Everyone calm down. Your second favorite Bayside High Schooler is not really dead, but he may as well be. I was channel surfing last night and stopped when I saw AC Slater (Mario Lopez for those of you over the age of 33 and under the age of 18) standing on stage with a microphone. Was this the long awaited Saved by the Bell reunion? Was he at least hosting a marathon? Was the episode where Jesse overdoses on caffeine pills about to air? Unfortunately, none of the above was true.

I had accidentally tuned in to the Season 5 premier of America’s Best Dance Crew, also known as “ABDC”. Aside from referring to itself by using an acronym that makes me feel dyslexic, this show has made me lose every ounce of respect I’ve ever had for AC Slater. The first time I saw the show a few years ago I wrote a eulogy for AC on Brahsome. I thought it wouldn’t last, yet 5 seasons later the show is more popular than ever.

Before I get to some unbelievable news about AC, let me first explain this shitshow. If you’ve never seen ABDC, it’s basically about a bunch of dance “crews”. We are told about the unique style of each crew’s “routine” and why we should be excited to see them “perform”. The crew then runs out on stage in the same way cheerleaders would at one of their retarded “competitions” (Note: cheerleading is not a sport, don’t even start with that bullshit argument. No really, if you’re going to try to defend it as a sport just stop reading. I don’t like you at this point). Each crew then gets interviewed by AC Slater and they generally make asses of themselves, while displaying the results of a K-12 OTB public education, capped off by a few semesters of community college. The crews perform a routine that showcases their “original flavor” and highlights their “sickest moves” while some shitty song you hear at Felson’s plays in the background.

The crews are then judged by former N’Sync member JC Cha-gay, Lil Mamma, and Omarion. Yeah, I don’t know who the latter two judges are either. They provide insightful commentary on the routines, using terms that I’m positive don’t exist in the dictionary. JC Cha-gay approved of one crew by saying, “your isolations were very nice”. However, Omarion wanted that crew to “push their isolations a bit further”. Not knowing what the fuck an “isolation” was, I continued to watch as the next crews “performed”. I still had no idea what was going on.

According to AC, the last four seasons of this show has “sparked a movement in the streets in every city across the nation” which resulted in “new crews going harder than ever before.” So now they’re holding three regional competitions, to determine which group of commoner community college drop outs is the best at flailing around on a stage in the same way that Helen Keller would while trying to fight her way out of a wet paper bag. The competitions began in the “Dirty South” where the Jungle Boogie crew introduced “crankin’”, a new dance style where five idiots, wearing what appear to be windbreakers from the Jamaican Olympic team (think Cool Runnings), run around on a stage like jungle animals. More about Jungle Boogie, from their bio: “When twin brothers Anthony and Antwain quit college to pursue dance, their family shut them out. The twins’ family still has never seen them dance but they are hoping to win back their love and support.” Why am I paying (through the taxes my parents pay) for these assholes to follow their dreams? Here’s a dream; get a fucking job, pay your fucking taxes, and stay out of Felson’s. The judges critiqued their performance. I didn’t listen.

I thought about the good ol’ days when I idolized AC just for being AC and also for being married to Ali Landry for two whole weeks.

Some of you are thinking, “Two weeks? What the hell happened?” Well, Ali Landry annulled the marriage because AC cheated on her a few times, really close to, or possibly on their wedding day. After the annulment, AC went on to host random television shows and appeared on Dancing With The Stars. I thought he had already hit rock bottom, but I was wrong. AC Slater went from Ali Landry, to this…

Meet the Ghost crew, who resemble a group of Mexican gangster lumberjacks. Their bio, “A crew that has faced a lot of adversity in life, crew member Patrick decided to better his life and leave the rough life of gang banging with the Crips behind him. The crew would break into a local apartment complex gym room to practice dance.” How can AC go from Ali Landry to hosting a show featuring former gang members who leave a life of drive-bys and gang bangin’ to perform isolations (still don’t know what that means) with their crew? Hosting this show is even worse than his decision to play Greg Louganis in “Breaking the Surface: The Greg Louganis Story”.

I understand why shows such as American Idol, Making the Band, America’s Next Top Model, etc. exist. American Idol has a clear winner that receives a recording contract. Making the Band follows a similar format, but the difference is that no one watches this show. What does a dance crew do when they become America’s Best? Are there dance crew contracts? I began to pay attention to the show again and saw the losers leaving the stage, tears streaming down their faces, as they realized they had to go back to their miserable lives not being me. Note: The amount of hot girls in the audience rivals that of Felson’s, when people actually went there. For some reason, they love this shit.

While AC Slater is not actually dead, he’s been dead to me for the past few years. That was until Forrest showed me some stunning new information regarding AC and the rest of the Saved by the Bell cast. Not only did AC (and Zach) bang all the girls on the show, but in 1993 he even had his way with some random chick. By “had his way” I mean “raped”. No, he didn’t rape some chick from Valley in a Saved by the Bell episode that focused on violence against women. He raped an actual person, allegedly. Now we all know rape isn’t funny. Except when it happened to Forrest at Camp Sea Gull during that game of capture the flag with a……I can’t go any further into that due to a 15 year old lawsuit that’s still tied up in court. From this news article from May 11th, 1993, we can see that AC was accused of rape. Normally, I would assume the male was innocent, just like the Duke Lacrosse players. However, AC is sort of a Mexican, which means he’s probably guilty of this, or some other, crime (most likely drunk driving, being an illegal immigrant, not paying taxes, abusing our nation’s healthcare system, overcrowding our school systems, not learning English, or ruining perfectly good American made vehicles by lowering them, tinting the windows, and covering them with retarded decals from Auto Zone). Apparently, NBC paid the girl $50,000 to keep it quiet. We all know how ITB that is. This story was corrobarted by Screech, in his tell-all book “Behind the Bell”, which I’ll be reading and reviewing soon.

This shocking news has made me rethink my love (no homo) for AC. He obviously did whatever he wanted in the 90s by banging a lot of hot girls and doing drugs on set (even during the “No Hope with Dope” episode). But I just can’t get over him hosting this ABDC atrocity. So, RIP AC Slater, you’ll be missed. Goooo Bayside.

I cannot express in words my obsession with Jersey Shore. I’ll get into that in another post, that recaps the entire season. Yes, the entire season. But there is some Jersey Shore related news going on in Raleigh. Namely,  Buckhead Saloon is closing. Don’t know what Buckhead is? Well then consider yourself a true ITBer. I know there are some of you who have had the misfortune of being dragged there at some point during its illustrious run as the hot spot for douchebags and community college sluts from the Trailwood of Tears. Basically, it’s miserable. Rumor has it that the space will be taken over by a Hip/Hop club, which is another reason I will never go downtown. Ever. My only concern is that the clientele from Buckhead may end up at Felson’s since Stool Pigeons, another gel head hangout, is also closed. That shitty Lucky B’s or 13’s or whatever the fuck it’s called and Brooklyn Heights can only hold so many miserable people at a time. Keep an eye out this weekend for anyone who doesn’t belong.

Speaking of Trailwood of Tears douchebag gel heads, the Jersey Shore finale was pretty lame. I wasn’t paying too much attention because there was a lack of yelling, fist pumping, and people getting knocked out by “one shot! one shot!” on last night’s season finale. After Sammi retrieved Ronnie from jail, the cast basically went into their sentimental goodbye bullshit. I think some stuff happened with Snooki and some guy but I usually stop paying attention whenever she’s featured on camera, mainly because I don’t like to look at ugly people for an extended period of time. The after show was pretty intense. The Situation showed how much he really hated Ronnie as they exchanged some insults that were pretty humorous. The show was hosted by some dumb bitch that had obviously never hosted a reunion show, or any show, in her life. Sammi started to get quiet at one point and the host just kept prying and basically made her cry on the air. Even Ronnie commented, “this is awkward”. Sammi left the set as the host kept asking her if she was going to cry. I didn’t watch it all because I was flipping back and forth between that and Conan. But I dvr’d it so I’ll see it all this weekend.

While grieving about the show’s ending, someone sent me some information on renting the cast, as well as an idication that a second season is in the works. Yes, there is a possibility that we could pay for the cast of Jersey Shore to come ITB. It takes $30,000 for the whole cast to ”make an appearance” for one night, but who really wants the whole cast? I’m really only concerned with DJ Pauly D, The Situation, and Snooki (Forrest wants to bang her, so disgusting). I’m going to contact their agents and look into finding a good time for them to come get blackout with us. While I could probably cover the cost of having them down for a night, ideally I’d like them to stay ITB for a month. They would live in Cameron Village (someone suggested we turn Ballentine’s into an ITB “shore house” and let them stay there) and be required to attend The Point or Felson’s every night of the week. We’re going to need to raise a little bit of money, since I anticipate the cost of this to be upwards of $750,000. I’ll start working on this soon since there is now a huge hole in my Thursday night TV lineup. I guess I could always stay at home and watch what’s going on at The Point…

42nd Street Oyster Bar has always been an ITB landmark. I’ve always been a big fan of this place as a pre-bang or pre-bar destination. Girls love the “atmosphere” and every guy knows that oysters are the shit because they’re an aphrodisiac, which makes girls wanna hook up (even more than normal).

However, they’ve recently come under fire for serving overpriced average seafood………………….….that makes people sick.

Trust me, I know good (average) seafood from having eaten at the Sanitary Fish Market & Restaurant and Dockside at least 100 times (I’ve got the t-shirts to prove it). So I obviously have no problem paying more than I should for food that is overhyped, as long as I’m at an ITB approved establishment. What I won’t stand for, however, is the possibility of dying; yes dying, after eating dinner at a restaurant.

“Wednesday evening, I started feeling really bad. All of a sudden, I got so violently ill, we had to go to the emergency room,” said Fields, whose eyes were still red from the illness a week later.

“I felt so bad I thought maybe this could be the end,” he added.

“By this afternoon, the county had roughly 40 reports of sickness, mostly diarrhea and vomiting, from customers who had eaten there in roughly the past week, said Andre Pierce, Wake County’s director of environmental health and safety.

Reports from the popular eatery on West Jones Street are being evaluated, and anyone with similar symptoms should call (919) 856-7400.”

Diarrhea and vomiting, think about how badly that would go over once I got on the Felson’s dance floor. I would actually have to use the bathroom stalls for their intended purpose.

“The common thread has been that people have eaten steamed oysters, and we’ve isolated it down to all of those steamed oysters coming out of Louisiana,” Hurley (the owner) said.

Well there’s the problem. Everyone knows it’s safer, and classier, to eat oysters from North Carolina, where you don’t have to worry about freshwater influx, septic tank overflow, and the remnants of the second worst natural disaster in the history of America (Hurricane Fran was the first, I was without power for TWO whole days). It’s much cooler to have an oyster roast at your own house, where you can ensure that the oysters are from Morehead, or at least somewhere in North Carolina.

At first I thought maybe a busload of commoners, who aren’t used to fine (average at best) dining, ate at 42nd Street and got sick because their palate wasn’t adjusted to such amazing oysters and chicken fingers. I wouldn’t normally care about the well-being of others, but this really hit home on Monday, when I got a call from Mary Caldwell Hovington.

Mary Caldwell H.: “I feel really sick, I’ve been throwing up all morning.”
WNF IV: “Gross. You pregnant again?”
Mary Caldwell H.: “No! Why do guys always automatically assume a girl is pregnant if they say they’re sick?”
WNF IV: “Because they usually are pregnant….”
Mary Caldwell H.: “Well, I’m not pregnant. I think I have food poisoning, I ate some oysters at 42nd Street last night.”
WNF IV: “Oysters? Those are an aphrodisiac, you know. You are totally pregnant. Who was the lucky (now unlucky) guy?”
Mary Caldwell H.: “I’m NOT pregnant, I was out with a girlfriend.”
WNF IV: “Oh, well you probably have food poisoning then. Everyone that’s eaten at 42nd Street has gotten sick, I think it’s some sort of oyster flu. They get their oysters from Louisiana so they’re probably still contaminated by all that Katrina shit.”
Mary Caldwell H.: “I’ve gotta go, I feel sick.”
WNF IV: “Name it after me if it’s a boy.”

So I just wanted to get the message out to those of you who may be in town for the holidays. I know 42nd Street is always on the list of places to dine if you haven’t been home in a while. Be careful, because you might get sick, or almost die.

Last Thursday afternoon, a few people informed me and Forrest that Cameron Village would be celebrating its 60th anniversary later that evening. We thought this seemed like an appropriate reason to celebrate (get blackout). That was until I saw the advertisement below.

An Open House? Who came up with this idea? There’s nothing more OTB than an Open House. Open Houses don’t even exist inside the beltline. ITB houses are ruthlessly snatched up before they can be put on the market, sometimes even before the previous owner has been pronounced dead. So why are we inviting commoners to Cameron Village for this anniversary? Shouldn’t there be a guest list? Why would we allow people who don’t normally shop for (completely unnecessary) specialty products to come get in the way of those who have spent countless hours and dollars supporting these fine establishments?

I became more and more infuriated as I read over the advertisement.
“Look at this shit, Forrest. ‘Seeing is Believing’? Well if we don’t remember seeing any of this, we can believe that it never happened. Just like when we dropped the atomic bomb,” I said.
“The what?” Forrest asked.
“Exactly,” I replied.

As if clowns (pedophiles) and jugglers (high school dropouts) weren’t enough, they threw in a $25 coupon to promote this atrocity. The coupon is for $25 off of a purchase of at least $100. I was impressed with this bait and switch technique, knowing that it would draw commoners into the stores like canned food night at the State Fair. Once inside, they would realize they couldn’t afford any of the overpriced merchandise. I hoped that this would make them feel terrible about themselves to the point that they would be too embarrassed to ever set foot in Cameron Village again. Fortunately, the coupon was only valid for three hours. The last thing we need is a bunch of commoners lining up outside of Charlotte’s waiting for the Black Friday deals. Cameron Village doesn’t have Black Friday because it doesn’t need to have Black Friday. Sure, some of the establishments may be barely staying afloat, hardly able to handle massive amounts of debt, but they don’t need to stoop so low as to provide coupons or “deals” to the ITB consumers. You don’t see Felson’s handing out coupons.

Even though this Open House only lasted for three hours, we weren’t going to let these newcomers ruin a typical Thursday night. The only way we could put up with these assholes was to be completely blackout. Forrest and I joined up with some other people who sent me this great idea through Twitter.

@Reddcorn CV bar crawl tonight beer and bombs all night starts at moes makes the loop around until we end up blackout at felsons @LewisWeavil @WNFIV

I can’t believe I had never thought of a Cameron Village Bar Crawl before. The bar crawl began at Moe’s because the employees always stop what they’re doing and welcome me when I walk in. I don’t know why all restaurants don’t do this, at least to me. After dinner and a few drinks, we got in my SUV to drive (I don’t walk) to our next destination, the Flying Biscuit (yes they serve alcohol). However, my plan to drive was thwarted by the immense crowds of commoners wandering around the parking lot wondering why there wasn’t a Wal-Mart within sight. Since I refuse to walk anywhere, I tried to make Forrest carry me (no homo) to the next bar, but he was already slurring his words and I didn’t want to risk getting dropped. The obvious solution was to make Forrest get a shopping cart from Harris Teeter for me to ride in. Once on board, we began to pass some of the “entertainment” as we made our way to the next stop.

A magician was performing for a small crowd and tried to stop us so we could be part of his act.
“Hello, Gentleman. Care to pick a card?” he said.
I wasn’t going to let one of these assholes make me look stupid again. It took three years of therapy to get over what happened with the commoner magician at Forrest’s 11th birthday party, and I wasn’t going to let it happen again.
“Care to pick a career? A real one, that doesn’t involve wearing a tuxedo you got from the Bargain Box and carrying all of your possessions in a trunk. I would respect you more if you worked at Kroger,” I replied as his face turned red from embarrassment.

A balloon animal making clown stood a few feet away. I thought I overheard him laughing, but wasn’t sure if he was amused, since his face paint made him look like a sad homeless person. Maybe it was the fact that a grown man was “entertaining” children at an Open House for a collection of specialty retailers that was so sad.

Seeing these heathens so close to Village Deli made me want to throw up my Joey Bag of Donuts right there on the sidewalk. We crossed the street and passed by Victoria’s Secret. I couldn’t believe they weren’t doing anything for the Open House. I would have assumed scantily clad women with low self esteem would have been showing off and begging for attention. I guess Felson’s has that market cornered.

We continued down the hill, passing Ten Thousand Villages, which is also commonly known as “what the fuck is that Ten Thousand Villages store and why is it in Cameron Village?”.
Almost on cue, Forrest asked, “What the fuck is Ten Thousand Villages?”
“They sell a bunch of foreign shit, made by a bunch of poor foreigners, to rich people inside the beltline. It just makes ITB women feel like they’re giving back to third world countries without actually having to go there or do anything about it. They can proudly display some colorful tribal quilt from New Guinea in their living room and naively believe that the money they spent on it is going to help some poor village people (no homo). Plus they don’t have to be around all the AIDS and other diseases. It’s sort of like the Bargain Box.” I explained.
“Wait, what’s the Bargain Box?” Forrest asked.
“It’s like this shit hole, except all the stuff is donated by wealthy people. I think it’s run by the Junior League or some shit. My Mom’s required to donate something like $500 worth of shit every year. She says it’s basically “last year’s designer shit from Cameron Clothing,” I explained.
“Wait you have to donate your clothes? That’s retarded,” he replied.
“Well, yes, all charity is retarded. However, you can write off the original price of all the shit you donate, not just the $15 that some poor person has to spend when they buy it. It’s actually the way wealthy people make money back when cleaning out their closet. That’s why mom Mom makes me clean out my closet every six months,” I said.
Forrest couldn’t grasp this concept, he was never really good at math, so we continued to The Flying Biscuit.

There was a wait for being seated at a table (I don’t wait), so we sat at the bar and ordered drinks. This is where I learned that The Flying Biscuit has the worst fucking service in Cameron Village. They’ve got fifteen hipster douchebags walking around in there like they don’t have shit to do. Hey Steven, stop standing around with your hand on your hip talking about how cute your boyfriend who writes for The Independent is and get me a fucking refill. Now I know why there was a wait for a table, none of these assholes were doing their jobs. I couldn’t take it any longer, so we left after one drink and went next door to Cameron Bar and Grill.

Upon entering Cameron Bar and Grill, we were greeted by a very bangable hostess (call me) and led to our table. While waiting for our drinks, I began to wonder why Cameron Bar and Grill doesn’t stay open past midnight. I know it’s mainly just a restaurant, but it does have a bar. Sure the bar is fairly small and the bartenders are slow and rude, but that’s never stopped anyone from going to The Point. The place began to get a little too crowded so we left for the Draft House after a few shots.

We passed the new Goodberry’s on the way to our next stop. While Goodberry’s doesn’t serve alcohol, I’m glad it finally moved ITB. In the past, I could only get it at NC State football or basketball games or Carolina Hurricanes games. I don’t particularly enjoy going to any of those events, since they too are outside the beltline.

We settled into a booth (again, no homo) at the Draft House. Despite the fact that everything on the menu tastes like a burger (and a shitty one at that), this place served its purpose. We took some jager bombs while the obese losers wearing Hurricanes jerseys watched the Canes win some “incredible” game because it went into overtime or some shit. I only go to playoff hockey games because that’s the best time to jump on the bandwagon and pretend that I know shit about hockey. The only reason I ever go to playoff hockey games, other than to watch the fights, is so I can try to take down liquored up cougars from Cary. Why only cougars from Cary? Because their kids aren’t allowed to play in any of the real sports leagues in Raleigh, such as Jaycee or the Salvation Army. With nothing to turn to, they force their kids to play hockey. Living in cul-de-sacs allows their kids to set up those retarded street hockey goals without the risk of getting run over by a neighbor’s leased Lexus. Great parenting Cary, your kids are going to go far on that hockey scholarship. How do you expect to exploit your children for their maximum value when they’re playing a sport that pays their players the same as my monthly bar tabs? Unfortunately, Forrest is the only one who’s had success taking down one of these Cary cougars. He said it wasn’t worth it because waking up next to a picture of the slut’s kids really freaked him out.

Almost blackout at this point, we left for Felson’s. Fortunately, the Open House was over at this point and we avoided running into any more commoners and any of the other “entertainment” acts. We arrived at Felson’s and basked in the glow of underage normalcy. If you’ve read this blog before, you know what happened next.

Now it’s obvious that Halloween is Obama’s favorite holiday, next to Kwanzaa. Handing out free candy to poor kids while encouraging them to lie about their identity is socialism at it’s finest. I would be anti-Halloween if it weren’t for the fact that it’s the only holiday that allows girls to slut it up without feeling guilty about themselves, while still being respected by their peers. The sorostitutes who normally try to maintain a clean image, by grinding on each other on the Felson’s dance floor, can finally let loose by dressing up as “Slutty (Insert profession)”. It’s perfectly normal to see slutty nurses, slutty secretaries, slutty angels, slutty devils, and even slutty sluts on Halloween. It’s also the easiest night of the year to slay some slutty bumble bee or slutty swine flu and role play while doing it. Halloween has allowed me to take down a slutty Hannah Montana, a slutty Paris Hilton, and a slutty Batgirl without feeling weird about it the next day.

Last Saturday, we began the night drinking at my house before going straight to Felson’s. In a failed attempt at humor, Forrest tried to go as me for Halloween. He said he was dressing up as “arrogance” by wearing black Kanye West shutter sunglasses and a WNF IV t-shirt, but I knew he really just wanted to be me (I can’t blame him). Of course this worked for him because he eventually took down some slutty Cleopatra, woke up the next morning and didn’t know how she got there or who she was. Knowing I’d never get laid if I pretended to be Forrest, I decided to go as Kanye West. Sporting a down vest and white Kanye shutter shades, we entered the bar and saw that everyone had put a lot of thought into their costumes, except for Forrest. I took my normal lap, passing terrorists, a few versions of swine-flu, some dude from Twilight, the old man who owned Jurassic Park, and a pedophile who actually pretended to be a bartender as well.

Staying in character, I spent most of the night interrupting people and telling them someone else had a better costume than they did. “Yo, Swine-flu. I’m really happy for you. I’MA LET YOU FINISH…….BUT THAT SWINE FLU OVER THERE, WITH THE “BACON AIDS” SIGN ON THE BACK, IS THE BEST SWINE FLU OF ALL TIME! ONE OF THE BEST SWINE FLUS OF ALL TIME!” I was about to interrupt a Magnum P.I. when a hammered Joe Montana pointing a fake gun at people walked through with a group of sluts following in his wake. I decided it was best to just let that one slide, I mean, he is a living legend.

At some point a friend of mine called me over to meet two slutty something’s (I was too drunk to figure out what their costumes were at this point). He said “Hey, William, these girls are fans of the blog, they wanted to meet you.” I started talking to them, and while I’m normally attracted to brunettes, or anything that moves, my attention turned to the blonde. While we were talking, this huge piece of shit came up and tried to flirt with me. She’s horrible and I bang her when I’m bored. I hate her as a person and if she ruined this potential hook up for me I had already decided that murder was not out of the picture. So I pulled a King Kong and grabbed the blondes’ waist, claiming her as my own. This, combined with some other distractions provided by a dude from Twilight and one of the seventeen dudes dressed up as Alan from “The Hangover” seemed to work at the time.

I was on my normal night’s pace, right up until 2:00am. We approached the bar and asked for my parents’ credit card when something strange happened. The bartender told me the bar would be open for another hour, due to the time change.
“Time change? Did ITB get a new time zone? I’ve been lobbying for this for years. If we move our clocks forward enough we’ll be able to make a shit ton of money by investing in the stock market because we’ll be in the future. That’s why everyone’s so rich in Europe,” I said.
The bartender just paused and stared. He obviously didn’t understand the concept of time travel.

A lot of people left the bar as the fake 2:00am rolled around. I began to take full advantage of this extra hour we were given due to the “time change”. I bought the girl a drink and kept trying to get her to take shots, she declined. Mental note; figure out how to roofie something other than a shot. Considering how blackout I was, combined with the fact that I was still looking through sunglasses that essentially made me blind, I realized I needed some friend approval before I took this girl home. I saw two of my friends across the bar, got their attention, then had to make up a reason for this girl to turn around so they could see her. With the blonde’s back turned to these guys, I proceeded to say, “Oh great, I hope those guys don’t come over here, they are huge fans. Being so famous is so tiring sometimes. I totally understand why Lindsay Lohan needs rehab.” She turned around, just in time to see them all giggling like school girls. As she turned back towards me I looked back to see their signs of approval. Surely impressed by my immense popularity, we continued talking, about what, I have no clue.

My vision began to blur even more after taking another shot and I couldn’t keep the glasses on any longer. Standing there in khaki pants, a polo shirt, and a down vest, it was only minutes before a slutty Harry Potter stopped and said, “Oh, you’re Marty McFly, that’s a great costume! Because of the time change right?”
Why the fuck did everyone else but me understand this time travel shit? Slurring my words, I replied, “No. I’ma let you finish, but that Harry Potter over there, is the best….wait….why the fuck are you a girl Harry Potter?”
Her drunken friend, the seventeenth Alan from “The Hangover” I had seen that night, interrupted, “1.21 jigawatts! Great Scott, Marty.”
I assumed the “jigawatts” he spoke of was some new kind of drug unit I didn’t know about. Maybe that’s what 8 balls are like in the future, I thought.
“I’ma let you finish, but those other 16 Alan’s from “The Hangover”’ are the best Alan’s from “The Hangover” of all time. But if you wanna go to late night and do some jigawatts, I’m down.”
The blonde interjected and made me realize she wasn’t up for jigawatts. I took a few shots with slutty Harry Potter and Alan and we left the bar, splitting a cab with a chicken.

I need to preface the remainder of the night with the following. Below are the standard precursors to post-bar Halloween hook-ups. As you can see, 99% of my Halloween hook-ups occur after three different scenarios. However, this night, created the 1% of types of Halloween hook-ups I’ve never had before.

We went to my room and as things progressed she says, “I’m not going to sleep with you”. Unacceptable, I hadn’t heard those words since I was 12 years old. Was this because of the time change? I proceeded to blow her out in a rant that made Christian Bale look like Mr. Rogers. Her response was priceless.
“Well I didn’t want to sleep with you because I really like you,” she said.
“Well, that was a mistake. Is this because of the time change?” I asked.
This wasn’t a third grade sleepover and I wasn’t about to listen to the diatribe she was about to embark on, so I grabbed my monogrammed pillow and stormed upstairs to the AFS (a refinished attic with twin beds, dubbed the “Anne Frank Suite” for obvious reasons). Before leaving, I stopped and said, “You’ll now be known as 1%, since this has never happened to me before. I’m gonna let it slide because this whole night has been confusing as shit.”

After the girl had snuck out the next morning, she sent a text saying she couldn’t find her $200 pair of jeans. A brief flash in my mind of me throwing her jeans out in the front yard came and went. I shook it off, there’s no way I took someone’s clothes and threw them in the yard. Who does that? So I texted her and said, “sorry for partying, don’t have them. don’t ever come over to my house again”. Later that day, while walking back in the house from brunch I saw a pile of something in the front yard. Confused, I went to examine it. There they were, the $200 jeans. Mary Caldwell and Forrest were with me, so I told Mary Caldwell she could have them. I still don’t remember throwing them in the front yard, so I’m assuming this had to do with the time change. Hopefully, Halloween never falls on this night again.

Note: Alan from “The Hangover”, if you’re still trying to do some jigawatts this weekend, send me an e-mail. I want in on this action.