Monday, November 28, 2011

Sullivan's Grad Party

Throughout my long and allustrious career as a Champion, I've seen every type of approach to the concept of partying.  I've been unbelievably hyped up during a pregame, just to become an unemotional and non-responsive drunkard once i arrive at the bar.  On the other hand, i've pregamed with the energy of an autistic savant who has no access to his area of expertise, then suddenly erupted like the Yellowstone Super Volcano that's hypothesized on countless Nat Geo programs.

Regardless of these aformentioned occurences, the bottom line is that I am a fuckin' Champion. I'm such a Champion that professional athletes pick me first in fantasy drafts, and I don't even play sports anymore.  No matter how I start or finish a partying/championship situation, I'm going to drink an unbelievable amount of beer, bum bogeys off people I don't know, and judge all the women that are in attendance solely on their looks.  Good personality? Fuck You! Nice tits? Hi I'm Greg!  And to top it the fuck off, this is how i walk into every party i attend:

Now that I've stated the obvious, I hope you keep it all in mind as my story of utter savagery and alcoholism unfolds.  It was a hot and humid morning in the summer of 2010.  I was woken up by the sounds of my boys telling me to get the fuck up, because we arrived at our friend Meg's house.  After a few seconds of confusion, I realized I was still incredibly fucked up from last night and laying in the back seat of my boys SUV.  The odor I was emitting was a mix of vodka, bogies, bud light, and medieval war strategys.  It was very unsettling.  After squirming around for a few more seconds, i was finally jolted awake by my boy screaming like the armegeddon was upon us.  As I lazily forced my head out the backseat window, I heard shouts that made me realize that not only were we at Meg's house, but there were also two limos waiting to take us to her Aunt's mansion in the Hamptons, and I was holding the group up.

Now I don't know about you, but when people scream in my face to wake me up because a limo thats going to bring us to the hamptons is about to leave, I sit up faster than Tony Horton with a cock dangling in his face after he comes outta the closet.  P 90 X. faggot. Bitch. Pussy. Herman.

Once I was safely seated in the limo and situated between my fellow champs Cushion and the Niggie, the driver took off.  After 20 to 30 uneventful minutes in transit, some dumb broad had to bring up women's sports.  Now under normal circumstances, if this topic was brought up, I'd dive out the window of the moving vehicle and gladly accept the carnage of every car on the highway running over my defensless body.  However, I knew we were going to Meg's grad party, so I couldn't commit suicide.  Instead,  I decided to point out facts.

"Girls are good at sports! Just look at the Olympics!" shouted a random broad.

"No," I yelled, without giving any concrete examples of athletic superiority amongst males.

"You're just ignorant!" said the aformentioned broad, as she realized there was no hope for her argument.

And the reason she realized the futility of her argument was because at that moment our eyes met and no more words needed to be spoken. The intensity of my gaze alone made her realize that women's sports are not decided by who scores more points, but by who misses less shots.  As if the final score is 37 missed shots to 28 bricked lay ups.  Or it could be a closer margin of victory, like 32 air-balled threes to 21 unintentional turnovers. Or since we're speaking of women, it mght be 27 terrible attempts at being athletic to no actual existence of female participants in American football.  Or maybe it was because she noticed there is no snow or ice between the kitchen and the bedroom, which in turn explained why women are terrible at skiing. I digress.

Once my landslide victory was secured in the argument, all the passengers in the limo settled down.  It took about an hour to get to the destination of Meg's party, and once we pulled up I immediatley went to the keg.  The crowd around the keg stared in awe as I became both the first person to finish my beer, and the second person to fill my cup. 

After about an hour of relentless intoxication in the backyard, I decided to move to the front yard and continue to be a Champion.  My boy Cushion came with me, and on the walk to the front yard we decided to stop at the keg for what can only be estimated as the 30th or 80th time.  No middle ground.

Believe it or not, the crowd around the keg was thin, and only a few people were waiting in line to fill up their cups.  After budging them, I began filling up my beer and humming the melody to Emnem's Oscar winning song "Lose Yourself."  When I was about three quarters of the way filled up, something nudged my shoulder and caused me to spill my beer.  I attempted to hold it together as rage spread through every inch of my body, but my effort fell short like a jiffed up dick praying for a second stab at the pussy.

As I wiped the spilt beer off my arm, I looked up at the person who accidentally knocked my beer and said, "Are you fuckin' retarded?"

Believe it or not........He was.

Yes, I actually asked a mentally retarded and involuntarily handicapped individual if he was "fuckin retarded". I clearly did this accidentally, but what's really fucked up is the uncontrollable laughter that occured between Cushion and myself after we realized this transpired.

Tears were streaming down our faces as we rolled around the lawn like Bocce balls at an Italian family picnic.  I was slapping the ground harder than a referee at a WWE title match, and i actually started to believe this moment was the pinnacle of my life.  As I rolled on the floor and laughed hysterically, I looked towards the sky and fully expected to see a Goodyear Blimp getting ariel footage of this historic event.  When I realized there was no blimp, I figured there must be some mistake.  And If not a mistake, it could only mean that the host couldn't afford constant overhead coverage, but they most likely made up for this oversight by roping off a corner of the yard so paparazzi could document this once in a lifetime occurence.

Eventually, after minutes of hysterical laughter, I realized nobody was attempting to preserve the moment.  Apparently it's not socially acceptable to call a retard a retard, even if calling a retard a retard was accidental and the person responsible now feels retarded as well.

Regardless of social norms and popular interpersonal behavior, I walked away from the scene and fought the urge to defend my actions.  In hindsight, I was shitfaced, so any argument I made would probaly have fallen short of victory.  Truth is, I mistakenly called a retard a retard and I'm sorry....almost sorry to the point that I feel retarded. And also, I actually wasn't sorry at all.

So after that slight mishap was cleared up, I forgot why I started walking that way in the first place and returned to where my boy The Niggie was chillin.  At this point in the story everything gets a little hazy.  Hazy like the memory of a freshman chick on parents weekend trying to explain to Dad why there are four pairs of men's sneakers strewn about her dorm room and each pair is a noticeably different size. Sluts.

However hazy the memory is for me, I do remember that I eventually ended up back in the driveway, waiting patiently for the limo to come back and give us a ride home.  And by patiently waiting I mean the complete opposite.  I was obnoxiously screaming to all the adults in a twenty foot radius, and asking why there was a tennis court on the property that's bigger than my parent's house.  I pulled an Uncle aside and asked him when he thought the innocent chicks in attendance would blossom into sluts, and he became so uncomfortable he went inside.

Obviously I followed him, but I was barred from entering the actual house. To this day I'm still unsure if my blocked entry was the result of a predetermined policy to keep the inside of the house off limits, or the fact that all bystanders who looked in my eyes saw I was teetering on the edge of sanity. At this point in the afternoon, the odds were practically 50/50 that I'd either pass out with no incidence, or go on a killing spree that spanned ten to twelve congressional districts.

Regardless, I was ushered out front to the limos like the drunkest uncle at a wedding reception after the family is sufficiently embarrassed. Once I was safely situated in the limo, I kicked back and prepared to nap for the entire journey home. Being a genius, I always utilize the travel-nap tactic on long journeys so the wait to reach the destination seems instantaneous upon awakening. Not this time.

As soon as I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, a screeching sound pierced the air in my vicinity, and probably damaged a decent amount of ear drums. I immediately sat up, and after about 2 seconds it was apparent that the screecher was a middle aged woman. I realized the source of the sound was a 40 year old aunt, and after utilizing the scientific method I determined that she was mad because she discovered Iron Man was a super hero and Iron Woman was a command.

About five minutes into my pondering of this groundbreaking philosophical discovery, a high pitched voice cut through the air screaming, "I'm a MILF."

Without hesitation, I replied "No! You're a fuckkin cougar!"

Laughter. A lot of it. The perfect send-off. Allow me to explain.

And now I end this post here,though it is to be continued. So you can wonder if part two of this tale will be a simple continuation of the saga or a photocopy of the police report describing how a Champion was caught buttfucking a cougar from the Hamptons. Jiff.......

Friday, November 25, 2011

Happy Thanks(Not)giving (A Fuck)

Everybody loves the holidays.  It is a time to be thankful for everything we have been blessed with.  It is a time to give back to all those we care about, a time to spread the warmth and love that is the very essence of the holiday season.  It is a time for happiness, caring, and joy - or so we thought.  Recent studies suggest that this time of year is the most depressing on the calendar and there is a noticeable increase in the suicide rate.  This self loathing supposedly comes from the envy that single and lonely losers feel when they observe happy families gathering for holiday festivities.  They feel like they’re on the outside looking in, so they put a fuckin’ shotgun barrel in their mouth and ruin the wallpaper behind their head.  Pussies.

I mean, how stupid are these people?  Being single during the holidays is one of the best things that ever happened to me.  In fact, I strategically plan my relationships around the holidays so I can avoid wasting money on gifts for a girl who is guaranteed to hate me more than any man on Earth after a couple months of courtship.  The money I save by not buying stupid shit for a significant other can then be spent in a more rational way, like funding my championship winning adventures.

One particular Holiday Championship happened not too long ago on New Year’s Eve.  At the time I was working as a Floor Manager at the Albany CBS affiliate for the early morning newscast.  Basically, I had to get to the studio by 4am every morning and set up the lighting and microphones, and then I used a robotics system to control the four studio cameras simultaneously during the actual broadcast.  It sounds complicated, but it was fuckin’ cake.  I also got to flirt with the young female reporters, and by flirt I mean lie to them about having connections that could advance their careers in return for sexual favors. I know…I’m a Champ.

Anyways, that year one of my friends was throwing a New Years Eve party at his house.  It was supposed to be the party of year, and anybody who was anybody was going to be in attendance, so the Champ was obviously expected to make an appearance.  The problem was, I had to be at work at 4am on New Year’s Day, so it seemed like I had a pretty big predicament on my hands.  A normal person would realize that a new career should always take precedent over funneling, fornicating, and frolicking with females, but I’m a champion for Christ’s sake.  I was determined to own this party and somehow make it to work, so I decided I would attend the NYE bash and just stay awake and go into work red-eyed and whiskey-scented.

So later that night, I packed a bag with work clothes and a handle of Jack Daniels and headed to the party.  Before I left, my parents did everything in their power to persuade me to stay in.  When they told me it was a bad idea, I told them to stop cock blocking and hopped in my car.  I peeled out of my driveway with no regard for human life and made a beeline to the party.  Even though I was staying awake until I had to go into work, I still felt like I was in a hurry to get fucked up and make the most of my time, so I immediately started pounding shots and chasing with beer.  The best part was, there were a lot of other champions there that I grew up with but hadn’t seen in a long time, because apparently that’s what happens when you “grow up.” And to be honest, we are all terrible influences on each other.  The manner in which civilians kept their distance from us when we all congregated in the same area would make an observer think we all had leprosy.  It was fuckin’ great.  At one point, we took the container filled with punch and started performing the “Cooler Prank” on innocent bystanders….for an hour. It never got old to us.

When we finally decided to give the prank a break, I led my entourage of champions to the living room to post up for a while, because the living room seemed to be where the majority of attractive girls were.  Once we established our location, one my boys nudged me with his elbow and pointed me in the direction of a beautiful young lady who was beckoning me with her eyes.  For a moment, it seemed like everything at the party froze in time, and I slowly started to make my way over to her.  As the crowd gracefully parted before me, I felt like I was in a scene from a corny 1980’s chick flick and everything seemed to be in slow motion.  Everyone's attention was focused on me as I drew closer to the gorgeous girl, who was now looking at me while playfully twirling a lock of her shimmering auburn hair. I then noticed she was standing underneath mistletoe that the residents of the house forgot to take down after Christmas.  When I finally reached her, we embraced and our faces inched closer and closer while the mistletoe above us was swaying in a faint breeze. Right before our lips touched, I leaned back and said:

“Do you want to suck my dick or something? If not, stop fuckin staring at me from across the room you dumb bitch.”

After the girl poured her drink on me and the uproar of laughter died down, I ran back to my fellow champions and they hoisted me on their shoulders like I was Rudy being carried off the field after making a tackle for Notre Dame.  About an hour after the ball dropped, I found the girl I was hooking up with at the time and we made love.  Just kidding.  I fucked her real quick and hard and the whole time I was screaming “NO EYE CONTACT! NO FUCKIN EYE CONTACT!”

Eventually, after a few more hours of being ruthless at the party, it was time for me to go to work.  I was really, really shitfaced, but I somehow managed to make my way to the studio in one piece.  I was even fifteen minutes early, so everyone was pretty happy with me.  To this day I don’t know how they didn’t realize I was hammered, and I don’t think they even suspected anything until about an hour into the newscast.  For the first hour, everything was running smoothly and I was making all the camera movements that the Director asked me to make with precision and accurate timing.  However, the whole time I was controlling the cameras, I was all alone, sitting down, and in a dark studio.  I was way too comfortable, and if you add the heavy alcohol intoxication into the mix, you can understand how I started to get extremely tired.  Then, I started to fall asleep….several times.

I would be sitting at my station operating the cameras, and I would suddenly nod off, then be startled awake by the Director screaming at me because the camera would slowly tilt to the floor.  For the thousands of people watching the news that morning, every few minutes the picture on their TV would go from having the News Anchor directly in the middle of the screen to dropping to the lower left hand side where there was only the desk he was sitting at.  After this happened four or five times, I realized my whole career was in jeopardy and something had to be done.  I knew that at this hour, under these circumstances, the only solution would be to get the J.

So I texted my friend with the J and told him to come to the parking lot of my work and meet me.  I also told him it was an emergency situation, and he needed to hurry the fuck up.  He said he would be there in fifteen minutes, and I told him to make it here in ten.  My only problem was that I had to handle the whole situation during a commercial break, because it’d be impossible to leave the camera station unattended while the broadcast was live on the air.  That left me three minutes to unhook the communications equipment from my body, navigate my way through the maze-like hallways and staircases that make up the studio, jump in his car and do the deal, then retrace my way through the obstacles of the building, do my business in the bathroom, run back to my camera station, and set myself back up before the Director gives the on-air cue – all while being really drunk.  When my friend finally told me he was in the parking lot and the newscast cut to commercial, I looked like a contestant on ABC’s Wipeout, but I managed to pull everything off with a few seconds to spare.

Once we were back on the air and I was suddenly wide awake, everything went smoothly for the next two hours.  Actually, it might have been the best camera performance of my life, and I would even go so far as to say that the show deserved an Emmy nomination for Outstanding Multi-Camera Newscast.  When the cameras stopped rolling, I decided it would be best for me to go home and get some sleep.  After working this job for a few more months and seeing all of the promotions go to people with Bachelor’s Degrees while I only had an Associate’s Degree, I started to think seriously about going back to college.  I ended up quitting and working as a short order cook until I finally enrolled at Oneonta.  That is when I solidified my position as the People’s Champ and started adding to my MVP trophy collection every weekend.

Happy Holidays – from the Champ.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Being A Champ's Friend

As I was sitting at my desk in the massive expanse of cubicles that is my office, I was neglecting the tasks I’m actually paid to do because I couldn’t help but think about the drastic differences between my weekend and weekday lives.  I was at work, wearing a suit, speaking politely when spoken to, and putting on a facade that gives off the impression of normalcy.  However, when the weekend rolls around, I shed my secret identity and emerge as the Champion that you all know and love. 

But sometimes my weekend adventures don’t turn out exactly as planned, even though I am fully aware that there is always the possibility of something bad happening to me anytime I go out partying.  Even worse is when something unexpected happens to one of my friends as a result of my actions, and it’s gotten to the point where I feel like I should make my friends sign consent forms before they go out with me.  For example, last weekend I went to the city for my friend’s birthday party and I got unbelievably hammered.  My night was like the Giants’ last three seasons:  it started out good and extremely promising, but as it went on it got worse and worse until it ended up completely fucked.  I was starting arguments with my friends and trying to fight Asians for no reason, and that was all before me and my boy Diego tried to fight everyone we saw for the rest of the night.  Some of my friends had to spend a good amount of time trying to keep me at bay, and luckily, nobody got hurt or arrested, but it does remind me of some other times when my friends had to pay the price for my championship wins.

A few years ago I was at an acquaintance’s apartment on the UAlbany campus.  Everyone was fucked up, and there was a great ratio of girls to guys, so we all knew we had a good shot of putting the dick in the puss.  Everyone was dancing, smoking L’s, and having a good time while I was in the middle of a game of beer pong.  It was a friendly contest at first, but the kid I was playing against made a wise comment, so I flipped up the table and hit him with a three piece combo to the jaw.  Next thing I knew I got kicked out of the party, along with all the friends I brought, leaving their dreams of getting laid shattered as a result of my champion actions.

Another time, I was with a bunch of my boys at a club in downtown Albany and I was in rare form. When I was on the dance floor I felt like Jerry Sandusky in a shower, except instead of young boys it was college age sluts falling victim to molestation.  There was absolutely no controlling me, but at this point all of my alcohol induced aggression was still being channeled into positive energy, so nobody was paying any mind.  The drunker I got though, the more the club started to seem like Tiananmen Square, where the girls were the Chinese protesters and I was the fuckin’ Tank.  Eventually, things did start to get ugly and several fights almost happened because I was hitting on girls who were with their boyfriends, so my boys and I decided to leave.  On the walk to my friend’s car I was knocking over garbage cans, bending street signs, barrel rolling through bushes, round-housing side mirrors on cars, and basically destroying everything in sight.  By the time I was done, the path from the club to the car looked like a Fault Line in Chile after a high magnitude earthquake strikes.  Unfortunately, when we got in the car and pulled off the curb we were immediately pulled over.  The officer said he witnessed my rowdiness on the walk back and waited to see if we drove.  My friend who was driving drank just a little too much and was slightly over the legal limit, so he was hit with a DUI.  Once again, I was partly responsible for something negative happening to a friend because I am incapable of losing championships.

There are many more occasions where my actions have caused an unfavorable outcome for my friends.  Some of these situations are going to have future blog posts that detail the shenanigans completely, and some I have already shared with you.  Some stories, like the time when I called a kid a pussy, not knowing his group of friends outnumbered mine three to one, are better left untold (for now).  With all of this being said, I was really thinking about taking it down a notch and not being so aggressive in my pursuit for championships.  Because truthfully, I do feel bad when someone I actually care about gets caught in the crossfire.  Throughout my life, my champion ways have caused me to lose some friends, whether it’s because they can’t handle being around me, or because I just think they’re bitch.  So, as the hour hand neared five o’clock and I was still at my desk, I was really pondering my life and wondering if I am taking things a little too far.  I was debating if it was finally time for me to start living a conventional life, where everything is done in an orderly fashion and I’ll never have to worry about what kind of trouble I might get into when Friday rolls around.  Then I remembered that I really don’t give a fuck. I fuckin' is.

Drinking and Driving...Classic Part 1

A common trend that I’ve noticed during my binge drinking career is that the mornings after I go out, I tend to wake up in a state of confusion. Sometimes I wake up naked in strange places, and other times I wake up covered in piss in a familiar setting. Still, I never fail to wake up with a bewildered look on my face, and by waking up I mean the nights I go out and actually end up going to sleep.  Hashtag Stay Woke

The first time I woke up in a perplexing situation was when I was at the ripe age of 16.  It was before I started disintegrating the inner workings of my nasal cavity, and all I did was drink and fuck my 15 year old girlfriend. I used to choke the shit out of her when I fucked her.  Not only did I choke her, I fucked her in my unfinished basement on an old futon that I vomited on after a night of Irish Car Bombs and a gravity bong.  She was no better than any of my other possessions.

On this particular night, I remember a light fog hanging over the cool spring air.  Or maybe I was just really shitfaced.  I just finished having sex, and I needed a bogey.  Without hesitation, I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door.

“Wait!” shouted my slut. “You took like 15 shots, you can’t drive.”

“Bogeys,” I grunted.

“Let me drive at least,” she pleaded.

I laughed hysterically for fifteen minutes before I proclaimed, “You’re a female, you sit in the fuckin’ back”

Sometimes you have to remind them who dominates and who subdues.  The conversation that just happened will be a common theme in my life journey, although it will be presented in a wide variety of ways.

Anyways, after she got in the car, I sped away from my house, purposely running over my neighbor’s lawn because it’s next to mine.  Give me some fuckin space when I’m drunk.  After I turned onto the main street, I started hunting for a gas station.  When I pulled up to an intersection, I caught my first red light.  A piece of shit suburu pulled up alongside me.  Now I was hammered, but I could’ve swore the guy driving it was staring at me.  In reality, he didn’t even glance at me.

Being a Champion, I could not let a person who is not staring at me get away with staring at me.  To my girlfriend’s horror, I rolled down my window and leaned my head out. 

“HEY,” I shouted, “what the fuck man?”

The man driving the car still didn’t look over.  I took this as a direct insult to my masculinity.  I grabbed a handful of debris from my car’s ash tray and threw it in his direction.  The man looked over at me, our eyes met, and a fire lit in the pit of my stomach that erupted through my whole body.  Regardless of whether or not he actually looked at me before, now he definitely was.  I could sense the fear that was overwhelming my girl in the back seat, but I heeded her not.   Next thing I knew my whole torso was out the window and I was screaming obscenities that humans had not yet attached a definition to.  My voice was projecting with such power that Doppler radar was picking up the disturbance.

Then, the suburu was gone.  The light turned green and the man sped away.  There was no way I would let this man who didn’t do anything get away with not doing anything, so I floored my gas pedal in hot pursuit. 

Unfortunately, I was fifteen shots deep, so my foot was a tad on the heavy side.  My car jerked forward so forcefully that my girl was tossed into the front seat.  I over-compensated the over-acceleration by breaking too hard, and once again she was in the back seat.  To an outside observer the movement of my car looked like a prostitute’s head when getting skull fucked.

After laughing at the situation, I finally steadied the pace of my car but the suburu was long gone.     However, I had new company…flashing lights in my rear view mirror. 

“Fuck,” I mumbled, knowing that there was nowhere to run. 

For a second I pondered holding my girlfriend hostage at knife point and attempting to escape back to my house, but I realized that could potentially make the situation worse.  In hindsight, I wish I had at least tried.

I pulled off to the side of the road, and the cop walked up to my door and asked me if I had been drinking.   After exchanging disrespectful banter, he made me get out of the car and do the standard sobriety tests.  To everyone’s amazement, I passed all of the field tests.  And since most cops have nothing to do except harass us, there were three more police cars that pulled up at this point.  I was loving my audience, bowing and demanding applause after each passed test.

This did not make the cops happy.  They threw me in the back of the paddy wagon and made me blow into a breathalyzer.  Next thing I knew they picked me up and threw handcuffs on me.  Coincidentally, at the precise moment the cuffs clicked into a locked position on my wrists, my girlfriend’s father pulled up.

Now this man already hated me.  I can only imagine having to get out of bed at 1AM on a work night to pick up my fifteen year old daughter who was in the car with her sixteen year old boyfriend while he was heavily intoxicated and witness him getting cuffed as soon as I pull up.

 Needless to say, my penis never entered that vagina again.

The rest of the night is kind of blurry, as my body fully absorbed the entirety of my alcohol consumption on the ride to the police station.  Next thing I knew I woke up in my bed fully clothed with my Jordan’s on, my license revoked for a year, and my parents really pissed off.  I was also extremely confused.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

I.P. Freely

Although a specific genetic makeup is required to grow into a Champion, there are also responsibilities that Champions have for themselves to help maintain performance at the highest level.  In other words, there are a number of obligations and activities that a Champion must partake in to cultivate the physical and mental gifts they were lucky enough to be born with.  To help clarify, I’ll use the original Champion (me) as an example.  When I’m not out pounding beers, fucking sluts, destroying property, getting arrested, or lowering peoples self-esteem to raise my own, I’m working and making money in a new career, going to the gym to build a statuesque physique, teaching myself how to play instruments to enhance the creative side of my personality, and reading books to satisfy my intellectual needs.  And believe it or not, I didn’t go to college just so I could share my crazy experiences in this blog, I also went to get an education.  You see, it is necessary to constantly feed the mind and body the fuel needed to keep the finely-tuned machine know as “a Champion” functioning with the most efficiency.  You can’t just go out one night and expect to win a championship – being a Champion is a lifestyle.  Actually it’s not a lifestyle, it’s my lifestyle.     

Now that I’ve basically explained the blueprints for winning championships, let me tell you about a time when I didn’t do one fucking thing I mentioned in the previous paragraph.  Fuck that shit.  I’m a Champion and I do what I want.  So a few years ago during a snow storm in late December I was throwing a party at my apartment in Oneonta.  During that time I really lost control of myself and didn’t give two shits about my appearance, health, or overall personal well being.  Now I know you’re thinking “Champ, you never give a fuck about that stuff anyways,” but as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, a lot of hard work is put in behind the scenes so I’m able to not give a fuck and get away with it.  During this time period, I skipped the hard work and went straight to the not giving a fuck.

Anyways, the party we were throwing was pretty rowdy, or at least I think it was, because I was by far the drunkest man there.  I would even take the odds that I was the drunkest human being on the planet that night.  I was so drunk that when I went to hit on girls they started asking me the questions that doctors recommend you ask a person who is having a stroke.  I guess that’s what happens when you drink a bottle of Jack Daniels to the face before the party even starts.

Eventually, I realized I was way too fucked up to be at the party and I needed to sleep off the spins that were developing in my eyesight, brain, and stomach.  I went to my room hoping to enjoy the comforts of my bed, but there were people doing jiff in there, and I’m not the type of guy who breaks up a good time just because I need a little beauty rest.  Luckily, one of the girls I was fucking at the time lived right across the street, and without her approval I decided I would go to her apartment and sleep in her bed.  I miraculously made it down all of the staircases in my building without breaking any bones and staggered across the street to the girl’s place.  I sprawled out on her bed and closed my eyes, with dreams of soberness dancing in my head……..

 ….Suddenly I woke up, confused as hell and soaking wet.  I was also naked and still really drunk.  I had no memory of anything I did before I awoke, so I hopped out of the girl’s bed and started looking for my clothes.  Luckily I had relations with this chick many times before, so I at least knew where I was, but as far as my clothes went, they were nowhere to be found.  At this moment I also made a startling realization – I was wet because I pissed in this girl’s bed during my drunken slumber.  It was beer piss too, so there was A LOT.  Her mattress looked like a fully saturated sponge set out to dry on a damp carpet. 

Now you think I would be embarrassed about sharing this, but shit happens, or in this case piss happens.  Plus I rarely get embarrassed by anything I do because Champions don't give a fizzuck.  So after laughing about the situation for a few minutes, I decided that finding my clothes was my number one priority.  Since I was still drunk, I didn’t think to listen closely to see if there was anyone in the living room, and I burst through the bedroom door butt naked.  Well, there were people there, a good number of people, and all of their eyes immediately moved to my dick.  It was completely silent, and the awkwardness was growing so palpable that I felt like I could touch it.  Being a Champion, I had absolutely no shame, and instead I just started laughing hysterically.  They must have initially thought I was a disturbed person, standing there in the nude and laughing like a maniac, but it was all part of my plan.  Laughing can make any moment funny, like this one from Silence of the Lambs:
The laughter was contagious and the next thing I knew everyone was cracking up and slapping their knees.  Someone even gave me a blanket to wrap myself up in and a beer to quench my thirst.  They also told me that it was only 1am, and the party at my apartment was still raging.  Even better, the girl who owns the bed I slept/peed in and fuck on the reg was at my apartment.  I could have continued searching for my clothes but I opted to just walk back to the party in nothing but the blanket, because Champions always have their head in the game.  Going back without my clothes is like when a running back loses his shoe during a play – he doesn’t just stop running, he presses on hoping to reach the end zone.  In this case, the end zone was a pussy and my dick was the running back.

When I got back to my apartment, I turned the blanket into a toga and became the talk of the party.  It was awesome.  After leading a couple dance-offs, I found the girl, and eventually we walked back to her place.  When she saw her bed, she was pretty mad, but she still ended up having sex with me.  Not only did she have sex with me, she didn’t even make me do the laundry the next day to clean her sheets.  And to top it the fuck off, she paid for and walked to pick up my breakfast the next morning while I laid on her couch and watched the Giants beat the Texans.  Seriously.  Champion.                

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Drinking and Driving...Classic Part 2

*I suggest you read Drinking and Driving...Classic Part 1 before embarking on this journey.  It is a sort of "prequel" to this story.  Also, I don't condone drinking and driving, its dangerous and stupid, unless you're a Champion.  Then do whatever you want.

    A year had passed since my first DUI, I was a senior in High School, and I was ready to graduate.  I spent the year getting drunk without having to worry about getting drunken driving tickets.  When I still had to worry about getting them I drank heavily, so imagine me when I didn’t.  It made Robespierre and his Reign of Terror during the French Revolution look like a fuckin’ episode of Barney.  Some nights I wouldn’t even wear normal clothing, but instead I would dress like a Viking and rape and pillage in the neighboring towns.  Unfortunetly for you guys, this year of my life is so blacked out that I can’t remember any of the championships I won.  Maybe if it comes back to me sometime it will be a memoir of its own.  
      Anyways, right before I graduated a letter came in the mail addressed to yours truly.  It was from the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles.  When I opened the envelope, my new Drivers License fell out.  I was so happy I round-housed my mail box and the shards of black plastic scattered in the street.  My dad was pissed, but I was too elated to care.
            I was back on the road.
      In all honesty, during the first month of being a licensed driver again I was pretty good about not getting behind the wheel after drinking.  Eventually, it became too hard for me to ignore the convenience of having a free ride when I wanted to leave a party or the bar…drunk or not.
      A couple of days before graduation, a group of seniors decided to go to a club for a few drinks and some dancing.  They let me pick the venue based on my wealth of knowledge in the field of getting fucked up.  I chose a nice little place called Mardi Gras in downtown Albany.  When I say nice, I mean the sleaziest, grimiest haven of debauchery with cheap drinks and corrupt bouncers that let girls in who aren’t even old enough to grow pubes.  They might as well have changed the name from Mardi Gras to The Champion’s Paradise. 
      Some dumb slut who coordinated most of this adventure told everyone to meet at her house at ten o’clock to pregame for an hour, and then call cabs to go to the club.  At the pregame, I dominated beer pong, punched a few holes in the wall as victory celebrations, and won a freestyle dance-off against a black kid.  Good thing I was taking it easy, because this night ended in a pretty crazy way for me.
      Eventually, the girl’s father came downstairs to get everyone’s car keys, and when I refused to give him mine he told me I had to leave.  I told him how much of a faggot he was and that his daughter got fucked by half the school, and then casually walked out.  On my way out of the house, I happened to pass by his liquor cabinet, so I grabbed a bottle of Smirnoff to sip on while I waited outside for my friends to finish pregaming.
      About fifteen minutes later, everyone came out.  I just finished pissing on the vinyl siding of the house, so I was all ready to go.  I pounded the last drip of the Smirnoff, and smashed it in the street.
      “Really Greg, did you really have to break that bottle?” asked the girl who lived there.  “You already pissed my dad off.”
      “Sorry,” I replied, “I’m gonna go apologize right now.”
      “Really?” she asked
      The girl looked pretty upset, but she wasn’t surprised by my actions.  The tendencies of Greg Lou George Foreman Millerly were already a widely known legend cemented in the minds of all his peers.
      A short time later, two taxi vans pulled up to where we were standing.  As everyone began to pile in, I went up to the cab drivers window.  The driver was an Asian, so I obviously had to talk to him in the stereotypical Chinese accent by pronouncing all of the L’s as R’s.  I asked him what the fare would be per person, and he said something that sounded like "twelve dollars." 
      I stared at him for a good five minutes because I could not comprehend how preposterous this was.  Twelve dollars could get me three cheap drinks at four dollars a pop, and everyone knows I don’t tip unless I see some titties.  Before anyone could stop me, I sprinted to my car, got in, and sped off on the road to the club.  My friends who were in the cab were calling my phone during the whole ride, but it’s kind of hard to answer your cell when you’re smoking a bogey, drinking a beer, and driving at the same time.  I only have two fuckin’ hands.  If I had three hands I’d probably be jerking off too.  
                  Anyways, after escaping the level-headed group of friends I had at that whore’s house, I finally approached Mardi Gras.  I parked my car in a vacant lot, got out and slammed the door a lot harder than necessary.  Nobody looked over, so I was already in a bad mood before I even got to the club.
      I arrived at the line, and waited patiently as it progressed into the club.  While waiting, I saw my friends from before walking up to wait their turn.
      “Mill,” one of them shouted, “you shouldn’t have drove!”
      I turned and gave no vocal response, but my gaze was so maddening at my group of friends that I only needed two eyes to cut them down like weeds being landscaped by a Peruvian.  At this point I was at the front of the line, and the bouncers let me in free of cover charge and without ID’ing me. Champion. 

Once everyone was in, the girls immediately headed to the dance floor to do what sluts do, and the guys went to the bar to do what men do.  I was already completely wrecked, so I ordered a bud light and some type of shot.  I pounded the beer and sipped the shot, and by sip I mean I pounded it.
I moved to the dance floor and began my dance, a dance that actually isn’t a dance, but an all out molestation of hoes.  I grabbed a cheek, lifted up a skirt, and thumb darted a girl so hard it looked as if she was David Blain performing his levitation illusion.  I was basically Sub Zero on the dance floor:
This went on for about an hour.  Next thing I know, most of the people who were around me before are now keeping there distance.  I'm steadily becoming more and more blacked out, and I have vague flashes of leaving the club and walking to my car, but the images are hazy at best and the memories are covered in a fog of war.……
……I’m jolted awake.  I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, my left front tire doesn’t exist anymore, and sparks are flying from the hood of my car.  My driver’s side window is shattered, and there are shards of glass in my hair.  My right forearm is bleeding from three different spots.  I gather myself, still grinding ahead and sparking on three tires, and realize I’m skidding down the main street two blocks from my house. 
I whip a left turn into a parking lot, exit my car, and sprint to my house.  I walk in my front door, grab some bath towels from my parent’s bathroom closet, and wrap my arm wound tightly.  Then, I shed my clothing down to my boxers and go in my basement, passing out on the futon that I fucked many-a-hoes in.  I pass out…
“Wake up scum!”
I opened my eyes and my parents were standing over me with two police officers.  My parents looked pissed off and confused, and the cops just looked like fuckin’ cops.  Everyone was yelling and accusing me of drunk driving and leaving the scene of an accident.  One of the cops informed me that witnesses saw me rear end someone, pull my car over, and then get out and run off into the distance.  They also said my minor injuries looked exactly like the injuries one would sustain in the accident that was reported.  And my wallet was in the wreckage, along with empty beer bottles and a pack of bogeys.  Luckily, they said nobody else was hurt.
Instead of defending myself, or even speaking for that matter, I casually stood up and walked over to the garbage pail to take a piss.
This really pissed off the cops - pun intended.  They wrestled me to the ground, mid-pee, so I’m flopping around with two other grown men and my dick out.  Good thing I cut off the stream or it would have gotten pretty messy.  Meanwhile, my mom’s screaming, my dad’s telling the officers to let go of me, and my dogs upstairs barking as if he saw a black man. 
They finally got me on my feet and arrested me.  After hauling me to the police station in nothing but my boxers, they tirelessly questioned me, but I didn’t say a word.  Having no solid evidence to build a case against me, I was only charged with Drunken Disorderly Conduct and Leaving the Scene of an Accident.  I insisted that I drank after I drove and crashed, so they couldn’t charge me with DUI.  They asked how it was humanly possible to get that drunk that quick then, and I said it probably isn’t humanly possible.
 I said, though, it is very Championly possible.


Wednesday, October 26, 2011

The Champion's Champion

Most people have some type of remedy that they can turn to when they’re having trouble falling asleep.  Another similar concept is that most men have an idea that they can think of to aid they’re limp penis when they’re too fucked up too perform.  An idea that can inspire they’re dick to hardness.  And to top it off, some men can continue to be complete savages when they’re heartbeat is fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird.  When all of you’re body’s blood supply is preoccupied with rebuilding the capillaries that were destroyed after your most recent jiff night, and there’s a sexy Asian straddling you, you know you’re a unique breed.  When you still have the mental tact to get good grades for not only yourself, but for a friend who pays you to write their final paper, you are a rare specimen.  A specimen who can somehow manage to find the jiff from a mentally impaired cab driver in the same night that he throws his door, chair, and desk fan out of his second story window.  When said man goes out and drinks liquor, his friends warn the community that “the dragon’s out of the lair.”

It would be an injustice to say that what I just described is a human, almost as much of an injustice as allowing Ethiopians to enter marathons against normal folk.  Almost as much of an injustice as Ja Rule trying to maintain his career after calling out Eminem in a rap battle.  Almost as much of an injustice as the last time people thought I would lose a championship.  They were wrong. 

So now, after almost a month of publishing stories that detail the debauchery and social destruction that I cause at a whim, I present to you the Ultimate Champ.  His name is Deputy Doofy, and he is a martyr amongst men.  Since I am a champ, I don’t believe in religion, but I now believe in reincarnation.  The black man in this video is the reincarnation of Deputy Doofy inspiring the world to be Champions:

*To avoid confusion for my non-Oneonta readers, the Deputy Doofy I was referring to is not the bumbling idiot from Scary Movie.  I'm describing one of my boys who happens to share the same name. Champion out.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

The Young Champ

Earlier today I was in my basement dusting off old Championship rings and MVP trophies when I noticed an old karaoke machine hidden under some boxes.  I was astonished by my discovery because I never was a fan of karaoke, and I would rather create my own music than sing someone else’s. If I was a middle aged schmuck drinking away the sorrows of my predictable lifestyle and sitting at a bar yelling “Hey Barkeep, leave the bottle,” then maybe, just maybe, I would take up karaoke as a hobby.  But I’m not, and “Champion Karaoke” is almost as much of an oxymoron as “Women’s Sports,” so I decided to investigate my finding a little further. 

I pushed a few Player of the Year awards and old paternity tests clearing me of fatherhood out of the way and walked up to the machine.  It was obviously broken, and the cassette deck was sticky with stains of vodka.  I decided I should just smash it to pieces for fun, but as I hoisted it in the air a tape fell out.  I picked up the tape and it was labeled “2002 rap.”  Suddenly, my memories rushed to my brain like smoke spewing from a gravity bong.

When I was in High School, I used to rap all the time with my friends.  And since I’m a champion, I was quite good.  The tape I found happened to be some songs I recorded when I was sixteen years old, and I immediately uploaded them on my computer.  Since the tape is so dated and decrepit, only one of the tracks was transferred to a digital file with a good enough sound quality to hear.  It’s still kind of rough, and you can tell I sound like a very young champion, but it’s worth a listen.  Also, whereas the last song I posted was hilarious because of how sincere it sounded despite the content, this one is just nasty. Champion out.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Hall of Champions Inductee #3

Let me start off by apologizing for the lack of posts recently.  Although Champions don’t have to give any justification for their actions, I feel like my readers deserve some sort of explanation for my absence.  Basically what happened was that I just finished working at an old job, and I have a couple of weeks until I start a new career with a better employer.  This means I have a couple of weeks without anything to do.  Most people would probably relax, spend some quality time with a significant other, or maybe finish a project around the house while they have the free time.  Nope.  Not me. I literally went out every night, got hammered, chased skirts, did jiff, ripped off my shirts mid-party, and won championships.  I even made an impulsive trip to Oneonta where I took binge drinking to a new level.  My performance was on par with Albert Pujols recent three-home-run World Series outing, and considering the fact that I did it every night for seven days, some might say I outplayed him.  So fellow champions, that is why I have been MIA.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, I want to be honest with everyone - sometimes being a Champion sucks.  I hope my readers can appreciate the courage it took for me to admit that, but when it comes to honesty it’s all worth it.  So with that being said, you should know I was definitely just lying.  Being a Champ is fuckin’ awesome.  Always was, always will be.  It never sucks.  So while we’re discussing the expected criteria needed to be a champion, allow me to introduce to everyone the newest member to the Hall of Champions. 

Jasper Newton Daniel, aka fuckin’ Champion.   A man who is such a Champion that even his Wikipedia entry doesn’t know the exact date of his birth.  And better yet, his date of birth isn’t known because his birth records were destroyed in a courthouse fire that he probably started.  That fact alone could be enough to elevate his existence to Champion status, but his legacy will be passed on for something else.  Jasper Newton Daniel happens to be the founder of the Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey Distillery, also known as the “Jack Daniels Distillery.”  And everyone knows that some things run on gas…other things run on batteries….but Champions run on Jack Daniels.  Let me share an exact quote from a real life situation that exemplifies JD’s potency:
“Hey Champ, how come everything in town has been completely destroyed….and why are all of the men dead and all of the women pregnant?”
“I’m not sure, but I drank Jack Daniels last night.”
“Oh no wonder! By the way, you’re really handsome!”
“Awwww…thanks Meghan Fox!”

Possibly the greatest alcoholic beverage in the history of binge drinking, Jack Daniel’s was introduced to the world in 1875 - and being a Champion hasn’t been the same since.  When an athlete feels like they need to re-energize after a tough game, they normally reach for an electrolyte-boosting drink like Gatorade or Powerade.  When a champion needs to enhance their performance, we throw back a few shots and within seconds there is a noticeable increase in irresponsible and reckless behavior.  If it wasn’t for Jack Daniels and the unique chemical reactions it causes in my brain, I would still have a number of good relationships with women, several of the nice cell phones I smashed, and the thousands of dollars I had to hand over to my lawyer and the government.  However, I would not be in possession of so many MVP trophies and championship rings, and this blog would most likely not exist to entertain my loyal readers. 
So Jack Daniels, on behalf of my fans, I would like to thank you for making this blog possible, and I would also like to welcome you to the Hall of Champions. 
Also, I am now back in full force, and I will be regularly updating like normal.  In fact, I’m currently debating which story I should share tomorrow, but it’s either going to be about the time I got arrested in Sea Side Heights, or the time this stupid girl pooped in my presence.  I’ll leave that to your imaginations for now……