Plonker Sez. V. 1, E. B…or whatever

Alright, alright, I’m off of my lazy ass…no, wait.  I’m actually on my lazy ass typing this.  But I’m actually doing a weekly update here.  So, you sick bastards, I just know that half of you are thinking, “Oh, I can’t wait for Plonker’s next rant!”, half are thinking “What did that asshole write this time?” and half are thinking “who?”.  I don’t know if that math works, maybe in common core land.  So here’s my next incoherent rant…

“You never, never leave your wingman.”

-Jester

I’ve done some stupid shit in life, most of it involves alcohol, and while my lawyer probably appreciates billable hours, none of this should cause (should….it probably will, but it should not) any issue for me with that.  Hey, most of this shit happened in the past, and none of this shit happened in the presence of my offspring, which is really the only place the Wizard of Laws should be concerned, so I should be in the clear.  Smart money says I’ll be in court for this post by Thursday.

So yeah, I’ve done some stupid shit.  I’ve yelled at airplanes flying thousands of feet overhead, I’ve told police that my lawyer would have them working security at Toys R Us in the morning (thanks Steve Buscemi for that line), and I’ve ended up in the sack with women who already have boyfriends…or husbands.  Actually that last part doesn’t bother me.  Hey, I was (am) single at the time.  It’s their relationship…not my circus, not my monkeys?  It’s amazing, every time that happens, it seems like it’s the most amazing secksy-fun-time ever.  I think women just like to be naughty.  Oh, and did you know women are more likely to screw around than men?  And I’m a fat, bald, old guy!  Imagine what your woman is out doing when she’s at the bar and sees some guy who’s reasonably in shape, potentially has more hair above his nose than below, and probably has some money…  Two words, guys.  Pre.  Nup.

Then there’s us men.  Why don’t we cheat?  I know that article talks about science and shit, but the real reason?  Because it’s apparently okay for a woman to key your car, cut up the seats, break the headlights, take your money, toss your clothes in the front yard, destroy more of your personal belongings, and just be a vicious cunt if you screw around on her.  Know what happens if she screws around, gets knocked up by the other dude, and poops out some other guy’s baby?  You, the hubby, get to pay for it.  That’s almost fair…  Society has decided that it’s okay to abuse men.  Don’t believe me?  Wait until you see the reaction I get from the songs I’m writing: Before She Cheats, and Dear Future Ex Wife.  But the actual songs (not the parody versions I’m writing…yeah…sure I am) were quite well received.  Funny, ain’t it?

And to the feminists reading this, I know your BP just shot up seeing the titles of those two parody songs and I just want you to know.

But anyway, this one is probably Top 5 in my all-time alcohol induced uh…”events”.  So here we go.

Picture it: It’s December 2010 and we land in what might as well be Syberia in our piece of shit aluminum tube that barely qualifies as an airplane.  Hey, it’s got wings, it kind of has engines (as long as you don’t expect to get rated power from them), and there’s two idiots up front driving it.  That counts, right?  So yeah, we land in this frozen winter wasteland in a state famous for their thousand lakes.  About two hours behind us is the blizzard from the movie The Day After Tomorrow.  In fact, I think I might have called my wife that night (after checking in to the hotel where they give you free cookies – see how good my memory can be?  Remember that for later…important plot points here.) and told her “I WILL COME FOR YOU”.  Yeah, I’m pretty sure she knew I was just going to rub one out into the hotel’s clean towels while thinking about her sitting on my face, but I could’ve easily played it off that I would trek across the country in snowshoes and a parka if somehow North America turned into Europa overnight.  But honestly, I don’t even like taking garbage to the end of the driveway in the fall.  No way in fucking hell would I do any of that Dennis Quaid shit.  Call me a pussy, you are what you eat…

So anyway, we check in and get changed and start to try to find something to eat, and perhaps more importantly…something to drink!  Hey, the aerodrome had been closed for two days already (apparently up there they go from 0 to “fuck it” in a matter of minutes) so we had nothing to do.  We were literally stuck!  That almost never happens when you’re schlepping people who think they have some cash, but really don’t (because if they did, they’d own the plane and treat you like a human – these people rent it by the hour and don’t even acknowledge your existence) so we decided to take advantage of it.  Now usually I’m completely content with Outback or Wendy’s or whatever…something easy.  But this evening, we wanted something a little more fun.  I’m not sure if it was the girl behind the desk in the hotel, or someone we met on an elevator, or a homeless guy on the snow covered streets that made the recommendation, but we ended up at this little sports bar  Little?  Bullshit.  This place was huge!  Can I remember what it was called?  Nope.  Hopefully I don’t try to go back there though…you’ll understand why in a few minutes.

Now, a little about Plonker…I love sports.  I love sports and I love women.  I’m not sure which I love more, but I love them both.  If you put women in tight shorts and a little referee shirt in a sports bar serving me drinks, there’s a good chance I’m going to blow my entire entertainment budget for the month sitting there drinking blue moon.  I can watch sports and beautiful women and be completely content.  I used to try to explain to the wifey (the first one, not Sai) that I just liked looking at her sometimes, but fuck…women don’t listen.  Amirite, guise?  Women, listen…men are visual creatures.  Let us look at you.  Naked, or wearing something skimpy, or dressed up like Daisy Duck…Diff’rent Strokes, ‘n at.  Yeah it might seem creepy, but we’re just appreciating what’s before us.  While we’re on the subject, you know what grinds my gears?  If you tell a woman, “you’ve got a beautiful smile” or “…eyes” and they get all Feminazi on you about how you’re “visually raping” them (whatever the fuck that means).  LEARN TO TAKE A FUCKING COMPLIMENT!  Alright, where was I?  Oh, I was about to spend a shit ton of money (for me, at the time) on overpriced weak alcohol while watching hockey on TV…

That’s exactly…what…I did.

So I’m out there with my sidekick, we’ll call him Johnny Tripod (funny story, I took him out for dinner for his birthday once on a trip and when they asked for a name to call when our table came up, I told them “Tripod party of 2”….that was hilarious hearing them announce that, but I digress…).  So we’re out and he’s drinking and I’m drinking and the girls in the tight shorts and little shirts are just bringing beer after beer after beer.  Then it happened, the three words that are just no good for Plonker.  I said, “let’s do shots”.  Fuck.

I’d have been fine drinking Blue Moon (yeah, it’s a girl’s beer, but I like oranges….go fuck yourself), but I just had to have shots.  I think we started out with vodka.  Probably.  I can’t remember (hey, remember that whole memory thing earlier?  Yeah, well…it gets better) what we started with, but I remember buying shots for a LOT OF PEOPLE at one point, and then suddenly….my sidekick, my wing man…WAS GONE!  Just…gone.  Not like “hey I’m going to take a piss”.  Like, they’re clearing the table and seating someone else.  He’s gone.  I’d like to tell you, in amazing detail what happened from then on, because we’ve already discussed that I’ve got a good memory…but the rest of the night is still, to this day, largely a mystery.  But this is not only a major bro code violation (I think so, I never watched the Doogie Howser show, but I’d have to think it’s a violation), but also we learned this from Top Gun!  You NEVER LEAVE YOUR WING MAN.  You don’t have time to think, you think, you’re dea—I’m going off track again.

So, as suddenly as I realized my PIC (Partner In Crime) was gone…it was the next afternoon.  I awoke (if you can call it that), stumbled to the bathroom and promptly emptied the contents of my stomach through my mouth and nose (God, I hate that – can’t we have evolved to put a flap back there to keep vomit from going through the nose?  I mean, really…).  I can’t remember how many times I did that, but I know I puked more than once.  I checked in with Pencildick, since he couldn’t be bothered to check in with me to make sure I was even fucking alive, and we decided to meet for lunch in a little bit.  As most people who are “not-quite hungover” (because they’re still fucking DRUNK) will tell you, food is the last thing on their mind.  Sitting in that little bar with him while he ate his sandwich was torture.  I wanted to vomit AGAIN, but I manned up and stayed with it.  I think I may have even ordered something, but I don’t remember eating it.  I should’ve had nothing but water, or maybe ginger ale, but I was out of money.  Oh, I didn’t discuss that yet?  I’m getting ahead of myself…LET ME GET TO THAT SHIT!

After making plans with Mr. Wonderful for our lunch date, things started getting interesting.  First, there was the room keys.  Another thing about Plonker…I’m habitual.  When I check into a hotel, I get one key.  Why?  Because I’m going to lock it in the room anyway, so I’ll be down later to get a second key.  No need to have a second one already made up.  Somehow…and I still have no idea how…there were three keys on the dresser next to the TV.  Folks, it’s been 6 years and I’m still trying to figure out how?  Why?  When?  Where?  WHO!?  The good news is, my asshole wasn’t sore, and I woke up fully clothed (another thing I don’t do – I sleep nude pretty much any time I can), so I’m sure I wasn’t raped or sold into a situation that requires Liam Neeson to use some set of skills blah-dee blah-dee blah blah to save me from…you know what?  I still don’t know what the fuck was going on in that movie.  Who the hell lets their hot teenage daughter go follow U2 in Europe?  Thank God Liam was on the case there, because the bitch that played her mom?  Yeah, real champion shit there.  I know it’s far fetched, but couldn’t you see a parent like that letting their kid fall in a Cincinnati Zoo gorilla——ooooh…..

Where was I?  Oh yeah, I wasn’t raped.  So, that’s a plus.  Now I’m trying to figure out “what the fuck happened last night?”  My face was a little red and I remembered dreaming that I got punched by a bouncer.  Wait…was that a dream?  Then I decided that, “hey, in The Hangover they checked their pockets!” and I got the brilliant idea to do the same.  Nothing showed up, but I also got the idea to check my bank account.

Son.

Ofabitch.

At some point the previous night, Plonker drained his checking account completely.  I mean, hey, I’m a poor schlob, so we’re not talking thousands of dollars.  We’re barely talking hundreds, but for the longest time after that trip I refused to use plastic, carrying cash for expenses instead.  Also, a big thanks to first wifey for tossing some cash in my account so I could actually eat over the rest of the trip.  They say a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, so I’ll let ya know, I gave her the most amazing oral sex as repayment…I probably even gave her a back rub or a foot rub for a few minutes.  I’m usually pretty solid at those as well, but now this is sounding less like me bitching about something and more like my online dating profiles.

Anyway, so now we’re putting the night together, a few debit card charges totaling a few hundred dollars, getting punched in the face, extra keys, and I also “dreamed” that I got in the back of a cop car for a ride back to the hotel…  …  …  -_- …  …  WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!?!?!?!  A ride in a cop car back to the hotel?!?!  That…could’ve been bad.  Like, REALLY bad.  I’m guessing getting punched in the face wasn’t exactly the high point of the evening either, but getting in a cop car?  Wait…you know something?  It’s not the last time I’ve had uh…”interaction” with a city’s “finest” after an evening of a few drinks.  Wow, I’m going to have a lot of future updates revolving around a time or two when I may have had too much to drink.  I feel like Meredith Palmer from The Office.  She got her PhD and all the cameras got was her drinking!  What a ripoff!

Well, after a good day and a half, I got back to “normal” again (which is an odd word to use to describe myself) and didn’t touch alcohol for MONTHS after.  I go through these stretches in life.  For the longest time I had nothing, then I’ll have a few, or get totally ripped.  Right now, thanks to a somewhat embarrassing night of drunk texting (I don’t necessarily regret any of it, but I do regret needing to be drunk to send them) I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol in several months.  I guess that’s not true, since I’m pretty sure Listerine has alcohol and I’m a daily user (take care of your teeth, folks!), but I haven’t had any drinking alcohol in several months.  It’ll last a while, then I’ll be on a trip somewhere (probably an all inclusive resort type area – it’ll definitely be on a trip since I don’t drink around my child…not that I’m worried he’ll see me having ONE drink and end up needing an intervention, but I’m worried I’ll have ONE drink, be too tipsy to drive, and that’s when he’ll slam his forehead off of the floor for shits and grins and I’ll have to call 911 rather than just take him to the ER…) and I’ll get ripped again, wake up the next afternoon feeling stupid, and go another year without touching the stuff…that’s pretty much the definition of moderation, right?

So why did I decide to tell you this story?  Why did I tell you about one of the stupider times of my life?  Simple.  So that I could tell you once again…

Never leave your wingman.  It’s a dick move.  Thanks a lot, Johnny…mwah.  Love ya.

See ya next week.

-Plonker