An unfiltered account of my trip to the 2009 Iowa State – aTm game (may contain excessive stupidity)
We hit the road in West Des Moines around 5PM Thursday in a downpour. The first part of the drive to Kansas City was uneventful. My buddy, the world’s biggest deer hunter, was spotting 8 point bucks a half mile away in the dark. As we hit KC, I realize the Garmin is trying to send me through Wichita via 2-lane highways to get to Tulsa. This is the equivalent of going through Sioux City while trying to get from Minneapolis to Des Moines. I know this is wrong, yet at the argument of the rest of the car, I go against my better judgement. As it’s clear that technology is leading us astray, I tell my friend the Garmin can suck my balls, and I find Highway 71 south to Joplin, and then Tulsa. We eventually find that his roomate had borrowed it the past weekend, and fucked with all the settings, and put filters on that kept it from showing routes with tolls. He’s probably getting his ass kicked while we speak. We get to Tulsa around midnight, get my cousin and get headed to Houston. At this point, my buddy Worden’s farts are becoming noxious and uncontrollable.
Like Le Bartender told me, watch out for those cops in Oklahoma. We get pulled over for having the light out above my license plate. The light is not out. The cop grills us about running drugs, and then decides not to search the car because "my shift is almost over". At least that’s what I think he said. He was indecipherable.
We reach Houston at 8AM, tired and strung out from too much caffeine. I go for a run. Then chug a beer as soon as I get back to my buddy’s place. This is a terrible idea. I want to die, yet am unable to sleep. We lay around for several hours, watching the Playboy channel, and farting. Finally we decide to go out and get some BBQ. It is delicious. We’re full and tired. Back to Joe’s. More Playboy Channel and farting.
Sometime around 7:00, we decide it is time to go to Hoot County. Hoot County is awesome. It’s basically a garage w/dirt floors that has been turned into a bar. Soon enough, the bartender (a straight up 52 year old cougar w/a great fake rack) comes up to me and tells me to sit down.
She proceeds to open my beer for me, then lifts her shirt up, pressed my beer up to her massive left tit, and shakes it vigorously. Then she slams it on the table, leaving my scrambling to chug it while I’m getting sprayed in beer. Awesome. This scene will play itself out several more times before we decide we’re hungry. Little did I know, I would shortly meet the love of my life…
So we head to Whataburger, and let me tell you: WHAT A BURGER. I don’t know what it was, but between the way the cheese offset the meat, and the way the onions and jalapenos joined together in a symphonic dance of spice and flavor, or the cool lettuce that held it all in place, I know this. It was love at first bite. Des Moines needs Whataburger. At this point I’m also severly inebriated and yelling to strangers that "Kellen Heller couldn’t woman because she’s a driver". Through this accident, we have found my moniker for the rest of the weekend: I am Kellen Heller. We go back to my buddy’s place a bit early, knowing what a day we have ahead of us. We play some pong and go to sleep. More farting.
Up early, and on the road to College Station. We’re in two cars, and my buddy Joe, predictably pulls off to piss, because he’s been drinking already, and we lose 15 minutes in College Station trying to find him. We get parked in a ramp that is halfway between our hotel and the stadium. This is a long ways from Kyle Field when you’re carrying 35 lbs of beer, styrofoam and ice. Once we get to the stadium, we start getting conflicting reports of where to tailgate. We finally give up at a street corner west of the stadium and start drinking.
The nice folks next to us invite us to come drink with them, as their crew has yet to show up. We basically become best friends with these people over the next few hours.
Drinking starts commencing in earnest and there are many ISU v. A&M beer pong games. Spirits are high as we realize the Hawks are getting killed, yet I warn the group, "at some point Indiana is going to look down at their jerseys, ask themselves when basketball season starts, and roll over dead" (i stole that from Steve Deace) and sure enough they did. Of course, I see someone in a Hawk shirt (a friend of my friend) which proves my theory that no matter where ISU is playing, you will see someone there in Hawk apparel.
Shortly after this, I get a call from KnowDan. Him and some friends are at the Natty Light tent across the street. I head over. This place is incredible. They are giving us free beer and really good food, and it’s totally free! No catch! It was a great find on his part. My cousin comes over, and KnowDan his two buddies, my cousin and I shoot the shit, talk to some Aggies, and watch the Iowa game for awhile.
Good times abound. Worried that my idiot friends may have gotten into trouble somehow (like they do), I head back across the street to our tailgate. Lots more drinking ensues, and we head to the game.
At this point, we get split up. My buddies Screech, Pat, and Joe, head into the stadium. My cousin and I wait for our buddy Worden (the head farter) to shit. As we’re approaching the stadium, we realize that Pat has Worden’s ticket. This is a problem.
We try finding Pat, but in his drunkeness, he is incapable of accurately describing his location. This begins to severely irritate me, and in a fit of rage, I yell at him over the phone "where the FUCK are you!" Normally this would be uneventful, but we’re in College Station, TX, the "most conservative college town in America". All of a sudden I see this angry old man running at me, screaming, and getting held back by people around him, screaming: "YOU GET BACK HER SON! WE DO NOT TALK LIKE THAT IN FRONT OF WOMEN! YOU GET BACK HERE YOU SON OF A BITCH!" My friends and I walk away slowly, scared for our lives. Several younger Aggies come running up to us laughing their asses off. They go "do you guys know who that was?" We respond "No clue". Them: "That was RC Slocum! Our old football coach!". My response, "wait a minute, I just got my ass chewed and nearly assaulted by one of the most beloved coaches in college football history?" Their response: "yup! It’s almost an honor, man!"
Our troubles with swearing were not over.
We get the ticket, and head to our seats, which are in the middle of a big Aggie donor section.
Most of the people around us love us, but as my buddy is telling them the story of how we got attacked by RC Slocum, he repeats what I said to set him off. This provokes some lady 3 rows behind us to push people out of her way and she starts chewing his ass too! We apologize, and spend the rest of the half silently watching complete ineptitude on the field. Towards the end of the 1st half, cops show up, and drag about half of us up to the concourse. They tell us they have multiple complaints of using foul language (we weren’t outside of that ONE instance) and that they can smell the booze on us, promising to kick us out and possibly arrest us if they get another report.
We spend the rest of the game not talking, except with the people in front of us who think it’s a load of shit, and that they want to meet up with us at the Dixie Chicken, because they think we would be fun to party with. I get a call from SuperFan. Try and tell him where our post game location will be, but then my phone dies. I’m now very worried about the consequences of getting removed from game with no ability to contact others. Game ends, we go back to our tailgate to say goodbye to our gracious hosts, and get the rest of our beer. A short recovery will be in order. We head to the hotel.
Back at the hotel, we go separate ways for a short period of time. My cousin and I go have a couple /watch football with KnowDan and crew in their room, while a couple guys get ready, and a couple others go over to Applebee’s and get some food/$2 Long Islands. I go find them, grab a Long Island, and get showered. While in the shower, my buddy busts in and dumps ice on me. Awesome.
We leave and head for Northgate, the A&M campustown. As we roll into Northgate (imagine Campustown running along a single street in small tightly packed buildings, and a little more beat up looking) we pass Freebirds (the local Flying Burrito equivalent), and I notice they are closing at 10:00. Angered by knowing I will not end my night with a burrito, I get one while the rest of the crew heads into the Dixie Chicken. I’m delighted to find out that the Dixie Chicken allows you to bring in outside food. This is great.
The Dixie Chicken is an A&M tradition; their equivalent of People’s (RIP), with less of a focus on live music. It’s an absolute blast. We’re dressed as the guys from the Hangover and people are loving it.
We run into the folks we sat in front of during the game and proceed to drink lots of beer with them. I recognize a guy dressed as Kenny Powers, and we immediately become friends and start shouting Eastbound and Down quotes at each other, which results in my not having a voice the next day. We soon have half of the people in the bar yelling "I’M KENNY FUCKING POWERS!" and doing Ashley Schaeffer BMW "WHOOS". I start talking to the worst Elvis costume I’ve ever seen, and his wife, who (in no surprise to me) are the parents of the guy dressed as Kenny Powers. He soon informs me that he hopes my buddy succeeds in having a one night stand with his daughter. This guy is the shit. They are buying my drinks at a rapid pace. I realize that my buddies have left. I call them. They are across the alley doing flaming Dr. Peppers at a place called the Dry Bean. I try to go over there, but run into them running out the door saying that Joe is probably going to kicked out. This scene plays out approximately 3 more times. I never actually get into the Bean.
No matter, as the Chicken is quite lively, and we’ve started talking to some attractive girls. I tell them that my name is "Kellen. Kellen Heller". The girl notes how that is a flip of "Hellen Keller". I inform her that my parents are cruel assholes who enjoyed a lifetime of people laughing at me.
About this time, I notice my cousin and my buddy Joe getting thrown out of the Chicken. Joe has knocked over several tables, and mistook the bar for a urinal (it’s not like we were in Lumpy’s for Christ’s sake). This does not please the bouncer. About 20 minutes later, he sneaks back in and gets kicked out AGAIN. We figure it’s about time to leave before the cops show up. At this point I black out. Apparently, in my oblivion, I scare some of the locals on the walk home by trying to talk to them. When I say "trying to talk" I mean it literally. I am incapable of speech. Joe trashes a Taco Bell. When we get back to the hotel, I walk four doors past our room, and disappear into an apparently open room, and show up 3 minutes later. I pass out in the bed, and it takes my buddy who had already called dibs about 30 minutes to remove me from the bed.
When I awake, I pound several beers as we recount the night. Joe is still completely hammered.
I wish KnowDan and crew a safe ride home, and we head back to Whataburger for one last go round before leaving College Station in our dust. Orgasm proceeds. Did I mention I like Whataburger?
The ride home is pretty uneventful. I have joined in this chorus of disgusting flatulence, and cause my cousin to say things like "I want to kill myself right now" or "beating my face in with a hammer would be better than this". We start to realize that this kind of corporal punishment of our livers isn’t an every weekend type of thing. Massive hangover sets in. Reach DSM by 11:32, eat some chili, pass out.
UPDATE: On the way home, I got a text from Joe. I had asked him how his drive was. His response: "I pulled over to puke 5 times and shit 6 times." It’s 80 miles from College Station to Houston.
All in all, College Station was a GREAT time and a great trip for any Big 12 football fan to make. If you ever get the chance, go. I’ve been to games in Iowa City, Minneapolis, Columbia, Lincoln, Manhattan, and Waco, and none of them are anywhere close to being as good of an experience