Messenger Puppet

OOO, I am so impressed

I understand the A Chi O’s not associating with us, just as i understood the privilege of the Alpha Phi’s deigning to appear at a joint party with us and the Fijis.

1. Money.  They had it, we didn’t.
2. Class.  They wished, we didn’t.

But the Chi Os?  Hanging with them was almost as impossible – once. maybe twice a year.  The Phi Mus would be over in a heartbeat.  The DZs were always up for a good time, and the AOPies were usually good sports.  But Chi O?

It couldn’t be the money – they rented out a dorm from Western after losing their house.

It couldn’t be that or class, as this parking lot shows:

• base Firebird  – equivalent to Pretty Boy.  Also mostly shit.
• AMC Concord – complete shit
• Ford Fiesta – same as Sheen.  Not complete shit, but cheap.
• ‘79 Ford Pinto – slightly less explosive than Pillar’s Pinto, but still beyond complete shit
• 4 cyl Mustang – same as Muls and Hummelberg.  Also, just a shitty truncated Fairmont.

You girls weren’t even Bimmer-driving poseurs, so what gives?  It’s me drunk humping the legs of everyone on your executive board, isn’t it?  (That or the fact that the Tekes and their ample doobage supplies were a lot closer.)

Cruising into work this morning  (at a snail’s pace – thanks again, photo radar!!) and this song comes on the radio…

What a stupid piece of shit song, right?  Well, it’s also nostalgic (in a pathetic, demented sort of way).

• first time I heard it was at the FSK house
• (at a kegger – big surprise)
• The Romantics were from Detroit.  Detroit music was cool – WLLZ (Whole lotta Led Zepplin)  WRIF (Baby!), Motown (as I learned later).  Even Ted Nugent (pre-insanity) compared to the tighty whitey repress your inner weirdo nature of my location
• I could tell anonymous frat girls that I liked them, because it was in the lyrics.
• No, it did not get me laid
• Neither did getting messed up from Budweiser, FWIW, although I sure felt cool.

Man, were we stupid in in the 1980s. Few were immune.

• Phid’s bro’:  he is partially excused because his was free.  But, it was a Berlinetta, and not a Z or IROC, so he fails.
• I rented one  a couple of times for fraternity banquets – base model, and I (not coincidentally) never got laid at fraternity banquets, fancy car or not, so I fail as well.
• My secretary 10 years ago bought a convertible  version of the generation following the one above.  She was hot, but was from (and moved back to) Ohio, so she fails.
• 3 feet of unused space in the nose (on the next generation from this one) just to keep the profile.  It’s like a Monte Carlo
• 

I'd like to thank the Academy...

• Tickets to Founders Day Banquet: $20
• Ride with some goof named Al: Free
• Getting a semi-hot date you have absolutely no chance of scoring with 40 minutes before the party starts?: $20 (for the tickets, dipshit). You can get shot down for free anytime you want, and pretty much every time you don’t want.
• Cheesy award from Scott (which you keep for 25 years) because you at least didn’t go stag, thereby beating the over/under : Obviously priceless

Where I saw one: In front of Dr. Happy Finish’s office complex, down the street from the Polynesian Massage therapist.

Nostalgia factor: -3/10
Baseline: 0, since I never personally owned one. -10 for being a Camaro. Whooo, Mustangs. Yee hah! -4 for being a Chevy. Fords rule, bitches. +1 for ditching the crappy fiberglass and the awful fender seams for plastic and slightly better seams; -1 for looking like shit compared to the original. +1 for looking less like a Vega, the second shittiest car ever. +1 for an ass that inspired a Benz. +1 for being cushy (for its era); -1 for being soft – whitewalls? Wire wheel covers? Where did I put my man purse? -1 for having no real connection to Ferrari or anything remotely Italian; +1 because that includes being unrelated to FIAT, shittiest Italian cars ever (pardon the redundancy). -1 for being unfixable without professional help. -1 for being a B&E magnet for crackheads.+10 for chauffeuring me on a fateful otherwise DUI or passed out in a gutter night or two. +2 for being an improvement over Pretty Boy’s yellow, 3 spd manual with a front half vinyl roof ‘75 version.

Adamantium, obvs...

“Now cracks a noble oil pan heart. Good-night sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to the junk yard thy rest.”
- Horatio Caine on Mel Gibson (Hamlet, act V, scene ii)

It was 20 years ago today (give or take) that the 1976 Mercury Marquis bit it. CMU came to town to get smashed and witness frat antics. They do the latter. then, we head to Bilbo’s, home of Duff beer and unsturdy urinal partitions to address the former. In the parking lot, Dave Crabs and I decide to race down the rows.

I hit a snow pile. BLAM!

Me: Huh, That sounded harsh for snow.
Karma: Just you wait, butthead.
Me: Wait, Don’t I earn points for not driving home after the bar?
Karma: Not when it was mechanically impossible for you to drive the car anyway.

Snow hides curbs. Engines need oil. AAA loves to tow POS to the junk yard.

Also, CMU dudes hated us – they thought ceremonial paddles were barbaric. Dipshits.

After 25 years, John Belushi is still dead.

We forgive you for Neighbors and 1941.
xxoo
the world

The cute one. Well, the first cute one.  Jody #3 was pretty hot, too.

• she transferred to “my” BK Lounge – Immediate OMG reaction.
• Live with Jody was Party Central:

1. Friday Night Videos with 8 barrel and Jody’s cute roommate.  “Sharp Dressed Man” beats “Billie Jean” every time.
2. Rocky Horror Picture Show with 8, Carrie Welch, Jody, roomie.  Yeah, not awkward at all with the girls to my left and 8 to my right.
3. Football games with her and Pod (and popov and Wendy burgers)
4. J:  “what are you doing? You totally touched my __”
   Sleepy PLoS: “Sorry”
   J:  “Don’t be”
   PLoS: “OK. Zzzzz”
5. Homecoming Dance 1983. Hotel (used to be Stouffers). Interruption by Scott.  Payback IS a bitch, Scott.

• Thanksgiving break: “come ride horses”
  Me:  “come watch football”

• Xmas break: ” I am getting back with John from Burger King because
  a – you’re an idiot, paralyzed by the disaster in Ann Arbor and
  b – your drunk calls to get back together with me are not that cute at 11:00 pm.  Also, too late.
• Creepy:  Prowling an apartment complex looking for John’s shitty Buick.  Why?  No coherent idea other than in-person drunk calling.

Epilogue:  Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda.

Didn’t.

If you ever wondered about frat groupies who advertise for dates, well, here is your clue. This picture is a fake – no one could afford Michelob.How to tell you drink too much beer:

1. You can identify a beer brand based on seeing just the top 1″ of a bottle.
2. You miss giant blue thought bubbles.
3. There is a joke about a physical transmogrification, based on the position of the (apparent) beer bottle, but I am not going to be the one to make it.

Chicago + beer = fat drunk and stupid. Well, maybe not fat.

Drive to Chicago to visit Crip. Use the south side surface streets, for the “scenic drive.”

Crip: You are so going to get a beat down.

There are plenty of places to park on the near north side. Trust me on this. (If you drive a scooter. Or Nike iPod shoes.) Parking is important, because if you have 1/2 a brain, you won’t be driving anywhere soon.

Chicago loves baseball. Not good baseball, like the Tigers. Shit baseball, like the White Sox or those other guys. So go catch a game at historic and dirty Wrigley Field. You’re all “WTF” about anything Crip wants to do. You are so WTF that you can’t stop flashing the WTF sign* on the El. Chicagoans respect that fake gangy-looking thing, like Dilana respects Vanilla Ice. Too bad it’s too fucking hot to wear a hoody to complete the hip hop ese look.

*use both hands, middle finger and pinky out; do it with arms crossed over your chest if you are super blase-cool)

You are so going to get a beat down.

The game sucks.Why? Because it’s the Cubs, dumbass. The D-backs are the one team in baseball that can make the Cubs look good, and this night is the one time they decide to do it. Fuckers. Cheer for your homies anyway. Call them “my homies” while flashing your signs. Scream whatever comes to mind, like “Harry Carey sucks.” WTF, eh?

You are so going to get a beat down. (But not from a real baseball fan – they hated Carey.)

You will find out that Cubs baseball is not really about the “sport” – it’sabout getting laid. That is what everyone is trying to do.

Play along.

Lose.

In the same direction as the place you got hot dogs is a bar. Yes it’s true for ANY direction in Chicago, but I mean that way <— from where the players park. It starts with a G and the building comes to a point. It’s right next to 85 other bars. In that block.

Yeah, that’s the one. (ed.: Ginger Man - “your source for late nite, free, leftover stadium hotdogs.”)

You: Dog Style, and keep ‘em coming.
Bartender: STFU before I give you a beat down.

The girl from Wrigley is here. You leave her and your buddy Crip at the other end of the bar, so he can, uh, ingratiate himself into her, uh, consciousness. She keeps calling you back to where they are, so she can flirt with you, in front of her new friend. Plus, she wants to pay for your beers. So you go along. You’re the wing man, Goose. Take one for the team.

Pretend you think she is funny. Pretend you are listening to her stories. Pretend you are not just striving for a glimpse of boobage, or an“accidental” grasp of ass (that doesn’t lead to a beat down for you).

Wow. This sounds like she’s YOUR date. Yes, it will end the same way. With you sleeping alone on a couch.

You are so going to get a beat down. Probably from Crip, because it’s his couch.

As a true gentleman, offer to walk this girl home. Mostly because that is what Crip is doing. You might be able to find the El by yourself, but you have no fucking idea where to get off. And no keys. And no more money. Plus, if you’re wrong, you will walk to Iowa.

Look, there is another bar. Go figure. Drinks, billiards, stupid late. Just like you’re all 20–somethings.

Walk her the rest of the way home. Even past a cemetery, because how fucking cool is that at 3 am?

A: Only for George Romero. Or Zombie Elvis

They stop; you keep on walking. Crip joins you down the street after they experience  some interpersonal closing shit that you dare not even imagine.

“OK, tough guy, how do we get back?”

Late night, sleep-deprived drunken behavior ensues.

Man leaving bar (to man already across the street and walking as fast as he can without looking like that is exactly what he is doing to get away from this psycho): “I AXED you POLITELY can I have a light.”

Man leaving bar: *drops severed head of Marlboro man*

You are so going to get a beat down.

Crip (to now insanely drunk comrade): Ferris, you need to cool it. Right now. We are not in a good neighborhood [lost somewhere in “Uptown”].

You: Really? What was your first cl –

Crip: *whispers* You need to STFU. NOW.

Crip *walks down the middle of the street, pretending not to pee his pants in sheer terror*: We need a cab.

Crip: *sees cab on cross street a block away, runs*

You: Huh. Where’s he going?***

You (to the guy jonesing for a smoke): Your women. I want to buy your women. The little girl, your daughters… sell them to me. Sell me your children.
You *internal monologue*: Uh-oh. Was that out loud?

You are so going to get a beat down.

*runs to the one cab brave enough to stop for drunken crackers way out of their own ‘hood*

Crip It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark and we’re wearing sunglasses.
Ferris: Hit it.
Cabbie: Fucking morons. I should have let you get the beat down.
Man Leaving Bar (now beating on taxi windows): Brains! Bbbrrrraaaaiiiinnnnssss!

Later that night [Ed: morning] you discover yourself wandering one of the floors of the fire escape/balcony of Crip’s building (you hope).

How did you get there? No fucking clue.

Where is the condo from here? No fucking clue.

But, there’s no crazy ass zombies or rats in sight, so you can take your time trying to figure all this out. Eventually, you will come down from the third floor balcony you’re on and make your way back inside (dammit), even if you have to break in like you were looking for booze at a frat house or something.

You are so going to get a beat down.