*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.
