It Was a Five Martini Afternoon

1998 -- Austin, TX.

It Was a 5 Martini Afternoon

It all started innocently enough. There I was, waking up around noon, hung-over from a rough Saturday night of partying with my buddies. I rolled out of bed and hit the couch to watch some football. Maybe it was basketball, but I'm not really sure.

I had on my patented ripped shorts with the US Soccer patch sewed on the side. Ragged, dirty, they were a complete personification of me at that time. After about 2 hours of good couch time, staring blankly at the tube, I thought some cognitive stimulation was in order, so I called a buddy up and asked him over for a few games of chess.

He and I always have some good chess matches, so he was more than happy to oblige. He came over, and he helped himself to the few beers left in my fridge. Now, one man can't drink alone, and there were only a few beers left in the fridge. With a limited supply of barley and hops, and His satisfaction with them, I had to seek other alternatives.

I had some Gin, some vermouth, and some olives, which, mixed together correctly, makes my favorite of all drinks. A dirty beefeater martini...mmmm, I thought nothing of it as I drank one down. Another drink soon followed as we played a few games.

The liquor was definitely effecting the way I played, and after a few close matches, my buddy said he had to get back to his wife. Marriage, such an out-dated institution of checks and balances. But alas, I nonetheless found myself alone.
I did not feel like stopping, so I kept drinking all by myself. One more martini and another and another. People kept calling and, when I told them what I was doing, they were a bit thrown off by the fact that I was drinking martinis alone on a Sunday afternoon.

Just then, a girl that I had been sleeping with stopped by. I can't say that I was digging her very much, as we never dated, and never really talked, and I really didn't care too much for her at all. She felt the same about me. We had a weird relationship. Purely booty call sex! When one of us was bored and horny and alone, we would call the other. She stopped by every now and then for a little horizontal exercise. She had a great body and was freaky as hell.

So, consumed by alcohol, and not really thinking clearly, I took her into the bedroom and did my thing. Any guy who's had the amount of alcohol that I did can attest to the duration of this process. It was a bit rougher and kinkier because of the alcohol involved, as well as the twisted, warped effect that drinking alone has on the mind, however, as always, a lot of fun. It also helps when there's no feeling involved so you can really treat her like she wants to be treated. This girl wanted me to talk dirty to her, call her a slut, bitch, whore. I kind of felt bad calling her those names, but that is what she wanted. FREAKY!!

Afterwards, I had another martini and watched South Park. No Sunday night can be complete without a viewing of South Park. I can't recall which episode, but I can tell you it was funny.

She still hadn't left yet, so after another drink I took her back into the bedroom for another go-round. The duration of this session was much longer than the previous, and much rougher, but I digress. Without my ability to finish the deed, I had to fake coming so she would stop (Yes, guys fake it sometimes too). She left fully satisfied (or at least she faked like she was.)

But I still wasn't done. I called a buddy up and said that we should check out what going on at Sugar´s that evening. There's no single guy, or should I say any guy in their proper frame of mind, who's going to turn down the strip clubs.

Now, let me tell you this. I was in no shape to be seen in public. Still having not showered for the day and all that's happened I put on a cap and my ragged clothes and headed with him to the strip clubs.

I found out one thing. The same people that are at the strip clubs on every other night are there on Sunday as well. I felt overly dressed, even though I was quite the slob. Did you know that the cash machines there only dispense in $50.00 increments and have a 10 dollar surcharge? Well, the percentages told me to take out $200.00.

There I was, the drunken high-roller that all the ladies love. Throwing money around that I couldn't afford, but damn, it was so much fun. Buying the table drinks (there was only 2 of us, but it cost 15 a round) and the like.... boy, was I having fun. I realized at that time that cash in a strip club is one of the highest status symbols a man can have.

I had big ole knockers in my face left and right and was loving every minute of it. Sure, if I were sober, then things would have felt different, but it was Sunday, I was drunk, and it was fun.

Well, one o'clock rolled around and I turned to my friend, but to my horror, he had left. Apparently, he had told me he had to go, and I told him I was okay. "I was living the high life," he reported me saying.

I reached in my pockets and had about two bucks left. I tried to get cash out, but didn't have enough to cover the surcharge. I was in a predicament I knew not how to get out of.

So, I did what any sensible man would do in my situation. I stood outside and asked if any of the bar patrons were going my way as they walked out. It was cold and drizzling, and I had no coat, was in shorts and t-shirt. You know, looking back, I am certain that drunk people don't make the best decisions.

I thought that more of these fine, upstanding citizens in the strip club would have more than wanted to offer me a ride home, but more often than not, they said no. Kind of like the Walt with women. But after about 10 people turned me down, a nicely dressed gentleman in ripped jeans, a nappy beard, and liquor breath said he was headed my way (he kind of looked like Bens women) He was nice to give me a ride home. The conversation wasn't really the most intriguing, but hey, what do you expect?

I got home about 3, woke up at 7, called in sick to work, went back to sleep and didn't wake up until around 4 in the afternoon.

Sex Klub

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Hot Bartenders -- A New Guy Rule

Last night was poker night again. The conversation steered towards bartenders. I am not talking about those dudes that listen to us blabber and keep our glasses full. Hell no!! That would be boring, and a little strange for a bunch of guys to be talking about. We started talking about those super Hottie bartenders that are so prevalent in the local drinking establishments all over the country. I am talking about the ladies that could work at Hooters during the day and then bartend at some club during the night. These babes are incredible.

Before I get to the meat and potatoes of this blog, let me ask the guys a question. Would you rather hire a bartender that can mix every known drink on the planet and do all those fancy schmancy bartending tricks that Tom Cruise did in "Cocktail" or would you rather hire the hot babe with the boob job and the perfect ass?? Come on… this shouldn't take too long. There you go!! Of course you would hire the Hottie. That is why "Coyote Ugly" is one of the best movies of all time!!

Anyway, the guys started talking about trying to pick up some of these hottie bartenders in the clubs around town. I couldn't believe my ears!! These guys are so naïve, I felt sorry for them (Most of them are at least 4 or 5 years younger, Shit, I feel like a wiseman)

After several of the guys had spent about 15 minutes rambling on about their failed attempts to pick up these goddesses of alcohol, I had to jump in. I informed them that it ain't going to happen. "How do I know?" was asked. Well, let me tell you.

When I lived in Austin, I was lucky enough to date a hot bartender and sometimes shot girl (No, we didn't meet in the bar). I dated her off and on for over a year. It was about the third week we were dating and I told her I was going to stop by the club she was working at. She sat me down and said "Don't get mad or jealous when you see me there."

"What are you talking about?" I asked. She proceeded to tell me all about her life as being a female bartender. She told me how she wears her tightest jean-shorts and a tight shirt that showed her ample bosom. She told me how she would flirt with the guys, listen to them, tell them they were cute, do shots with them, etc. She would come home with the phone numbers of 4 or 5 guys and crumple them up and toss them in the trash. Why did she do this? For the $$$. On a good Friday or Saturday night, she could make $300+ in tips. She guessed that she made close to $1000 a week in tips. Hell, that is more than I make and I have a master's degree!! (BTW: She went on to become a bartender at the Coyote Ugly in Austin. If you ever watched the Coyote Ugly search on CMT, she was on there. Still working there last I heard. If you go there, tell Cheryl that Eric says Hi from Iowa. She may laugh or slap you, so be careful)

You see, a bartender plays the male species just like a stripper does. They tell listen to us, they tell us we are hot and are good dancers, they drink with us, they laugh at our lame jokes, and always have a huge smile (If you ever actually get to look at their face).

So, the meat and potatoes of this blog is a new Man Rule. This rule will be official for all guys that go to bars and clubs with Hot as Hell bartenders. That rule is: Hot Chick Bartender is Not Going to Fuck You.

Seriously. I know this. Not only did I date a bartender, I also have tried to pick up numerous Hooter type bartenders. After 6 beers and a few Jack and Cokes, I'm drooling over the chica behind the bar, telling her for the hundreth time that I'm crazy about her and want to start a family with her or at the very least, bury my head between her legs for a good half hour. And when I stop to take a sip, or breathe, or sometimes vomit, there are six other guys who chime in with the same gameplan.

See, the bartender is the only woman in the bar who has to talk to us guys. At least, she has to acknowledge us. No one else has any such obligation. So the bartender hears it. And if she's ridiculously hot, like our friend in the photo above, she hears it non-stop, start of the shift right up to last call. Drunken idiots in our Old Navy shirts, thinking we can score the babe who's working the tap. Or that we're the first guy in the world who's told her that joke or complimented her on her ridiculously tight, round ass. Or that we're the only dude she's ever shown that tattoo.

But in the end, it's always the same. Her Levi's get stuffed with tips. I walk out with nothin' but a headache. And a raging hard-on. And it's go home, puke, take the intravenous Vitamin C, H2O and aspirin exlixir, then come back again tomorrow because I'm sure she'll eventually cave. We men never learn!!!

While Her Boyfriend was Watching

This one was written back in January of 2000. It was on my previous website, which has now gone by the wayside. Enjoy!

I'll try to keep this one short. Last Friday, I went out after work with some people that I work with. We were hanging out, having a good time, when this woman that I work with came in with one of her friends. She is attractive and we are friends so I started rapping with her. Well, she had a few drinks and I had a few drinks and they started talking about what they wanted to do next. I had already made plans to go to a strip joint so I asked if they wanted to go. They talked it over and decided it would be fun and that they would go. Well, before we leave the bar, this chick starts coming on to me. At first lots of smiles and stares, but it quickly grew. Before we left, she was all over me.

We went to the strip club and had a few more drinks. I bought her and her friend four or five table dances. Even though both women pretended that the whole thing disgusted them, they never turned away a table dance. I taught them all the moves, like how to look cool in a strip club, how to talk to strippers, and how to place the dollar in the g-string and follow it with a hand lightly down the thigh. We were there for an hour or so when we decided to move the party to a club downtown. This girl was too drunk to drive so I drove her car and my buddy drove her friends car. On the way downtown, I told her that I needed to stop at my place for minute (divide and conquer).

We get to my place and she starts to talk. I'm trying to work my mac when she starts talking about her boyfriend. Boyfriend?? Turns out, unbeknownst to me, that her boyfriend was in the first bar while we were there. He told her that he didn't want to do anything that night, she believed him and went out with her friend. Well, she got really mad when she gets to the bar and her boyfriend is there hanging with his buddies. So how does she get back at him? Read the first paragraph and insert "While her boyfriend was watching" after every sentence. The whole time she is in my place she is telling about how she doesn't like men that play games and that she wants an honest man. I ignored her. All I could think about was how I became a pawn in her head game with her boyfriend.

Roppongi -- Japan's Answer to Bourbon St.

Thought I would start postiing some of my travel adventures. I have been to South America, Central America, Asia, the Middle East, and parts of Africa. I was one of those backpacking crazies right after I graduated from college. This is one I wrote in 1997 after I got back from Asia.

Love it, hate it, loathe it, leave it: Roppongi is undenialibly a people magnet. Perhaps it doesn't attract the most savory of characters, but it cannot be denied that all walks of life rub elbows and more in Roppongi unlike anywhere else in Japan. To me, this is the Asian version of New Orleans' Bourbon Street. Wild, Crazy, Sexy, and Sultry.

What is Roppongi. Roppongi is Tokyo's little den of sin for ready-to-go gaijins and adventurous Japanese. Its humble origins date back to 400 years ago when it was a quiet little temple town with nary a vice to its name. Tragedy seems to be in Roppongi's blood as it has faced ravaging fires, WWII bombs, and drunken foreigners puking all over it during its long questionable past. Its party reputation began a hundred years or so ago, when Japanese soldiers were quartered there and, as it usually happens around young men with money and testosterone to spare, a sordid night-life sprung slowly into life. The US military continued this fine tradition in Roppongi after WWII.

These days, a night in Roppongi can be spent fending off the lusty advances of horny Nigerians, frustrated sailors, and pent up marines, and those are the guys. The girls there are crazy. Some are prostitutes, trolling for their next trick. Other women go there to find a tourist and have a little fling. For the young male out on the prowl, he has to run the alluring but annoying gamut of the massage girls. Shouting: "Massagee! Massagee!", they love to rush out to grab any passing single male and not let go until their victims have either given in or brutally fought them off. There are nightclubs that have nothing but "working women" in them. Then there are the legit clubs where the young and horny crowd go to hook up for free. There are gay clubs, transvestite clubs, clubs for old people. You name it, you can find it.

The night is a friend to Roppongi and its inhabitants of party-goers and pleasure-seekers. The streets are seemingly filled with beautiful people stumbling about in a wonderful haze as they hop from club to club. In rich rolling Nigerian accents, club hawkers call out to the passing crowds inviting them to clubs that promise to be packed with fun and people. Perhaps its the blinding flashing lights, the blaring music, or the alcohol but the insides of the popular clubs do seem to boast a population of the most incredibly good looking charismatic people who simply personify the word "cool".

Some nights, however, just aren't a good time to visit - though some sour critics would say that there is never a good night to visit Roppongi. I went there for the first time on New Years Eve 1996. Nearly the entire crew contingent of the USS Kittyhawk aircraft carrier was there to meet, compete, and throw-up on me. It was wall-to-wall testosterone. Roppongi on that New Year's would have been a lovely place to go if you were female or gay. Unfortunately, I was a single male. Bad Luck!!

I went club hopping with some friends I had met up with. A couple of them were from Japan, the others were Europeans. I got incredibly drunk and had repeated run ins with the Navy Guys. They were being assholes to everyone. I understand they are cooped up on a ship for months at a time, but they need to chill out when they come to shore. They were only looking for poontang or to get in a fight. I did stay out of any fights that night, although I probably saw at least 7 or 8 different fights throughout the night. Around 3 AM, I met some girl at a club and we started dancing. We decided to hook up, but she lived about an hour away and my hotel would not allow foreigners to bring women in (Stupid rule!!!)

Anyway, the Roppongi district has this covered. They have a number of seedy little hotels that rent rooms by the hour for horny party-goers. Being New Years, there was actually a line at most of these. We waited about 25 minutes for a room, and went in and had our fun. We stayed there till about 6:30 AM.

The danger of Roppongi, and there are many, is staying too long. If you do not hook up early and get out of there or you miss your last train, you will be in danger of seeing the horror that is Roppongi in the morning. Although I found my girl, the sun was already peaking over the rooftops when we left the hotel. She went her way and I stumbled to find my way to the subway station.

MY GOD!!! My first thoughts were that I had stepped into a disaster area. The morning is not a friend to Roppongi. In fact, its downright cruel. Daylight hits Roppongi with all the gentleness of a sledgehammer wrapped in barbed wire. Morning shatters all the glamour, egos, and illusions that was given by the night.

In the morning, the beautiful cool people you were just grooving with are suddenly replaced by a bunch of haggard hung-over hags and trolls. Rushing out into the streets doesn't save you either as the streets are choked with packs of shambling, stumbling walking dead. In the shadows, pale party-goers avoid sunlight like quaking vampires by seeking the darker recesses of the subways lest they explode in a noxious cloud of bone and dust. The sidewalk is covered with piss and vomit. The area smells like a sewer.

I stumble to the subway station, all the while holding my sleeve over my nose to block out the noxious fumes. In the bowels of the subway station, the survivors of the night are huddled like war-weary third world refugees as they await the train that will carry them away from this hell. Very few are capable of standing. Most are passed out in theirs or somebody else's filth. Those few who are conscious stare into the void with bleary, blood-shot eyes like shell-shock war veterans who have been too long up at the Front.

I told myself: "Never Again!" as I lurched for the train along with the rest of the wretched masses yearning for escape. Of course, I caved the next night and went straight back to this crazy purgatory of pleasure.

Courtyard Pool Orgy

This one happened on West Campus in September 1991.Austin, TX

There is a student apartment complex in West Campus called Orange Tree, right by frat row. I was over at a buddy of mine's house drinking with a bunch of people, and we just opened the door so people could go in and out to smoke. In stumble these three trashed sorority pledges (their house is right next door). One's hot, one's cute, the other one looked cute with beer goggles. Talk about easy pickins! My buddy Brett was already talking closely with the hot one, leaving the other two.

About 8-10 drinks later, cute and beer goggles start talking about how much they like to kiss each other. I say jokingly "I'd pay a dollar to see that," to which I got an unexpected "sure!" in reply. At this point I'm pondering how I can best take advantage of these sorostitutes, and quickly add that I'll throw in another buck if I can join in, and they went along with that too. I gave them 2 bucks and started making out with both of them at the same time. At this point many of my friends were pleasantly surprised (and impressed) at this turn of events.

Now, we are all drunk off our asses and I see the girls are getting super horny!! I make my move and I convinced them to get in the pool, at the time inhabited only by one lone couple we didn't know. I was with the two girls and start to finger bang both of them while Brett makes out with the third one. My one friend didn't have one, so I pushed one away and gave her to him. Before you know it, I'm screwing the one I have left, my two friends are with theirs, and the couple in the pool are going at it. This pool is in the dead center of the courtyard, everyone's front doors face it. So as 2:30 rolled around people who were getting home from 6th Street, started walking by and cheering on the orgy in the pool. After the pool orgy, we all parted ways. I took my girl back to my place and we screwed till about 6 am.

I woke up the next morning and remembered the pool event, but I was shocked to find the girl in the apartment. I didnt even remember her name, so I rummaged through her purse that was in the living room and found her drivers license (I didnt want to look like a bad guy). Glad I did. She woke up and had no clue where she was, though she did remember the pool. I dont think she knew my name either and she seemed a little embarrassed cause I kept calling her by her name and she would just call me baby or some other generic name. We took a shower together and screwed again, then I took her home. Best $2 I ever spent, period.

Pole-A-Palooza!!! Can I be a Judge???

This is my kind of contest!!! Sign me up as a judge. Here are some pics a friend sent me. He said it was great, Lucky bastard was in Vegas for a wedding and went to it.

Girls Kissing Girls

Earlier today, I posted something about the new phenomenon about girls getting drunk and then takin pictures of themselves dry humping other girls. In it, I mention another phenomenon sweeping the web. Pictures of chicks kissing each other.

I remember back in the day, when the only place you could see two chicks kissing was a porno tape? Now it's happening everywhere, having made the quantum leap from my twisted fantasies to the next booth over at the TGI Fridays.

Look outside your window. Chicks are kissing. In the bars, the dance clubs, the shopping malls, the casinos, the pancake house. MySpace is filled with chicks kissing other chicks. This is a world in which chicks will grab other chicks and kiss them square on the mouth. And, here's the thing: many of them are not gay. I would venture most of them are straight or bi. Which means they are still on the market for all of us guys!!!!

These are magical, magical times for people who like watching women kiss. And I am one of those people. So I am extremely giddy in this new age of girls kissing each other.

Why do they do it? I'm not sure, but I'm certain the response it provokes is a factor. This stuff works like kryptonite, bringing grown men to their knees, forcing them to remove their wallets, keep the rounds of drinks coming, and stretch out their hands while exclaiming to the heavens, "Fuck, god almighty, thank you for girls who kiss other girls."

The only exception is when the women in liplock are over the age of 78. This is simply disturbing. (I was unfortunate enough to see this firsthand when two older ladies were walking in Valley Junction. I think they thought no one was looking.) But hot, young, vibrant chicks kissing? Man, that's the stuff. And by "the stuff," I mean, "thing I want to see happening as much as humanly possible." Keep it coming, ladies, and, as always, the next round's on me. I mean it!!! If I see any of you ladies out at a bar, just come on over, kiss your friend, and I will by you both a round of drinks!!!

A possible Crazy Friday night heads South in a hurry

So last Friday, it's one of the teachers birthdays at school. We are all teaching summer school and, against my better judgment, I head out after work with a couple folks for a quick celebratory beverage. When I get there, I notice that I'm the only guy. In the dark recesses of my mind, this is the sort of scenario I dream about. No cock-blocking. No flexing and pluming. Just me and a buncha hotties throwing back booze. One drink in, and I'm already envisioning the bit where one of them slips me a roofie and I wake up in some Des Moines apartment, tied to the floor while the women take turns straddling my mouth.

But in real time, one of them starts talking up her love life. And, before long, they're all on to the subject of blow jobs. And what should be an exercise in unstoppable awesomeness actually turns rather uncomfortable. Once or twice, they ask for my opinion... [mostly stuff like, "Where do you guys get that idea? From porno?"] I spend the next half hour blushing, nodding or shaking my head like a trained seal, shifting nervously in my seat, and wondering if the couple one booth over can hear any of this.

I end up leaving after only an hour. Sure, I could have stayed, gotten drunk and gone on a rant and rave about Blow Jobs, but it just wasnt worth it. These ladies seemed to be a little too anti-guys that night. I also have to work with them and will see them 5 days a week. I didnt want to piss anyone off. When I left, they were saying how all guys are jerks, we only think of sex, etc. Now this is true, for the most part, but I just didnt have it in me to argue. (You wont hear me say that often)

You ladies do this sorta stuff on purpose, don't you?

Slippening Bowels

Here is my submission for a Drunk on a Sunday. I'm kind of proud of this story because it almost landed me in jail and I am ashamed for the same reason.

One Sunday, in March (1996), I decided to go on a BarCrawl. I think everyone has done one of these, or at least heard about them. It's when you get a bunch of people together, get a map of every bar in town, pick a starting point and try to have a beer at every bar. I did this once in Washington DC and I think that I made it to 18 bars. Like I said, "I think" because I really don't remember the last 4-5 but I had them checked off on my map This time though, I went on a bar crawl by myself. I thought that it would be a great way to check out the bars of downtown Denver. I was there visiting my buddy from College. Paul was a doctor working at one of the hospitals in Denver. He had just called and said he was going to be at work all night and probably most of Monday and I should make myself at home and chill. I kind of felt like sampling the local culture and decided to head out.

I started at Old Chicago. I know, it's a franchise place that I detest, but
it was a bar crawl and I had to start somewhere. No one was in the place so I chatted with the bartender. I bought the first beer, then he asked me if I wanted to
play that game where you have to pull wooden blocks from the stack without knocking the stack over. The name of the game slips me right now, but the deal was, if the bartender lost, he would buy me and this guy sitting next to me the next round. I don't remember what I would have had to do if I lost because it didn't happen. I stayed there for 3 beers before I realized that I was on a crawl and had to get moving. I asked the bartender where the next closest bar was. He said "next door." Off I went.

The bar next door was an Irish bar called N'awlins. There were 5 people in the joint. It was around 2:30 in the afternoon. I don't know what you drink in Irish bars, but I drink Guinness. Guinness is the good stuff, too. I think at this point things began to get sketchy, and this was only the second bar.

I'm straining my brain right now but I know that I then walked to this bar next to Coors field. This time I had a brew in some sports bar. This place was huge and totally empty. I had my own personal bartender who seemed happy just to have somebody to talk to. I bought one brew and he gave me the second at no charge. At this point I had had 6 pints, one Guinness. I was definitely feeling fine.

I left that place and walked to this place called Dicks. They have them in Chicago. It's a place where the employees are purposefully rude, thus the name "Dicks." It's their niche I guess. My bartender was a woman who didn't seem to be all that rude but she did come off as a bitch. She seemed like she was having such an unhappy time working that she brought me down, and I was drinking!!!!! I drank two more beers and cruised. I know that you are only supposed to drink one beer at a bar but what can I say? I was drunk and my feet were starting to get blisters from all the walking.

After this bar I walked about 4 blocks to Herbs. Voss and LL know what Herbs is all about. It's a bar that is totally painted blue inside, but tastefully done. There isn't a single TV in the place. The two bartenders are absolutely gorgeous. At this point I knew that I had $20 in my pocket and I had to save something for a cab ride home. I ordered a Stoli martini with a lemon twist.

This was a huge mistake.

The owner of the bar was there, I've rapped with him before as he was the neighbor of Paul. I told him and Mallory (hot bartender and don't use the "where's skippy" joke on her, she's heard it) all about my exploits and how drunk I was. All I remember is that I drank that martini and became really drunk. Also, I didn't eat anything all day either. So I'm sitting on this barstool drunk as hell, got people sitting around me that I'm rapping with and this very urgent need to fart come over me like nothing that's ever hit me before. I was in so much pain that I had to release it immediately. As drunk as I was, there was no way that I would have made it to the bathroom without falling down.

So I sat on the barstool and farted one. It was quiet. I hoped that nobody noticed. But as I sat there, I realized that it wasn't just gas that I released. At first I thought that it was just a little poo-poo, nothing to worry about, that shit has happened to me before. But this time I could tell that I dropped a load. I guess the greasy Chili from the night before was coming back to haunt me. I played it off, hoping that nobody noticed, but then this terrible smell overtook me. There was no way that everybody in the place was not going to notice. I knew I had to get out of there fast so I threw down my last $20 and bolted out the door. I didn't have time to wait for change.

Now please understand, in Denver, the days of March are normally very sunny and warm, but at night, after the sun drops behind the mountains, it gets pretty damn cold. It's definitely over a mile to Paul's place but less than two, so I took off on foot. I made it about 6 blocks before I decided that I had to get a cab because it was just too damn cold. I flagged one down and hopped in. I was thinking about the crap in my pants and totally forgot that I spent all of my money. Honesty is a principle in my life so I explained the situation to the cabby (that I was out of money, not that I had shit in my pants) and he agreed to take me to an ATM by my house.

I walked into this 7-11 and tried to use my bankcard in the ATM. I was really drunk and I could not get it to work at all. I had no idea what I was doing. I walked out to the cabby and told him that I didn't have any money. At this point two police officers who were also at the 7-11 surrounded me. They asked me for my id and asked what the problem was. I tried to explain but got nowhere. All that's going through my head is that I have crapped my pants and am going to jail over a $5.00 cab fare and why in the hell did I go on a bar crawl by myself in the first place??? I told the officers that I would try again on the bank machine. I probably could have run at this point but they had my ID so it would not have mattered. I went back into 7-11, back to the machine and gave it one last try. It took every bit of concentration that I had to remember my code and read the screen. Karma came back and took care of me because somehow I was able to get out $20.

I walked out and paid the cabby, even gave him a ten for his trouble. The cops told me to head straight home, not a problem when you have a load of crap in your drawers.