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
      “No.”
      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.……
…..CRASH……
……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……




Thursday, October 13, 2011

Skin it to Win it




Sex is awesome.  Anybody who has ever had it wants to keep having it, and there seems to be an endless list of benefits – it relieves stress, burns calories, boosts your immune system, improves self esteem, etc.  Having a lot of sex is almost a prerequisite to being a Champion, but apparently this is only true for men.  Allow me to elaborate.  Most women could have sex whenever they want, and an attractive woman certainly can.  But most of them don’t because they’re afraid that they’ll be called a slut.  What these women don’t realize is that with the way girls gossip and talk shit nowadays, they’re going to be called sluts anyways.  So, they might as well play the part….fuckin’ slut. 

Whenever I get on the topic of sluts, one particular event always pops into my thought process.  It is an event like no other, when Champions walk amongst men and girls tear their clothes off to bow at our feet.  It is a sacred event, unparalleled in its nature and envied by those on the outside looking in.  It is a tradition that goes by many names, but it is most commonly referred to as the Revue. 

Sponsored by my Oneonta fraternity, the Revue is an annual contest to see which sorority can get the most naked.  Seriously.  They just get naked.  There are a number of competitions that help us to determine the winner, and the sorority that ends up being the victors gets to party with us that night.  This might sound absurd, and even down right mind boggling, but you should understand that this event is pulled off because my fraternity is a bunch of Champions constantly on the hunt to feed their champion urges.  There is also an open bar to get all of the girls nice and loose.

Anyways, a few years ago on the night before the Revue, my girlfriend at the time called me to tell me that it wasn’t working out.  I explained to her that I can’t be a good boyfriend until I retire from being a Champion, and I’m not going to stop being a champion until I die.  With that said, I can’t be in a relationship when I’m dead, so it looks like we got a real conundrum here!  Then I reminded her that she was breaking up with me at the worst possible time, because I was so excited for the revue that I forgot I even had a girlfriend to begin with.  So before she could respond, I hung up and laid down to fall asleep, hoping to dream of the nakedness I would be seeing on the morrow as a newly single man.  Unfortunately, I was so fuckin’ pumped for the Revue that I couldn’t sleep, so I did this for 8 hours until it was morning:

So after doing that all night and going to class all day, it was finally time for the Revue to start. I walked over to my boy Detail’s apartment and we took a few shots of Belvedere and made a toast to the night ahead of us.  We arrived at the venue, and I started pounding beers and posing in as many pictures with the girls as possible.  Normally I’m not a big “picture guy,” but I needed some way to remember what was about to transpire. 
After drinking like it was my last day on Earth, the competition started.  I’m not going to get too specific, because in all honesty I barely remember.  I just know that girls were getting naked, licking whipped cream off each other, and ruthlessly making out at every turn.  It was disgusting and beautiful at the same time.  In the midst of hooking up with different girls, I was getting texts from my ex about how gross I am, and how slutty all the girls are.  I was too preoccupied by the Revue’s awesomeness happening all around me to text her back, or give a fuck, so I smashed my phone so it would stop vibrating.  Champions don’t think about consequences, they assume that all of their actions will lead to some type of Championship Ring ceremony. 
After about an hour of sexual pandemonium, the Revue was over.  A winner was chosen and the girls left so they could shower and "wash the revue away".  My boys and I were so full of joy that we were on stage together jumping, dancing, and celebrating. We looked like a baseball team after a pitcher pitches a no hitter.  It was the happiest I’ve ever seen a group of men, and I’m glad I actually remember it because happiness in its most pure and intense form is hard to come by in life.  Just kidding.  I’m a champion aka always happy as fuck.
Once the victory dance was over, we all scattered to find somewhere to put our dicks for the night.  I suddenly realized that I no longer had a girlfriend, and it was one of those nights where I didn’t feel like trying too hard to get laid.  I was way too fucked up, and most people didn’t even know I was single yet.  So, to remedy the situation, I found a real easy target who was almost as drunk as I was.
 We went back to her apartment and immediately started going at it.  It was nothing special, and as soon as we were done she passed out.  As I lay there smiling and gazing at the ceiling with thoughts of the Revue still fresh in my mind, I started to get the hiccups.  After about fifteen minutes, I was still hiccupping like a hooker with a sensitive gag reflex, so I got up and went to the kitchen.  I tried all of the tricks to get rid of them, and nothing worked.  At this point, I was hiccupping nonstop for nearly an hour.  I was not going to let them ruin the best night ever, so I was determined to find a solution to my problem.  I decided to try and stick my finger down my throat.  To my amazement, it actually worked, but not until I was done vomiting all over this random girls bedroom.  It was like my mouth was the opening to a fire hose connected to a vomit-filled hydrant, and I was dousing everything.  Let me show you a classic family guy clip to emphasize the shear magnitude of my vomming.

When I finally finished emptying the entire content of my stomach and intestines, I notice that the girl somehow slept through the chaos.  Being a Champion, I wasn’t about to clean the mess, and I definitely wasn’t going to replace anything that was damaged beyond repair.  So I did what any champ would do – I gathered all of my clothes and wrote the girl a note.  Then I left.  The note went something like this: “So I know you were too blacked out to remember this, but you threw up all over the place and all over my clothes (hence the vomit all over your room).  That is why I left.  I hope ya feel better!”
The next day, the girl called me apologizing for her “disgusting” actions.  She told me she drank way too much, and then apologized a few more times before insisting on buying me new clothes to replace the ones she threw up on.  So not only did I get away with throwing up, I got a new outfit out of the deal.  Being a Champion really has its perks!

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

A Champion's Love (sike)

Websters defines champion as "a winner of first prize or first place in a competition; one who shows marked superiority." This is a very accurate definition, and the accuracy’s validation is backed up by the fact that Webster is widely regarded as the go-to institution for anything concerning English language and grammar.  Fuck Webster. Fuck his big-ass books too. My definition of champion is: “me.”


With that said, being a champion makes me a sort of "jack-of-all-trades."  Besides being an amazing writer, an intellectual genius, a sexual expert, a gifted athlete, and an all around non-fuck giver, I'm also a talented musician.  So I'm going to share with you guys a song I made, based on the true events from my life.  I play all the instruments, sing, and produce the track, because a Champion doesn't need help, he can carry the team to victory on his back.


The song is a re-telling of the events of the last night I shared with an ex-girlfriend.  She was one of my first real girlfriends, and it was before I realized how much of a champion I am.  I'm not sure why she broke up with me, maybe it was the binge drinking, random acts of explosive anger, or the blatant flirting with other girls right in front of her.  Anyways, here its:

video
I hope you enjoyed my ballad.  I'll continue to post different types of music and video that I create in between my classic stories and Hall of Champions inductions.  Well, I gotta go, my forty's gettin warm, see ya soon.

Monday, October 10, 2011

The Real Lock Out


With so many lockouts happening in sports, I figured it would be good to tell you guys about a lockout that I was involved in.  It was a couple years ago, in the land of Oneonta.
I woke up for my usual 4pm-Saturday breakfast with a little hop to my step.  Something extra must have been in the air that day because I felt great, which is odd if you consider the handle of vodka and mountain of jiff I consumed the night before.  In fact, I felt so good that when I rolled out of bed I naturally landed in a push-up position and effortlessly banged out fifty reps. Then I ate a whole box of Wheaties dry, and chugged a half gallon of milk to wash it down. 

After finishing my breakfast of Champions, I relaxed for a couple of hours and sharpened some knives I had laying around until it was time to start getting ready for the night.  I was running low on clean shirts but I didn’t have enough time to go buy a new wardrobe, so I had to look through my reserve clothes – “the practice-squad” equivalent of fashion.  Although still better looking than outfits of non-champs, I had a feeling I wouldn’t be on my A game tonight.  To top it off, the shirt I wore was given to me by an ex-girlfriend, so it already had a bad omen about it.  I decided to buy a personal flask of Vodka to help ease the concerns I was having about my appearance.  What a good idea.  After drinking every last drop and chasing it with my roommate's left over beer, I completely forgot about my wardrobe woes.  It was time to party.

When I got to the  party apartment, I realized there was a pretty good ratio of girls to guys, and within the girl population there was a pretty good ratio of hot to not-hot.  I decided I would only drink tonight and focus on getting laid.  My decision was made easier when I went to the bathroom and found a bunch of my friends basically doing this because the jiff was so bad:
I went back downstairs and started to mingle, getting a feel for the overall situation.  In between funnels and keg stands, my friend Al informed me that a girl I used to have sex with was in town.  This little piece of information would prove to be very valuable as my night went on.  I thanked him for the intel and decided to go let loose and have some fun. The party was at its peak, with the strobe lights and DJ’s working their magic on a dance floor packed to full capacity.  I realized that no music had made me feel that good since George Harrison’s guitar gently wept.  I started my classic half dancing/half molesting maneuvers and began hunting for a female target.

After rubbing elbows with a few sluts that aren’t worthy of a Champion, I noticed a sexy little brunette who looked lonely.  Better yet, she looked really drunk…and really easy.  So I parted the crowd, knocking over people’s cups and stepping on girl’s shoes, and introduced myself.

“Hi, my names Champ, what’s yours?” I asked.

The girl looked at me, then glanced down at my shirt and said, “Your shirts really ugly!”

Now this girl was obviously hammered, judging by the fact that she sounded like she had peanut butter stuck on the roof of her mouth.  But I can’t let someone talk to me like that, so I screamed, “Oh yea, well you’re a real Cunt!”

Well folks, that was the first and last time I ever said that word in the presence of females.  The wrath brought down on me was unlike anything I had ever seen, all because of one word.  All the girls who were close enough to hear me swarmed like Africanized Killer Bees, and the girl I actually said it to literally turned into Halle Berry:
After enduring the relentless scolding from almost every girl at the party for about five minutes, I retreated to the porch to get some air.  Even though I am physically stronger, further advanced mentally, athletically superior, more quick-witted, and all around more MacGyver-like than any of the females that were there, you have to be able to choose your battles.  This was a battle I chose to stay out of, so instead I just began drinking at a higher rate.  After throwing back shots, beers, and cups of punch, I started to feel like my night was beyond the point of salvation. I was hammered, and all of the sluts that were still around were either too mad at me from earlier or too disgusted after seeing my sexual résumé. Most people would call it quits for the night and go home to throw in the towel. Most people aren’t Champions.  Suddenly, the words of the greatest rapist/Linebacker of all time, Lawrence Taylor, flashed in my mind:

“He's a cocky sumbitch. That's what makes him such a great player.”

In all honesty, I don’t even know what the fuck LT was talking about or why it inspired me, but I was suddenly determined to get pussy and be a great player.  At that moment I also remembered the girl who I used to bang was visiting, so I immediately called her.

“What do you want?” she asked, obviously knowing what I want.  Why else would I call her at 2am drunk.
“I want to talk,” I said, barely able to hold in laughter.
“Really?”
“Yea, I miss you,” I proclaimed after I put the phone down to laugh hysterically.
For some reason she believed me so I went to the apartment she was staying at.  When I got there, we made some vodka mixed drinks and sat on the couch.  I wasted no time and started making out with her.  After about ten seconds, she tells me that she can’t do it.  Then we start making out again.  After another ten seconds, she tells me she really can’t do it.  This exchange goes on for another five minutes, until it becomes so annoying that I stand up and scream.
“I’m goin to smoke a bogey! I’ll be right back, and make up your fuckin’ mind.”
So, I go outside and smoke a bogey, quite possibly the maddest man in the world.  I see another group of girls on the other end of the balcony so I make my way down to them.  After impressing them with my charm and Champion’s attitude, I decide to go back to the apartment and give it one more try with this girl.  I’m also completely fucked up at this point.  When I walk back, I try to open the door but it’s locked.  Not ready to give up just yet, I walk over to the window and notice that it’s open.  I crawl through the window and into the pitch black apartment, tip-toeing like the Grinch on Christmas night.  Suddenly, I trip and slam onto the floor, too drunk to realize how loud I was.  I press on.  As I’m just about to reach the girl so I can wake her and persuade her into having sex, the lights flash on and a girl starts screaming “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARATMENT! OH MY GOD BLALALALALALA!”
Now, I didn’t even try to calm this bitch down.  I ran out of the apartment like the true champion I am and ended up having a romantic evening with my laptop.  At the time I couldn’t quite understand why the girl who turned the lights on was bugging out so much.  The next day, when I wasn’t so drunk, it all made sense to me.  Imagine hearing someone stumble through your window, then going downstairs and seeing a man crawling on his hands and knees in a drunk stupor, all while he is trying to wake up your guest to fuck.  So, that was my lock out, and the girl barely remembered it because she was as drunk as me.  Champion out.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Cinco de Champo


A lot of people say that with age comes maturity; however that is not the case with this Champion. It seems that the older I get, the more absurd my actions become after I have a few beers. Instead of someday growing into a wise and mature old man with the look and manner of Mr. Rogers, I’ll probably end up being more like this guy:
Allow me to elaborate - most of the tales I will be sharing with my readers happened when I was in my late teens and early twenties.  Some of the debauchery and immoral self-indulgences I will be describing in future posts will be pulled from the deepest and darkest corners of my personal archives.  Some might be from the past few years, when I was savaging the Oneonta landscape with my fraternity brothers and fellow champions.  Some might be from High School, when I thought (correctly) that I was an untouchable warlord.  One thing I can always count on no matter what, is that whenever my life starts to be boring for a length of time, and I feel like a real adult, nature will step in to restore balance to the universe.  God wants me to be a Champion, and he will set the cosmos back to order when things start to become unaligned.
With that being said, a couple of months ago I was sitting in my apartment in Oneonta staring out the window and pondering my life.  It was about 4pm, the weather was nice, I went to all my classes that day, and it was Thursday.  For the past few weeks, I seemed to be going through the same old routine.  In other words, I needed to start drinking as soon as possible.  So, being a champion, I sprinted without rest to the corner store to buy a few beers.  After buying a thirty pack of Bud Light, I sprinted back to my apartment, somehow at a faster pace than before even though I had the extra beer weight.
The second I walked through the door, I pounded a few beers just to get my blood flowing.  After about fifteen minutes, a couple of my roommates burst into the room.
Damn, what time did you start drinking? asked my roommate, as he glanced at the nine empty cans strewn about my room.
Fifteen minutes ago...pussy, I replied.
Well, why are you drinking Bud Lights?
Why the fuck not, it's Thursday afternoon.
Yea, but its CINCO DE MAYO!!!he screamed like a gay mariachi. "Where's the Corona?"
The best part of this exchange was the fact that I had no idea I was actually supposed to be drinking for Cinco De Mayo.  I was honestly just pounding brews back because that’s what champions do when they’re bored.
After having this sudden epiphany, I sprinted back to the store to buy a liter of Tequila and sprinted back to my apartment immediately after the purchase was made.  All of this sprinting was really making my throat dry and my lungs hurt, so I threw back a few shots and lit a bogey.  Then, I got really, really, REALLY fucked up.  I vaguely remember wandering around Oneonta with a group of friends and stopping at various apartments to claim Lords Rights on all of their food, alcohol, and women.
As the sun started to go down, I was on the verge of a total blackout.  Luckily for me and my brave companions, my fraternity was throwing an open party.  Naturally, I showed up late and was the drunkest and oldest man there.  When I get that drunk, there is a chance that one of several different personas will come to the surface of my personality.  They range in demeanor from the peaceful and nervous jiff head to the raging destroyer.  On this night, I was more of a maniac who was basically molesting any girl who came near me while dancing.  After being Fresh Prince on the dance floor for a good hour, I decided to leave the party and go to the bars.

I left the apartment, beer in hand, and began to descend the long and steep stairwell that leads to the street below.  As I reached the bottom, I noticed a taxi heading towards me at the precise moment I wanted to cross the street.  I had a sudden urge to walk in the middle of the road and stop the aforementioned vehicle.  Now, a normal person has that little angel on one shoulder and that little devil on the other shoulder, trying to persuade the conscience to do what can be considered right or wrong.  Not me.  I have two little champions on each shoulder rooting me on at all times. 
So, I charged into the middle of the street with my hand out, forcing the cab to stop.  Unfortunately, a cop just happened to be right behind the taxi.  Next thing I know I have handcuffs on my wrists and I’m screaming, Ya did it again Greg! Ya did it again!
I’m almost certain that cop was there because of some divine intervention, because my life was getting a little too boring and adult-like up until that point.  I ended up being thrown into a holding cell, violently shaking the bars and screaming about lawyers and civil rights, until I was bailed out by a young lady.  Then I had sex with her. Champion.
Actual Police Report: