Balls Deep in the BVVVVVVVVVVvvvv
Tennessee Take Three began in fitting fashion with the four of us being shot down not only by a girl that none of us had
ever met, but also by a dejected Skeeter who, despite having his bags already packed, decided that he’d rather play squash
with his brother than face another minute spent with the likes of us. Little did we know that he’d be formally breaking up with
us two short weeks henceforth. We will surely miss him, but when you feel as though the wheels are spinning and you’re
stuck in the mud, going nowhere, sick and tired of falling drunkenly down stairs and being made to look the part of Hitler with
a K.O. tattoo cheek-side, I guess it’s hard to argue with the fact that one can only put up with so much of the appearance of
one’s life going nowhere on account of your friends dragging you down. So this one is dedicated to Skeeter, as kind of a last
ditch attempt at cajoling him back to a life of debauchery and gloriously contented resignation.
As for Nate, Ronnie, Damen and I, the four of us are clearly more than satisfied with our lives of seeming stagnation, and
for this reason, we set out for Knoxville at 5pm on Thursday, with visions of the Money Shot and promises of Calamari and
Guarantees of Nights filled with Coital bliss. By 6pm, we were gridlocked in Burlington, and the phrase “I’m gonna FUCK
tonight” had reverberated off the then-pleasantly-scented golf walls approximately 257 times. There was near calamity at the
border when we couldn’t decide on the brand of beverages, and despite the fact that there was a unanimous agreement for
Bud Light, we somehow came away with cases of Bud and Ex, and Ronnie paying for almost all of it even after misplacing
his wallet, which from my experience, is always the best thing to do at the border. Did I mention that we made a last second
switch to our route so we could drive through the quaint and charming little picturesque hamlet of Cleveland in the middle of
the night? Well, we did. BIIIIIIIIIIIIIG Fuck up.
We stopped in a town called North East (What happens when you’re located north-east of North East, and somebody asks
you how to get there? Just go south-west until you get to North East – only in the U.S. of A.) for McDonald’s, and their
sundae machine was broken. They also had a new salad called the Fiesta salad, and I asked them if their Fiesta machine was
broken, because if so, we had one they could borrow in the way of one D-Hib. Uh…Fiesta. The manager was a former
stripper who repeatedly refused our invitation to the ‘Natti, and the cash girl was butchering Whitney Houston tunes while we
were trying to eat. All in all, a pretty successful meal.
We got back into the car and heard the greatest song in the history of recorded music, and despite the fact that none of us
know the title of the song, nor the artist, the sounds of “Big booty / Round booty / Soft booty / Hard booty / Black booty /
Yellow booty / Stank booty / Sweet booty / Free booty / Ho booty / …Yo Mama’s booty… will surely stay with us forever.
Number of times hearing “I’m gonna FUCK tonight”: 409. At this point someone decided that it might be a good idea to call
Katie (you may remember her from our last trip to Cincinnati – something about a bar, a motel room, a bottle of bourbon, and
six fingers?) In any event, she was, surprisingly, less than thrilled to hear from us, so we decided to scratch “that bar in
Clifton” off of our roadside-attraction-to-do list.
We got into Cleveland in the middle of the night, and although the sight of a deserted Jacobs Field was as breathtaking as I’
d imagined it would be, it somehow didn’t seem worth the extra three hours tacked onto the trek. We picked up a pretty cool
college station that us and seven other people were listening to (‘Since this is our last show, I have to dedicate this next
Dramarama song to my roommate…I wonder if she’s listening…) and then it was nothing but Delila love songs and Jet until
we got into the filthy, dirty, nasty, ‘Natti, at which point everyone woke up as we implored Ronnie to “Call Katie!!!” It was
3am, and we figured her shift must have been over. In any event, we picked up I-75 and continued on our way down to
Tennessee, passing the most poetically named “Big Bone Lick State Park” en route. I can’t honestly say that I remember too
much about the next four hours, because I was essentially in a zombie state, trying to keep’er between the lines, taking little
power naps that were so inconsiderately interrupted by those pesky rumble strips and the selfish honking of car horns by
other drivers. Trying to get the score of the Flames-Sharks semifinal game was impossible, with one sports update giving us
the following: “The Reds lost a tough one, 8-2 to the Padres, and look to get back on the winning track in their series against
the Dodgers. More sports at the top of the hour.” You gotta be fuckin kidding me. I asked the gas station guy if he knew the
score of the Flames game, and I think he probably would have given me a more understanding look if I’d asked him for a
pack of condoms and the key to his mother’s bedroom. Hockey just ain’t a big deal south a the Mason/Dixon.
We came into Knoxville in that famous muggy Tennessee dawn that is responsible for the Smokies’ namesake, and after
getting lost on the way to the Shot’s, we finally pulled into his place at 7:30am, the Money Shot looking like a million bucks in
his boxers and morning wood. Ah-Da. After debating how little G-Money would have set out for us in the way of amenities,
we were literally floored to find that the man had beds prepared for us in the living room, which would become affectionately
known as our four-bedroom apartment, and a fridge full of beer that we more than willingly dove into, even at that wee hour
of the day. A bottle of Michelob and a DVD of Girls Gone Wild – dorm room edition, and let’s just say that the 15 hour drive
was well worth it.
We woke up six hours later and met The Money Shot’s roommates, and although Isam and his baby had been forewarned
by G-Money, they truly had no idea just what they were in store for. After a few cocktails, we decided that it would be rude
not to hit up the Golden Corral for an all-you-can-eat Steak Buffet. Eighteen pounds of red meat later, we were on the court
making a complete mockery of the game that that good Canadian, James Naismith, invented, with the one highlight being
Damen getting lit up by the guy in the green…Easy…Also, we met an ex-marine who wanted to sell us every conceivable
chemical drug known to man, and we took two little thirteen year olds under our wings because we’re clearly pedophiles, and
because ‘Melo and Lebron clearly needed our guidance (“Guys, there’s one thing you have to remember: when you get to
high school, FUCK EVERYTHING!!”) Those poor bastards will never be the same. Also, when all of the guys asked us what
we planned on doing, the answer was unanimous: “We’re gonna FUCK tonight”.
After a quick dip, we headed back to the Money Shot’s place to start lighting it up, and after a few funnels and some heart
to heart conversation, the mantra began to make its appearance: Murder at Midnight, Balls deep by Three. As the murder was
fast approaching, we decided that it might be a good idea to call my Uncle to wish him a happy birthday. Yeah….ahhh, don’t
know if I remember too much of that conversation. Isam and his girlfriend finally decided that they’d had enough, so they
drove us to the bar in order to get us the hell out of their house. We ended up at Tonic in the Old City, and Ronnie and Damen
were wasting no time, all over two girls in a booth by the time myself, Nate and the Shot got in. Things were getting pretty
ugly pretty quick, because it wasn’t long before I found myself out on the patio talking to a thirty seven year old debutante
that would have had Dan VZ drooling, and after she told us that she had just come back from the symphony and was at the
bar alone in order to “People Watch”, our table cleared out in a hurry, leaving me to try to deal with the situation alone. Soon
she was talking about Ayn Rand and Margaret Atwood, which, even with my pathetic English degree, was too much for me
to handle. I made a B-line for the dance floor inside, and when this weirdo symphony chick started dancing, it honestly looked
like the one-eyed-one-horned-flying-purple-people-eater after 15 Red Bull and Vodka’s and a sheet of the brown acid. She
made Elaine from Seinfeld look like Tony fucking Manero. Stick to the Symphony, honey.
G-Money kept feeding us shots which he simply called “Ah-Da”, and before I knew it, Nate and I were sharing a
SERIOUS heart to heart moment at the bar, full out with tears and hugging. What a couple of fags. Who cries? Anyways, it
must be something about that Tennessee air that brings the emotion out. As Mikey would say, “we all have stories”. Wow.
The rest of the night is pretty well a blur, but I do remember going with G-Money to the shitter so he could puke, and then
leaving him sitting at a candlelit table to wallow in the midst of his green period, and then Nate blowing the candle wax all over
some Marilyn Monroe look-a-like’s hair, thereby ending that little rendezvous. I also vividly remember walking into a
bathroom stall full of fetid, ankle high urine, and making some ridiculous comment about this being where all the dicks hang
out, only to see Ronnie poke his head over the stall beside me, making some remark about how he’d just got a job at the fish
market and couldn’t seem to be able to get the smell off his fingers. Walking out of the pisser together, he put his arm around
some girl which I, naively, assumed to be his co-worker from the fish market. Silly me. When she dropped her wallet and
bent over to pick it up, I innocently gave her the Meat Grinder salute, only to realize, as I was flying twenty feet across the
bar, that maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t the girl Ronnie had had his little extracurricular activity with, and that maybe, just
maybe, her boyfriend and all of his friends were watching as the two drunken idiots were talking to his girlfriend, and that, if
that were in fact the case, he probably wouldn’t take too kindly to the salute that only the select few fortunate enough to have
been party to the Money Shot’s outbursts of tourettes-like misogyny would be able to find the humor in. As it were, my fall
broken by a rod-iron chair and the comfort of the welcoming cement, and at that point I came to the conclusion that the ever-
popular salute would be put into retirement, just as soon as Ronnie and I finished fending off the twenty Frat boys who were
salivating to kick our asses. Luckily for us, but oh so UNluckily for the Shot, the bouncers were quick upon the scene to
ensure that nothing further would materialize. When Ronnie and I emerged from our cowering fetal-position fighting stance,
we realized that the entire problem had seemingly vanished into thin air, the bouncers for once actually protecting the
innocent, and we somehow found that we were free to head back into the bar for a night cap.
What we didn’t realize was that my acrobatic flight through the air had woken the sleeping giant in the form of one pissed
of Gary “I’M FROM PHILLY MOTHERFUCKER (well, Magnolia, but whatever)” Visconte, who, having a boat load of
things going on in his head, leapt from his seat of green and pounced on the savage who had blindsided me like a young Bruce
Smith, and proceeded to pound the perpetrator into oblivion, only to have one of the aforementioned bouncers return the
favor. When they dragged the Shot out of the bar in a full nelson and threw him into the back seat of a cab, G-Money, like
Nate and I before, found himself in tears and unable to explain it. Like I said, there was a lot going on up top. There’s just
something about that Tennessee air. Anyways, if we didn’t express it enough at the time, G-Money, you truly are a great
friend for jumping in to save your retarded northern friends, and the next time I see that bastard news stand in Toronto that
cut up your hand, I’ll be sure give it a good swift kick to the nuts.
Of course, myself and Ronnie were oblivious to the fact that Gary had just gotten dummied by the bouncers, assuming
that, after puking, he simply got in a cab and went home. Little did we know that he’d be back later on with Isam to rescue us
in case there was further trouble. Give the man a purple heart. Back inside the bar, Nate and Damen were making spectacular
progress with a couple of prizes, and after our near-death experience, Ronnie realized that life is short and that he may not
have many more opportunities to populate the world with his seed, so, like a great pal, he completely swooped in on Nate and
took the girl right from under his nose. As the lights turned on, I was sitting on a bench next to a pig, watching Damen
schnogg face on the dance floor, and waiting for Nate to explode at both Ronnie and the Jezebel he was with.
We somehow made it into the parking lot, and after pissing on everything, we jumped into the back seat of the car that the
two broads were driving, because it’s clearly legal to drink and drive in the state of Tennessee. As we made the twenty minute
highway trek back to G-Money’s, Nate was still seething about the swooping incident, and thus began tossing the girl’s CD’s
out of the open back window as a means of retribution, yelling “WHORE” and “BITCH” and “SLUT” as Dave Mathews and
John Mayer and Hootie’s second album crashed against the pavement.
When we got back to Gary’s place we learned of his misfortune with the bouncers, and tried to make it up to him by
raiding the freezer for a bottle of tequila, which rendered the two sluts drunk enough that they’d be forced to spend the night.
Damen wasted little time with his strumpet and threw her down on to the floor of our four bedroom living room, where he
proceeded to, and I quote: “jam my meat pole down her gullet and fuck-start her head, using her ears like handlebars so I
could throatfuck the shit out of her”. Needless to say, despite the fact that it was the best head he ever received, he doesn’t
remember a minute of it, let alone the 120 minutes preceding it. Damen ended up passed out on the floor with his drawers
around his ankles, his bare ass in full view, leaving Isam’s girlfriend to wonder just what the hell it was that passed for a good
time up in Canada. I ended up walking to the gas station for a hot dog, but the gas station was closed so I stole a balloon and
a flower for the Money Shot instead, hoping that my gifts would somehow make his face feel better. They didn’t. G-Money
and his two roommates went off to the IHOP to get the hell out of the house, Nate called Kendra at four in the morning to rip
on O’Flaherty, Ronnie took his baby into Gary’s bedroom so he could fuck her eight ways from Tuesday, and I passed out
mere inches from Damen’s singing ass. All in all, it was an eventful first night.
Saturday morning began not long after the conclusion of Friday night. Damen, waking up sometime after seven with his
pants around his ankles and not recollecting a thing about it, simply assumed that the broad laying next to him would be game
all over again, and proceeded to push the limits of gross sexual misconduct by trying every which way to gain re-entry into
the pants of the girl who only hours before had been honking away in full view like a seal in the three-ringed circus. Her
disinterest may have had something to do with a certain excretal mishap, but D-Hib’s determination and indomitability in the
matter proved to be an endless source of inspiration, if not entertainment. When Ronnie’s baby finally emerged with traces of
the Money Shot’s pillow cases all over her body, Damen’s little nighttime knob-gobbling/morningwood prick-tease leapt from
the floor like a cat on a hot tin roof and was out the door before Ronnie could say “I got Calamari stuck in my teeth”.
With his baby long gone and it already being 8:30, Damen decided that it was time to unleash his alter ego, so while the rest
of us were trying to improve upon our three hours sleep, and to the backdrop of a myriad ringing of “GALOOO”, Damen
cracked his first beer of the morning, and thus, Poopy-D was born. For the next two hours, I tried to sleep while Poopy-D
yelled at the top of his lungs, “HEY NATE!!! YOU THINK WE SHOULD WAKE SEAN UP FOR BREAKFAST…NAW, WE
SHOULD PROBABLY LET HIM SLEEP…EH SEAN? YOU PROBABLY DON’T FEEL LIKE TAKING US FOR
BREAKFAST, SINCE YOU’RE SLEEPING!!!! YEAH, WE’LL JUST LET YOU SLEEP!! I’M GONNA FUCK TONIGHT”
Bastard. By ten-thirty I was awake and hating my life, and after Damen threw back his fifth beer, we got on the highway and
headed into town for something to eat. We got to the strip and there wasn’t any place that had breakfast, so some girl told us
that there was an IHOP if we kept going a ways down the main street. Twenty minutes later, we got to the IHOP, and our
waiter, B*RAD, who clearly had some type of glandular problem to go along with his skin disorder, sorted us out like Bobby-
D with a table full of chicken fried steak and eggs. After breakfast, we got back on to the main street, drove the twenty
minutes back to the strip, got onto the highway, and headed back for the Money Shot’s. When we got back to the Shot’s, we
told his roommate that we hated this place because we had to drive half an hour just to get to the fucking IHOP. Isam looked
at us like the retards we were and essentially stepped out onto his balcony to point at the big blue sign that said “IHOP”,
asking if that’s the one we were talking about. Uhhh…wanna beer? We had unknowingly driven to another time zone and then
back again to get to a place we could have walked to in five minutes. And then to get back to the Shot’s, we had done it all
over again. Sometimes we get real dumb on ourselves.
I spent the next six hours enjoying the sunny 85 degree weather by sleeping on the couch, trying to get over the wicked
hangover I had accumulated the night before, and in my attempts to swim my way through the boozy haze, I must have had
some kind of hallucination because I vaguely remember the guys waking me up to inform me that Team Canada had
announced their roster and that Shane Doan, Brenden Morrow, and Kirk Maltby were on the team. What the hell did I drink
last night? Oh yeah, and it was also brought to my attention that G-Money’s two roommates had to call in sick for work that
day because they couldn’t sleep the night before because of all of the noise that that girl was making while swallowing Damen’
s hog. Number of beers Poopy-D consumed during my six hour nap: eight.
I awoke sometime after six and went out to check on the basketball game, and our little buddy ‘Melo was once again
hanging around. We collected money to get beer and BBQ with, and the Shot arrived home an hour later with a feast that he
grilled up for us, but instead of stacking the potatoes fifteen high, he opted for the foot-high burger stack instead. Quality. All
the while, Ronnie and Poopy-D were continuing to educate young ‘Melo on the intricacies of love (“It’s not cheating if you
wear a condom”), and the rest of us were engaged in an intense game of beach volleyball; I think that Nate is still trying to dig
the sand out of his teeth after I dropped him flat on his back with a monster spike of the TMNT rubber ball a la Gabrielle
Reece. When Isam and his girlfriend asked us what we were going to do that night, everyone responded in unison with a
harmonizing: “I’M GONNA FUCK TONIGHT!”
By this time we were beginning to suck back the bevies just like Poopy-D, and as soon as Isam and his girlfriend saw the
condition to which we were rendering ourselves, they pleasantly and politely suggested that we get the fuck away from their
apartment and go over to Gary’s other place to abuse and violate it instead. We completely understood, and headed over to the
apartment that G-Money had once shared with that whore ex-girlfriend of his. Ronnie was leading the charge in the “Get
Dumb Quick” competition by funneling three beers in three minutes, while I sorted through that whore ex-girlfriend’s CD
collection for something to “borrow” for the drive back, and the neighbors threatened to call the cops if we didn’t take our
funnel back inside the apartment. There would inevitably be a murder at midnight, and everybody would be balls deep by
three.
We decided that we would hit up “Michael’s” that night for some Cougar action, and after the cabbie offered to take us
there for the reasonable fare of only $15, we decided to walk the three minutes instead. The place had a dress code, and by
some stroke of outrageous misfortune they didn’t feel that G-Money’s black “New York City” T-shirt quite made the grade,
so the two of us headed back to steal some of Damen’s quality garments which, once draped over the Shot’s Adonis-like
physique, were finally granted the opportunity to look good for a change.
The bar was absolutely rammed with married and soon-to-be-married women, which was perfect for us, because it wasn’t
long after we were there that Ronnie and Poopy-D disappeared with a couple of girls that I still haven’t seen to this day. While
they were wining and dining, I found myself in the middle of a staggette wearing the veil, watching Nate sign his name in an
un-nameable place, and then myself propping the bride-to-be up on the table for the ever popular bearded clam shot. I felt like
I was in a Cincinnati Comfort Inn all over again. Some beautiful baby fell in love with Nate and came back for schnoggs and a
number, and some textbook butterface told me that she wanted to lick my teeth. Somewhere in between, Ronnie and Poopy-D
came back and asked Gary for his keys because they had these two chicks in the bag. Gary agreed, and tossed Ronnie his
keys, stipulating that under no circumstances was Ronnie to go near his bed. “Hey, what kind of a person do you think I am?”
Ronnie rhetorically asked. Ronnie and Poopy-D took off with the two MILFs and they figured that they were a match made in
heaven when, while driving down a deserted country road, the two girls turned to their Canadian counterparts in the backseat
and proclaimed: “WE’RE GONNA MURDER YOU!!!” The two broads must have thought Poopy and Ronnie a couple of
masochistic fucks when they began GALOOOing and high-fiving one another at the prospect of being murdered at the stroke
of twelve.
Unfortunately for Poopy, just like the night at the Matador a few months back, his baby got cold feet somewhere along the
way, and she ended jumping out of the moving car in front of her house, screaming as she careened up the driveway at the
prospect of having even considered going home with Poops. In order to smooth things over, Ronnie and his baby bought
Poopy a twelve pack of Natti Lights and tossed them into the back seat, in the same way a mother jams a bottle down her
baby’s throat, thereby keeping him happy and quiet until they all got back to Money’s where Ronnie and his baby with a baby
ran into G-Money’s bedroom and locked poor Poopy out with nothing but his bottle and the hope for the arrival of CDs which
never came. GREAT Friends.
At this point in time, Nate, the Shot, and myself were grinding out the last song with a trio of humongous women and a
guy who looked like Lavar Arrington. We ended up at the IHOP for a late night short stack, and even though there was an
armed cop at the door, the table full of brothas took great offense to some white trash slut shouting an “N”-Bomb in the
middle of the restaurant, and we promptly figured that it was about time for us to begin heading back. By the time we got
back to Gary’s, Poopy was sulking on the couch, alone except for his seven remaining Natti Lights, and Ronnie was once
again balls deep, but this time in Gary’s other bed. GREAT Friends.
We woke up the next morning in a world of hurt, and left Knoxville around 12:30. By 12:45, we were stuck in the worst
traffic jam this side of Tokyo, and ended up spending the next two hours standing outside the car along I-75, talking to
couples who had just been married in Gatlinburg, and listening to stories from the former Athletic Director from SMU who
was telling us that he’d become a big hockey fan recently because, and I quote: “I don’ wanna soun bigoted er nuthin, but I
luv hockey so damn much ‘cause ya don’ have none a them blacks playin”. In my experience, any man who uses the word
“bigot” probably is one. We checked for his Ku Klux Klan bumper sticker, and bid him a fond farewell. At three o’clock, the
traffic began to move again, and before you knew it, my car was being contaminated by more gaseous matter than can be
deemed safe for any human to inhale, which meant that we were on our way home. Damen failed in his attempt to smoke 100
cigarettes en route, but a valiant effort was made nonetheless, as the polished bag of chew will testify.
All in all, another completely stellar weekend. G-Money, thanks for having us, and be sure to continue apologizing to your
roommates on our behalf for as long as you know them. Skeeter, you missed one hell of a trip, and I don’t only mean the
stories about the blue and pink striped panties with the weird belt thing, or the one about Damen skullfucking on the living
room floor. As this overly-emotional-Gonzo-liver-test-of-endurance type of trip often teaches us, no matter how well you
think you know your friends, there’s always room for them to pull something out of left field to surprise you and make the
whole trip, aside from the guaranteed fuck nights and the sunshine and the barbecues and the GALOOO, worth while. But
still, the whole debauchery thing was pretty fun too.