Assholes Make the Best Mascots

I’ve been McGruff the crime dog. That’s right, I’ve walked a mile in his shoes and I’ll tell you, it’s a lonely road. One day at lunch I had the good fortune of being offered the role of Scruff McGruff for a mascot shootout at a semiprofessional hockey game. Why my friend offered it to me I’ll never know, but I looked at as a golden opportunity to create some absurdity. Now is as good a time as any to tell you my vision of McGruff. Most people see him as a warm, gentle, crime fighting dog. He isn’t. McGruff is a grizzled detective who’s been to one too many crime scenes. He is so jaded in fact that he presupposes all people to be criminals unless proven otherwise.

Our first instructions were to mingle with the audience, but I wasn’t their trained monkey so I went to grab a beer. Sadly the concession stand would not sell alcoholic beverages to mascots so I turned to one of my brothers for assistance. This brought back memories of being underage and requiring others to “score” beer for me, but with one exception, I was wearing a trench coat and a giant dog mask. As I stood there feebly trying to drink beer through my muzzle (there weren’t any holes in the mouth) I was approached by a security guard.

Security Guard: “Wha chu you doin crime dog? You gotta set a good example for the kids.”
Me: “Hey man, don’t push your ethics on me! I NEED this!”

He left after that exchange of words and I discovered that the straw was in fact too short, foiled again. Just then I was called out to the ice and as I walked through the stands people frantically tried to gain my attention. Sure I’d be nice and give children high fives, but their parents were another story. For every three high fives I gave out I would openly deny one adult or better still point at them then slowly rotate my hand into a thumbs down position.

Out on the ice I was given the chance to shoot a goal on another mascot and when my name was called I approached the goalie and then stopped in front of him. With 4-6,000 fans looking on I pointed at the goalie and then made a broad throat slitting gesture. This sent the crowd into an uproar. With the fans on my side I fired off a wicked slap shot that missed the goal by two or three feet (Fuckin McGruff mask and it’s pin sized eye holes). The announcer then went on to call up another mascot, but I wasn’t done yet and went on to take another shot. Seeing this, the announcer retracted his previous statement, “Well, I guess he’s going to shoot again.” My second shot was not much better and I looked around the rink for other mischievous activities. I quickly noticed two mascots wrestling with one another. From their brief struggle it was clear that neither one was willing to fully commit to an ass whopping. In the locker room they were all talking big about how they were going to take each other out, but on the ice the couldn’t live up to their claims. I dropped my hockey stick, shrugged my shoulders, and started running full speed at them. Some how I was able to stay on my feet during the thirty foot sprint towards the mascots and gathered more than enough speed for the collision I desired. I dove just before the feet of one of the mascots and slid into him barreling through him and causing him to fall on his ass. To add insult to injury I got up and performed another throat slitting gesture for good measure.

No doubt I had the whole crowd on my side at this point, but McGruff was never one for popularity contests. McGruff is the Dirty Harry of the dog world not the kiss ass who made captain. I set out to rectify the situation. I proceeded to march around the ice rink and give the entire audience the thumbs down. I even went so far as to call out individuals. An overweight hockey fanatic, thumbs down. A cute soccer mom and her child, thumbs down. McGruff hates indiscriminately, and I was not so subtly telling them all that I disagreed with their very existence. I was McGruff at his finest, but apparently not everyone agreed with my artistic vision. One of the stadiums employees approached me mid thumbs down and yelled at me to get off the ice ending my career as a crime fighting canine. I sat out the second intermission as the other mascots chicken danced, and that's when I realized I couldn’t have timed my expulsion better myself.

Spring Break 06

Spring break… How could those two words connotate so much. In addition to the images that are typically conjured I can’t help but think of Mexico, and more specifically Rosarito. It was only natural that I go back to the home of my first spring break adventure, but this time I brought reinforcements. Perhaps by an act of God we were able to work out the logistics of bringing down 18 of my brothers and I knew that the drunken synergy would be ridiculous.

Day 1
As I crossed the border I was invigorated. I cannot completely pinpoint it’s origins but I believe it has to do with my understanding of the inherent nature of Mexico. Mexico is a lot like the Old West. It appears to be a place without consequence. A lawless land where one can do as they please, but behind the thin façade lay very real consequences. You may be robbed, beaten, or arrested on a whim. It was most likely adrenaline I felt, but I was ready for the challenge. As we reached the cabs we were intercepted by a lone driver who offered to take us to Rosarito. I turned to the other cab drivers for competition, but they were strangely silent. “Come on guys. What about the haggling!? This guy’s gonna take us for $5. Anybody gonna beat that?” They laughed but did not bring a counteroffer to the table. Just as we were loading our bags into his trunk the driver informed us that the price was $35. Outrageous. I countered with $20. He responded with $30. I narrowed my eyes, widened my stance and glared back, “25.” We were locked in a death stare. Each man probing the others eyes for signs of weakness. “Deal.” He then muttered under his breath about how cheap I was and I responded with my best Eric Cartman impersonation (not very good) “Ah man, you’re busting my balls.” He did not get or appreciation my South Park allusion.

That night we spent the majority of our time at what we called the “free bar.” It was a dive bar that’s only attraction was that for $5 you could drink as much as you pleased. With eighteen fraternity guys as loyal patrons it was at best a poor business decision and at worst financial suicide. At the door stood a man with a microphone shouting at passers by with a thick accent. I casually asked the man to borrow the mic and he was delighted. In all likelihood he believed that I would promote his establishment and perhaps even convince scantily clad women to enter and consequently be groped by him. He was wrong. I began shouting “What the hell is this guy saying!? I have no FUCKING idea what this guy is saying!” Realizing his folly he wrestled the mic away and I went back to the bar for more drinks. The rule for the trip was mandatory double fisting so I ordered two beers and a fourteen year old prostitute. The bartender smiled despite the fact that I was so clearly pointing out the weak moral fiber of her nation.

After a few hours of drinking I began to dance with a female friend of mine and in the middle of it I was accosted by a man with a whistle. For those who never been to Mexico you have not learned to fully hate the whistle. If I was given a time traveling device my first trip would not be to assassinate Hitler back when he was an art school reject, it would in fact be to choke out the inventor of the whistle and rectally insert his prototype into his least pleasant orifice. They all have whistles in Mexico and the worst whistle bearing culprits were the “Tequila Guys.” Their scheme was to blow a whistle in your face, force feed you tequila and then have the balls to demand money. The man who accosted me was one of these “Tequila Guys” and I had none of it. As he tried to pour tequila down my throat I turned the tables by spinning the bottle around and holding it in his face as I blew his own whistle at him. The taste of his own medicine did not suit him and he tried to run away as I continued to chase him. As the night wore on he attempted this same scam on others in the bar but when I was in close proximity I would look into his soul via his eyes while making a whistling gesture. This consistently caused him to flee in terror. I finished up the night at one of the larger clubs in Rosarito and ended up making out with a couple girls then crashed back in my room.

Day 2
At this point I’ve already grown to hate every person in Mexico. Behind their smiles and low priced booze lay hoodlums awaiting the moment when they can separate you from your hard earned American dollar by any means necessary. This aggression I felt began to be too much for my superego to regulate. At one point I walked into the “free bar” and noticed another spring breaker speaking to one of my brothers with what I believed to menacing body language. I ran over to the man and planted myself between him and my buddy. He then attempted to talk trash to me but was entirely too inebriated to formulate anything beyond utter gibberish. I then leaned in with a smile on my face and a hand cupped to my ear. Every time he attempted to spout off incoherence I interrupted with “upepepe… upepepepe…. upepepepe.” Rightfully this upset him. He attempted to move closer to me and I responded to his aggression by putting one of my hands between him and myself. He was roughly my height (5 10”) but with a much more frail build and when he attempted to move my one hand out of the way with both of his, he failed. I found this hilarious so as he struggled with my arm I turned to one of my buddies behind me and said, “Hey, get a load of this guy.” Completely unaware of his physical deficiencies the man then tried to push me. This upset me and I began to shove him across the bar still using only a single arm. I find that the phrase “tossed around like a ragdoll” is overused, however it perfectly described the scene. Mid push I noticed one the bouncers hastily approaching from my periphery. Not wanted to be thrown out or face explaining my situation to the federales I had to think quickly. I turned the bouncer with mock fear on my face while pleading, “This guy tried to attack me.” Another bouncer swooped in and as they dealt with the man I slipped out the door. In retrospect I’m not entirely sure that he was in fact talking trash to my friend, but to be honest with you, I don’t feel that bad about it. If you’re reading this douche bag, then I hope you enjoyed being groped by the bouncers.

After that altercation I went back to the club I had visited the night before. I dance for a while and the next thing I knew I was walking on the beach with a girl. As we were approaching where she was staying I could hear steps behind me with a cadence that could only be from horses. “Want to rent some horses?” I was a little relieved but still suspicious. Why the hell would I want to rent a horse at four in the morning. “Nah, I’m good.” I turn back and continue to walk on. Anticipating a confrontation the girl began to hold on to my right arm for dear life. Just then the galloping started up again and as they passed one of the men yanked her purse off her shoulder without the slightest deceleration. Here we are on a Mexican beach at four in the morning with no cops to be found and her purse was just jacked by horse mounted bandits. I was impressed. Clearly they're sons of a bitch, but ya gotta hand it to them, they are good at their trade.

Day 3
Now it had become too much. I would like Mexico to be personified into a single individual so that I could punch him in the mouth. The most infuriating part is the bathroom attendant. The “free bar’s” bathroom is as it should be expected, a dank, poorly lit dungeon. There was however one exception. They employed a bathroom attendant. This man’s sole job was to hand you a paper towel and then demand a tip. Not ask for a tip or pleed for a tip, demand. At one point the man even tried to grab me when I refused. At first sure, I tipped him. I can be a nice enough guy at times, but once I learned that it was expected it was over. Our rivalry got to the point where when I walked into the bathroom the man would placed his arms around all of the paper towels and sort of lean over them in defense. The man was just a glorified beggar but now he was stooping to the point of denying me what should be considered community property. My solution was to yell, “Hey, look over there!” and while he was distracted I liberated a paper towel. This pleased me as I did not understand the lengths to which the man would go. In response to my childish antics he called in the two bouncers. Now I can hold my own in a fight, but these guys clearly had the home turf advantage and so I cooperated, sort of. One of them watched the door as the other attempted to push me against the wall. I resisted and he quickly gave up on the prospect. Instead he proceeded to empty out the contents of my pockets and I yelled back at him, “you better not take my fucking money,” and strangely he did not. He then let me go and I went back to the bar to grab another drink. I was not kicked out, or even threatened. The man literally took out my keys and wallet and then put them right back in my pocket as I watched. I even counted and nothing was missing. In short the man achieved nothing.

All in all I consider the trip a success. Sure I’ve come to despise the inhabitants of an entire nation and made roughly a dozen enemies, but to a certain degree I kind of enjoyed it. I drank all day and all night, did literally whatever I pleased and some how got away with it. I even had bouncers called on me and still managed to spend much of the night drinking their free booze. Mexico, you’re the country I love to hate.

Fun in a Bank

Back in high school I had an even more pronounced hatred of authority and social norms in all their forms. As I walking with my buddy, E, through downtown Los Altos (a very affluent town in the Bay Area) I decided to occupy my time with a display of social defiance. We passed a bank and I told E to follow me on my quest for blind disobedience.

As we strolled into the Bank I carried a mischievous smile that foreshadowed the event that would follow. I noticed a door marked “Employees Only” just to the left of the teller. Was the vault behind it? Were there armed guards on the other side? The questions I was pondering swirled through my mind. It was too much, I had to know. I had to taste of the sweet mysteries behind the forbidden door. I set a course for the door, and as I approached it one of the tellers attempted to stop me.

Teller: “Hey, where are you going.”

I turned towards her and without saying a word pointed at the door. I then turned back to it, and continued on my way.

Teller: “Stop, you can’t go back there. Stop!”

I could not be stopped, deterred, or even impeded. I walked through the door with my sights set on revealing some great banking conspiracy, but was instead met with yet another door, this one leading back out to the street. I decided to turn the mundane into the absurd.

Me: “Yo E, you stand by this door while I go through again and let you in. Then you do the same. It’ll be like a relay race.”

As I came into the bank the second time I had a bystander trying to intervene. The man was huge and angry, but I had an unshakable resolve.

GiantLoudMouth: “Hey, listen to the lady! You can’t go back there. Now get out.”

I looked the man in the eyes, smiled and said, “ok.” Then I picked up a pamphlet and sat down on a couch. At first he believed me. He thought that he had in fact convinced me to conform, but in reality he had given me another way of defying them. I had sat there for no more than a couple minutes before a police officer walked past me and began to talk to the teller. The jig was up. I stood up, casually put back the pamphlet, but before I could leave he called out, “You stick around.” The officer took me outside where I found E with two other officers. They made us empty our pockets and hand over our driver’s licensees. Once they were able to ascertain our true motives they informed us that they were under the impression that we were front men for a bank robbery. Ultimately they took down our names and phone numbers and released us without so much as a call to our parents. It is amazing how much you can get away with when you are labeled a “good kid, who just makes bad choices.”

Impulse Buy

I’ve taken college courses every summer since my freshmen year, and while some people may not look favorably on the life of a perennial student, it has allowed me to maximize my absurdity. It was on one of these summer days that I made it a point to create a new holiday. Saint Patrick’s Day for alcoholism, Christmas for materialism, but what about hope? I envisioned a day that would be a motivating force, one that brought people together for a greater good. It began with a trip to Big Five with some friends.

While my buddies wandered through the clothing section I was drawn to the firearms. One of the first movies I remember seeing as a child was Rambo First Blood, and little has changed since then. I drooled over the assorted implements of destruction and I knew at that moment that I could not leave without one. I was about to fulfill one of my life long goals, owning a shotgun. Just when I was about to begin the paperwork I had a moment of clarity. Perhaps buying a shotgun on a whim might not be a prudent move. I turned to one of my friend’s for advice. He reaffirmed my original thoughts and it was game on. I filled out the meager paper work which was composed of questions such as “Have you ever been committed to a mental institution” and “Do you have any prior violent felonies on your record.” Luckily I had neither.

I left the sporting good store with a new spring in my step. While I was a mere mortal, in ten days, pending a successful background check, I would be a demigod. My friend’s were also quite excited over the transaction. So much so that one gave me a box full of clay pigeons in anticipation. Shotgun Day was born. We counted down every passing moment awaiting the end of my cooling off period. I envisioned myself dressing up in fatigues with a red bandana around my head. I would bust into Big Five yelling, “Where’s my gun? How the hell am I supposed to kill drifters without MY gun!?”

Sadly the euphoria could not last. At the conclusion of the ten days my following had shrunk. I picked up my shotgun and mandatory trigger lock (fucking hippy laws) sans kick ass bandana. I called around trying to find a place to fire it, but the skeet range in my area had just closed down due to a recently discovered underground river. In addition I was unable to find a friend’s house large enough for gun play. One year later I resold the shotgun which had depreciated $50. It goes without saying that Shotgun Day was, by all accounts, a complete debacle. However, to be honest with you I do not regret it. I was following a dream and it was $50 well spent.

Sorority Formal

Sorority formals tend to be a mixed bag so when I agreed to go with a friend of mine I wasn't sure what type of night I was in for. Luckily enough these girls knew how to have a good time. We were picked up in a limo stocked with champagne. I had not anticipated this so I pulled a beer out of my pocket and started to double fist. Champagne in one hand, keystone in the other. The limo then took us to a restaurant just as it hit happy hour. By the time we left I was deep three beers, two glasses of champagne, and two mixed drinks.

We arrived at the event a collective shit show. I winked at an elderly woman as we passed through the lobby. It was going to be an interesting time. My date, being the generous person she is, fed me a constant string of long island ice teas. She knows of my mixed emotions over this drink, so I suspect it was as much a trap as it was a philanthropic act. At this point I began to get extremely loud and obnoxious. A girl attempted to take a drink out of my hand and I pulled away yelling, “It’s NO time!!!” which is what passes for a clever play on my favorite saying “It’s go time,” when you’re barely holding on to consciousness. At some point in the evening I gave my wristband that certified I was of age to another male guest. He then attempted to buy booze at the bar and was rejected.

Underage guest: “Hey Brock, he won’t sell to me. Could you vouch for me?”

I had begun to see myself as a god and my every decree was to be followed without question, so I stumbled over to the bartender and threw up my arms as if offended by the very insinuation that my friend was under the drinking age.

Me: “If he’s not twenty-one, Iiiii’m not twenty-one!!!”

Some how this did the trick and he was able to buy drinks for himself and his date for the remainder of the night.

After the formal we were taken back to campus on a charter bus and as we returned I knew the night was not over. I decided to ditch the rest of the guests with my buddy Mike, who is undeniably one of the sloppiest bastards I know. We opted to head through a residence hall and were greeted by the sweet aroma of hookah. Without an invitation we busted into a random room which proved to be the source of the scent. While Mike talked to the four or so random guys in the room, I posted up by the hookah awaiting my turn. At some point in my drunken stupor I noticed that across the hookah there was a girl sitting on a couch. I had never spoken a word to this girl, never had a class with her, never even made eye contact with her. I made up my mind to see what I could get away with.

Me: “I think you should kiss me.”

Random girl: “But there are people in here.”

Notice how she didn’t laugh, she didn’t say “no,” she said “but there are people in here.” So I shrugged my shoulders and continued.

Me: “I think you should do it.”

She then got up off the couch, walked over to me and we started to make out, then she sat back down on the couch.

Me: “That sucked, try again!”

She then, for whatever reason, got back up, walked over to me and we made out again. Following this I turned around and walked out of the room. I do not know what would possess a person to kiss a stranger after they had just been insulted, but it reinforced my belief that I was socially invulnerable. All in all it was great night and well worth the hangover in the morning.

Happy Bid Day

I awoke to the sound of a train bell. My room is still shrouded in darkness, and for good reason. It’s 4:30 in the morning. I slid out of bed, threw a towel on, cracked a beer, and headed to the shower. Lather rinse repeat was replaced with lather, chug, rinse, chug, aaahhhh fuck it! I walked through the halls back to my room and heard two distinctive sounds. Pennywise’s Bro Hymn, and an electric razor. As I passed another bathroom I saw clumps of hair litter the floor and a couple brothers waiting in line to get mohawks. “Fuck you Brock” replaced the cacophony of the razor as middle fingers were tossed up. I returned the gesture and headed to my room to change. The first beer was ceremonial; the rest would be utilitarian in nature. I had to get smashed before the pledges showed up so I grabbed two more and started double fisting as I walked through the halls. Men were screaming, wrestling, and throwing food. When I finished my beers a brother offered me absinthe and I couldn’t pass up the green fairy so I took a shot and he put the rest in my room for safe keeping.

After the first shot, word was passed around that the pledges had arrived. They lined up in the backyard and waited nervously. My room was on the second floor and overlooked them, so it was the perfect vantage point. I took another shot of absinthe, threw my laptop from my desk to my bed, and started whipping Christmas cookies out the window at the pledge bitches. In time they would be called our brothers, but until then they were jokingly referred to as pledge bitches or pledge monkeys. Most of my cookies missed their mark and I asked aloud, “Why can’t my parents give me cookies that fly straight, these sons of bitches keep hooking to the right?!” Finally one connects with the side of a pledge’s head and I can see from the look on his face that while it had some zip on it he appreciated my marksmanship. “Take that pledge monkey. I own your soul!” I looked to my right after menacing the pledges with ludicrous statements to see a brother poke his head out a window only to have beer poured on him by an alumnus from a higher one. After being berated, the pledges were led up to the chapter room. Some had looks of terror on their faces, others smiles. In time they would look back on pledging as the best time of their lives that they would never want to repeat.

When the pledges reached the chapter room it was back to business. I grabbed some more beer and wandered around the house. Feeling as if he didn’t get his message across while they were outside, a brother grabbed a folding metal chair and threw it at one of the windows to the chapter room, shattering it. As I entered my buddy Eric’s room he screams out while throwing handfuls of popcorn, “Everybody start stomping that shit into my rug!” We all approve of his asinine request and started jumping up and down on the popcorn, driving it into the floor.

When the pledges were ready, we made our way out of the house and walked around campus singing profane songs. Sixty men, some donning mohawks, parading through campus singing our own praises. As tradition dictates we made a point of passing the house of our rival fraternity and a brawl almost broke out. Cooler heads prevailed and we continued on to the sororities to chant. It was about this point when I reached starving drunk. At night I would have gone to the local twenty-four hour Mexican restaurant, but it was still morning.

I walked through the doors of McDonalds with three other drunken brothers and one sober driver. My first words were, “It’s eight in the morning, and I’m already fuckin drunk!” I immediately commanded the attention of every patron. I notice a group of elderly people behind me and asked, “What is this, the early bird special?” This did not earn me any friends. I then ordered a biggie dux meal, which I had to explain with slurred speech that it meant the big deluxe breakfast meal. I waited for my food by the door and as one of the old men passed by he said, “Excuse my gentlemen,” turned to me “and I use that term loosely.” I had been had, owned, verbally bitch slapped by a man old enough to be fertilizer. I responded to his zinger by dancing around him like a leprechaun, pointing with both hands like six shooters while yelling, “ZING! ZING! ZING! ZING!” and that was the last moment I remember clearly from the morning. The aftermath was as follows; one broken window, two holes in the walls, all four bathrooms covered in vomit, and one brother sent to the hospital with a broken wrist and then we woke up and did it all again later that night.

A Very Bad Morning

Morning classes are always taxing, but very few things compare with the agony of attending general education courses with a monster hangover. It’s true, competing in an Iron Man competition, conducting a hunger strike, Chinese water torture, they all pale in comparison. So it was no surprise that after a hard nights drinking I set myself up for quite a fall when Friday morning rolled around.

French was my first class and by no means did I look forward to it, even when my mind was capable of more than monosyllabic sentence structuring. The professor began the class by reading off names and when mine was called I yelled back “Present” (with a French accent of course). A girl I had never spoken to then turned to me.

Random Girl: "It’s not attendance. She’s handing homework back.”

So naturally I was somewhat embarrassed and walked to the professor’s desk.

Me: “Hi”
Professor: “Yes?”
Me: “Do you have my homework?”
Professor: “You didn’t turn any in, and I’m calling attendance.”

So here I am in front of the whole class looking like a complete Jackass after being fooled by that conniving random girl, who I oddly enough respect more. So, frustrated by the awkwardness of the event and still not in my right mindset I turned to walk back to my desk, raised my arms in the air and yelled out, “I have a huge hangover and I do NOT need this right now!” The half of the class that heard my antics erupted with laughter though I am fairly certain that I pushed my professor’s opinion of me from disapproval to overt hatred.

Once French class had ended I was not yet free. I had Evolution of the earth on the other side of campus. Class began as it always had, but halfway through the Professor made a nearly fatal error. While discussing relative age he asked a girl in the class who was older himself, or an obviously younger student. She answered him and he proceeded to ask other people in the class why it was that he appears to be older. They responded timidly by saying that hair color or skin texture tipped them off. Clearly they were dancing around the issues. He has graying hair and more wrinkles.

This situation is comedic gold so my friend Mica and I quietly exchanged our own observations until Mica sold me out.

Mica: “Brock has an observation.”
Me (In the middle of a packed class): “Mica you bastard, I don’t have any observations!”
Professor: “Well, what is your observation?”
Me: “No, I really don’t have one.”
Professor: “Come on tell us what your observation was.”

Now here I am being goated into insulting a tenured and well respected professor. Most people would have either continued to protest or come up with a more benign observation, but I’m really not like most people and so I unloaded on him.

Me: “Ok, well what I was telling my friend Mica is that I could tell you were older than the other student by the look of desperation in your eyes.”

As a result his pupils immediately dilated and he leaned precariously far backwards. He instantaneously became the model of shock. I looked around the class to find some people trying to contain their laughter and others with looks of utter disbelief. I had alienated myself in two of the three classes I was enrolled in and it wasn’t even noon.

Faux Fisticuffs

This is a story that dates back to my high school days. I attended and lived at a small catholic high school founded by monks and as such I looked for any opportunity to create mischief. One of my favorite pass times was to go to downtown Palo Alto at night with a group of friends. Pass by the window of a restaurant and pretend to start a brawl. Let me paint the picture for you. The average patron was in their late thirties/early forties and was in the middle of enjoying a delicious, but over priced meal when they caught movement out of the corner of their eye. Immediately the possibility of it being a moving vehicle was disregarded. No, it was entirely too frantic. As they looked up they would come to realize that it was in fact a savage beat down. The sort ass kicking that can only be found in movies such as Hard Target, Above the Law, or an equally crappy B action movie featuring either Steven Seagal or Jean Claude Van Damme.

Now that I've set the stage I'll begin to describe one of my better pranks, or as I like to think of it, a social illusion aimed at producing public unrest. One night my buddy Eric and I decided to significantly up the ante. He generously applied fake blood to his face as I public berated him. This stunt was conducted on the most populated street in Palo Alto and it was no surprise that we became the center of attention. As I shouted at my friend and made menacing gestures there was not a jaw to be found undropped. I can only assume that the following ran through their heads. "Did he attack him? Is he in serious danger? Am I in serious danger? Is the sale at the Mac store still on?” (It is Silicon Valley)

You would think this would be enough for us as it was too far for most. As a matter of fact we had just begun. We proceeded to enter Pizza My Heart which was a local favorite for the youths of Palo Alto. As we stepped through the door all eyes were on us. An almost uniform gaze of shock, fear, and empathy towards Eric was broken by a booth filled with our classmates who had by chance chosen to order at that exact moment. Their laughter strengthened our resolve and we proceeded to stay in character. As I sat down with my classmates a woman got up and ran over to see if Eric was alright. She took him to the bathroom to care for his pseudo wounds.

Woman: “Are you alright?”
Eric: “Yeah, I think so.”
Woman: “If that bastard comes near you again I’m going to call the police.”

Simultaneously I was approached by one of the employees, who, for whatever reason, was wearing rollerblades.

Rollerblading peace of shit: “Did you hit that guy!? How’d you like it if I hit you?”
Me (In my best George Castanza impersonation): “It was very heated. IT WAS VERY HEATED!”

The situation was pretty well defused after that exchange of words, but rumor has it that a few weeks later that same employee got his ass handed to him for putting his nose where it didn’t belong (Not by me). If you’re still waiting for a moral of the story, then I suggest you not hold your breath. Much like the rest of my stories I do not burden my tales with issues of ethics or moralities. I will however give you a peace of advice. Some of the greatest times you will experience can be derived from the creation of social illusions, or to the layman, pranks. Rules were meant to be broken, and boundaries crossed.

The MC Hammer Story

Since my sophomore year at college I have worked part time as a valet at an event center. Typically the event center hosts weddings; however they also hold an annual event for the Boys and Girls club. It was on one of these very occasions that I reached the apex of my shit talking career. I know I know, I talk alot of shit, a plethora of shit, a cornucopia of shit, but this was truly the pinnacle.

At the beginning of my shift I was informed that a certain C-list celebrity would be attending this event. Sure enough it was MC Hammer, and his contribution to this noble cause was that he was going to be auctioning off dance lessons. I shit you not, dance lessons. When he arrived I knew I had to act. How could a man such as myself sit idly by while MC Hammer enjoys the fruits of an intact ego.

When he exited his SUV I approached him as I had every guest before him. I walked to the driver side and received his keys from him. I then extended my hand to give him a numbered ticket with which he would reclaim his vehicle. As "Hammer" reached out to receive the ticket I felt a sudden calm. Professional athletes call this "the zone," I call this "Go time." I snapped the ticket away from him and proclaimed with glee, "Can't touch this!" Perhaps in a feeble attempt to prevent losing his last shred of self-esteem he began to laugh. He did not stop at that, in fact the man slapped me on the back and presented me with a $20 tip. I cannot say whether his attempts to maintain a positive self image worked, however I will hazard the guess that he cried himself to sleep that night.

Mexico

Ahh Mexico. The margaritas, the beaches, the hangovers. When I crossed the border with my three intrepid friends I knew that I had set in motion a chain of events that would go down in blogdom. Our destination was Rosarito due to its bargain basement accommodations and low crime rate (relative!). When we arrived we came to a devastating conclusion. The hot college coeds pictured on every spring break advertisement had not chosen Rosarito as their booze ridden oasis. This problem was solved by a rather complex strategy that relied heavily upon dollar margaritas and an oath amongst friends that all standards for female companions were to have been left back in the states along with our dignity. I'd be lying by omission if I did not tell you that this trip became a twenty four hour haze fueled by copious amounts of cheap liquor. I made out with a few girls, I rode a mechanical bull, and my friends and I pretended to be marines while singing "You Lost That Loving Feeling" to a group of barely legal female spring breakers. The truly interesting story however is as follows.

As mentioned previously our accommodations were modest at best, but to further lower our expenses we decided to only pay for two people. In any other country this would be brilliant, but in Mexico that's how holes in the desert get filled. After our first night of debauchery my chums and I returned to our hotel. At the time we were oblivious to the fact that we were followed by the hotel manager, but we were quickly confronted. He demanded to be paid by the other guys in our group. Common sense would tell your average joe douche bag to pay and go on your way, but to me it was "Go Time." Typically this means ridiculing people, breaking things, or drinking myself into oblivion, but in this instance it called for something rather uncharacteristic of me. I turned to my friends and said with surprising calmness, "go inside guys, I got this." When they closed the door I attempted one of the most daring cons of my life.... I pretended to be gay.

I attacked the manager claiming that his shake down was the result of latent homophobic tendencies. This only made him more upset. In response I opted for the full court press and claimed that if I had brought home girls we wouldn't have this problem. At that point I thought I had him on the ropes. Originally the issue at hand was me cheating him, now it had become whether or not he was a gay basher. Unfortunately this turned out to be a ropa dope and he bounced back by threatening to call the Federales. My buddies burst out from the hotel room and tried to convince me to just pay the man. That was a tough sell for a man of my obstinance so two of my friends left the hotel only to wander the filthy streets of Mexico. I returned to the room with my last remaining friend and discussed our course of action. Miraculously he convinced me to help pay for the other two and begin a search party. Part one of our strategy was completed easily enough, however before phase two could commence I blacked out, peaced out, and passed out. With the burden of rescuing the remaining men, my friend proceeded to find the nearest bar and drink himself stupid. I awoke the next morning to find my friends sprawled haphazardly across the room and as a result gave support to my belief that these things work themselves out.

Late Night Swim

One evening during my freshman year I decided to booze it up with some ladies from Kappa Alpha Theta over in another residence hall. The night started off ordinarily enough; loud music, drinking games, copious amounts of intoxicants, but every good night has that one moment in time where you are having a blast, but it isn't enough. The joy of good companionship and the warmth of alcohol pales in comparison to the potential endeavors that lay ahead provided you prevent better judgement from clouding your decisions. In this case we decided to go for a swim in the campus pool. For those of you who do not attend my university, the campus pool is locked up every night and surrounded by a twenty foot fence. Despite this obstacle I and four of the girls walked over to the pool and surveyed the obstruction.

After a few failed attempts we found a potential route. I scaled the fence at its lowest point and helped the girls across. As the last girl made it through I heard a voice shout out something along the lines of, "Hey! Who's that in the pool!?" I climbed back up the fence to see who it was and discovered it to be student security. In response I yelled back "Hey, we're just going for a swim." I waited and was surprised to hear, "Brock? Is that you?" Turns out, the student on duty is in one of my classes. "Yeah dude, could you just pretend like you didn't see us?" My attempts to defuse the situation were thwarted. "We already called the cops, you better get out of there." I'm stubborn. I am. I'm a stubborn bastard, so I asked him, "Could you like call them up again and tell them we left?" This they could not do, so instead of fleeing we chose to hide in the women's bathroom.

After about five minutes we were greeted by a male officer with a flashlight. Apparently officers of the law are above the gender norms that involve bathrooms and privacy. We gave them our ID's and they gave us the riot act. I was singled out and threatened to be charged with breaking and entering if I was to attempt this again. It was at this point that I recognized one of the officers from two previous encounters (I have a long history with the campus police officers). I made the choice to push my luck and as they escorted us out I requested that they take a picture with me. Oddly enough they were happy to oblige and the girls took several photos of the officers pretending to handcuff me while I was up against the squad car. Ultimately we were unable to swim that night, but in my opinion a well executed folly can surpass many successes.

Suplexing!!!!!

My job as a valet has allowed for more opportunities for personal expression than merely mocking celebrities. While I would say that I have had minor scuffles in the past I do believe it afforded me a venue for my most outrageous melee. The night I am referring to began normally enough. Guests arrived for what would be a Cost Plus company party. As usual the alcohol would be flowing and as such I understood the potential for an altercation. I did not however expect things to unravel as they did. Half way through my shift I began to over hear a ruckus coming from within the event center's garden. I quickly ran back to find two drunk, drugged up guests smashing decorations. One even karate chopped a concrete statue sending it to the ground where it shattered. Now I know it sounds hypocritical of me to be upset by people smashing things, but I believe it to instead validate role theory in that when I get drunk I take on the role of a drunk and when I work I take on the role of a responsible employee.

My boss responded to the outburst by attempting to confront one of the hooligans, but instead narrowly missed a volley of strikes thrown by one of the would-be assailants. Being a good Samaritan I decided to give the attacker one of the greatest shocks of his life. I came up behind him, put my arms around his waist, and executed a picture perfect suplex. To those not familiar with wrestling or the fight game this means that I lifted him into the air, over me, only to send him back to earth head first on the concrete. The completion of this move left him stunned and on all fours with me crouched behind him. Before I could completely assess the situation another employee emboldened by the Costco sized can of whoop ass I opened, kicked the downed adversary in the face.

Legally speaking this is attempted murder and I wanted no part of it. Sure, I'll body slam a person till they can't remember their name, but to kick a man in the head has too many negative legal implications. This same employee at this point thought that that was not enough and picked up a large metal chair with which he planned to do grievous bodily harm. Luckily for the ill fated attacker his friend then jumped in with a chair to save him. This led to an intense stand off between the two chair wielding men. I took it upon myself to tip the balance and began to approach the downed man's friend from behind. Sensing impending discomfort of the highest order, both chairs were dropped and a sense of calm fell over the men.

I mentioned earlier that the man I soundly defeated was operating under the influence of drugs. This sounds presumptuous; however the last part of the story provides support to my conclusion. After the fight the man was finally pushed into a car and driven away. While traveling at a speed of roughly 50mph he decided to leap from the vehicle. His boss then pulled up to him to see if he was alright. His generosity was returned by having his windshield punched through. PCP is capable of allowing a man to karate chop a statue without feeling pain, jump from a moving vehicle unscathed, and punching through a windshield with ease, however the proper execution of a suplex can render the affected subject incapacitated.

Following this event I was given a raise by my employer. This would be the first, but not the last raise I would receive for guest conflict resolution (the use or implicit threat of violence.)

My Space

I received the following message on myspace

Date:
Nov 13, 2005 12:29 PM Flag spam/abuse. [ ? ]
Subject:
hi there:)
Body:
hey Brock I like your profile and would love to talk or meet up if you're interested too...I check my e-mail all the time, so get me there at ********@hotmail.com...hope to talk again soon! love kylie:)

Most people would find this flattering or after reading her description on her profile stating her need for a friend with benefits, be quite excited. As a result of my loyalty to my girlfriend at the time and my insatiable urge to ridicule strangers I took the road less travelled.

Date:
Nov 19, 2005 11:45 AM
Subject:
RE: hi there:)
Body:
I will not meet up with you, because I know this will happen. We'll meet at a bar or restaurant and have a few drinks. You'll think I'm witty, I'll think you're drunk. Eventually you'll take me back to your place, and that's where I black out. I will awaken the next morning to the sound of tires screeching. I'll ask aloud, "where am I?" To which a hobo will respond, "got any quarters?" This does not help me, but I quickly surmise that I am in an alley. The truly unnerving discovery however, is that I have stitches down my left side and my kidney is missing. In conclusion I can't meet up with you, because my insurance does not cover dialysis.

----------------- Original Message ----------------- From: *** Date: Nov 13, 2005 12:29 PM
hey Brock I like your profile and would love to talk or meet up if you're interested too...I check my e-mail all the time, so get me there at *******hotmail.com...hope to talk again soon! love kylie:)