We all have those crazy drunken stories from college. Lord knows the shit that we here at WRNL have gotten ourselves into over the years. We also know how much a good story can liven up a shitty day @ work. Thus, we'd like to introduce a new series at WRNL: Reading Rainbow. Instead of Lavar Burton reading children's books, you get us being drunk asses. We'll post up something hilarious that happened to one of us, and we'd like to see you, our beloved readers, add some of your best times in the comment sections.
All names and locations have been changed to protect the extremely guilty.
It was a Friday night, July of 2006, I was fresh off of my 21st birthday. That whole summer had already become of a blur consisting of a similar routine. Monday-Thursday, it was up at 6AM, to the family farm shop by 7AM, and working until at least 5PM. Go home, work out, shower. Meet up with the crew, and drive around the gravel roads smoking dope, drinking beer, and listening to tunes until about 11PM (Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Tool had all released fantastic albums that summer). Rinse. Repeat. Once 5PM hit on Friday, however, things really jumped into high gear.
I was between my junior and senior years at State at the time, and 2 of our buddies were going to NIACC in Mason City, and my buddy Fist-Her was keeping an apartment there over the summer, while he was working at Applebees. This particular Friday, it turned out that a friend of theirs was throwing a kegger at his house in Mason, which was a 2 block walk from Fist-Her’s place. The forecast called for mostly drunk with a chance of sluts, so we were solidly in.
We made the 45 minute drive from McIntire to Mason City pounding beers, and arguing the existential question of the day, which was the same argument we’d been having all summer: whether Chad Smith of RHCP was a superior drummer to Dave Grohl, particularly his work with Queens of the Stone Age. Important shit.
Anyways, we rolled into Mason City sometime around 8:00, parked at Fist-Her’s, and headed directly to the party. Immediately our worst fears were realized: There were about 30 guys and 3 chicks. Whatever. I went to ISU. I knew how to navigate these delicate situations. So we headed into the party, paid the requisite $5, got our cups, and grabbed a beer.
At this point, I should orient you to the particulars of this party. There were 5 of us who had gone to the party, and we had all grown up in the Riceville school district. Everyone at the party, besides us, was from Manly. At that point in time, Riceville and Manly had a healthy high school football rivalry, which most of the party had participated in. Since NIACC was basically high school with more booze and sex, our buddies had gotten to know the Manly guys, but the silly little high school rivalries were still in place.
Anyways, me, my brother, and my buddy Burn went out in the yard, while my buddy Boilermaker (who went to NIACC) and Fist-Her stayed in the house, bull shitting and what not. The guy standing next to us (we’ll call him "Steve") immediately starts up a conversation with us:
Steve: So, where you guys from?
Steve: Oh, cool. Hey. Mind if I ask you guys a question?
Burn: Uhh… Ok.
Steve: What years were you guys in school?
Me: We all graduated between ’03 and ’05.
Steve: Who would you say was the biggest slut in your school at the time?
STOP. TIME OUT. This was such a bizarre line of questioning that there should have been red flags flying off in my mind, but I was drunk and probably a little stoned, so where the red flags were, there was probably just beer molecules and bong resin.
Burn: what would you say, Norm? Wasn’t Carrie Truman a pretty big slut?
My brother: I don’t know man, Haley Dantzner was a pretty big whore.
Me: Agreed. Definitely. Huge slut.
Steve: What made her such a whore? I mean, did she screw a lot of guys?
Me: She got gang banged at a party by a bunch of sophomores when she was a senior, for starters. Then she got knocked up by some guy from Manly, who left her stuck with a bastard child.
Steve: Ah. Do you know who knocked her up? I’m from Manly. I probably know the guy.
Me: No idea who it was. Probably some meth head. The guy had to be a complete fucking pile of shit to knock up Haley Dantzner.
(TIME OUT. OFFENSE. THAT IS THE SECOND CHARGED TIME OUT. Now you’re thinking to yourself, "why Norman? Why would you continue to answer these strange and leading questions being asked to you by a complete stranger?". Again, I choose to blame alcohol and youthful stupidity.)
All of a sudden, the expression on his face changes. He starts breathing heavily, huffing, and shaking. We stare in complete and utter shock as he slowly mutters, voice raising into a scream:
"That SLUT is my ex girlfriend. That BASTARD is my son. And that piece of SHIT is ME! I set up guys up for it, but I FUCKING SWEAR TO CHRIST THAT IF YOU DON’T LEAVE THIS PARTY ASAP, YOU WILL BE FUCKING MURDERED! I’M GIVING YOU 30 SECONDS!"
As we stand there in complete and utter shock to what is happening, he starts counting down, screaming each second aloud. At 20 seconds he yells "I’M FUCKING SERIOUS!" and makes a punching motion at Burn, who recoils in shock. It’s obviously time to run.
My brother, Burn, and I just burst off in a dead sprint back to the car. We realize however, that Boilermaker and Fist-Her are still at the scene of crime, and shit is about to get fucked. I call Boilermaker, and he answers "Where the hell did you guys go? Someone is getting their ass kicked outside". All of a sudden, before I have a chance to tell him what happened, I hear someone screaming in the background over the phone "RICEVILLE FUCKS, GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" There is some commotion, and 30 seconds later we see Boilermaker and Fist-Her sprinting down the street with a couple guys throwing shit out of the yard.
After all that commotion, we decided we best get out of town, so we headed back to McIntire, called a few people, and built a bonfire, where we were safe from the harm of sociopaths who wanted you tell them that they knocked up a cum dumpster.
EPILOGUE: The events of that night didn’t quite end then and there. Every morning on our way to the shop, my brother and I stopped at the BP in Le Roy, MN (where my folks lived at the time), and grabbed some coffee to jump start. The "slut" in question just happened to work at this BP. The following Monday as we were buying our coffee, she was stocking the shelves and turns to my brother, "So, I heard you guys ran into Steve on Friday. We might be getting back together".
That’s the kind of awkward encounter that Wes Anderson would give his left nut to write.