This is not informative or educational. But it is funny which may additionally qualify it as interesting. So here is an email I received from a friend/co-worker (maybe less of a friend after his experience) after a party this weekend. Some background info: The "T-Club" was supposed to be a club where in order to join you would have to consume eight (8) "T-Bombs" in 2 hrs. A "T-Bomb" is similar to a Jäger-Bomb where you would drop a 1 oz. shot of Jägermeister into a glass of Red-Bull. However a T-Bomb (or Todd-Bomb) replaces the Jäger with Bacardi 151, a 151 proof (75.5% alcohol) rum.

I apologize for the mass email. Please realize that my judgment has been impaired and against what normally would be that better judgment I've decided to mail the majority of people whose first and last names
I know in the hopes of preserving this story for future reference, because I firmly believe in learning from the experiences of others. And in this case, I hope to save the lot of you from EVER experiencing what I have this evening/morning. And I swear, I'm not making any of
this up.


SO, for those of you unable to join us this evening (by "evening" I
mean Saturday, August 6th, 2005 at Nick Dove's BBQ party), some of us
participated in what Justin calls the "T-Club". By the end of this
2-hour endeavor, I was drunk, more or less. Pretty much more. Oh, and
for the record, this activity made me dislike Justin. A lot. In fact,
the loathing currently runs from the base of my spine to somewhere in
my soul. That's right, Justin made me loathe him in another DIMENSION.
Anyhow, at some point I believe I told George and Todd, and maybe
Bill, "I'll see you Monday", and I walked out the door. Contrary to
popular belief at the time, I did not proceed to my car. I walked down
the street, to the gate, and I continued to Southern Highlands
Parkway. Just as I was about to debate the pros and cons of going the
Smith's down the street for something sugary, I met a girl. Let's call
her "Cheryl". In all honesty, I have no idea what her name was. None.
But somehow it ended up being the case that I was carrying all of her
worldly possessions down Decatur Blvd heading towards Northern Las
Vegas. On some level Jesus still loves me, b/c all of this chick's
worldly possessions fit into an overladen duffel bag and a smaller
stuffed handbag, but they were still heavy. ANYway, Over the course of
the next 3 hours "Cheryl" and I make our way down the unpaven path
that is the sidewalk of Decatur, towards Blue Diamond Road. And about
78% of the way there a large gaggle of cars approaches us from down
the road. She turns 90 degrees away from Decatur, and starts walking
towards a barn, muttering something largely incomprehensible. However
I discerned the words "police" and "warrant" quite clearly from her
diatribe. The cars pass, and she says "good, 'cause I can't go back to
jail", and we continue on our way to the local pub-like establishment
on Blue Diamond/Decatur. My heart continues to pitter-patter.

At the pub, call it "Sidewinders" because I'm not very creative right
now, and the name doesn't even matter, we split a quesadilla, and I
come the first sensible conclusion of the entire evening: If I walk
back to Nick's house by myself, I'm never going to see sunlight again.
I ask our waitress if it's possible to get a cab, and she says she'll
look into it. 5 minutes later she returns and says "Well the cab
company isn't picking up, but I can give you a ride to whereever
your'e going. You're not some crazy stalker or something, are you?" to
which I reply, "No, I'm just crazy and stupid" and she nods and we
head to her car.

After the rather uneventful ride from the 11-hour shift fatigued
waitress, we arrive BACK at my car. That's right, I walked almost 3
miles, in the dark, carrying some strange chick's luggage, to a sleazy
bar, to get driven back to where I came from. At this point, if you
don't have an overwhelming urge to donkey punch me in the kidneys, you
have some 'splaining to do.

So miss-well-I-wont-cut-you-because-you-can-give-me-a-ride gets in,
and tells me she needs to get to Washington and Decatur, so I begin to
drive. After a long drive, during which I actually fall asleep from
general fatigue and almost drive to a stop in the middle of an
intersection or four, I arrive at the Dairy Queen at the northwest
corner of Decatur and Washington. I let out my guest, realizing that
the DQ is completely dark and abondoned. At this point I'm entirely
too tired to care or even inquire about her claimed "connections" in
that area, so I bid her adieu and slowly drive myself home, and
commence writing this asinine email to all of you.

The morale of the story:

If Justin EVER tells you about some drinking activity he thought up
that he wants you to be a part of, you kick him DIRECTLY in the
scrotum and run away looking for shelter. Ok maybe the scrotum thing
is a bit much, but incapacitate that bastard somehow and run for your
virginal life. And don't ever look back.

-- Marc

P.S. - Chances are I'll barely remember writing this, so go ahead and
bring it up as much as you like, and even share it amongst your
friends if you find it appropriate. I need to go to bed now.
And anyone whose name I butchered -- sorry. I'll need a little slack
on that tonight.

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