Midnight + Meat Grinder = At the request of D-Hibs, and in order to inform those conspicuous by their absence of the acts of debauchery missed out upon, and in an attempt to piece back together the portions of the events which may be blurred from memory by either drugs, alcohol, or hiking in the Smokies, I hereby present to you Tennessee - 2003: The trip began with Dunner phoning me at four o'clock to tell me that they were already two hours late - how we can be behind schedule before the trip even begins is beyond me, but leave it to the graduating class of the school for big fuck ups to master that art. The lads picked me up sometime after 8 in a virgin 2003 Buick Century with 12,000 kms on it, and in it's forseeable future was an unparalleled mechanical beating and the release of more human gaseous matter than one vehicle should ever have to endure. Skeeter drove through a monsoon to Windsor where we had guns pointed at our heads for not immediately presenting our passports and forgetting to mention the carton of lung darts in the trunk that Dunner and Hibs would continue to alternately smoke throughout the course of the four days, thereby ensuring not one single moment of smoke free air for the rest of us. I drove from Windsor to Lexington while the rest of the guys periodically slept, and I made one of the ultimate driving blunders enroute by thinking to myself while cruising though a quaint southern Ohio town, "hey, you know, this looks like a pretty decent little city". The Fuckin 'Natti. We pissed on a Lexington gas station in front of one of the most archetypal pimps these eyes have ever seen, and then The Bomber took over. We woke up an hour and a half later in the Knoxville dawn with The Bomber cruising down the highway doing 160, eating a Marlene-O special sandwich while reading the directions to Ronnie's place as he swerved in and out of traffic with a reckless abandon which suggested that he had done this before. We pulled into Ronnie's just after 6, immediately cracked the duty free beer, and waited for 10 minutes for Ronnie to get rid of his morning wood before letting us into an immaculately decorated haven - pristine carpets, quilted linens, and the entire "Girls Gone Wild" collection. Home Sweet Home. The Money Shot's room smelled like a Lion's Den, and Bryan was talking in his sleep about some girl with the same name as my sister. Patrick Lalime was hung like a Tibetan Ox. We crashed out on the floor and Damon snapped a batch to the sounds of curious dormitory sluts. We woke up later and went for the ultimate breakfast buffet at Shoney's. Then we went for a beer in a tavern that used to be a nineteenth century whorehouse, which counted as a "cool pub", which by my standards was the equivalent to getting my tip wet with Bryan's mom. We came back to the pad, which by this point was becoming a luxury resort, and began drinking immediately. Played a little ball, picked up a few guys from Montana, and went to the pool just in time for all of the hot bikini clad women to have left. Nice pick. We went back to Ronnie's and met Jacquie and Ashlynn and their little dogs too, and The Bomber, wearing his amatuer gynecologist T, let one of the little bitches naw away at his arm until it bled, pretending to enjoy it the entire time - it was a textbook case of foreshadowing. The Shot barbecued us up a feast, and The Bomber put on a driving clinic, going 100 mph down a mountain, using speed bumps as jumps, and then doing it all again in reverse. We went back to Ronnie's, drank many, many more beers, and then in true porn-flick fashion, the neighbour from downstairs came up in a leopard print dress and spike heel shoes to "borrow" a bottle opener. Damon, I can hear you screaming it from here. The Bomber fell instantly in love, and the next thing we knew, he was hiking in the mountains whistling "Good Ol' Rocky Top" to himself as he drove his new baby around to the local gas stations so she could smoke. Only The Bomber. We eventually got to the bar because some took cabs and others got rides with Jacquie and Ashlynn who were in their accustomed Saturday Night pajamas, lying to us about how they were "totally" up for coming out with us Sunday night. Ronnie tried to bust me for drinking a beer in their car. Sibling love. We went to a bunch of different bars on the strip: saw a great brawl at the first one, Ronnie Bobby-D'd us at the second where we were absolutely loving the cowboy hat-wearing bridal party, and at the third bar, Dunner almost got us killed. Honestly, who gets out of the cab to fight? The funniest part was how pissed Skeeter was at giving up his cab - he would have gladly taken a beating if it meant he had a guaranteed ride home. And Damon asking the guys, "you're fuckin kidding, right?...Oh my God. YOU'RE SERIOUS?!?......Naw... you guys have to be kidding. YOU...want to fight...US?...You gotta be fuckin kidding me..." while he was leaning on his long lost brother, "the Shot" as he would be affectionately referred to from that point onwards. And Skeeter bought some slut a beer. That was classic. On the cab ride home Damon passed out on me so we had to stop off at Krystal to buy 24 burgers so we could give some to the cabbie who's dad served his country for 34 years in the Marines - how the fuck do we get to know so much about the personal lives of our cab drivers? We ate 24 burgers in five minutes, and then I don't really remember too much from that point. Maybe we listened to Audra's 7 messages from the night before. I passed out with Skeeter whispering sweet nothings into my ear, and Dunner wondering what the fuck happened to his beautiful southern belle that he was willing to risk life and limb for. Somewhere along the line, the Money Shot's jello bowl got tossed over the balcony. Still a mystery. For the record, no salads were tossed, either over the balcony or otherwise. Sunday morning. Woke up to Damon puking his brains out. Stellar. One for one. Went to the IHOP in another area code where we made complete assholes of ourselves, ordering the biggest breakfasts possible and gallon jugs of Orange juice on Ronnie's tab. Stopped off at the grocery store for the ultimate male shopping spree - 1 bag of charcoal, 2 five-pound packages of meat, and 3 cases of beer. Went back to the apartment with the intention of playing basketball, but got distracted by the image of our new cult hero ANDY!!!! smashing beer cans over his head and throwing back four pitchers at the bar before puking on the Rugby field the next day. A true American hero. Also, got a true sampling of what it's like to live with someone who has Tourette Syndrome (def: Tourette Syndrome (TS) is a neurological disorder characterized by tics -- involuntary, rapid, sudden movements or vocalizations that occur repeatedly in the same way), as the Shot gave us periodic twin-fingered cumming salutes to the TV, screaming "OH YEAH YA LITTLE SLUT. YOU'RE GONNA FUCKIN GET IT TONIGHT YA FUCKIN CUNT. I'M GONNA FUCK YOU HARD. I'M GONNA FUCK YOU RIGHT IN THE ASS". Too funny, and surprisingly, not as disturbing as it probably should have been. Eventutally the rain stopped for long enough for me, Bryan and G-Money to dominate Skeeter, Damon and Ronnie in hoops to win a free cab ride that was never necessary. Dunner stayed in the apartment firing back lung darts and beers while pulling to Avril Lavigne videos and an impressive Playboy collection. When our unrivalled athletic display was finished, The Money Shot taught us how to barbecue potatoes stacked two high and righteously told us to shut the fuck up when we tried to explain the logistical problems with such a technique. We ate our meat like vikings, and I have to admit that the kraft dinner was absolutely key, but the unquestionable highlight came when it was brought to our attention that the Shot had recently had a restraining order brought against him on behalf of his ex-girlfriend. WHAT? WHAT? I can't ever remember laughing so hard. Funniest thing I've ever hear, and again, not as disturbing as it probably should have been. We polished back a few more beers and then headed to the greatest bar in the history of mankind. I looked absolutely money in my brown Egyptian Pyramid patterned shirt, tucked into my pants no less. Biggest line I've ever seen at a bar, but luckily we had the Senegalese Wonder to get us in without incident. The only thing that could have made Cotton Eye Joe's better was if they had turned the heat up a little because I was freezing my ass off. It would have been rude not to start the night off with hooter shooters, and even though Damon cracked a test tube with his gag reflex which Skeeter should have warned the poor girl about, I'm pretty sure we can all agree that those were the best two bucks a guy could ever hope to spend. Double fisting beers, feeling pretty good about myself, my shirt untucked by now, I made my way into the pisser. When I came out, I saw my friends gathered around in a circle, leaning on one another for support, nothing but dead clammy grey on their faces. "What the fuck happened to you guys?" "Hey, Sheenboro. Here's your shot. Mechanical Bull." "No problem. How bad could it be?" Jagger, Wild Turkey, 151, and Fire and Ice - in a plastic Coke cup? Apparently, it could be pretty bad. I'd rather swallow a crusty hardened wank rag than do another one of those shots. The worst drink ever. And we love ya for it Ronnie. It was at this point that we hit the dance floor and made absolute fools of ourselves. Turning the wrong way and at the wrong time, crashing into Cowboys during Dixie Chicks numbers, stepping on the heels of fat broads who thought they were competing in Olympic ballroom dancing. It was a debacle, but some of the best fun you could ever have with your clothes on. Some fat girl kept telling me to say "aboot" so I humored her. I eventually found the Bomber and his baby, and they were not riding the mechanical bull. Poor showing. We jumped into the Buick, and Bomber and his baby attempted to drive myself, Dunner and Damon back home. For the record, Bomber's baby lives beneath Ronnie, so one would assume she knew where the hell she was going. ASS - U - ME. Block. While waiting in the Wendy's parking lot for a car load of beautiful babies, I was quickly engulfed by an unrelenting barage of second hand smoke, and it wasn't long before the tarmac got a sampling of just how awful a mechanical bull shot tastes. Thanks guys. Damon jumped in the car full of sluts to ensure that they wouldn't leave the convoy of love back to Stirling. Two hours later, I woke up on the highway in Kentucky puking all over the side of the car as we screamed past the biggest and brightest fireworks store east of the Mississippi. The next thing I knew, Damon was walking disheartedly back to the car, his head hanging in disappointment, the deal all but sealed, if only we could have made it back to our own fucking apartment. Mutumbo. I was wanting nothing more than a quick death at this point. I don't remember coming home. Waking up Monday morning to the sight of Hibs throwing back his third Bud Light Andy-style was a true breath of fresh air. I think it was at this point that I sold out and decided to brush my teeth for the first time. We packed up our shit, leaving the remaining four beers and the bottle of Buca in the Volunteer state (thank God) and headed to the filthy, dirty, nasty 'Natti. We stopped off in the iron lung section of the IHOP so we could meet up with Mr. and Mrs. Bomber because they were running a little behind schedule. Damon, six deep already, money-shotted Skeeter with a glass of milk that the flamboyantly gay Kevin Arnold lookalike waiter brought him, and Bryan came up with the ultimate clutch line, asking Ronnie with a straight face, and right in front of Shmoopie-Audra, whether or not Ronnie had remembered to bring the condoms. Classic. Bomber's baby, showing a disturbing amount of trust, threw her keys to Patrick Lalime (who she'd met ten minutes earlier) and said that he could drive her car back to Stirling because she was coming to the Natti. Damon was screaming something vulgar and G-Money under his breath. When we stopped to get gas, myself, Dunner and Damon decided that it would be rude not to buy a twelve pack for the drive because my mom had provided us with a perfectly adequate cooler that was not being used at the time. Skeeter drove like a champ, and we made some classic 900# phone calls on Bomber's baby's phone that she had so thoughtfully allowed us to use for the ride. We were out of beer by the time we hit Lexington, so we clearly had to stop to buy two more cases. We hit the Natti just before 8 and Dunner immediately Christened the town with a splashing of his Miller Light Urine. We eventually found a suitable Days Inn and murdered the bathrooms in record time. We received the necessary call from G-Money to remind us that all of our mother's were sluts, and none of us will ever look at a beer bottle the same way as a result. When the pizza guy arrived and asked what us seven half-naked males were in town for, Damon, 16 beers into his afternoon and wearing nothing but his gitch, responded horizontally from the bed by yelling "Gay Porn Convention". The Papa John's guy took three noticable steps back before D-Hibs declared that he would fuck Bryan in the ass later that night. The pizza dude recomended that we hit up the Goth bar, and slammed back a can of Bud before jumping into his car and peeling off into the heterosexual night. We eventually decided to hit up main street, and the Cabbie took us on a scenic tour through the slums of the city that appeared to be "such a pretty town" from the highway just three days prior. Could a man have been more wrong? Just when I thought the 'hood couldn't get any worse, the cabbie pulled up to a bar and said, "here you go: Main Street". Ouch. Me and Damon had to walk down the street to hit up a bank machine, and when a crazy homeless dude came mumbling towards me and grabbed my arm, I thought, "well, this isn't so bad, because at least I have Damon here to back me up..." but when I turned around, my highschool's middle linebacker and "athlete of the year" was nowhere to be found. When I eventually got rid of the raving psycho, I went inside the bar to see Hibs cowering in the corner, asking me whether or not the scary man was gone. True colors. While waiting for our cash, the Money Shot's long lost brother showed up shirtless and bleeding, and gracefully told of of the bar's patrons that he was going to "fuck him in the ass" before "skull-fucking" him. Ahhh - Cincinatti. We went back to the original bar where they had $1 Bud Lights and a beautiful young wholesome girl who was willing to show us the highlights of her hometown. Smiley stopped by for a few beers, but when his pimp threatened our lives while standing in the doorway to the Natti's version of the Oarhouse, we decided that it would probably be best if Smiley were to be on his way. We eventually convinced our nasty Natti slut to come back to our hotel by twisting her rubber arm, and when her, Skeeter, Dunner and Damon got into her car, the bartender affirmed just what type of a girl she was - "Is she going home with you guys?" "I'm not sure" "I hate that fuckin slut". Perfect. Our cabbie summed up Cincinatti by declaring "I wish I'd never seen this place", which I thought to be a rather astute observation, but he then went on to explain that he only came to the Natti because, after receiving three Harvard degrees in chemistry and inventing Nicoderm and Nicorette, he was blacklisted by "the people" in Massachusettes in 1978. Apparently, in the 25 years since, he was unable to find anything better than a job which involved driving drunks home from the slums of one of the scariest cities I'd ever been in. Finding his story a little suspect, I asked if he could name the periodic table of elements because, even though I only took science until grade 10, I knew that there were at least 106 elements, and that, having three degrees in chemistry from Harvard, he should have been able to rattle them off the top of his head like the Pledge of Allegiance. When he could only name 8, we figured that the gig was up, but his reasoning for not being able to remember them all was because "You young kids are always changing the periodic table so often I can never keep track of it". Cuckoo. We were afraid for our lives, and Ronnie told him so and demanded that he drop us off immediately, but luckily we were already back at the Days Inn where there was a drunken local waiting for us on one of the beds with a bottle of Bourbon that she fully intended to have drunken out of here naval. Bearded Clam shots, as they will forever be remembered. We got noise complaints in our first room so we did the logical thing and moved across the hall to our second room. The hotel manager came up a few minutes later to give us our final warning. We said we were sorry and that it wouldn't happen again because the last thing we wanted was to spend the night on the streets of the Natti, but then Skeeter bought a six pack of Corona off the dude so we figured that the guy who sells you beer can't kick you out of his hotel. No worries. Bryan puked all over the bathroom floor which made it an official clean sweep in the projectile department as the group us went a respectable three for three on the trip. Dunner eventually tried to crash out on the floor while Skeeter and myself sat like those two old guys on the Muppets commenting on every suave move Damon was making on the drunken Natti slut. We all eventually went to bed, but I woke up in the early morning with Dunner sitting upright and smoking cigarettes, watching a sea of bare asses and listening to the sounds that one might expect to hear in the midst of a six-finger invasion. It was whore-iffic. I've never actually experienced what it's like when a spent hooker leaves a dirty motel room in the pasty, hungover morning, but I'd like to think that that's about as close as I'll ever come. There are simply no words to describe the shame. It was poetic. We said our groggy goodbyes to our most gracious hosts in the morning and then got on that swell road back to the great white North, all of us sober for the first afternoon in what seemed like a month. Ronnie, Money, Bryan, Patrick - Thanks for the great time. It truly was one for the books. Any time you guys are in the mood for Mum Tacos, just give us a call up here in Canada. You guys are all legends. Take'er easy,