Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
*Editor’s note: Ren was last seen preparing for her Saint Patrick’s Day dumbassary Thursday morning. She instructed us to publish this “farewell” letter in the event of her disappearance. Since we haven’t seen her for well over 24 hours, we figured now is as good of a time as any. That and Roode wants to get started deleting all her articles as soon as possible.
Dear friends, admirers, worshipers, family, and the various stalkers I’ve grown fond of,
If you are reading this, then I am already (circle all that apply) gone/dead/passed out/in Yakima/detained by Canadian authorities. I assure you that I was awesome until the very end. But, you would expect nothing less of me, your reason for living.
Saint Patrick‘s 2011 feels different from all the others in the past. I feel that I may not make it back. There is something in the air. Some sort of morose stillness envelops the town. It’s as if fate is telling me that this may be the Normandy of Saint Patrick’s Days. That and the $2 Jameson and $3 Guinness special I saw in the paper. Let’s face it, that’s just putting a lit match next to a whisky soaked powder keg.
As I prepare for what may be my last day (circle all that apply) on earth/ in Montana/in the United States/in the Pacific Northwest/outside of federal custody, a calmness washes over me. This is something I must do. If not for me, then for my Irish ancestors. Saint Patrick’s Day was never an Irish holiday. No, Micks don’t need to have a “holiday” as an excuse to drink. I mean, I’m drinking right now. Even so, the Irish are under a lot of pressure to show you wannabe Irish how it’s d0ne. We have to kick it up a notch. While you swill on Coors, we gulp Guinness. While you drink your Jack Daniels, we up the game with Shannahan’s. Long after your sorry asses are carted off to the ER to have you stomachs pumped, we’ve tapped our fourth keg. You’re fucking lightweight Irish posers is what I’m saying.
Sure, many of you will end up with a skull shattering hangover the next morning. I assure you, my kind is still fucking drinking. After you’ve spewed the technicolored yawn into your toilet (or in your roommate’s shoe), we’ve had our fifth bar fight… that morning. Your mortal way of killing your liver and drinking years off your life means nothing to us. We, as a people, need more. Much more.
Quick, ,where is the strangest/most awkward place you’ve ever come to after an all night bender? Shut up! I don’t need to hear it. I already know it’s lame. Unless your story includes ice skates, a Canadian Mountie, or something with a tennis racket and the windshield of a car, spare me. Amateur.
Anyhoo, what the hell was I saying? Oh yeah, I’m better than you. But, you already knew that. Don’t get me wrong, I love you little people. The obscene letters help get me through the day. I know it has been your privilege to know, nay, LOVE me. My absence will make your lives shallow and meaningless. Quite frankly, I’m not sure how you can go on without me.
Alas, I enter this Saint Patrick’s Day wide-eyed and packing a ton of Excedrin. It will be a battle of wills. On one side you have every drop of alcohol in the county. On the other, me; a little blonde Irish girl with big dreams. If I go down, I’ll go down fighting. Or, I may go down on one of those hot bartender chicks. I’ll do that before I go down fighting. Shit, I lost my train of thought now.
So, as you hear the news of my (circle all that apply) death/detainment/immigration/enlistment/crime against humanity by way of (circle all that apply) family/friends/co-workers/classmates/CNN/Interpol, please know that I went out MY way; yelling Gaelic curses and double fisting whisky bottles. Maybe there was a moose involved? I don’t know, my track record for drunken chicanery is pretty extensive.
So, always remember me. Don’t just remember me as a writer, a student, or a sex object. Remember me as awesome. And as a sex object. I like that one, too.
Póg mo thóin!,
PS: Of course, I could have just made an ass of myself and woken up in the lap of a mime (again). If that’s the case, disregard all the above. Well, except for the parts about me being awesome and a sex object.
Yeah, you read the title right. After a series of retarded, drug induced, and batshit nuts events I was asked to attend a Playboy playmate casting call. Yes. Me. What? No, I’m not drunk. I’m not drunk at the moment, just buzzed. It happened, damn it!
How did this happen? I’m not 100% sure. Apparently, a few months back, a few other girls and I were partaking in several mind altering substances and left to our own devices. So, as usual when you have a small group of hot, stoned, and drunk chicks by themselves, we took naked pictures of each other. That happens at other parties, right?
At some point someone came up with the idea that we should send in pics to Playboy. Look, some people get angry when they’re drunk, others send in applications to a men’s magazine. As it turns out, I was the only one stoned, drunk, and determined enough to actually send my shit in. Everyone else backed out. Fuckers. “Oh, let Ren submit nudes of herself to Playboy… we’re going to be lame.” The eerie thing is that my porn star prophecy seems to be coming true.
Then, I outright forgot about the whole thing. I mean, it’s Playboy. OK, pictures of naked women are awesome, but Playboy has been on a serious decline over the years. This is part of the reason they cut their circulation by 38% in 2009. That and we’re all pretty desensitized due to an over abundance of hard core internet porn.
So some chuckle head at Playboy gave me a call and invited me to a casting call. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. Was this a fucking joke? I would have bet some serious cash that it was Roode pulling some shit. It was legitimate. After a fun game of “What the fuck did Ren do now?” I pieced it all together. HA! That’s hilarious. I would have posed for nudes sober. I don’t really have many inhibitions for alcohol and pot to let loose.
I tracked down the biography I sent to them. After reading it a few times, I was surprised I got a call. OK, Momma can put butts in the seats. But, as Tresckow so thoughtfully pointed out, it should have been obvious to them that I was a complete Irish nutjob. Go ahead. Click on that bad boy below and look for yourself.
Ladies and gentlemen, that application isn’t just some goofy illustration for humor’s sake. That is the, honest to Guinness, genuine article. There was something about the way I came off in that bio that grabbed their attention. Other than the hot ass nude pics I sent in. I mean, on looks alone, I could be the grand poobah of my own nudie mag. They get thousands of submissions from tons of young ladies every year. Some want to use Playboy as a stepping stone into C-list movies. Others want the gig for the cash and the chance to be a washed up C-list actor. No matter what, all these chicks have one thing in common: they care. The quality that set me apart was the fact that I didn’t give one iota of a goat’s shit. Jesus O’Nazareth, I wouldn’t have remembered the whole cockeyed stunt if someone didn’t give me a call.
Did I mention I got the call at work? Yeah, I did. It’s one thing taking a personal call from a drunken buddy when you’re at the cube farm. I mean, what’s the office protocol when you get a call from naked chicks monthly? Naturally, I maintained a demure and refined disposition. By that, I mean, I yelled, “HA! People want me to pose naked!” For reasons unknown, the entire office came to a dead stop. Dude? Why? I mean I had to put up with that sort of shit when someone’s kid shot a baby out of their cooch. “I’m a grandmother,” some dipthong would bellow. Big fucking deal. Women in China and India are churning kids out like it’s the diaper shitter industrial revolution. Posing butt ass naked in Playboy is an achievement. Someone, decades from now, will be researching the evolution of hot, naked, Irish blonds and BANG there I am. It’s on the fucking record, baby. History has been made. No one is going to remember some mouth breeder’s dipshit kid a hundred years from now. Unless the kid turns out to be another Abe Lincoln or Black Gallagher. What are the odds of that?
A parent can only dream.
I mulled the offer over in my head. I had to do this right. Make a list of pros and cons. That’ll help me make a sound, adult decision.
- Free plane ticket to casting call
- Bragging rights
- Inappropriate behavior for a law student
- Casting call held in Philadelphia
- Coach flight
- Family horror
- The whole objectification of women thing
- Inappropriate behavior for a law student
Well, shit. Who doesn’t want to be objectified now and again? This is the sort of thing I would put on my resume (try not to take a double take at that, fuckers) and … fuck it. I don’t need good reasons. Momma’s doing this shit.
Surprisingly, my father supported me. He trusts my decisions and knew I would just have fun with the whole thing.
I’ve never been on the East Coast before. I’ve never really wanted to be. It would just be little ‘ol me in the big, scary City of Brotherly Homicides. In an effort to keep me safe (and to keep others safe from me) I was assigned a chaperone. A cousin. An older cousin who, let’s say, belongs to an adult version of the 4H Club.
So, everything was set for my drunken naked East Coast extravaganza. Almost. Hmmmm… who do I know in that triangle of pigeon shit known as the Delmarva area? Who? Oh yea, Tresckow. That’s it. Being the only one on staff at FWTC not to be in a part of the country where grizzlies roam free and engage in the occasional zucchini fight, he was in the prime location to suffer my wrath. I mean enjoy a visit from me.
Fast forward a month and I was on my way. We landed around 10 at night. Or 8. Fucking time zones. Let me take a moment to tell you about my first impressions of the Philadelphia International Airport and Bus Station. It’s a low brow version of a sewage treatment plant. Tresckow pretty much nailed it on the head when he said it was a piece of shit bundled in fancy gift wrap. Those fuckers like to play a cruel game of checked luggage roulette. No only does it take FOREVER to get your shit off the plane, it’s NEVER at the noted carousel. Flight from Seattle to Philadelphia luggage: carousel B. WRONG! We’re fucking with you. It’s really coming out on carousel D. HA! Wrong again! It’s carousel A. This time, we’re not kidding. FUCK YOU! It’s spewing out on E. Muhahahahahaha!
Being a good friend and pseudo-sister-in-law, I called Tresckow, non stop as soon as I stepped off the plane. I called him when we got into a taxi. I called him when we got to the hotel. I called him when I found the mini bar. I called to tell him what I ordered from room service. I called him incessantly, is what I’m trying to say here. That’s what friends do.
We arranged to meet at the hotel the next morning. My appointment was around 10 AM, but I wanted Tresckow to be there to meet us earlier. I figured he would keep my cousin company while I was getting all naked and shit. I didn’t think either of them would mind waiting for me in a hotel full of hot potential centerfolds and whatnot. I sure as hell enjoyed myself.
Leaving Tresckow and the cousin to their own devices, I took my bag-o-outfits to my interview. They tell you to bring a bikini, nightie, a sexy dress, and be prepared to be naked for a while. I’m always prepared to be naked. So, no biggie. I sat around outside the room for a few minutes sizing up the competition. HA! Competition. No such thing. It begins and ends with me. Fuck-a-yucks didn’t know who they were up against. I’m all charming and shit.
I was called into the room and met a tribunal of interviewers, including one of the hoity-toity photographers. I did the typical dog and pony show that chicks in that situation do; modeled different outfits, went through some awkward poses, and did the whole nude thing. I guess I did well. They didn’t throw a brick at me. A rack full of different clothes was on the opposite side of the room. The photographer told me to pick something out to wear. I went simple- white dress shirt, a Seattle Mariners cap (which I brought with me), and… well, that was all. Dude, those pics turned out smoking hot. I mean, dayummmm. Want to see one? OK, maybe one pic.
After all that, the interview segment began. They fired some of your standard questions at me: “If you cold be a tree, what kind would you be?” “Why do you want to be a model?” “Tell us about your craziest lover.” “What’s the square root of 3044442.008?” I answered each trying not to roll my eyes. Finally, I blurted out, “BORING!” That derailed the interview like locomotive hitting a pile of dead cows.
“Boring?” the dude with the power tie asked. “Are we boring you?”
My parents always told me to tell the truth. What did I care if I offended a bunch of people interviewing me for something I really didn’t want? “Yeah,” I responded. “These questions suck. I’m interviewing for Playboy, not a fucking job at an insurance company. Ask questions with some balls. BIG balls. You know, like ‘If you could dispose of British rule in Northern Ireland how would you do it?’ ‘Why are you so awesome?’ ‘How do you make an Irish car bomb with just a corn cob and a piece of dental floss?’ Those questions have big ‘ol brass danglers!”
Contrary to what you may think happened next, I didn’t get thrown out by security. After I answered my own questions, (start an underground campaign to overthrow the figurehead monarch- because, I fucking rule- hollow out the corn cob and use the floss as a fuse after soaking it in gasoline) they kept talking to me. It all went a completely different direction. I told them about my drunken rampages throughout Northern Ireland, Idaho, and Montana. I told the story of my drunken excursion/invasion of Alberta. Hell, I even pantomimed what it was like to jump out a window, landing on a nun. I was the opposite of everyone they’ve ever interviewed. They loved it.
Apparently, I was so utterly fascinating, they bumped the next interview so they could spend more time with me. Well, duh. I’m a fucking treasure. It’s like I was the first little militant Irish girl from Idaho they’ve ever met. Okay, I may have told them that I fully plan on ruling the Pacific Northwest and the Canadian province of British Columbia with an iron fist. The tribunal just laughed at the joke. Yeah. Right. Joke.
I left after an hour interview (they’re usually less than half that) with a request for another in LA and an invitation to a party later this year at the Playboy mansion. Nah, I’m kidding. No. I’m not. Am I? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.
What does this all mean? Hell if I know. One of their talent dudes told me there is an excellent chance of being on, at least, the cyber magazine with better than average chances at something bigger. You know what? I still don’t care. Either way, I’m cool with it. I’m just along for the ride. And that ride is taking me to LA. For free. FREEEEE! I can handle that.
Once I left the premises with Tresckow and my illegal firearm carrying cousin, I took some time to explore the area. I’m not sure why. It was hot. You people in that area may be used to that. I’m not. Momma wasn’t built for that kind of ass crack moistening heat. Humidity? What the fuck is that? How do you people live like this? Although, I hear winters in the central Atlantic states is pretty mild. It only gets to 30 degrees with a few feet of snow. We call that Spring in Montana. For fuck’s sake there was a winter weather advisory in motherfucking August.
The three of us explored all the excitement interstate 95, northern Delaware, and northern Maryland had to offer. Which was nothing. Delaware? Why are you pretending to be a state? You’re not fooling anyone. You’re living a fucking lie, fudge sacks.
The absolute best thing we did during this whole trip was visit Tresckow’s house. That’s right. He let me into his home. Reluctantly, but he did it nonetheless. We drank whisky and beer. Then more whisky. We gave him a gift bottle of whisky then proceeded to drink it. I raided his liquor cabinet and rooted around in his fridge. Did I forget to say that the fucker put a bag of used, stinky cat litter under my bed when he came out to our place for Adel’s wedding? I did? Well, it was payback time! In the short time I was in the heart of Fortress Tresckow I managed to deal him the pain. I glued all the caps of his toiletries shut, toilet papered the second story of his place, and committed another atrocity he has yet to figure out. That’s right, pugnuts. It’s not over.
The only person I feel some sort of remorse for is Tresckow’s wife. She found herself in the middle of our little Jihad and was an unintended victim. She was none too pleased to see her stairway encased in Charmin.
We were leaving from BWI for home. I planned that so Tresckow would have to drive us there. Yeah, I forced quality time on him. Who wouldn’t want some quality time with me? Anyway, we did manage to stop and see some of the sights.
Somewhere north of Baltimore, Treskcow took us to a place of goodness. A place I never imagined was real. A place that made this little Mick’s dreams come true. What is this wonderland of fun and artery rotting awesomeness?
At first, I figured “big deal, it’s a gas station.” Oh no, my friends. This is no mere gas station. This is a junk food eating, coffee drinking Mecca the likes of which have never graced the Montana, Idaho, Washington area. I ate, my friends. I ate everything I could: schmuffins, schmiscuts, hot dogs drenched in nacho cheese. I basically came in my pants due to sheer gas station grub delight.
I may have gotten slightly hopped up on Sheetz coffee and was an unholy terror on the flight back home. Who’s to say? All I know is that when Playboy offers me a contract, one of the stipulations will be payment in the form of Sheetz food. Oh, and Delaware. I’m talking total annexation. The first state? No. It will be the NO state. I will build Delaware up to Greek City-state status and be the first Playboy model to rule an annexed nation inside the continental United States. It’s a win win!
Kids love Halloween. It’s the one time of year they can get free candy that doesn’t involve creepy old men in bathrobes. Adults love it, because it’s the one time of they year that dressing up like Tyra Banks isn’t exclusively for drag queens.
I don’t dress up. I don’t trick or treat. I don’t have kids so I’m not forced to pretend I give a shit. This may surprise some of you, but I’m not a happy go lucky holiday celebrating person. I wouldn’t put up that fucking Christmas tree if I didn’t get a guilt trip from the wife each and every “have to buy new strings of lights because the ones from last Christmas never fucking work” year. I suggested we just forgo the tree one year. It was like I proposed we put on cleats and go kitten stomping.
Last weekend I hung out with Ren. I was bored and sober. I knew that belligerent Irish drunk had booze. I had wifey in tow for a low key Saturday evening. Adel was out of town making plans for her wedding (that’s right kids- more on that another time) and who the hell knows what Tresckow was doing. Maybe storming Poland?
I was quite happy to sit there, watch TV, and suck down Guinness. The hens were yapping in another room and Commando was on TV. Awesome! Beer, violence, and HDTV. I defy you to come up with a better combination. Defy you, I say!
Somewhere around the part when Schwarzenegger is slaughtering the island army lead by Nick Tortelli Ren had the most horrible idea since CNN’s coverage of the Michael Jackson funeral. “Hey! Let’s make Jack O’Lanterns.” Bitch.
Sure, I protested. You married guys out there know resistance is futile. Over the years my “Fuck it! Whatever!” switch developed a hair trigger. I learned about three years into married bliss that it’s the path of least resistance that gets you laid. So, when someone has a fucktarded idea like this and the wife is into it, fuck it. I’m as powerless as Valtrex is on TilaTequila.
After buying four medium sized pumpkins (four, because the odds of fucking up are excellent when you’ve been drinking since 3) we carted the orange bastards back to the house. First off, let me say it’s completely fucking ridiculous the amount of goddamn work you have to put in just to cut the top off. Then, there’s a shitload of stringy, gag reflex slapping innards that have to be scooped out. This shit looks, feels, and acts wrong. Not only does it feel like goopy, stringy shit from a camel with diarrhea, it’s nye impossible to keep it in one place. If you’re lucky, it just falls on the floor like so much spaghetti of the damned. If you’re not so lucky, it can find its way into your pants. Don’t fucking give me that look. It happens.
It’s not over yet. Oh no, there’s more labor intensive bullshit waiting to play ping pong with your dangly parts. Now you have to scrape the meat of the friggin thing. There’s nothing remotely appealing about that phrase. Scrape the meat? That conjures up all sorts of fucked up Donner Partyimages.
Hold on! Before you start scraping chunks of pumpkin meat, you need to know two things; 1) No kitchen utensil in the known world is built for this and 2) if you take too much out the whole fucking thing will collapse. Who knew this was a science?
Of course, my wife is a friggin genius with this shit. She’s the artsy crafty one. I’m the one that gets pissed off and dynamites random things in nature. Ren, the dumbass that came up with the idea, redefined suck. She bought one of those stencils that is supposed to help you carve designs. That fucker was too complicated for a drunken Mick. It didn’t end well.
Well, that gourd was out of commission. Mine, on the other hand, was still in the race. Sure, it frustrated me a little…
This sucks! Who started this butt fucking tradition anyway? Liquored up, pissed off people shouldn’t be asked to hack the almighty shit out of produce. That’s how Bundy got started.
After another (4) beer, I went back to the taunting, round poop stain. OK, I just stabbed it a few times. It’s fixable. I’ll just get to work cutting out the nose and smile. This shit has to be getting me brownie points with the wife, right? RIGHT? Besides, I know I can do better than Ren’s second attempt.
I decided, then and there, that I would not be defeated by a piece of fruit… or vegetable… whatever. With each slip of the knife and fucked up tooth, I started to fantasize about setting fire to all its smug ass brethren. All of a sudden I understood punkin chunkin. Its not a bunch of drooling momma’s boys who smell like a mix of body odor and Red Bull (not exclusively, anyway). It was mankind’s way of getting back at those sack lickers.
If the night wasn’t rage inducing enough, this Jack O’Cock Knocker saved the best for last. As soon as I picked it up to carry outside the asshole started to cave in. Remember that whole don’t scrape too much of the meat off thing? Well, guess what? I didn’t fucking pay attention to that at all. The face started collapsing faster than Michael Jackson’s cosmetic surgery (yes, two MJ references in one article. I’m not proud).
It was over. The damn thing didn’t even stay together long enough for me to make it out the door. I snapped. To quote a great philosopher, “That’s all I can stands and I can’t stands no more!”
I bellowed “Fuck you gourd!” OK, so it was a bit loud and I’m pretty sure someone called the cops, but I didn’t give a shit. This sadistic orange fuck has toyed with me for too long! I let it drop to the ground and I nailed the mocking tea bagger in the mouth. That’s right, pumpkins everywhere can eat me. It’s on now. Every assclown pumpkin I find will die. I hereby declare my plan for pumpkin cleansing! Pumpkins, watch your backs (wherever the fuck your “backs” are). It’s war now!
You know where Canada is, right? It’s that giant wasteland north of Montana where they try to pass curling off as a sport and ham as some sort of exotic bacon. Yeah, that maple leaf flag place with pictures of the Queen on their money. It also happens to be where Roode is from. Yuppers, Roode is Canuckian. We all knew there was something wrong with him. I mean other than the whole rage-a-holic who sneaks into the women’s bathroom categorizing cartoon women he would lay watercolor pipe to thing.
Before some pug nuts accuses me of being anti-Canada and writing hate speech, let me set everyone straight. I like Canada. I’ve visited often. Some of my best friends hail from the Great White North. In fact, I love how some of Canada’s citizens celebrate their patriotism.
I’m an alcohol enthusiast. I dare say I can give Tresckow a run for his money; which is to say drink his Eliza Dushku obsessed ass under the table. Sure, he drinks a bottle of bourbon while watching Hell’s Kitchen. That’s kid stuff. My people refer to whiskey as “water.” You got it, my family is right off the potato boat. My Irish ancestors invented the bar fight, alcohol poisoning, and booze fueled domestic abuse. In short, Momma can drink like a champ. So, why not exercise my drinking muscles once in a while? Hey, I drink responsibly. I always cut myself off when I lose consciousness.
Not too long ago, my merry little band decided to go bar hopping. It’s the tried and true tradition of crashing a bar, drinking to the point of arguing with one of the bar stools, then moving on to the next pub before the cops arrive. It’s never a good idea to wing your itinerary. To hedge your bets, you really should plot out your drunken flight path with Google maps. It just helps avoid the inevitable geographical catastrophe. What about your cell phone’s GPS? Forget it. You can barely dial drunk, let alone use any application that requires more than just yelling at the phone.
Fridays bring out the worst in drunks. Especially if that drunk is a booze swilling, obscenity spouting, potato farming Mick. Hey, I can say that shit. I’m Irish. Not just Irish, but NORTHERN Irish. It’s not a racial slur if you’re talking about your own people. Your own smashed, whiskey gulping, fighting mad drunk people. Éirinn go Brách! Póg mo thóin!
We’re not exactly in the cradle of civilization over here. It’s an arctic tundra during the fall, winter, and spring and a sadistic Easy Bake Oven in the summer. As with most of this part of the country, civilization is completely spread out. If what you want isn’t in the town you’re in, you’re pretty much shit out of luck. You’re going to have to sit there and live without a Snuggie. If you can call that living. Or, you can suck it up and drive the two hours to the next town with a fully operational Bed Bath and Beyond.
and it just might be the most ridiculous “As Seen On TV” product known to man.
Don’t ask a girl to explain. I just fucking want one!
A good, hardcore pub crawl in this area is only for the dedicated. I can completely use up all the bars worth going to in one city with ease. It’ll take your professional bar hopper no time to vanquish the worthwhile watering holes. Where do you go from there? You take your wasted show on the road. That’s precisely what we did.
Someone had the brilliant idea to just “head north.” Why not? Like I said, everything in this God forsaken state is a hundred miles away from everything else. Bars (the acceptable ones, anyway) tend to cluster in decent sized towns and cities. I’ve learned to keep the fuck out of back road shit holes with a flickering sign that simply reads “BAR.” I’m way too girlie, have too many teeth, and 200 pounds too light for syphilis rampant road houses.
The only one of us not investing in a future case of Sclerosis of the Liver was the designated driver. That poor son-of-a-bitch had to drive our belligerent alcohol soaked asses from bar to bar. Before you start feeling too sorry for him, take this into consideration: 1) He’s one of those Canadian people, 2) he got to watch a couple of the girls play a drunken game of “make out and giggle,” and 3) I’m pretty sure I let him cop a feel a few times. That last part is a little hazy.
Bar by bar we worked our way North, hitting a string of towns and the only “city” in that area, Great Falls. Being nice and liquored up, it was decided that the trek North shall continue! Hey, our DD knows a pretty awesome bar a little further North. We totally should go! Fuck yeah! NORTH! BAR! GO!
This is when it all gets a little muddy. I remember a strip club that had some pretty rock’n wings. I want to say one of the girls ended up dry humping the stripper pole on stage (Jesus, I hope it wasn’t me). Someone brought a monkey, because the monkey knocked over the drink cart. What I clearly remember is our DD getting obliterated on shots of grain and Captain Morgan. Alright, whatever. So we’ll have to find a place to crash and sleep it off. After kindly turning down an offer for shelter from a nice man in a trench coat and sunglasses, we all decided to get a hotel room, collapse, and each engage in our own, personal vomiting ritual.
As pleasant as it may be to pack 5 people who smell like stale alcohol, vomit, and vanilla cupcakes (that one has me baffled), the first thing you want to do when you rejoin the world of the living is get the holy fuck out of that room and get some fresh air. Okay, I did take a few quick seconds to take a couple cell pics of the rest of my party in strange, passed out positions. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?Having no recollection of where we were, what hotel we were in, or why my underwear was now blue instead of green (I could have sworn I put on green undies before this whole thing began), I stumbled out of the building. Thank God. Finally, somewhere that doesn’t smell like a bus station in Belfast. Sun? WTF? Oh yea, I have a hangover. I scanned the area looking for someplace to get a few dozen cups of black coffee and more whiskey (hair of the dog and all). My poor eyes were just slits. They hated the sun too.
I started walking around looking for a combination Starbucks-liquor store. Hey. There sure are a lot of cars with Canadian license plates. Damn Canucks, always coming to this state, eating our food, breathing our air… Damn, Alberta? Most of the tags were from Alberta. What, is there some sort of Albertan invasion of Montana? Dude, take it.
I noticed something else that seemed strange to me. The speed limits in this town are absurdly high.
Oh, wait. The sign continues. Hmm, there is more writing under the numbers. Shit, I hate lowering my head. My eyeballs hurt. My neck hurts. If it was important it would be in my line of sight. Holding my chin with my hand, I slowly lower my entire head, using the least amount of neck power possible. I have no doubt that I looked like a little blonde mental case. This shit better be worth it.
KM/H? Canadian car tags? Alberta? The smell of cooked ham on pizza? Did I hear someone say “Aboot?” Aboot? Eh? Alright, let me do the math. Ugh, my head. No. Concentrate. Whose thong is this in my pocket? STOP! THINK. KM/H. Canadian tags. “Aboot.” This all sounds familiar. God, I want a slice of pizza. Maybe one with Canadian bac….. FUCK! It can’t be! How the shit did this happen.
We went North, alright. The damn hoser DD did know of a kick ass place to party. He just left out the part about crossing international borders. Canada? The four of us from a country that’s had a flag for more than 50 years were a might concerned. Not so much about Canada; I mean who’s concerned about Canada? It was more about re-entering the United States and dealing with border security, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the fun time guys in Homeland Security. Did I mention none of us had our passports? I should have mentioned that none of us had our passports. Who the fuck takes their passport along when going on a bar crawl? Apparently, I should have. Come on. We managed to get into Canada without papers. Five sloppy drunks drove over the border without so much of a “Hey there,hi there, ho there, Eh.” How hard will it be to slip back over?
Canada is the roach motel of North American countries. I’m not comparing the nation to a poisonous roach infested trap, so don’t get your panties in a bunch, Canada. It’s more like Americans can enter, but they can’t leave sort of thing. Obviously, no one gives a flying fuck who enters Canada. But, when you want to turn around and drive the other way, there’s a problem. You see, the US is all bent out of shape about terrorism and terrorists sneaking past the border from Canada and doing harm unto us. Hey, that’s a legitimate concern. The problem is that its nye– im-fucking-possible to secure a 3,142 mile long border. In the good old days, if you lived close enough, you could pop into Canada and back, no questions asked. Today, fuck you! You’re a terrorist until we can prove otherwise. I sure as shit fit the profile being 5′ 1″ 100 pounds, pale, and blonde. I’m part of the little known Al Qaeda cell made up completely of angry Mick leftovers from the PIRA (IRA to you slaves of movie pop culture).
After the last of us came to, we decided to make a break for it. Our Canadian DD couldn’t remember exactly how we came in. It seemed like every secondary road was blocked from the Alberta side. Awesome! They’re just waving people through! We might just pull this off!
Before I knew it, a couple of officers from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police knocked on our window. Our ship was sunk. We were caught. Maybe it was because the car reeked of vomit and Irish Car Bombs. Maybe it was because I said the phrase “Irish Car Bombs.” Whatever it was, the Horsemen nabbed us and impounded the car. Why? Fucking racial profiling, man!
Once again, four out of the five of our little posse came from the States. Out of that four, exactly ZERO could offer any sort of paper work to the RCMP, let alone US border patrol. Our state drivers licenses were useless. My attempt to seduce my way out of Canadian custody fell flat. Great. Now I have self-esteem issues to boot. Fucking Mounties.
For the record, we were “detained” not arrested. There’s a mile of difference. Being arrested involves jail and a cavity search. Being detained entails a lot of retarded questioning, bad coffee, and constantly reaffirming that when you said “Irish Car Bomb” you meant the damn drink.
It was a chicken and the egg routine. In order to get past the border, we needed our passports. In order to get our passports, we needed to get past the border. Our options were:
- Have someone mail them to us while we wait in Calgary, in custody.
- Get shipped to the US Embassy in Ottawa.
- Have someone drive to the border checkpoint and bring them to us.
- Undertake a Steve McQueen type “Great Escape.”
We didn’t have enough shovels or Charles Bronson to complete number 4. Number 1 and 2 would just take us deeper into Canada; the OPPOSITE direction we needed to go. Not to mention staying longer than humanly possible. Number 3 seemed the most possible. I knew precisely who to recruit. My big brother! That’s it! He lives where this whole carnival of dipshittery began. That was only a mere… 1… 2… 4… 6 hours away! That’s practically down the road.
After some convincing, pleading, and threatening to tell everyone that he secretly watches iCarly when no one’s around (oops), he reluctantly agreed. It took him over an hour to locate and secure all four of the needed passports. A friend of his tagged along for the ride to watch the hilarity ensue. Joke’s on that asshole. He doesn’t have a passport, so the border patrol made him wait on the US side while my brother drove through. HA!
I was free! Even though, I’m damn sure I was entered in some sort of Albertian-Canadian-Canuckian watch list.
I suppose I should be grateful that it was the RCMP that kicked up a fuss and not Homeland Security. I’m not sure I could take a stint in Gitmo. I guess I should be grateful that my brother made a 12 hour round trip to bail his little sister out of an international bind. But, dude, some of those strippers at the club were HOT!