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.......