staying as possible.” They were coming on a bit strong. And I’m not easy to fool- Canadian prisons are no joke.

“Oh. Right.”

I started my stumble back to our condo, blood still leaking from my nose. I struggled to bend my seein’-glasses back into their original shape. My head spun on my shoulders as I tried like hell to see if I was going to get attacked again. Somehow, I had gone the complete opposite direction of our condo, and was very lost, and very drunk again. Three girls were heading the direction I had just came from.

“Hey. You girls know how to get to Glacier’s Flow condos?”

“What was tha…” one of them started to answer me, but saw my face, the blood, and the already swollen black eye, and decided to shut up and hurry away.

“Ok. Thanks for everything.” I continued my stumble, unsure of where the fuck I was when suddenly:

“HEY MOTHER FUCKER!” I levitated, spun 180 degrees, and landed to face the source of the threat.

It was Tom-being a fucking dickhead. He had figured out that I left that girl at the club, that I had had my ass kicked, and somehow stumbled the same wrong-ass direction I had.

In the end, we got back to the condo. Xavier and Wilbur were already there. Frank got pissed at us for making a bunch of noise while trying to get ice on my face, and I didn’t get to fuck that chick. I did call her to inform here I was at the condo, but she never showed. Fucking whore. The next day, while everyone rode the fuck out of the bike park, I sulked in the hot-tub, trying to decide if I was dying of brain trauma or really whiskey-hung-over. My sulking didn’t last long, as I was in Whistler, and chose to throw caution to the wind and ride my bike. Turned out the Irish bouncer was also a ticket scanner at the lift- he laughed when he saw my black eye, and wished me a good run.

“Probably wish you didn’t get in that fight right about now, eh boyo?”

“Yeah.” is what I answered with, ‘fuck you’ is what I thought.

We wrapped our Canadian adventure up with a 4 hour detention at the US border. Something about probable cause to look for drugs. I don’t know what they could’ve seen in a bunch of dirty mountain bikers, one with a black eye and hair standing straight up, and another with a pot-leaf on his shirt who claimed he was a “geological engineer” to the border guard.

“You might as well have said you were an astronaut!”

Basically, fuck Frank. That dude is not invited anywhere ever again. Also, Canada, tell that chick I still want to sex her.