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.