Friday, July 26, 2013

Johnny Walker Blue Ain’t No Joke…


Occurred: October/November 2012

By Frank Waszut


          I’m a shitty friend. This is an acute symptom of being a narcissist with Asperger’s Syndrome on top of a short temper and a chronic craving to satisfy my carnal urges in the form of pounding flesh with my best friend, i.e. my dick, which I have named Morgan Freeman. Yes, I have named my reproductive organ after one of the greatest actors of our time. Don’t hate. Just ask any of the girls I’ve slept with if my dick isn’t mind blowing. Maybe it has more to do with my hips. Who knows? What I do know is that my Morgan, my dick, when coupled with my personality has made it hard for me to have monogamous relationships, consistent friendships, and anything else that comes with being your typical God-fearing human being. I mostly live within my head and do what’s most pleasing to me at any given time. Even though I have always been like this I never fully embraced it until I got into writing.

At first I wanted to be the next Tucker Max but I began to realize that I had other interests besides sex, alcohol, hallucinogenic drugs (that story will come out someday), and fighting. I have become infatuated with quantum physics, string theory, and most importantly the holographic principle which killed any chance of me having any semblance of compassion for organized religion or even monotheism for that matter while at the same time not having to take the whole atheist route. I just choose to not label myself or my beliefs anymore. I am comfortable with the fact of not knowing yet still striving to know.  This mentality, along with a salvia trip with HotVampire, gave me the inspiration to write a sci-fi novel. My father’s death also played a role in this as he wanted me to write in a way that would help people which I feel this novel will do. I still have a life to live and even though I don’t write about my adventures doesn’t mean I still don’t have adventures. I just haven’t had one to write about that has jumped out at me enough to take me away from my novel until now.

As hard as it to believe up until college I was a virgin that was borderline obese, and had serious issues with attracting the opposite sex. I couldn’t get laid even if I had a trust fund, Rolls Royce, and LeBron James’s dick. I was still an outcast but instead of the narcissistic, man-whoring human I am now that has fun with life it was more of a depressed-I-hate-world-because-I’m-a-fat-kid-who-can’t--kiss-a-girl-type. I hated high school except for the friends I had whom were Peanut, Marine, myself, and JohnnyWalker. I met JohnnyWalker during my freshman year at Academic Magnet High School. I was on our senior trip to Orlando and we were basically the outcasts of the whole group when we ran into each other. We had only known each other in passing till that point but we quickly struck a friendship which was cemented over laughter at the absurdity that the Canadian steakhouse we ate at decided that their steak and Yukon potatoes was worthy of a $40 dollar price tag. Keep in mind this was in 1999 while gas was still hovering around the $1.50 mark.

During our sophomore year I joined the high school football team which he was already on along with Peanut and Marine. All you need to know is that we lost to a cross town team, Hanahan High School, 100-0. That’s not a typo. The referee asked our football coach, Coach Bennage, if he wanted to run the clock in the second half which he resisted about as much Mitt Romney would resist being head of a Ponzi Scheme. Even with that we still we were beaten so bad that they ran out of digits on the scoreboard of our home field, which was actually another school’s called Garret Academy. There were rumors abound that USA Today actually had an article on it due to how absurd the score was and that we were deemed the worst football team in the country. We only scored one touchdown the entire season. I played lineman at 5’8 and 240lbs which was about as solid Adele’s third chin. Needless to say I joined the wrestling team shortly after a failed bid at being on the basketball team which JohnnyWalker, Peanut, and Marine were also already on. My time on there, along with all the bus rides to dual meets, lunches in Mr. Johnston’s class, and the constant heated debates between me and Marine that were moderated by Peanut and JohnnyWalker.

After graduation we started to go on our separate ways. I went to College of Charleston. JohnnyWalker and Marine joined the Marine Corps while Peanut went to Clemson. We kept in touch and would hang out during major holidays when they came to visit their respective families in Charleston but for the most part we were busy living our respective lives as adults. Marine eventually got married. JohnnyWalker started dating the woman he would eventually marry, and Peanut would bounce around the country working corporate jobs. We all stayed in touch thanks to the advent of social networking but still not being in the same town makes to meet up at the local bar and shoot the shit about who’s going to the take the NBA Finals and who’s going to win the Superbowl. However, that all too familiar life event came up in the form of one of us getting married. If you have read any of my writing then you should know that I am instantly out of that equation. In this case it was JohnnyWalker.

Shortly after my dad passed away JohnnyWalker came down to Charleston around the 4th of July and I met up with him after getting off work at the gym that I work at. We went and got something to eat at Mama Kim’s and shot the shit about everything about how my family was holding up, how being engaged was working out for him, HotVampire, and training Jigsaw for his Muay Thai bout that I was going to be cornering him in the following month. As we left and started walking to JohnnyWalker’s car he said that he had something very important to ask me.

Frank: “What’s that?”

JohnnyWalker: “I was wondering if you would want to be in my wedding.”


This was definitely a first in my life. I had been to plenty of weddings before but never before had I been asked to be IN a wedding. I agreed not knowing what I would be getting myself into. If it were anyone else it would have been no because honestly I’m not exactly the type deals well with that kind of responsibility due to my narcissistic tendencies. I’m a selfish guy. I come first. Actually that’s a lie. Morgan Freeman, my dick, comes first and then I come second because when my dick is happy I am also usually happy. That’s my spin on governing dynamics anyway.

This was different because instead of just being some buddy I met in Jiu-Jitsu class, one of my students, a friend from usual drink rounds around downtown Charleston, or anything else since 2003, this was actually one of my true friends that I would cross state lines to off someone and dissolve their body in a vat of hydrofluoric acid to dispose of any physical evidence for. This also meant I was going to have to go get fitted for a tux and be in the bachelor party. Now I know what you are thinking. Oh Frank in a bachelor party. There is going to be all sorts of sexual debauchery and alcohol consumption the night before the wedding. Well, you would be half right but that part is coming up later.

A couple months went by and Jared kept calling me about whether I had gotten fitted for the tux yet. Between working, teaching classes, working on the novel, indulging in my never ending pursuit of new women to introduce to Morgan Freeman, and training Jigsaw for his bout I just never had a chance to. Finally in September I was able to get over to get to Men’s Warehouse to get fitted for the tux. As I walked in I suddenly realized that Men’s Warehouse was the epitome of almost everything I despised about the current state of American society i.e. capitalistically inflated sense of an illusory pedestal of status. I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised to see poster of Rush Limbaugh’s fat ass smoking a cigar. I got fitted for the tux and was getting ready to head out when the lady that fit me asked if I wanted to pay with cash or credit. Apparently having some lady that looks like she got a degree from the University of Phoenix Online measuring my dimensions in the span of five minutes equates to $20. Instead of just promptly walking out like I had every intention of I decided just to pay the $20 even though I wasn’t exactly on a filet mignon budget at that point in time. The fact that the tux was going to cost another $180 to rent further compounded that along with the fact that I still had to pay rent on the house and everything else.

Even though JohnnyWalker sent me an invite with where and when the wedding would be I never looked at it. As a result of that I was more caught off guard than Jerry Sandusky in a Penn State shower when JohnnyWalker called me the week of Halloween and asked me if I had gotten the tux yet. I told him I hadn’t which is when he informed me that the wedding was that Friday.



            I had been having what you could call a cash flow problem since my private MMA lessons had dried up and still owed money on rent. I was stressing like a frat boy at a club on R&B night in Detroit. I about had to tell JohnnyWalker that I couldn’t do it. This is what sucks about not being a sheep and living life on your terms. You have a hard time affording the finer things in life like nice cars, houses, expensive dates for hot blondes with trust funds to impress them enough to give you a blow job or god forbid make you a fucking sandwich without being asked for once. In this case it was renting a $200 tuxedo that if I had actually followed up on that scholarship offer to Duke all those years ago probably wouldn’t have even gotten a sweat out of me. That’s the problem with our society. Those that have the courage to standout are also the ones that have to suffer in the form of low income no matter how honest it is. The renaissance man has become the scum in the eyes of a capitalist/socialist America. It’s no longer the land of the free but the land of “Yes” and “how much?” We have gone away from being human and ever evolving more and more into statistics and dollar signs. Humans are animals and instead of America wanting to embrace and direct that fact all we want to do is to suppress it. That’s why ego is so taboo now a days because ego is the very denomination of individuality. None of this was helping me solve my current dilemma.

            I’m a shitty friend but at the same time I do have morals and a conscience which was steering me to one inevitable conclusion: I had to be in JohnnyWalker’s wedding no matter what the cost was too myself. If a soul is truly earned then this was definitely a labor I would have to endure to pull it closer to my being in order to further complete myself. I talked to my mom and we figured out that I could tack on the rest of the rent to pay off in the following months. It would further burden my financial troubles but at the same time I would still be able to look at myself in the mirror and sleep soundly at night without alcohol or THC therapy. This also made it that I needed to find some other work fast. Luckily, a few days later one of my students and his friend rolled up in the gym that I worked at asking me if I wanted to work security at a house party that same night which just so happened to be Halloween.

            I had worked a party at this house the Friday prior and it was quite different from working security in a bar. For one thing it was at house leased out to students at College of Charleston which, if you have ever been in a college town, meant that anyone attending this party being of age was about as likely as the Kool Aid man busting into my house with the Holy Grail and $50 million in cash for my excellence in living. This also meant that if the cops were to show up for a noise complaint and some underage frat boy decided to drunkenly challenge their authority while smelling alcohol on their breath then they would have more than enough probably cause to come bust in a party where I was collecting money on a door for a house that didn’t have a liquor license on top of the aforementioned under age alcohol consumption. While I am no lawyer and most of my legal knowledge stems from talking explaining to City Charleston cops about how some frat boy ended up unconscious on some sidewalk without having to spend a night in leads on assault charges, it’s called self-defense and the fact that South Carolina is a “stand your ground” state, I was pretty sure that if I were on a backdoor with a wad of cash for entry into a house party there would be some explaining I’d have to do not to mention some legal trouble I’d have to deal with.

            On the other hand I was broke. What would you do? I showed up at the house around 10PM and people started arriving shortly thereafter. The party I had worked there a few days prior got so packed that the cops showed up for a noise complaint but nothing more. Luckily nobody decided to act on their liquid courage but I wasn’t fond of the idea of pushing my luck. I just wanted to make my money and beat it out of there like Chris Brown. Around 11:30 there was already a line going from the backdoor where people were getting into the house, so that cops wouldn’t notice a bunch of underage college students lining up for a party while riding down the street. By 11:45 the back lot was so full that I was pretty sure you could hear the commotion from two blocks away. This was on Halloween to which for those true drinkers out there is nothing more than a glorified amateur drinking night where sluts are allowed to be themselves without taking a hit on their fragile sense of self-esteem. It also is one of those night when cops make their money by arresting drunk drivers and well, parties that are soliciting underage alcohol consumption.

            I decided to be proactive, since the house was already packed and I had already collected a good bit on the door, by telling everyone in the back lot to leave and comeback later. This took about 30 minutes and after talking to one of the guys running the party we figured we’d send texts out again at around 12:15 AM to tell people to come back while switching to the backdoor on the third floor for entry. This went well for all about 5 minutes before someone locked the back door as I was collecting money and wouldn’t open the door even after I was banging on it like the gestapo. Finally, this girl answered the door with a tone that I can only describe as what happens when a women doesn’t change her tampon after a week. She kept bitching at me that this was her place and I had no right standing at the door while placing my foot in front of it to keep the door from closing. I replied by informing her that I was doing security for the party there for her roommates (you’d think that her roommates would have told her this beforehand but then again I don’t take life advice from One Direction).

            Even after informing her that I had all the money for the kegs on me in response to her telling me to leave she still wanted to go on her bleeding vagina rant so I finally just succumbed to her wishes and let her open the door. I had already paid up one of the guys for his keg already and still $130 on me so I figured I’d just split and put all the blame on her roommate. However, my conscience got the better of me and I figured I’d at least try to find her just to shut that asshole, my conscience, up. After about 10 minutes to no avail I called it quits and went back down to the second floor. I found some of the people at the party drinking in one of the bedrooms downstairs. They offered me a beer and I obliged. One of the women that I worked with at the gym, PAGirl, was sitting on one of the beds with one of her friends while another one of the guys that kept giving me Miller High Life cans out of his backpack, PadawanGinger, was sitting on the bed and of course gave me another Miller Highlife. As I was shooting the shit with them and eyeing this college physics textbook in a shelf by the bed.

            That’s when this girl that I could only as a very gorgeous version of a younger Michelle Obama walked into the room. She had been eyeing me up at the previous party and the first time I saw her I nearly busted a load like a virgin on prom night in the Playboy Mansion. I came even closer to erupting as she hugged me while pressing her DD breasts against me which were attached to a 4 inch waist and an ass that would give Nikki Minaj a run for her money with skin tone akin to Beyoncé all packed in an 105lb frame. If I could only judge them on looks alone then HotObama and HotVampire would be a closer race than the dead heat of zeppelin race that was HotObama’s chest. HotObama sat down next to PadawanGinger on the bed opposite from where PAGirl was sitting at. After what seemed like on only a minute of talking to HotObama, PadawanGinger turned to me:

PadawanGinger: (while attempting to whisper but I was still able to read his lips) “She wants to fuck you.”

            You don’t get much more a hint than that when it comes to casual sex with hot chick than that. I took the hint and started talking to HotObama again which is when she started complaining about being covered in glitter. While doing this she pulled down her top revealing even more of her awe inspiring cleavage:

HotObama: “Look, I have glitter all over my boobs.”

Frank: (While keeping a straight face) “Damn right you do.”

            PAGirl doubled over in laughter upon hearing this because she knew me and where this was going. HotObama promptly grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into the kitchen. What ensued was 30 seconds of her giving me puppy dog eyes followed by an intense make out session with her wrapping her legs around me while I had a handful full of amazingly firm yet soft bubble butt.

Frank: ‘You ready to get out of her?”

            HotObama nodded and held my hand as we walked down the stairs. Understanding the fact that she might be even more underage than I estimated I had a Ricky Bobby moment:

Frank: “You’re 18 right?”

HotObama: “Yep.”

            That was good enough for me as we left the party and walked back to her place. She lived about a block away but decided for us to walk 5 blocks to get there but then again I didn’t want to put my dick in her intellectuality. We came walked up to her place as she was talking about feeling glad about putting glitter on the sidewalk which is when I would usually inform that is what the city pays to clean up but I wasn’t wanting to break the mood with a discussion of the infrastructure of a town where it’s still legal fire a gun in the air if you are riding a horse down Market Street. We walked into her apartment which was located in the underclassmen/poverty section of town down this narrow street and promptly went to her bedroom. We started making out before she got on top of me and started to unbutton my shirt. I took her shirt and bra off. After doing so I nearly had to do a double take.

            I figured her breasts looked as perky as they did due to some push up bra but lo and behold here breasts just stayed there without any support like they defied gravity. There were truly more majestic than Morgan Freeman (the person not my dick even though HotObama was about to introduced to him as well). At first I thought they were fake but upon touching the cellulite richness of her chest mounds I realized they were as real as possible without delving into quantum physics and parallel realities. So how was the sex you ask? Pretty amazing actually. While nowhere near as rough and animalistic as sex with HotVampire but easily as intense and sensual. HotObama had that slutty innocence that you would see on Girls Gone Wild and it showed in the sack.  I started out with preforming some intense cunninglus on her with such a vigor I’m pretty sure I was trying to suck the cure for cancer out of her uterus. After getting her prepped it was time for Morgan to bash her singularity like the universe was about to undergo heat death and the big crunch all at once.

            We started off with straight missionary. The sight her breasts flopping back and forth with each thrust just reinforced the fact that they were real and spectacular. Her entire body was amazing and flawless. As I kept thrust she kept giving me that seductive puppy dog look which will be burned in my memory for as long as my brain can function to facilitate my masturbatory habits. After about 10 minutes I flipped her over to hit it from behind. Even though I could tell her ass was awesome before doing it like the Discovery Channel I was able to appreciate in all its glory while she was face down ass up G-Unit style (and yes the G stands for ginger). Instead of giggling her ass vibrated like a set if 24in subs that you’d see in the back of some G’s ’64 Impala. She had already gotten off and I was ready to bust so I figured I’d be a gentleman (because women like that shit or something) and asking her where she wanted me to unload:

HotObama: “Anywhere you want ummmmm….On my face”

            Holy shit. This girl really was amazing since I had never remembered cumming on a girl’s face before, despite all of the other depraved sex acts I have partaken in during my life. Well like Morgan Freeman, the person and my dick, would want me to do I decided to cross it off my bucket list. As it took me another few minutes to get my skin volcano to finally go Mount St. Helens on her face I realized how sweaty I was since it was dripping all over her which gave me an awkward moment. Here I was about to shoot semen on a 19 year old co-ed’s face without any reservations yet I was feeling bad about my sweat dripping on her face. I guess my sweat glands secreting on her isn’t as gentlemanly as my urethra doing so. Afterwards I grabbed a towel to wipe her face off along with the sweat off me so her sheets wouldn’t stick to my ass or back.

            We laid in bed and spooned for a few more minutes which is when she asked:

HotObama: “So do you want to know how old I am?”

Frank: “Ummm…18?”

HotObama: “19 actually”

Frank: “Phew…you’re legal.”

HotObama: “Yea but I think I’m going to pass out so you can stay or go if you want to.”

            I contemplated leaving but decided I’d not be a complete dick and stay. Also the prospect of potential morning sex weighed heavily into my decision. I had a hard time falling asleep on top of the fact that HotObama had to keep waking up to throw up throughout the night. I guess she was drunker than I had originally guessed or the fact that it looked like all she had to eat was a piece of cake that I saw in the kitchen after having to make a trip to the bathroom myself which probably looked about the same as whatever she was throwing up besides alcohol. This went on into the morning which kind of had me worried. I mean she seemed coherent enough to consent to having sex and she was more than adamant about doing so but then again we have all heard horror stories where some girl doesn’t remember what happened and thinks she got taken advantage of so as we were laying there in the morning I had to make sure.

Frank: “You do remember having sex last night right?”

HotObama: “Oh yea I remember that.”


            Phew…I wish I could have had a voice recorder just for legal purposes but she remembered consenting which is good enough in my book. As I was about to leave to go try on the tux to makes sure it all fit HotObama’s roommate walked in the apartment. She went to her room and came back showing of what I thought were marijuana leaves but were actually fake and part of her roommates condom. That’s when HotObama laid this little tidbit of information on me:

HotObama: “She was marijuana and I was cocaine.”

            Yep. Just another thing I can add to the misadventures of my dick. Sorry Morgan. Anyway I left shortly thereafter and walked the four blocks to her care smelling like the orange mango shampoo and soap I used to clean off with in her shower. Nothing like a walk of shame down Spring St. at 8 in the morning. I’ll just leave off with the fact that if you happen to be in Charleston and run into a women that looks way hotter and petite version of Michelle Obama and she comes up with those puppy dog eyes while wanting to rock your skin boat then definitely take it. She’s definitely what you would call "Brag-Able" according to my scale of attractiveness. You be the judge:



13 hours later………..

            I had just finished teaching class at Black Force MMA and called JohnnyWalker to see if they had left the house yet for the bachelor party. I had barely slept the night before but figured that Starbucks espresso I had in my veins along with the Perfectly Franks hot dogs I had prior would be more than sufficient to keep me going all night plus I didn’t have to be up till noon the following so I’d have plenty of time to pick up the tux and make it over to the wedding in North Charleston. I rushed home to hop in the shower and through on a decent wardrobe (Jeans, blue button down, and my leather jacket that my Dad bought me at Costco), and meet up with everyone at Big John’s (DiveBar from my previous stories). As I walked in I saw that the bar was completely packed. This wasn’t a surprise in itself given that it was hip hop night but what caught me off guard was the fact it was the ’92 Citadel Class reunion. For those not from Charleston just imagine a bunch of 40 year old frat boys educated under an education system with authoritarian overtones with their similarly aged reformed sorostitute wives trying to get their grind on to Sir Mix-A-Lot. It was so loud that I had make everyone in the bachelor party repeat themselves constantly just so I could figure out what they were saying.

            I bought a round of shots for everyone in the party, 3 Fireball whiskey shots 7 ways since they are all the rage in Big John’s and Charleston for that matter. One of JohnnyWalker’s friends whom was also one of the other grooms men complained about the fact that it was whiskey and didn’t drink. Take note of that for later reference. I decided to see if the DJ, Moo Moo and no that’s not an alias, would play a song dedicated to JohnnyWalker since he was about to walk the monogamy gauntlet of servitude. The thing about Moo Moo is that he takes request but the chances of him actually playing the song before last call is about as likely as me farting in the wind and curing AIDS in Africa. I hoped that the fact that one of my best friends was getting married would help sway this but eventually it came to no avail as everyone in the party decided to leave and head to another bar. This was after JohnnyWalker’s, CrewCut (the same one that had the supposed whiskey prejudice), decided to buy us all a round of some sort of straight whiskey that I’m guessing was Jameson judging by what I remember of the flavor.

Not a fan of whiskey my ass……

            We walked out and before even figuring out what the next bar would be this black SUV pulled which prompted JohnnyWalker’s brother-in-law to hop on it and start shaking it like it he was trying to incite a riot. At first I thought this was going to be a fast track to having 5-0 called on us but as it turns out they were friends of the bachelor party and were pretty hot even though they came off at first as taking too many personality cues from Desperate Housewives of Atlanta. Still they were definitely fuckable and I have to be honest, that whole sassy-I-wanna-be-like-Beyoncé-attitude is actually a turn on for me. Not sure why but I am sure it is party of the reason why me and HotTeacher tried to stick it out for so long. What can I say? I like bitches or just seem to attract them. Anyway I gave one of them my number and told them to meet us over at Mad River which is where we were heading. Mad River is one of the main hangout spots for all that frat boys and sorostitutes in Charleston that are of legal age or just have really good fake ID’s.

            We rolled up and after Peanut was able to find his ID we walked in as the women in the SUV ran to catch up with us. As we walked in there was nothing out of the ordinary Mad River on a Thursday and by that I mean that the place reeked of trust fund. You know? That mixture of Axe Body spray, hair gel, whatever the fuck scent sorostitutes wear to overcome the sour dough scent from their vaginas, and condescension. We walked up to the bar and another one of JohnnyWalker’s friends, Bartender, decided to buy everyone another round of whiskey and a round of Yueng Lings. This whiskey shot definitely had JohnnyWalker rocked and on wobbly feet. CrewCut buying a round of Four Horsemen’, four different whiskeys mixed together; followed by JohnnyWalker downing it had him on the ropes. Now before I explain why I did the following I have to explain myself.

            There are three rules about a bachelor party pertaining to the groom:

1.      He can’t end up in a morgue

2.      He can’t end up in jail

3.      He can’t end up in a strip club


All of these can having very disastrous consequences on the wedding if the bride finds out, which we all know she fucking will. If you don’t think so then please find your nearest wood chipper, turn it on, and make out with the business end of it. Nobody was talking about going to a strip club as far as I could tell but I didn’t want to take any chances. As long as I’ve known JohnnyWalker I have known he isn’t the strip club type but at the same time he has hard time putting his foot down having to be mean by using the word no. We had been friends for over 13 years even though we were opposite in every way imaginable except for our affinity for videogames which I have to be honest has waned in recent years. Ever since we graduated I have been there for him in bits and spurts. I had been out of touch, hard to get ahold of, bad at responding to phone calls, text messages, etc. Like I said, I’m a shitty friend. That’s not to say I’m not a loyal friend and wasn’t going to be there for him in his greatest time of need when he is most vulnerable. Sometimes the most compassionate thing to do is also the biggest dick move of my life but they seem to have worked for me in my life so far. I walked up to the bar and waited for this bartender, VolleyballChick, whom I had gotten a blowjob from about a year and a half prior to get her attention. She came up and we made small talk for a second. That’s when I decided it was time to order a knockout shot for JohnnyWalker so that he would be out of commission for the evening and thus our only option would be to take him home thus bypassing any possibility of a strip club even if it meant me having to be a DDD (Designated Drunk Driver for those that did see The Hangover).

Frank: “Do you have any 151?”

VolleyballChick: “Nope.”

Frank: “Do you have any Wild Turkey?”

VolleyballChick: “Nope.”

Frank: “Shit. Ok. What is the strongest liquor you have back there?”

VolleyballChick: “Ummm…Johnny Walker Blue.”

Frank: “Ok. Let me get one of those two ways.”

VolleyballChick poured the shots and came back…….

Frank: “That’ll be 8 bucks.”

            I gave her a $10 and told her to keep the change. I walked up to JohnnyWalker with the shots and handed him one. He gave me a look like I had just finished skull fucking a nun and asked if he had any holy water to wipe the blood off with. This is where my experiencing as an MMA trainer and coach came into play. I don’t believe in negative enforcement. I’m more into a philosophy of positive reinforcement laced with Spartan ideology and JohnnyWalker needed a little King Leonidas in his life as I tried to channel all my readings of Steven Pressfield novels.

Frank: “[JohnnyWalker] there is a time a male’s life when finds out whether he is a man or a boy. This is one of those times.”

JohnnyWalker still didn’t seem convinced…

Frank: “Don’t worry. I’ll be taking it with you.”

            JohnnyWalker reluctantly lifted the shot to his mouth as I did so in kind and after a count of three we both took it. After JohnnyWalker swallowed I could already tell there was an internal struggle of body and mind trying to control the placement of his stomach contents. Eventually he was able to hold the gates of his esophagus to keep the stomach acid invasion at bay and off Mad River’s floor. He also needed a place to sit down stat. We found an open booth and someone said he needed a bucket like those were readily available in a bar. Peanut said he had an idea and he would be right back. 5 minutes later he came up with a bucket of Bud Lights. He took out the Bud Lights and discreetly chucked the ice under the table. Another round of beers and a bucket for JohnnyWalkers stomach contents. Well played Peanut, well played.

            Shortly after this JohnnyWalker’s younger brother took a seat in booth promptly passed out as well. I guess the low alcohol tolerance runs in the family. It was pretty adorable in a way. Two brothers passed out with head on their arms like they were asleep on their desk during study hall. It was truly a Kodak moment. The first of a few this evening which there are pictures of which I don’t have because I promised not to post them on Facebook or Twitter. Sigh. Anyway last call was quickly approaching and we had to figure how to get them home. Obviously a cab would be a no go since most Charleston cab drivers, like most cab drivers in general, are dicks. This meant one thing. I was going to have to drive them home even in my inebriated yet still functional state. I told Peanut I’d be back with my car in 5 minutes and promptly walked out of Mad River as I made a bee line to my car which was parked next to Big Johns. I hoped in and drove around the block so I could hop on East Bay St. and pull up to Market St.

            I was hoping to whatever deity that possibly might be out there that there would be a parking spot open in front of Mad River since the last thing I would want to do is wait in my car with my hazard lights on with the engine running while waiting in my car out front while I was easily over the legal limit. I’m pretty sure the Charleston City cops that were positioned out front on Market Street that wait for drunks to do something stupid would frown upon that sort of thing. Luckily as I pulled up there was a free spot open. Score!

            I parked the car and casually walked back into Mad River like I was sober as bishop caught with his pants down next to a 12 year old boy mid stroke. I walked up to the booth. I first decided to get JohnnyWalker’s brother to the car as he was easier to wake up and I got him into the backseat. Next up was JohnnyWalker. He got up and started walking under his own power at first but once we got to the door before he collapsed and I had to catch him like he was a 250lbs sack of potatoes along with Peanut. Obviously attempting to walk him down the steps we a no go so we carried him to the passenger seat, with some help from the bouncers, and strapped him in. Peanut hopped in the backseat with JohnnyWalker’s brother while I got in the driver’s seat and proceeded to put the keys in the ignition. That’s when I heard the passenger side door open along with what sounded like a fire hose going off. I turned to look and saw this brown and yellow viscous mixture of JohnnyWalker’s stomach contents ejecting from his mouth like it was Ol’ Faithful. It was going all over his pants, all over the floor board of my car, and maybe 15% of it actually landed in the street. Most car owners would be pissed about this but my car is an older Honda Accord and it was kind of my fault anyway.

            Once he got it all out we rolled on out while being careful stop at the stop sign at the corner of Market and State Street in order to avoid attracting any unwanted attention. Besides we still had to worry about North Charleston cops which are more than happy to pull someone over on a hunch. As we made our way down Spruill Avenue me and Peanut decided that we should make sure that JohnnyWalker was still alive so I checked his wrist for a pulse while Peanut checked to see if he was still breathing. Everything seemed ok which was a relief. Like I said, it’s not exactly that great if the groom ends up in a morgue.

            We pulled up to JohnnyWalker parent’s house and now had to get them into the house in order for Operation: Keep the Groom from Doing Something Stupid could be considered a success. Like at Mad River, I figured getting his brother to bed would be easier to accomplish first so I we woke him up and walked him up the stairs to his house which we got into after he found the right key to disengage the dead bolt with. I walked him up the stairs which is when he walked into the bathroom and, like an idiot, I let him go in there by himself which was almost immediately followed by a loud, “THUD!”. I walked in to make she he didn’t bust his head open but he looked fine although passed out on the bathroom floor. I asked him if he wanted to go to bed but he moved his head in a no motion so I asked him if he wanted to sleep there. He nodded yes. Ehhh, at least if he had to throw up the toilet would be nearby.

            Now it was time to get JohnnyWalker tucked away. This was not going to be anywhere as easy due to the fact that he was 250lbs of dead weight at this point while covered in his own vomit. I went to the trunk and grabbed a blue muscle tee I had to wipe some the vomit which had a grit-like consistency. Once I had gotten enough off I tried waking JohnnyWalker up vain smacking the side of the face but it was to no avail. He was out like a sorostitute after getting slipped a healthy dose of GHB. So I decided to pull him out and wrap my arms around his chest from behind using a combination of double under hooks and an axe handle grip. JohnnyWalker’s sister asked if I was worried about getting vomit on me.

Frank: “I’m pretty sure my cooties are worse than his. Grab his legs.”

            Peanut helped out and we carried him into the house and got him to the couch where I sat down with JohnnyWalker in my arms. We took his shirt off after which I held onto him. Peanut took a picture. I looked like a Mama bear holding one of his drunken cubs to protect him from any harm. I’m sure the picture will surface one of these days. After that we got his pants off so that he wouldn’t have sleep in his own vomit while making sure to lay him on his side so that he wouldn’t risk choking to death on his own vomit like a certain former lead singer of a certain legendary rock back from Australia. After this me and Peanut went to Waffle House to sober up before I went home and passed out around 5 AM.

9 hours later….

            I had already picked up the tux and stopped at Subway to eat something to help with hangover that was current beating my skull like Michael J. Fox with a chisel to have a tuna sub. The whole ride was brutal given the fact that I still hadn’t washed JohnnyWalker’s puke out of my car. Rolling down the windows helped a little. After I ate I rode to the Hampton Inn across from Wannamaker County Park where the wedding was going to be with a case of bubble guts resulting from the combination of the tuna sub from Subway I had consumed on top of the whisker that was still working its way out of my system. I was about to run into the Hampton Inn lobby and blow up the bathroom when JohnnyWalker pulled up with Peanut in the passenger, looking remarkably recovered by the way, telling me that we had to put up the alter for the wedding. I somehow how managed my gastrointestinal distress as I hopped in the backseat as we rode over the wedding site. Peanut showed me pictured of the bathroom sink that JohnnyWalker’s brother apparently fell which caused the loud, “Thud” in the bathroom. I realized how drunk I must have been to have not noticed that given the fact that I was standing right next to it after it happened. I knew I was drunk but damn.

            We pulled up to the building that we were using for the reception and I noticed JohnnyWalker’s dad. I stepped out of the car:


Frank: “Oh hey [JWDAD]”


Frank: “ummmm…yes.”

JWDad: “To have an awesome bachelor party?”

            He just shook his head and we went to put the alter up. Afterwards we went to back to the hotel to get dressed for the wedding. The wedding itself went off without a hitch and nothing much of note happened. Don’t get me wrong. The wedding and reception were beautiful and even though I had to leave and drive downtown to bounce at Big Johns, while still in the tux nothing crazy happened except for the fact that the priestess that was performing the ceremony had a Samuel L. Jackson moment when she proclaimed that there marriage would be tested by change. This made me realize that my job still wasn’t done and I still hadn’t gotten JohnnuyWalker a wedding gift. Well, leave it to me to kill two birds with one alcohol infused stone.

            As the barbeque the day after at the Hampton Inn was winding down I went over to a nearby liquor store to get JohnnyWalker his gift. I thought a hand of it would be $40 but it turned out to be $210. Holy Shit that stuff isn’t cheap. I got him a smaller bottle of it instead which still turned out to be $42 dollars for something that would barely fill a flask but it was the sentimental value that mattered. That and the fact I needed to afford gas till pay day. After I put in in a brown bag I headed back to the hotel to give it to JohnnyWalker with his newlywed standing right next to him. He pulled the bottle out and he laughed as he looked at his new bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label to open in case of emergency or as Madea the prophesizing priestess put it as, “CHANGE”. Later I found out how expensive that shit really was as Bartender said that they sell shots of it at the bar he works at down in Georgia at $19 per shot. I guess getting my dick sucked by a former College of Charleston volleyball player paid off in the long run. Well played Morgan Freeman, well played.



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