4HT originally planned on releasing Part 2 of the mini-series dedicated to Notre Dame’s recruiting class today, but a crippling hangover, compliments of a fellow named Jim Beam, have prevented Steelhead from functioning at any level worthy of serious journalistic merit. We apologize for the inconvenience, and in the meantime, read his side of the story, which is included below…..Thanks, MGT.
I’m not going to lie kids, I woke up this morning feeling like my skull was fractured by a Nolan Ryan fastball, and had the bizarre feeling a cat shit in my mouth. Trust me, I’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bottle many times, but today takes the fucking cake.
The hard drive in my head crashed somewhere between 2:30 and 4:00 AM last night. My last reasonably coherent memory of the evening was getting kicked out of a heavy metal bar for mistaking a band’s performance with “Open Mic Night,” and crawling onto the stage to belt out some Dragonforce, much to the audience’s displeasure. Before I could secure the mic and take requests, a bouncer had me in the dreaded full-nelson, and moments later I was using a curb in the parking lot as a Sealy Posture-Pedic. The shitty bands that played can say what they want, but I was the ONLY person of the evening to receive both showers of boos and cheers (while being dragged away).
If you have ever been to a heavy metal bar, you realize the clientel are a mix between rough bikers and other scary people who can kick your ass………..or even worse things in that bodily area. How I avoided a fate more gruesome than getting shown the door is not just luck, but divine intervention. My imposing 6’1″ 175lb. college educated frame couldn’t intimidate Cris “The Diving and Sliding Pussy” Carter for fuck’s sake.
My attire wasn’t exactly kosher either, since my leather jacket and bandanas were at the dry cleaners. Apparently, you are not welcome at said places unless you fit a certain, pre-determined bill that I obviously didn’t get the memo for beforehand. The regulars all gave me the cliche staredown as I moved to the bar for a drink. Although they were trying their hardest to play the role of hard-ass, it was obviously the candy-ass hour. These were the weekend bikers, most likely accountants and other scum momentarily posing a lifestyle other than a wife, 2 kids, and a dog in suburbia.
In all my days, I have never had a problem with a quote “True” biker. I’m smart enough to mind my own fucking business in such situations, and they’re badass enough to not waste their time on a scrawny turd like myself. Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had in bars were with bikers. One time a guy told me about all the crazy shit he’s seen and done on the road. The main focus was of course drinking copious amounts of alcohol, fighting people, fucking whores, etc. Naturally, I told him that everything he said was identical to my time in college and every weekend now, so I should be granted permission to join his gang. He laughed, never thinking about slitting my throat once.
I slinked into a barstool and ordered my favorite concoction, “Beam.” The waitress asked, “Beam and Coke?” My response was “Beam.” At that point we were in agreement, and I received approximately 2 shots of liquid gold in a red solo-cup with a few ice cubes. Have I mentioned yet that most heavy metal bars ooze class? This is why I frequent such places.
The rest of the night was pretty textbook. I gulped Beam after Beam, talked to a few girls that were out of “Livestock Monthly,” and danced with another that wasn’t quite so gamey. I NEVER dance, so this should have been reason to wave the red flag immediately. Anyhoo, getting drunk and pissing off/offending people is a hidden talent of mine, so it was a miracle that I refrained from indulging myself. More on these instances in the future.
The aforementioned, normal night out continued until about 2:30, when my rock star routine was unmasked to the waiting world. There really wasn’t much to it. I just crawled onto the stage between songs, and grabbed the mic from a horrified little guy with a power-mullet. I’m not sure exactly how many syllables were actually released in my debut, but “Mickey Knuckles” had a tight grip on my ass almost instantly. He politely carried me to the door, then unpolitely threw me to the ground outside. The rest is history I will never be able to recall due to my blackout.
There are 3 levels of blacking out, and it is important to know the difference:
Level 1: You briefly lose yourself, but snap back into it later. Imagine watching a movie in fast-forward. That’s what this level feels like. You go on auto-pilot for a few moments, then you see everything quickly refocus and catch up. (I was here last night, and trust me, this level is nothing)
Level 2: You entirely forget huge chunks of time. Usually this lasts a few hours. Although your brain has completely ceased functioning, your body is usually parked in a chair, incapable of performing acts that you’d regret later. The worst shame the next day is pretty light, as it only entails your buddies saying, “Dude, you were sooooo fucked up last night. You kept muttering the word tacos and then passed out on a table.”
Level 3: This is the level all of us professional drinkers try our damndest to avoid. You literally run the full gauntlet of the previous two, and then EVERYTHING goes straight to hell. Once Level 3 is reached, your body experiences a surge of energy, and you are capable of ANYTHING, as long as it is a horrbily bad decision. This level makes people wake up in jail wondering where the fuck they are, and how they fuck they got there. When this level is reached, you also will discover the next morning one or many “unexplainable injuries.” Without this level, fat women would never get laid.
That’s all I have for now. I’m going to take a shower, make a drink, and go save the fucking planet. Don’t look at me like that, it’s the weekend……….
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