Last Saturday, as the bar came to a close, Forrest and I announced that late night would be held at Forrest’s new house, which was blocks away from Felson’s. Forrest’s Dad had just bought this house at an estate sale (from a dead guy) and Forrest had yet to move in any furniture. Figuring the living room would closely resemble the Felson’s dance floor, this seemed to be the most appropriate place to continue our debauchery.

Even though the house was within walking distance, Forrest and I got in his SUV and drove there, in order to arrive before our guests. Upon entering the house, I stumbled into an empty room. The walls were white with random patches of paint on one wall that was being used to test paint colors. Two concert sized speakers with some sort of sound board thing sat at the end of the room. I had no idea what I was doing, but I plugged my iPhone in and it worked. As I stood in the dimly lit room that looked like the Tate/LaBianca house making a late night playlist full of all the songs we had just been grinding to on the Felson’s dance floor, the late night guests started to arrive.

I went to the kitchen to get a beer and saw Forrest standing in front of the fridge.
“So….this is…….all of his stuff?” I asked, referring to all the shit in the kitchen that didn’t look like it had been purchased from Williams-Sonoma.
“Yeah, it’s kind of creepy,” he said as he tried to hand me a beer.
“Kind of? It’s creepy as shit, his fucking food is still in the refrigerator. I’m not drinking beer that was next to the dead guy’s food. What was this guy’s name?” I asked.
“Christ, who cares? His name? I have no idea…” Forrest said as he opened the beer he’d just taken from the dead guy’s fridge. Disgusting.
“Well what do you call his shit? I mean that’s his couch, those are his books, and his pictures. All this stuff belongs to him,” I said as I grabbed a kosher Miller Lite from the cooler that Forrest had used for tailgating earlier that day.
“Well, it belongs to me now. What’s your point?” he asked.
“I dunno. I’d just want to give it a name, that way you can tell people that a dead guy’s shit is everywhere without freaking them out,” I explained.
Two girls had entered from the hallway and had overheard our conversation.
“Wait, did you say this is a dead guy’s house?” said Girl 1.
“Is that why, like, you don’t have furniture?” asked Girl 2.
“Why are you two asking questions? Get some beers and go back to the dance party,” I demanded.
“This is creepy. Is this house haunted?” asked Girl 2.
“Yeah, it looks like a meth lab in here….” added Girl 1.
Pulling Forrest aside, I continued our conversation.
“You’ve got to tell these sluts something, pretend this is your Uncle’s house, or that you have a really old roommate. If people start finding out that all this shit belongs to a dead guy, this party is gonna die quicker than poor kids with swine flu,” I whispered.
“Fine. How about Bernie? You know, from Weekend at Bernie’s? It’s his stuff…..he’s dead, we’re partying in his house…..and it is the weekend,” Forrest suggested.
“That  was fine a few years ago, but now Bernie Madoff is who everyone thinks of when you say the name Bernie,” I said.
“But, Weekend at Bernie’s was a great movie,” he replied.
I still wasn’t sold on this idea, “Yeah, but I still think it’s gonna confuse people. You’re rich as shit, people might assume you’re related to Bernie Madoff and then get pissed that your family stole all of their family’s money,” I explained.
“So, what are you gonna call him?” he asked.
“I’m just gonna call him dead guy, I guess,” I replied.
“But you just finished saying you didn’t want to call him…” he began.
“I don’t care what I just said,” I interrupted. I was too drunk to keep up with which side of the argument I was on.
Forrest continued, “Well then don’t call him “dead guy” around the talent. You’ll scare them away. I’m calling him Bernie, since I own the fucking house and all the shit in it. How do you know he wasn’t rich anyway? This house is three blocks from Felson’s, we’re ITB as shit.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t rich. It’s just that all this shit is old and looks like it should be on the front page of Craigslist. Have you gotten someone to look through it all yet?” I asked.
“No, that’s disgusting. Why would I do that?” said Forrest.
“Retard, this guy was old. That means, like kids today, he grew up in the Great Depression,” I said.
“Your point?” Forrest asked, still lost as usual.
“Jesus, didn’t you ever pay attention in school? Depression era children didn’t know how to use banks so they just kept tons of cash hidden in their houses. That’s what caused the Great Depression in the first place. It wasn’t until we stole secrets from the Nazis during WWII and learned how to build ATMs that we finally got out of it. Once everyone trusted ATM machines, they put their money back in the banks. That’s why people always say ‘WWII brought us out of the Great Depression, thank God for the Nazis,” I explained.
“I’ve never heard anyone say that….” Forrest replied.
“My point is that this guy didn’t spend his money on important things like 60-inch HD TVs , blow, or nice furniture, so there’s got to be tons of cash hidden all over this shit hole.”
“Whatever, have at it. I’m going to talk to the sluts outside,” he said, still not understanding how impeccable my logic was.

I entered the room that Forrest was using to keep all the dead guy’s belongings. I began tearing through all the books, ripping through all the couch cushions, then throwing all the pictures on the ground. My search yielded no results. I was about to take a hammer to the walls, when I heard more girls arriving for late night. Money can wait. As I returned to the “living room” to continue the late night dance party, I received a text from a friend. I tried to give him directions to where I was, hoping he would bring some more sluts with him.

These directions weren’t good enough for him. I didn’t care, it’s better to keep the ratio in my favor anyway.
I scanned the living room for talent and zeroed in on a fairly attractive girl named “CC”. I walked up to her and said, “It’s CC, right?”
“Yeah, and you are?” she asked.
“I’m normal, I have roman numerals at the end of my name. What the fuck does CC stand for?” I asked
Taken aback, she tried to respond, “Uh..”
I cut her off, “Nevermind, you can’t help that your parents hate you. Do you have a boyfriend?”
Still confused, she said, “Uh…yeah I do….”
I continued my line of questioning, “Does he live ITB?”
“Yeah, we’ve been dating for three years. Why?” she asked.
“Ok, a B1, see ya later. Next!” I yelled to Forrest, who was on the back porch talking to this girl’s friends.
CC seemed offended. The girls came in from the porch and started asking me to play “shagging music”. I knew I had all the cool new rap songs, because my iTunes is set to automatically buy any song that’s on the Top 10 Hip Hop/Pop charts, but I was lacking in beach music. Hating myself for not having the best last night music on my iPhone, then reveling in the fact that I can buy anything I fucking want whenever I want on my phone, I proceeded to download the Four Tops entire discography. The sluts seemed to enjoy it, until CC informed them of our recent conversation. Apparently, I had offended her and she wanted to leave. Forrest was pretty pissed because he had her friend, who was now leaving with her, “in the bag”. I told him to get over it, there were still a few girls available.

I walked back to the kitchen cooler to grab another kosher beer and noticed all of Forrest’s paint samples. I’m not sure why, but I proceeded to fingerpaint “Simba” from The Lion King on the wall, just like the monkey did in the beginning of the movie. In my drunken stupor, I must have been trying to communicate with my new investor from Africa because the next morning I found out that I had sent him this picture and asked. “No, seriously, did The Lion King really happen?”

As I finished my masterpiece, I thought it would be appropriate to play “The Circle of Life”. Before I could reach my iPhone, the music suddenly stopped. Downloading so many songs had drained my battery. This put a damper on the party, as the single remaining girl that we went to high school with stopped dancing immediately.

Since there was only one girl left, who wasn’t attractive in the least bit, I went to Forrest’s room and tried to pass out on the air mattress that he uses as a bed. Forrest followed, leaving the girl in the “living room”.
“Since that’s the only air mattress, you wanna sleep together?” asked Forrest.
“Christ Forrest, why didn’t you buy a spare air mattress? You knew I’d be over here passing out at some point,” I complained.
“Sorry……You wanna spoon?” he asked.
“Quit being so gay, Forrest. You know the drill, four foot buffer at all times,” I replied.
“Ok, me neither. Just checking….” he said.
“Sometimes I wonder about you Forrest…..sometimes I wonder,” I said as I faced the opposite direction and began my drunk dial routine using Forrest’s phone. Before I could even finish my first message, the girl that we had gone to high school with came in and started yelling at me to move. I was so confused. Why did she think she had the right to speak to me? Ignoring her, I continued my message. I only got through one 3 minute message before the ogre standing in the door started yelling at me again.

“Go sleep on Bernie’s couch!” she yelled.
“Fuck no, shut up,” I replied.
“Yes, go sleep on the couch!” she pleaded.
“Go fuck yourself, I refuse to sleep on dead guy’s couch. Besides, I already tore it to pieces looking for Great Depression money,” I yelled back.
Forrest quietly mumbled, “It’s Bernie’s couch……you refuse to sleep on Bernie’s couch….”

Refusing to succumb to this late night terrorist, I remained where I was and continued to drunk dial. All of the sudden, I was blinded by the light from the hallway that was revealed when the massive girl moved away from the door and came towards us. She dove onto the air mattress in between Forrest and I (there was plenty of room, even for her, since Forrest and I were enforcing the four foot buffer). While this new passing out arrangement was not preferred, it was manageable, because I was drunk. That was until the bitch started yelling again.

“Get out!” she yelled.
“Jesus Christ, fine I’ll sleep on the floor. Quit being such a whore, you’re ruining my drunk dials,” I said.
“No, not on the floor, go sleep on the couch!” she demanded.
What is the deal with her and this fucking couch? I wondered to myself as I continued my message, “…..so yeah, there’s a ton of bitches here, probably gonna bang tons of bitches tonight, ya know, the usual….”
“He’s lying, there are no bitches. He’s about to pass out on an air mattress with another dude!” she interrupted.

She crossed the line. No one ruins my drunk dials and gets away with it. No one. I stood up and threw Forrest his phone. In a matter-of-factly tone, the bitch said, “Thank you very much.”
“No. Thank you for reminding me why I fucking hate you. The only reason we let you hang out with us is because you went to Broughton. Neither of us is going to bang you, Forrest has standards and you’re not my type, you’re way too coherent and aware of your surroundings. You aren’t attractive, you’re just the only girl that’s here. I don’t know why you didn’t just sleep in the other fucking room, but this was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made. You’ll live to see tomorrow, but you’ve just committed social suicide.”

“There is no other room!” she tried to explain.
“No. No more from you. Not now, not ever. Let’s go Forrest,” I yelled, as Forrest and I left the room. Forrest stumbled into the room that held dead guy’s stuff and passed out on the remains of dead guy’s couch. I walked into the living room, said goodbye to Simba, then began my journey home. As I left the house and got to the end of the block, I was reminded again that my cell phone was dead. This was a terrible fucking idea. It was 5:15am and even if there was another late night going on, there was no way I could call anyone to come get me. Realizing how dire my situation was, I decided to stop by Harris Teeter to pick up supplies for my journey home.

While entering the store I passed one of the fake homeless guys that was loitering near the entrance. (Note: There aren’t real homeless people inside the beltline. The people that come up to you in the parking lot of HT are acting. They always have some sob story about their car being broken down and ask you to give them $17.54 to get back to Fayetteville because someone is in labor. It’s a great trick to swindle people out of their hard-inherited money.)
“Do you have any spare change?” the fake homeless guy asked.
“Do you have a spare iPhone charger?” I replied.
He stared blankly back at me before answering. “No….”
“Then no, I don’t have any fucking spare change.”
“But I need $17.54 to get back to….” he began.
I continued on into the store before he could finish. Since it was already 5:30am, there would be no scouting for talent during this trip. I went straight to the place where they make those average, but overpriced, pre-made meals and picked up a chicken and pasta dinner. Next on the list was a Gatorade. Having finished my shopping, I stood at a register for 10 minutes waiting for someone to check me out. The only employee in the store finally felt me staring at her and said; “Self checkout is the only thing open right now.”
She must have been confused.
“Well, I don’t do self checkout. If I wanted to bag groceries I would have dropped out of high school, moved to a shitty apartment outside the beltline, and gotten a job at Kroger. Your fucking paycheck is built into the price of this $6.49 pre-made “dinner” that will most likely taste like shit. So, get over here, ask for my VIC card, I’ll tell you I don’t need a VIC card because I like paying more than I have to for groceries, and ring me up.”
She remained motionless, glaring at me for some reason.
I thought switching over to flattery might change her mind and get her to do her damn job.
“Listen, I can’t check myself out. You’re so good at putting similar items together in the same bag, making it easier for Rosa to put them away for me when I get home. That kind of food product recognition can’t be taught, unless of course you’ve passed the 8th grade, are old enough to get a work permit, or have basic common sense.”
She didn’t like that last part. Realizing this wasn’t going to go anywhere, I went to the ATM (thanks Nazis) and got out a $20. I walked to the door and found the fake homeless guy still sitting in the same place. (Maybe he really was homeless).
“Hey, I’ll pay you $20 to check me out,” I said.
“Nah man, I’m not in to dudes and I ain’t that desperate,” he replied.
“Funny, asshole. I’ll give you $20 to come in here and buy this shit for me using the self checkout,” I explained.
He agreed and I stood at the door as the employee looked on in what I can only assume was amazement at my negotiating skills. I got my groceries and exited the store, taking one last look into the empty parking lot, hoping to find a stray cab. No luck. I tore the wrapper from my dinner (now breakfast, it was 5:45am) and began the walk down Oberlin Rd. Eating pasta by the handful and throwing pieces of chicken that I didn’t want into the road, I prayed that each car that passed was either too busy or too disgusted at the sight of me to bother fucking around with me. Finally I had reached Van Dyke Avenue. and took a left. Finished with my breakfast, I decided to speed this miserable journey up by jogging. I began to notice a lot of Thomas Crowder election signs along the way. Remembering that I loathe Thomas Crowder, for some reasons I’ll share next week, I started a pattern of removing a sign, running about 30 yards, throwing the sign in the street, catching my breath, and then repeating the process. I got through this cycle about nine times before finally reaching my house.

I walked up my driveway and into my house as the sun began to rise. Wanting to brush my teeth to get the taste of shit out of my mouth, I went to the bathroom. That’s where I found this:

I didn’t know how. I didn’t know why. I didn’t care. Even though my shower smelled like Doritos and body wash, this could be dealt with later. I got to my room and was finally able to charge my phone and finish my now semi-drunk dials at 6:00am. I made it through three or four calls, all of which included threats directed towards the slut who kicked us out of Forrest’s room, and passed out.

I awoke at 1:00pm, just in time for lunch. Forrest called and said he’d be over shortly. I began to check through my dialed calls list, text messages, Twitter, Facebook, and Gmail to survey the damage. Suddenly remembering that I purchased a ton of shit on iTunes, I checked my iPod. That’s odd, I only had two new songs, I could’ve sworn I’d bought more. To be sure, I signed into iTunes and the screen was immediately filled with songs that were being downloaded and couldn’t be stopped. Great, $134 later and now I’ve got the entire Four Tops discography. Before getting into the Doritos shower, I plugged my iPhone into my stereo and hit play. The shower was short, as I could only bear the stench of Doritos, Firefly Vodka, and body wash for so long. I got out of the shower and heard Forrest entering the living room.
“What the fuck are you listening to?” he asked.
“All the shitty music I downloaded last night, I figured I’d get my money’s worth,” I explained.
“You smell like Doritos,” he said, looking confused.
“I don’t wanna talk about it. Let’s just go to Village Deli for three hours and check out the talent,” I replied.