Monday, August 12, 2013

Sushi Bar X-mas Party Round 2: The Mangina Story

Occurred-December 2008

            It's hard to classify this story. Technically it can be classified as either a Sushibar story or a Brett Baskin story. Shit, it's almost a HotTeacher story (I honestly need to stop classifying this shit, because it defeats the purpose of these stories if they in fact do have a purpose. A Ginger making no sense? Go figure). This night was the conglomeration of multiple elements of my life and pretty much sums up what happens when you mix mass amounts of alcohol, good friends (except for CadetDouche), and massive mix of personality disorders (including mine and yes, I actually used the word conglomeration to sound more intellectual). If you do a comprehensive (damn another big word, I'm on a roll) search on Brett Baskin's Facebook page (which means you have to add him, which is a scary thought when you think about it because he could possibly discover where you live and show up at your house with a 12 pack of Natty Light and fun times; for him, not you. Ever watch a shocking stunt on Jackass that didn't involve human feces or massive amounts of schlong in plain view? Exactly.) Here's the story:

              Sushibar was having their annual Christmas party and my actions from the previous party, I.e. violently vomiting by the front door, almost getting into a fight with a guy over him wearing a cowboy hat (its not my fault he didn't realize that he wasn't in Texas), and passing out on a hibachi table, wasn't enough for the owners to ban me from the party and put up a huge wooden cross or whatever sacred artifact (wow, another fancy word) that Buddhists use to ward off evil. Instead I got an invite and was allowed to invite guests. Apparently MrChow and his brother, Sammo, (the owners) were the forgiving type (not bad for supposed Triads who allegedly keep machine guns in one of the upstairs offices of Sushibar).

      I decided to invite HotTeacher and her friends (ButtonNose and BrownBag) to the party. On the night of the party we arrived (despite HotTeacher's condescension, seriously when you're trust fund baby friends have to tell you loosen up you know you have a problem, I should have) and Hootie was working (no it wasn't Darius Rucker even though he was good at busting racial stereotypes just like Rucker does). Hootie was pretty chill for having to work a party like this even though it wasn't that surprising given the fact that he was like Mace Windu from Star Wars (episodes 2 and 3) whilst on the clock, I.e. calm no matter what whether it be dealing with drunken douche bags or the droid army (in a galaxy far, far away or your nearby watering hole). He was cooler than Stuart Scott's commentary on Sportscenter (seriously, stealing rap lyrics doesn't make you ghetto fabulous and/or witty).

          They had an open bar just like the year prior but no top shelf liquor, just Smirnoff for the vodka choices (which is the only liquor I needed), but the food spread was off the hook. Sushi, Mac and cheese, roast beef, hibachi and all sorts of other shit.  I pigged out like it was an episode of Man vs. Food. I was having a great time with great friends and there was only one thing that could make it better (especially in my drunken state). Yep you guessed, fucking with people and who did I decided to fuck with. None other than Brett “Fucking” Baskin of course. Me and Brett had a habit of fucking with each other throughout the years. He would always smack me in the face (in good fun) and I would return the favor but he always would get the better of me mostly due to the fact that he just didn’t give a fuck. The alcohol coursing through my veins had me in a similar state:

Frank: “HEYBRETT!!!”

I proceeded to do a technique called “ball checking” where you walk up to an unsuspecting victim, say something to make him turn around and backhand him right in the nuts.  Upon receiving this blunt force trauma to his “jewels”, Brett doubled over (understandably) like a country bumpkin that just had her ghetto country boyfriend throw a hillbilly haymaker to the stomach upon learning that her birth control didn’t work, except instead of bitching about not owning me for child support anymore he just laid this response on me.

Brett: (still holding his pierced nuts and yes I learned that info in a no homo sort of way) “SIR!!”
This wouldn’t be the end of it however, I would get him again later on that night and I could tell he was getting agitated especially when I would run off laughing like a giddy school girl. Amazingly my behavior at this year’s party was still considered an upgrade from the year before. HotTeacher thought I was being about as funny as a dead baby joke in an abortion clinic and I cared as much about it as the (current of this writing) Chief of Police does about Charleston’s rising crime rate (Prove me wrong Chief, prove me wrong). I was as giddy as a crack head at a certain former State Treasurer’s parties whose dad has a bridge named after him (not naming names). HotTeacher's friends thought our antics were funny but their southern belle upbringing's would only allow slight fits of laughter to spill out. I guess that's what happens when your childhood revolves around money that was passed down from the descendants of slave owners. 
Another cool thing about this party was that Sushibar was having a raffle for "presents". Knowing MrChow I figured it would either be for a night with one of Charleston's premier underage (drinking age, not consenting to sex age which is actually 16 in the State of South Carolina) escorts or a free bar tab. Instead it was for bottles of top shelf liquors and the best part was that unlike most raffles everybody was going to win something so either way I would be going home with (or so I thought) with some top shelf shit. I was as impatient as Mark Sanford at an Argentinean whore house. I wanted my number to be called.

10 excruciating minutes later……………….
My number (or name, honestly I was so shit housed at this point I don’t really remember the manner in which winners of the raffle were being decided) was called and I ran up (more like a giddy, fast paced walk) to claim my prize. What was this prize? None other than Belvidere Vodka muthafucka (sorry, I get a little ghetto at times of excitement and accomplishment). I was so happy, there is nothing better than getting awarded a top shelf liquor (besides winning the lottery and having a threesome with Stacy Kiebler and Charlize Theron). So what did I do with my prize? Did I start chugging it like Mel Gibson after the box office numbers for The Passion of the Christ came out? Usually that answer would be a resounding yes with a side of debauchery involved. Instead I gave the bottle to HotTeacher. Let me repeat that, I GAVE A BOTTLE OF TOP SHELF VODKA THAT I WON TO HOTTEACHER. I was THAT in love with HotTeacher at the time. What did she do to show her appreciation? (Besides, god forbid, giving me a blowjob which was about as easy as trying to knock out Anderson Silva while blindfolded) She left with ButtonNose and BrownBag to go home and fist herself to The Nanny or something. Fuck her, I had friends with actual personalities to go hang out with and they were all heading to Brett’s house. I just had no idea how weird shit was about to get.
I arrived at Brett’s house and things were pretty normal except for all of us being pretty hammered already. Brett had a bar set up in his living room and we kept on drinking and I saw an opportunity to “ball check” Brett a third time. I knew that doing so would lead to some sort of retribution but I was ready to be his Huckleberry and slapped him again in the nuts REALLY hard. Brett had that look in his eye like he wanted to kick my ass but he also knew that in order to do so he would have to do it in a way the I would consider funny.

Brett: (pointing in a direction that made me look away from him) “HEYFRANK!!!!”
The next thing I know I took a kick to the nuts with enough force to make Adam Vinetiari proud. I was doubled over in pain, but couldn’t really get mad since I was playing with a four alarm fire of masochism in the form of Brett “Fucking” Baskin.

Frank: (laughing WHILE doubled over in pain in a high pitched tone) “Well played sir, well played.”
Everyone, including CadetDouche saw this as the perfect opportunity to start fucking with me. How did they do this? Yep, you guessed it, wrapping up my head in blue electrical tape and making my head look like it had been mummified by smurfs. At least they were nice enough to leave room for me to breath out of my nose so that I wouldn’t die of asphyxiation (I think I might be setting a personal record for fancy words with this story). After unwrapping my head which hurt like a motherfucker I returned to the party as Brett and HairDresser walked by and went right into Brett’s room THIS is where things started to get weird. Brett’s girlfriend was in the living room watching all this and was COMPLETELY cool with it and I could tell I was missing something. That something came our of Brett’s bedroom 4 minutes later in the form Brett wearing HairDresser’s green tube dress and a blonde wig with HairDresser in tow wearing Brett’s T-Shirt and gym shorts. Here’s the thing: Brett is approximately 5’10 and 200lbs while HairDresser is approximately 5’2 and approximately 110lbs which is definitely an issue when it comes to cross-dressing. In other words the tube dress wasn’t exactly long enough to cover Brett’s genitalia. It was cool though, because Brett had that angle covered by tucking his junk in between his legs. Lets do a quick recap of Brett’s wardrobe at the moment:
  1. A blonde wig (still have no idea why he had that in his house)
  2. A shiny green tube dress that was originally designed for a woman that is 3 inches away from legally being labeled as a midget and only went slightly passed his stomach.
  3. Junk tucked in between legs.
He looked like what would happen if Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs had knocked up Marylin Monroe and grew out a fu-man-chu mustache. He even had the dance down even though I don’t believe he has ever seen the movie. All that was left was for him to start saying, “would you fuck me, I’d fuck me.” I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t already been fucked in the head at this point in my life I would have ran to the nearest Catholic Church and bathed in Holy Water while weeping like Lindsay Lohan after hearing a guilty verdict for a DUI. Instead I, along with everyone else there (who I’m assuming had to be at least on my level for fucked in the headedness) were laughing our asses off.  There was also a video camera going (which you would have already known if you had read the first paragraph already). I didn’t know this at the time especially when I ran up and smacked Brett right in the ass (no homo). Yeah there is a video of me on Facebook smacking a grown man in the ass that looks like Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs on prom night. Now I’m going to go cry. Laugh it up shit heels.

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