The Knoxville Weekend, part II: The Condom Police Story

I'd like to dedicate this next story to The Knoxville Police Department, without whom I would have never gotten laid that weekend in Knoxville. They are truly God's Soldiers, and though up to this point in my life I'd never met a cop I liked, I can whole-heartedly say now that cops are people too - and people like having sex...

After having dinner with the doctors and my sister that Friday night in Knoxville, my sister & her lawyer friends wanted to take me out to celebrate my successful interview & the fact that I pulled off having a black eye at a job interview. Banana's friends are amazingly hard-working and normal people, mind you, and so her roommate The Twirler got off from working as a waitress, and Twirler's boyfriend "Coach Cougar" did the same. We rallied at Banana's house first, and decided to mosh through the snow to the closest possible bar first, in case the roads were too shitty to get to the mecca of college drinking: The Strip in downtown Knoxville. The first bar we found close to Banana's house was this nameless little shanty that had all it's windows covered in signs & posters, with the only words legible from outside reading "No Shirt, No shoes, No service." Classy is my middle name, so I insisted we go inside despite the possibility that we'd get shanked inside. What we found was a room full of fully drunk and stoned mex-i-cans shouting at each other en español, a cute (but slightly overweight) female bartender who seemed far too comfortable serving that crowd, a dirty pool table, and a few high tables with broken bar-stools. Now, it should be noted that I've only experienced the sensation of walking into a bar and clearly not belonging a few times in my life (once in the Scottish Highlands, where they'd never seen an Indian in their lives - great night where I managed to convince the locals that I was an american construction worker - and once in a Slovakian brothel where I ended up playing MarioKart with 5 hookers while my Norwegian buddies got a Bratislava Special).  Kid you not, this was the third time, and I absolutely heard a record screech to a halt, until I broke up the awkwardness by shouting "We'll take two coronas, please." Game-on.
So me, Couch Cougar (CC, for short), and the Twirler sat down on busted bar-stools with our drinks, and took in the clear insanity of the scene. Here we were, 4 well-dressed preppy grad-school kids, in a bar that was clearly a front for mexican drug-dealing on a snowy night in Knoxville. Our laughing was quickly interrupted by one of the tavern's fine locals, this disgusting & horribly stoned man with 4 black teeth and smelly, holey clothes that stumbled to our table and invited both my sister & the Twirler to dance with him next to the wrecked pool-table. "YOU putas like to dance, don't you?!?"
Banana: "No, we putas don't like to dance. But, you and your cholos should go for it!"
The Cholo: "HAHAHA - this puta is funny, ese (talking to me). What's up with you guys, what are you doing heeeere?"
Me: "That puta is mi hermana, vato. You better back-up...or I might have to cut you!"
The Cholo: "HAHAHA - my bad, ese. You guys are cool, man...woooo, let's parteee. Arriba, Arriba (gunshots fire behind us). (Ok, there was no Arriba, Arriba with gunshots, but at this point, I felt like we were in a scene from the 3 Amigos).
So me and CC finished our beers, and quickly got the fuck outta the Casa de Cocaina, cracking up at the scene that had just unfolded. "Jesus guys, I've been here a day, and we've already met the most ridiculous person in Knoxville."
CC: "No way man, you haven't met Skyy yet."
Me: "Hmmm, intriguing. Tell me more about this 'Skyy,' but first...let's go to a real fucking bar."
So, me and the Knoxville crew ventured out to the Strip, despite our better road-judgment, but fuck-it: we needed to really drink, in a place where I wouldn't end up getting shot by a mexican for drug money. We ended up at a place called "The Tin Roof." A typical college bar, this place had it all: A student band, corn-hole for the kiddies, 3 bars, a hot-ass bartender, and cheap drinks. Being that this was an ugly night weather-wise, and that school hadn't started back up, we entered the bar and had plenty of room to breath and chill at a table. As soon as we walked in, my sister bumped into some annoying girls she knew from Law School, and I got the obligatory "This is my brother, he's interviewing at the Hospital" introduction. This terrible southern JAP quickly latched onto me, and launched into a spiel about how cool it was that I was a doctor and started giving me her very considerate / asinine thoughts on the state of medical care in America. Yearning for a way out of the conversation, I found my opportunity when she said "...and I think it's sooo important that doctors actually listen to their patients, because most of the time that's all a patient really needs, you know?"
Me: "Yeah, of course! Wait...what? Sorry, I wasn't listening, what did you just say?"
Southern JAP: "Umm, I said how important it was that doctors listen to people."
Me: "Oh, yeah, definitely. Listen, I need a drink. The girls here aren't pretty enough to me yet."

After that, me, my sister (who was cracking up at my "dis" to the Southern JAP), and the Twirler & CC grabbed a whole mess of cocktails (vodka redbulls with tall-boy backs), and planted at a table in the side-room that was still pretty empty. The hot blonde bartender was very friendly with CC (a handsome gentleman, by any standard), and so gave us both pretty strong drinks - and we obliged her with pretty strong tips. Definitely a key start to any good bar-session. So, the four of us chilled at the table a while, trading drinking stories, and the Knoxville crew regaled me with interesting details that would entice me to take the job in Knoxville if it was offered to me. Their stories were supplemented with the increasingly ridiculous crowd of people populating the bar: Huge douche-bag jocks wearing polo shirts & flip-flops in 20 degree weather, Smoking Hot southern girls drunk & stumbling all over the bar (looking for single doctors to bump into, I imagined fancifully to myself), and every college stereotype in between. At one point I remember seeing a cute drunk girl sitting by herself get up, stumble almost directly into our table, then wander to the other side of the bar to make-out with some guy, only the run away crying and holding her nose 10 minutes later (I imagine she took a drunk face-plant into his forehead mid make-out). I also say 2 drunk guys get into a fight and get pulled out of the bar, only to be let right back in 10 minutes later! Hmm...it was time for me to drop the real black-eye story. "SO, who wants to hear how I REALLY got my black eye!?!"
The Knoxville Crew, in unison: "Oh shit, I knew it!"
So, of course I related the entire story of me & Smikey antagonizing the Christians, me railing on a dumb diabetic, and then getting sucker-punched by the guy only to post the story online at the Christian Conference's website." By the time the story was over, CC & The Twirler were in awe of my ludicrous life-decisions, and Banana was both shocked & awed by the disaster that was her brother. Following this revelation, the Knoxville Crew immediately debriefed me on "Skyy," who was a local legendary dancing machine who resides at one of Knoxville's shitty nightclubs, Southbound. "You're gonna love this guy, dude," said CC. "Of course! But for now, I need another drink...but first, I need to pee!"
Contemplating the ramifications of me telling this crew one of my most absurd stories to date, I strode directly from the bathroom to the bar, where the hot bartender came straight over to me. We exchanged some small-talk about how each other's nights were going, and upon me noting how she was reason enough for me to take the job, the hot bartender supplemented by redbull/vodka & tallboy with a complementary drink.
Me: "Hmm, what is this? It smells like tropical bubbalicious."
Hot Bartender: "It's my favorite drink: passion fruit & mango juice with vodka. You're gonna love it."
Me: (sarcastically) "I sure hope there's no roofies in this. I'd hate to think you were going to take advantage of me."
Hot Bartender: "Don't worry sweetie...I'm all out of roofies tonite. Besides, I'd want you to be awake anyway."

I returned to the Knoxville Crew smiling ear to ear with my fistful of drinks, and when asked why I bought such a girly drink for myself, I had to nonchalantly remark "I didn't buy it. The bartender told me I should try her fruit juice." Laughter erupts, and my sister shakes her head with embarrassed chuckling.
CC: "Dude, fucking legendary. That bartender is a tough nut to crack."
Me: "Broheim (which I usually only say when I'm happy-drunk), I straight drop-kicked that nut. Boo-yah, let's drink putas!"

The rest of the night was spent with me getting incredibly drunk (the fruit cocktail must have been loaded with booze for me to get so drunk so fast), trying to teach the crew Norwegian words that sounded funny (check out fullgabash - my favorite Norwegian word of all-time), threatening to punch annoying girls "in the coooch," and unabashedly pointing out douche-bags drunker than myself. I was promptly carted off home, much to my disappointment, before I could return to spit mad drunk game to the bartender. C'est la vie, no?

The next morning I woke up (4 hours of sleep, no hangover - A Dik travel Rally. It's the adrenaline, baby), and immediately recalled the plan I had put into place a week earlier. A potential hook-up with an old friend from High School whom I had told the week before that I'd be in Knoxville. I had been texting the girl all week, to test her resolve to drive an hour away from her home in Johnson City to meet me in Knoxville, and my final text was replied with a confirmation number for her room at the Knoxville Hilton. Giddy-Up!.

After having some pancakes with Banana, I did some brotherly-style errands around her house for her, confirmed plans to meet the extended Knoxville Crew at a wonderful restaurant I'd heard about called the Spice Rack for dinner, and then revealed to Banana the possibility that I'd be staying elsewhere tonite.
Banana: "You are effing ridiculous. Who is this girl?"
Me: "You don't really know her. She's a recruiter for some College in Johnson City. Emmanuel Something-or-Another."
Banana: "Oh my god, The Emmanuel School of Religion!?! You're going to hook up with a recruiter for a religious college!?!"
Me: "Umm...yeah, I guess."


So, at 4:00, I met my religious recruiter friend, let's call her 'The Seminarian,' at the bar at the Hilton in Knoxville, where we had a few drinks, cozied up in a corner of the lounge, and basically felt out the vibe to see where the rest of the evening was going. The conclusion of this 2 hour foreplay session resulted in the Seminarian complaining about the quality of her room there, me saying "I don't know, I'll have to evaluate it for myself - I am a hotel room aficionado;" to which she replied, "Oh, don't worry...you'll see it later." Yahtzee!

So, me and the Seminarian went and joined my sister & her lawyer friends at the world famous Spice Rack, and let me tell you this much right now: Go To This Restaurant. The place was unbelievable. As soon as you walk in, you're bombarded with testosterone infused stimuli. The giant flat screen TV's everywhere; the wonderful aroma of fajitas and salsa-soaked tortillas (a well-known aphrodisiac for me); and of course, the Breasts. The Twirler explained the boob hierarchy at the Spice Rack to me like this: The smallest boobs (a personal preference - creepy, non-discriminating, and easy to handle in my opinion) belong to the hostesses; the next biggest boobs belong to the waitresses, who schlep food for meager tips; and of course, the biggest boobs are fixed upon the bartenders, who sling drinks and possible nip slips in exchange for healthy, drunken tips from the poor schmoes who post up at the bar. Upon further perusal of this fine establishment, you'll find a room with a pool table, a sexy-as-hell fireplace lounge, and incredible smiles from everybody in the joint. Needless to say, dinner with The Seminarian and The Lawyers was very fun for me, and I wandered out full of spicy food, a lot of beer, and a little gas...which, by the way, is a recipe for a happy Dik.

Our next stop on the Saturday night tour of Knoxville was the Knoxville Crew's favorite bar, The Half Barrel. While on first glance this bar looks like your typical college bar hole-in-the-wall, the secret is in the price of beer. The night we visited, ALL beers (draft or bottles) were $2.50. Bottom-line, total cost incurred for me, the lawyers, and the Seminarian was $30 (which I covered, because in the land of the broke, the Dik is King). With an appropriate buzz in play, I also moved into phase 3 of the Seduction (phases 1 & 2 were: 1) The drunk text the week before, and 2) me grabbing the Seminarian's ass outside the Half-Barrel, and kissing her. hard.).  Phase 3 was hence to suggest going to our final stop before her hotel: Southbound. If you'll recall, Southbound is the residence of the incredible local legend, Skyy.

The description of Skyy that I remembered from the night before at Tin Roof didn't do this fella justice, because as soon as we stormed Southbound, I beheld Skyy in all his glory with my own eyes, and now can justly relate the image to you...Imagine, if you will, a 5'7" white man wearing the tightest jeans & shirt you could imagine. Got it? Now, make his clothes shrink another full size. On this particular evening, Skyy was wearing a pair of acid-washed denim jeans (circa 1984) that showed every contour of his lower body. I could actually count the muscle fibers in his quadriceps. His shirt was a sky blue extension of those jeans, which fit like Under Armour; but, the coup-de-gras of the entire ensemble had to be Skyy's widely advertised hair. Atop Skyy's head sat the most horrible mess of long blonde hair, that had been blow-dried straight back and hair-sprayed up to resemble, in my honest assessment, a bicycle helmet, in both shape and firmness. Rumor has it that this hair is actually a weave, and I'd like to take this opportunity to relate what Skyy told one of his adoring college fans: "Please tell these bitches to stop pulling my hair. They don't know how hard it is to fix it this way!" As you may now imagine, Skyy is most fantastic dancer in all of Knoxville, and spends every Saturday night hopping, gyrating, grinding, and spinning at Southbound with his standard bottle of water in one hand, and the whole world in the other. Now you're wondering, "Skyy's gotta be the gayest dude in the South, right?" Oh no, my friends. Skyy is married, and in fact has his wife's blessing to go out dancing with all the sluts of Knoxville, knowing that at the end of the day, Skyy's only interested in One Thing: The Dance.

Onwards went my night, with the ladies of the Knoxville Crew entertaining the Seminarian on the dance floor, while me and the fellas posted up at the bar and knocked back cheap liquor until we too were entranced with the incredible musical hodge-podge that consisted of 80's rock/pop and contemporary hip-hop. By night's end, The Seminarian & I were politely grinding in the center of the dance floor, while the rest of the Knoxville Crew were laughing at how random & sketchy their beloved Banana's brother was. Later, the Crew would officially extend a formal invitation to me to "come to Knoxville and fill the hole in our line-up that would allow you to bat clean-up for a major franchise." Gotta love sports analogies from retired minor league baseball players.

So, here comes the grand finale of the Knoxville Story: Part 4 of the Seduction - Closing Time. With my sister DD'ing me and the Seminarian back to the Hilton, where I had to "sober up and pick up my car," The Seminarian and I fell into the lobby elevator and started making out in what anthropologists might call "a brutal and provocative mating ceremony of two hungry beasts." Collapsing on top of her hotel bed, I quickly and skillfully undressed The Seminarian with my could-have-been surgeon's hands, and threw her down in the standard "speak into the microphone louder, honey" position. Just as quickly I was disrobed, only to have a horrible flash of thought enter my mind mid-fellatio: "oh shit...where the fuck are my condoms?" Friends, I'll tell you where they were - they were in the car that my sister just drove away from the hotel. In a quick panic, I whispered to the Seminarian "you're on the pill, right?" to which she responded "oh my god, no! I DO NOT do this sort of thing all the time!" Of course you don't, skank. Fuck. Me.

My first action was to call the lobby desk. "Sorry sir, you're best bet is the gas station across the bridge...good luck!" Thanks bitch. My next action was get dressed, run down the street, and pray that either some angel had left condoms in the street for me to fuck with, or that there was a secret pharmacy or gas station around the block that solely for 4am idiots like myself. As I ran out of the hotel room where The Seminarian was understandably frustrated, horny, and naked, I called back "just watch some TV, I"ll be right back!" And so, out into the 20 degree Knoxville night I went, circling the block on foot without any answer to my previous two prayers. What I found instead was much the opposite to a box of condoms, for what I found were 2 police cars, stocked with a total of 4 of Knoxville's finest, sitting on the corner outside the Hilton chatting to each other on their early morning patrol. Desperate, horny, and stupidly confident from the ridiculous amounts of alcohol in my system, I strode towards the police and asked the impossible. "Officers...do you know where I might find the closest gas station or pharmacy in walking distance. It's an emergency."
Cop 1: "Is everything alright buddy, is somebody hurt or sick?"
Drunk, horny Me: "No sir, everybody's fine...but, I'm going to be very honest with you now...I have a very naked woman upstairs waiting for me, and I'm in desperate need of a condom. Can you help me?"
Cop 2, amidst an uproar of laughter from both police cars: "HAHAHA...son, you have got to be shitting me. Can't you just drive over the bridge to the gas station?"
Me, emboldened by the comical reaction of the Police: "No sir, I can't. I'm visiting from out of town, and I've had a few drinks tonight. So, me driving would be a very, very bad idea. And clearly, there are no cabs out right now."
Cop 1, wiping tears from his eyes and still laughing: "Shit man, you know what, I appreciate your honesty. Tell you what...hop in."

And thus occurred one of the coolest fucking moments of my life. At 4am, on a snowy January night in Knoxville TN, 2 police officers took me on a ride across the bridge from the Hilton Hotel to buy some condoms from the gas station, so that I could hook up with a naked recruiter for the Christian College. At one point, I even asked the officers if them offering me a ride was a ploy to take me to the drunk-tank for public intoxication, to which they replied "Are you kidding? This is the funniest thing that's happened all week." As I ran back into the lobby, and shot up the elevator, I thought of the perfect words to say to The Seminarian when she would inevitably ask me what happened...and as I walked into the room, to find her wide awake, still naked, watching Sweeney Todd (thank-you, Johnny Depp, for keeping her engine running), she looked up at me, and I very quickly whispered aloud as I ripped my own pants down "you should know, the Knoxville PD is rooting for us. We better make this count."

From my experience that night in Knoxville, there is no better sex than sex made with the blessings of a bunch of police officers. So, here's to the Knoxville PD: May Condoms find them as readily as they find condoms for others.

The Knoxville Weekend, part I: The Interview

Hot on the heels of the Christian Punch-Out, comes one of my more impressive rallies. Truly I've taken my desire to be ridiculous to heart, because 3 days after getting punched in the face by a hypoglycemic honkey, I had to sit for a 6 hour long series of interviews in the land of the hillbilly: Knoxville, TN. I originally applied to this program because my sister, Banana, goes to Law School in Knoxville, and so of course I thought "shiiit, it would be straight BALLER to be reunited with Banana in a land where football, beer, and hot southern chicks flow like the Natty light down a freshman's throat. For you see, Banana is an unbelievable wing-sister, and wants nothing more than to help me achieve maximum Hypocrisy (I think she likes me to be such a fuck-up, so that she can sleep easier in her superiority - and I'm all-too-comfortable with that situation).

So anyway, the day I had to drive to Knoxville, I woke up to go to work with an amazing surprise: my beautiful face had been replaced with a grisly version of itself, sporting a gruff shiner under the left eye. While the eye wasn't swollen, the dark smudge of masculinity was incredibly apparent against the smooth caramel backdrop of my day-to-day visage. I was in shock. Suddenly the weight of my actions came crashing down on top of me, and I flashed upon the look on the faces of the people I'd inevitably have to face in the next few days: My attending physician, our patients at the hospital, the nurses, my sister in Knoxville, and of course the full staff of University of Tennessee Medical Center (whom I would be interviewing with in the next 24 hours). Fuck. Me.
Now, in true Dik form, I put my chin up, and instead of dwelling on the colossal shit-show that was my life, I soldiered on with my day, and decided that the best plan of action was disavowal. Already, my mind forged a bullshit excuse: "I was playing racquetball with my friend Poojangles, who is a novice, and got popped in the eye! How embarassing!?!"

Getting through my day at the hospital was cake-walk. I smiled a lot (so my wrinkles would cover the shiner), pulled a "Mariah Carey" with my attending, and only faced him with the prettier side of my face, and just simply didn't broach the subject with anybody at the hospital. At one point a nurse caught me googling "how to cover a black eye," and I simply looked up at her and tested my racquetball story. Thank god she was just a simple-minded nurse, and ate my lies with a side of bullshit grin. The real test was coming up: The Banana.
I jumped into my car from the hospital for my 4 hour drive to Knoxville, and called ahead with a simple message to my sister: "Can you get me some Concealer? I have a nasty mark on my face." When I reached Knoxville, two major things happened: 1) The flurries which had been tickling Atlanta's streets were full on rough-housing the Knoxville highways, and traffic was at a standstill due to the snow/ice mixture that had accumulated on the streets. 2) One of the residents in the program I was interviewing with called me to confirm our dinner - for that night! I completely forgot about the resident dinner, and realized that if I was going to pull of my black-eye, I'd need to perfect the story & cover-up within the next 2 hours.
On reaching my sister's house, my sister was obviously shocked and immediately starting cracking up laughing on seeing my face. "How the HELL did you get a black eye right before your interview!?!" So, in a move I regret as a necessary evil of my Hypocratic Oath, I fed her the racquetball story as a test of it's fallibility. She bought it. She declared over and over that "You are an Idiot," but she bought it. Because seriously, who gets into a bar fight 2 days before an interview? Yeah - This Guy.

Now, while my sister and I were putting make-up on my face in a spectacle of Banana-Dik tom-foolery, the snow had continued to fall on Knoxville, so that by the time I felt confident enough to make it through a dinner with fucking make-up on my face that hid my shiner, the doctor I was intended to meet called me to say "sorry about this, but can we cancel the dinner tonight? The roads are really messy, and I don't feel confident that we can drive safely."
"Fucking-A we can cancel our dinner tonight," I thought, and bullshitted some response that expressed regret & understanding, with a humorous comment that emphasized my desire to meet the doctor without getting a free meal or putting his life in danger. Success. I now had a 12 hour stay-of-execution, with which to resolve my black eye insecurity. So, Banana and her roommate Twirler cooked me dinner instead, discussed my stupidity at lengths, and expressed their hope that I would get the job in Knoxville, because they had a serious lack of entertainment that could use a shot of Dik to liven it up. I agreed that me living there would indeed be good for them, and went off to bed early, with my sister's words echoing in my ears..."make sure you take your make-up off before you fall asleep..."  What an asshole.

The next morning I commenced the 3 S's: Shit, Shower, and Shave, and made an executive review of my shiner, with this final decision: Run with the fading shiner, and ditch the make-up. You're in Knoxville dumb-ass; getting caught with make-up on is far worse than getting caught with a black-eye at a job interview. So onward I marched, to what I felt was the professional equivalent of a Colombian firing-squad. What I encountered, however, was far better: A program full of over-worked, couldn't-care-less doctors who were more impressed with my attitude and demeanor, and less concerned about my physical appearance (which was impeccable, mind you, aside from the black badge of courage I wore on my face). By the end of the day, I had only 3 interesting moments regarding my eye: 1) The program coordinator took a picture of me on arrival, in which I smiled so wide that there was no way my shiner would show up through my wrinkles, 2) The Program Director started rubbing under his left eye (maybe in a ploy to get me to mirror his actions, and confirm if I had a shiner or just a dark circle/mark under my eye) - I didn't bite; and 3) at the lunch after the interviews, the other girl interviewing remarked to me (after I threw out my bullshit racquetball injury story of my own free-will) "Oh my god, I was wondering what that was!" Again, Fuck. Me.

At the end of that interview day, I stuck around to see some patients with the house-staff, and the doctor who canceled dinner on me the night before suggested we all try for dinner again this night. I invited Banana as my Wing-sister at a dinner populated by 3 other doctor couples, and being the fucking stud that she is, we wound up killing it at the dinner, and left the crew dying laughing and happy to have met us. Success.  The rest of the weekend was all downhill from there, and walking back from dinner that night with Banana, she and I remarked to each other "Yeah, you've got a lock on this bitch. Well-played, sir. Well-played."

The story of the Christian Punch-0ut

So earlier I posted a random note about getting punched a few nights ago, but I owe it to Hypocrisy & myself to relate the entire tale...

My work-day ended around 6pm that night, and I should add that it was a very successful day of solving GI issues both major & minor in the hospital. As I left the hospital, I simultaneously received all the messages I'd missed that day (damn T-mobile works for shit in the hospital), and was stoked to find that Jazzman, DP, and Smikey wanted to hang out later that night. Smikey had just arranged to move-in with DP & Jazzman that day, as he was starting a new job in Atlanta and Jazzman had a great room for him to rent in his house - this makes my life much easier, so I'm obviously stoked. After having a carby meal with the crew at Everybody's Pizza in the Emory Village, Smikey & I left Jazzman & DP to go grab a few drinks. Where else would we go this fine Tuesday night but Moe's & Joe's in the Virginia Highlands for $3.25 pitchers of PBR (why the extra $.25? damn recession).

Hanging out at Moe's & Joe's reminds me of better days -  Days when I was a balling calling student, with my whole career ahead of me, a ton of friends at the bar who all knew me, and a number of cute girls to hook up with at my disposal. But those Elysian days are over now, and on this night it was just me with my loosened tie, and Smikey with his standard "don't give a shit" ensemble. Me & Smikey proceed to bro-down, and catch up with each other. Professional lives first (I fill him in on my upcoming job interviews & impending career settlement - he relates his incredible new position as VP of a very cool new division with a film & music production company).  As the PBR flows, and the conversation moves into talk of women, a few of Smikey's acquaintances join the conversation. The thesis is "who's the bigger dick" to women. As I throw out my stories of breaking up with women on Valentine's Day & after they paid for dinner, and Smikey discusses his recent transatlantic booty-call that resulted in him abusing a premeditated hook-up by staying at a different girl's place the 2nd half of his trip (because the first hook-up wanted to cuddle too much), we realize that as much as we love women, there are obvious reasons that we're still single.

By the time we're 3 pitchers down at Moe's & Joe's (which is plenty for us, considering I'm a renewed light-weight & Smikey literally only weighs 81 lbs), we belligerently decide that the unattractive college girls at this bar aren't worth looking at, and that the GT v Iowa bowl game officially sucks. We bail and transfer our drinking habit across the street to an empty Fontaine's, which is a far classier establishment (if only for the fact that they serve liquor as well as beer). Smikey & I move on to Jack & cokes, which he's paying for with an Amex gift card he got for Channukah, and being the only people in the bar, the conversation turns to good ol' times & better future times. In the midst of Smikey & my buddy movie moment, the once-empty bar suddenly turns into a Caucasian filled nightmare of middies (*women who score as a 4-6 out of 10 on the hotness scale) and douche-bags. Curious as to where these knuckleheads have come from, Smikey & I approach 2 of the cuter girls and find out that the "Passion 2010" christian conference has just ended in Atlanta, and these particular christian college students were ready for a fucking drink.

Now, it's a well-known fact that I personally love to screw with Christians, especially young college Christians from the South, because of these three facts: 1) They are all below a 70 on the IQ chart. 2) They will blindly recite the bible, praise "his" glory in public, and attempt to proselytize me upon learning that I'm not Christian, and 3) They don't know shit about the real world, other religions, or the fact that they are the biggest hypocrites in the world. That's why, for the rest of the night, I enlist Smikey as my wingman in fucking with these unattractive Passion kids.

Our first target is the land-beast of a woman sitting next to us at a bar, who orders a shot of bacardi limon with a corona back, so that she can pour the bacardi into the corona to create what I can only describe as a Corona bitch drink. Her method of mixing the drinks is visually hilarious, as she turns to Smikey & Me, throws the bottle of bitch up with her lips firmly wrapped around the opening, and then blows bubbles into the bottle with her head back.  Clearly aroused by the situation, I start yelling "yes, stroke the shaft...mind the boys baby...don't stop til I tap you on the head!" The christ-loving girl, who has probably never given head in her pathetic life, has no idea what I'm talking about, and completes her bottle-service by saying "you guys want one?" Smikey & I are dying laughing.

After that tragically disfigured-by-genetics woman and her 2 coyote-ugly friends leaves us because they don't understand why we can't stop laughing, Smikey & I turn our attention back to our drinks, and decide to drunk text random members of The Crew who we decided should ditch their lives & wives in order to have beers with us in Atlanta. One friend, Goulet (who lives in Boston with his fiancee NoBlow), texts back "take shots of Jameson right now, on me!" In our easily agreeable state, Smikey & I obey, and move to the next circle of drunk-hell: Belligerent.

It's at this point that we are joined at the bar by 5 already drunk christ-holes, still rocking their Passion wrist bands, who all order Rolling Rock beers and start beating on the bar chanting what I interpret as jesus cheers. Intrigued by their camaraderie and obvious stupidity (Rolling Rocks, seriously?), Smikey & I engage the nearest brother-in-christ, and find out where they're from. "Well, I'm from Arizona State, and these guys are from West Virginia. Woooooooo!" After some sarcastic comments about how much hot ass he must get at ASU, and how he would slay bitches here in Atlanta, the guy decides he's too drunk to appreciate sarcasm, and buys Smikey & I more shots. 3 more, to be precise. I, angered by his stupidity, decide to berate him & his dumb friends more. After the third shot, one of the Arizona Genius' Atlanta friends pukes directly back onto the bar in front of him, and I decide he will be my target. Smikey, upon seeing the puke, goes into the bathroom and vomits all over the stall (*remember this, because it will come back up later).

After Smikey returns from the bathroom, I launch my assault:
Me: "So what the hell just happened their, Chief? Is this your first time drinking?"
A-hole: "No man, but I think I'm hypoglycemic. I'm a type I diabetic."
Me: "Well then what the fuck are you doing here drinking? Alcohol is clearly contra-indicated with your medical condition. You need to stop drinking, and go home & pray for god to cure you."
A-hole (upset that a heathen like me has just told him how to pray): "what the hell man, you don't know nothing 'bout meeee!"
Me (with a jack & coke in hand): "Are you kidding me, I know everything about you. You grew up in Georgia, have gone to church every wednesday & sunday of your life and asked god why he gave you this horrible disease - and you probably think it's to test your soul and your dedication to "his light." But then you went to college, discovered tits & beer, and now you drink & try to touch all the christian boobies you can on Saturday night so that you can wake up and pray for forgiveness on Sunday morning. All the while, you never mention to your pediatrician that you drink alcohol, because you're too ignorant about your disease to know that alcohol screws up your blood sugar."
A-hole (visibly shaking, out of anger or hypoglycemia, I'm not sure): "Who the hell do you think you are to tell me who I am?"
Me: "I'm a fucking doctor. What medical school did you go to?"
A-hole: "Oh, good for yeeew!"
Me: "Thank you, but I didn't go to medical school for your approval. I went so that I would know my elbow from my asshole when it came to medical issues. You should look into it."
A-hole: "Fuck you maaan, you don't know nothing 'bout my diabetus! (he's swaying now, and his eyes aren't focusing on me). All I got to do is take my in'silin, and I'm good toooo go!"
Me: "how many years of medical school did you say you went to? Listen bubba, if you don't get your shit together and start living right, you're gonna die by the time your 50. I mean, if you're not gonna take care of your kidneys, go ahead and hand them over. There are a million people out there who deserve them more than you."
Smikey (who's been watching this interaction and cracking up): "It's science bro...you can't argue with science!"
A-hole, to Smikey: "who are you, mini-me?"
Me: "What, are you losing your eyes to diabetic retinopathy already? He doesn't look anything like me!"
A-hole: "Man, fuck yeew guys!"

So the diabetic A-hole storms off with his buddies to the Fontaine's patio, and me and Smikey crack-up laughing at the pathetic fool. At this point a few cute girls show up and are listening to our conversation, and Smikey quickly engages the cutest one in conversation as I chat up her interestingly elvish looking friend. The Elf looks like she has pectus excavatum, but this pokes her b-cup boobs out more from her white tank-top, so I'm into it. God, I love drunk-goggles. As the Elf, me, Smikey, and cute-friend start flirting and taking pictures of each other, I whisper to Smikey "I want to bang an elf, Smikey. I want her to be the Lord of my Cock-Ring."

15 minutes of bar-flirting go by, when A-hole & the jesus-bunch come stumbling back through the bar from the Patio. They are all clearly rookies at drinking, and it is incredibly obvious that they need to get the hell out of this bar. As A-hole passes by me standing by a booth with the Elf, I receive the shock of my night...the mother-fucking diabetic sucker-punches me to the left side of my face! Now, it should be noted here that I have never in my life been punched, let alone in a bar while drunk...so, I am clearly shocked and fall back into the booth as this type-I falls on top of me swinging. Luckily I have long-ass orangutan arms, and am able to hold his fat-ass off of me while he swings wildly at the table next to me.

The scene must have been insane, because immediately Smikey throws down our coats he was holding (we were actually about to move on, upon realizing that the Elf & her cute friend loved Jesus more than cock), and bulldogs the diabetic A-hole back, screaming at him to get the fuck off of me. I spring up, see that Smikey's got this under control, and start shouting "You punch like a fucking diabetic!" and "You need to eat a fucking cookie, bitch!" The Drunk christians quckly hustle diabetic A-hole out of the bar, and the bar clears out just as suddenly as it filled up earlier. I guess Christians do stick together after all. Bitches.

Anyway, with the adrenaline pumping furiously in our veins, Smikey turns to me to make sure I'm ok. I'm too fucking shocked & excited to feel any pain, and tell him "fuck yeah I'm ok...you think some fucking diabetic can take ME out?!?" As we're standing by the bar, I call for the bartender to get us some waters (as I spring into RA mode, and realize that if we end up having to talk to cops, we'd better sober up quick. I also fix my tie to look more presentable). The bartender (a middie herself, I might add), hustles over to us with waters and asks "oh my god, are you ok? What the hell just happened?"

At this point, I start to realize the hilarity of the situation that just unfolded - that I just got jacked in the face by a diabetic drunk guy who just got done attending a Christian Conference. AND, that he was mad at me because I, in a very fucked-up-way, was trying to improve his health with an extremely hypocritical tirade against alcohol. Of course, what I say to the bartender is this: "Yeah, I don't know. One minute me and my jewish buddy here were talking to these Christians, and the next thing I know they jump us, hit me, and then ran away!"

Smikey, picking up on my bullshit, and being as intelligent in situations like this as I am, yells "YEAH MAN, it was bullshit...AND, that same guy puked all over the bathroom too!"

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Post-Script:

The day after all this went down, I woke up and decided to exact my revenge on the diabetic A-hole by shaming him on his Christian Conferences website. So, that's when I wrote my cleaned up version of the tale on the "Passion 2010" blog, cracking up laughing because I was sooo full of shit. 30 minutes later, I went back to check if anybody had responded, and I was infuriated to find out that the moderator had removed my post! In an act of sheer genius, I IM'd Smikey (who I had previously sent a copy of the blog post to, just to have somebody to share my retarded comedy), and Smikey quickly e-mailed me back a copy of my original blog entry. I then went and re-posted the story with a harsh preface that ensured that the story would stay up this time. You can see the re-post here, under my Christian Blog pseudonym "Atlanta Doc." Enjoy, and pay attention to the ridiculous replies I received. These people are morons.

Post-Post-Script:
Two days after the punch, I woke up with a fucking shiner under my left eye, and some scab formations on my left temple. The scabs could be covered with my hair, but my shiner looked absurd, and I had to go to the hospital, that day with it. More fucked up - I had a job interview in Knoxville the next day! After going through my options (make-up? Glasses? a matching black eye on the other side?), I settled on changing the story of the black eye to an ill-timed racquetball injury. At the interview, nobody brought up my mildly obvious shiner, but I instead addressed it with a few of my interviewers. The only notable moments were 1) when the program coordinator took a picture of me, and I Mariah Carey'd it by turning to my good side; 2) when the program director kept rubbing under his left eye, hoping that I'd do the same and remove what he hoped was schmutz; and 3) when I told the racquetball lie to the other girl interviewing that day, and she said "oooh, I was wondering what that was!" Fuck. My. Life.

Mickey Rourke & Me

So, in the spring of 2008 I was living in Coral Gables (a trendy suburb of Miami) with my roommate from Dominica, 'Boobies.' Boobies, by the way, is a ridiculous human being who has clearly consumed more alcohol and illicit substances on his own personal journey as a jew at the University of Texas in Austin (where he may or may not have stalked Vince Young), through the jungles of Indonesia & Vietnam, and into the shadiest realm of Cannabis culture in Dominica (Side Story: Boobies' pot-dealer on the island named 'Fingers' was this incredible creature lacking specific growth factors causing him to have markedly shortened digits. Fingers could be found trafficking Haitians, hustling pot-sales, or watching TV on my couch on any given night of the week, with equal likelihood).

Anyway, one quiet Thursday night in our apartment at the Shamrock Inn off the Miracle Mile (far classier than it sounds), Boobies suggested that I counter-pursue a cute Indian girl who I had been flirting with our entire semester in Miami. This girl, who we called 'Mondaay,' was very cute, but also very boring, and so I had refrained from foraying into anything beyond Library Flirting with Mondaay (yeah, med school game is sweet), until Boobies noted that our buddy 'Bambi' had IM'd him, imploring me to join him and a bunch of other Indian girls (including Mondaay) on a night out in South Beach for a mutual friends' birthday. My first instinct was to evaluate my other choices for the evening, which were, in no particular order: 1) Watch "The Office" while listening to Boobies hook up with his fuck-buddy, and another mutual friend 'Tax Season' (yep, there's a story there);  2) Call my on-going booty-call, 'Chody' for a little slap & tickle, or; 3) Study. Well, #3 was out, and Chody was sick with a cold, and finally, the thought of entertaining Tax Season when Boobies was done violating her made me angry & sad simultaneously. So, off to South Beach I went.

The crew going to South Beach was a B-Squad at best. Made up of a lackluster assortment of quiet Indian Girls & awkward Indian Guys, I realized I was setting myself up for a potentially tragic night out with the Browns. By the time we left the girls' apartment where the Vorspiel was being held, I had already downed 3 beers, 2 shots of vodka, and 2 glasses of wine (yeah, when I sense impending lameness, I default to drinking anything & everything I can get my hands on without caution. I know...it's the genius of pure survival mode).  We very soon arrive on South Beach, where I navigate us to the perfect, secret beach parking in Miami, and usher the brown parade to the Mynt Lounge - I'm now in full flirtation mode with Mondaay, and she is benefiting from a full-court press by team Dik.

Mynt Lounge is your typical South Beach lounge, located right next to Rok Bar off Collins Avenue, where the women are beautiful, busty, tanned & vapid...and the dudes are their male counterparts, except that they pay for the boob jobs instead of getting them. Our caravan of Indians invade the place, and post up in a cozy little nook equal distance from the dance floor & the bar. As I continue to drink more (I've settled on Vodka Tonics by now), I proceed to dance with Mondaay in the most polite grinding session of all time. Mary rubbed against Joseph harder in the Bible than me & Mondaay were dancing this night.  As I drunk-stared at the biped tits all around me, my eyes fell upon what I first thought was a homeless guy begging for drinks at the bar.

Closer inspection of the vagabond revealed 3 major details to me: A) The poorly dressed tramp was actually wearing ripped up Ed Hardy & Affliction clothing, which was all the rage in South Beach this season. B) This homeless man had somehow managed to suffer from irreparable plastic surgery that rendered his mug closer to the facade of a used up baseball glove than a human face. C) The dude's hair was long. And Dirty. And more over-processed than the scores of artificial skanks strutting around the lounge, looking for their next Papi Chulos.

In my infinite tenacity for freak pop-culture references, I finally realized that the bum standing next to me, soberly chatting up the bartender, was in fact film legend, former on-screen lover of Kim Basinger, and personal hero (have you seen "Harley Davidson & The Marlboro Man"?) - Mickey Fucking Rourke. My night immediately went from decent to epic. My next thought was "how do I fuck with Mickey Rourke?"

A detail I should have mentioned already was this: At the exact same period of time that me & my merry band of FOBs were lavishing in the Lounge of Mynt, Bollywood stars from far & wide had descended upon Miami to appear at a series of publicity events & for cameos in each other's movies, as a way to vacation in a place that wasn't malaria-ridden or rife with tragic poverty (just calculated poverty - I for instance, was broke as shit from student loans funding my alcoholism).  Sooo, with this knowledge in hand, and a group of indians at my disposal, I knew exactly where my conversation with Mickey Rourke was going to go. Giddy-up Harley Davidson - you're about to get Dik'd. The conversation went something like this:

Me (with a british-indian accent): "Hey, oh wow, I thought it was you. You are the actor, Mickey Rourke, yes?"
Mickey (with a delighted air of surprise - this was before "The Wrestler" had been released): Yes, yes I am friend. How ya' doing, having a good time?"
Me (knowing I had a great hook): "Oh, yes, my friends & I are having a terrific time here in Miami, Mickey. The beaches here are so much nicer than in Mumbai, and it is very exciting to meet the Hollywood counterparts to all of our Bollywood actors."
Mickey (noting the big group of indians behind me, and my casual air of mutual star-hood): "Well, I'm ashamed to say friend, but I actually don't know your work too well. What's your name...what do you do?"
Me: "Oh, that's quite funny Mickey! Well, my name is Abhishek Bachchan, and I'm a bollywood actor. You may know my father, he's quite famous...his name is Amitabh Bachchan." - (Click here for details)
Mickey: "Oh god, of course I know you and your father. They featured you in Slumdog Millionaire! Listen, Abhishek was it? Let me buy you and your friends a round of drinks...a welcome present, ok?"
Me: "That's very kind of you Mickey...tell you what, we like vodka!"

Now, at this point, you're probably wondering why the fuck I decided to convince Mickey Rourke that I was  Bollywood movie star royalty? Here's the thing: No matter what situation I'm in, I will always try to make it more ridiculous than it already is. The fact that Mickey Rourke was hanging out at a bar in Miami was absurd enough to me...now imagine if I could fuck with him, and get him to buy drinks for me and my 10 friends (who all, incidentally had no idea who the hell he was). Needless to say, after doing the shots with my crew of fake-bollywood actors (compliments of Mickey Fucking Rourke), and dancing with Mondaay for another hour, I ended up stumbling out of Mynt Lounge to make out with her in the street, and had Mickey Rourke give me a hand-shake as I walked past him at the bar to do it.

Mondaay: "Who is that guy who bought us all those drinks?"
Me: "That's my good friend Marv. He's visiting from Sin City. His face got fucked up in a medical blender accident. God, you have a nice ass..."

From My Iphone - 5am-ish, on 1/6/2010

Woke up hungover with a bag of semi-frozen peas on my face. Just remembered that I got side-punched at the bar last night by a type I diabetic who was out drinking with his buddies from the "Passion" Christian conference that just ended yesterday here in town. Hahahahaha - I told him he punched like a diabetic, as Smikey bull-dogged him out of the bar. I guess he didn't like that after we did shots together, I told him his life expectancy was shit because he was an alcoholic diabetic.

This, by the way, was a random Tuesday night with Smikey in town, and nothing else to do the next day. Well, at least for me. Smikey had a series of meetings starting at 9am. Sorry bud.
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UPDATE: Here is my official complaint on "The Passion" conference's blog (I'm "Atlanta Doc") about their members who attacked me last night. I fucking crack myself up.
-The Dik
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UPDATE #2: I went back to read comments on my post on "The Passion" blog, only to find out that it had been removed. Smikey, being the hero that he is, had copied my post already, so I re-sent a copy of it to the blog with a prefaced warning/mild threat. Go to the link above to see it.

So This Is The New Year...

Happy Fucking New Year! It's 2010, and this morning I hit the ground running with a double-shot of espresso, my iPhone cranking classic Radiohead, and my best new x-mas tie draped haphazardly around my neck. Today was the start of my new rotation, and as usual I had no idea what to expect from it until I got there...what I found was a bloody portal back to the Hell I lovingly know as Dominica. (Quick background: my first two years of med school were spent on the "asshole of the Caribbean", a tiny speck of 3rd world land/shit that looks like the geographical equivalent of Cuba trying to dirty sanchez South America [check out this map, if you don't believe me]...long story short, I sincerely hate that place).

Anyway, imagine my chagrin when I boisterously strolled into my new Attending's office this morning to find puke-green colored walls that were commissioned, I imagine, to evoke nausea in all of his patients (fitting, as he's a GI doctor, and we all know there's no money in healthy people). My next wonderful surprise was that his two office assistants were these ass-backwards, slow-thinking mongoloids who may very well have floated over from Dominica just weeks ago (one of the ASSistants, I should add, is my Attending's wife - a delightful half-breed of Lazy & Arrogant who I immediately decided should re-enter the 3rd grade to catch up to my left nut's intelligence level).  As the realization that my new year is going to start off with a lot of "hurry up & wait" medicine, a beautiful ray of caucasian light strolled through the front door: My good friend, fellow medical student, and once & future drinking buddy, 'Bratwurst.'

Now, sadly me & Bratwurst have grown apart since last we met.  Life as we know it being full of exams, traveling rotations, pregnant significant others (his mostly, none of my own), and the recent interview trail have led us astray, but alas the gods of rotation scheduling have delivered me an Abraham to lead me out of the desert of despair; and like the good pseudo-Jew I am, I follow blindly.
...
By the time our Attending finally showed up (a good hour and a half after I've been there), Bratwurst had already oriented me to the entire hospital, given me the highlights of the rotation (that he's been on for 3 weeks already), and given me an outlet to share my recent female conquests/failures/and general life updates (more to follow - keep an eye out, blogholes). He also mentioned something about his wife being 6 months pregnant, and him having a zillion job interviews, blah, blah, blah. The kid's a stud, we can leave it at that.  The rest of the day was riddled with awkward "getting-to-know-you" moments between me and my attending, 'Dr.Africa,' who seems to be a really nice guy & a solid doctor (his choice in wife/office assistant notwithstanding). By the end of the day, Dr. Africa trusted me (thanks in part to Bratwursts sterling endorsement), and I could tell the next 4 weeks would be pretty sweet, as long as asshole administrators & douchebag other medical students don't get in my way.

So, as I sit here now with my hazelnut cafe-au-lait & banana nut bread (a traditional afternoon treat for my first day of a rotation), and watch as a young black couple physically fights each other in the middle of the street, I know I have lots of be thankful for. First of all, my next 4 weeks are looking up rotation wise. Next, one of my best buddies 'Smikey' is on his way into town for 4 days of what will no doubt result in raucous drinking. I'm about to throw down on some Doc Cheys for dinner with my best friends 'Jazzman' and his live-in lover 'DP.' Finally, I am single (with no women to slap or beat me, in a violent way at least), and I just received a series of text messages from 3 different women, 2 of whom I have already made arrangements to "lay with;" the third of whom is el numero uno on my list of potential diktims. Time to grab the bull by the horns, and handlebar the shit out of it.

So again I say, Happy Fucking New Year! I'm stoked and resolved to own this year the way last year owned me, and I'm off to a sprint. Now, let's just see if this brown baggadouche can keep up the breakneck pace to win the marathon that is 2010...
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UPDATE: Just had dinner with Jazzman and DP...apparently they just got engaged last night, and I'm the first person outside of their families that they've told. I guess I don't get to make "perpetually dating" jokes about them anymore, and instead get to add them to the list of married friends I have...which is now officially the "every friend I have" list. FML. Congratulations Jazzman & DP! I sincerely can't wait to get trashed at your wedding and hit on your hot friends & family members, all under the guise of celebrating your love for each other!