On Saturday afternoon, I was in Charlotte’s buying my mother a Mother’s Day gift. As I waited for the girl to wrap the present that I had randomly picked out after being in the store for two minutes, I noticed a Broughton student and his grandmother on the other side of the counter. How did I know he went to Broughton? Because I was in Cameron Village and also because an older woman who worked there looked at the kid and said, “Hey! Me and your mom (she should have said “your mom and I”, idiot) are planning Prom next year! It’s going to be so exciting! We don’t know what the theme is yet, but we’ve got so many ideas! We’re meeting at the Club to discuss it over brunch sometime this week!” (Note: To the kid that was in the store, good call on taking your grandma and making her pay for the gift.) Her excitement for an event that was almost an entire year away made me realize that such devotion to Broughton and all things ITB should be recognized more than one day out of the year. Since they are in a league of their own, ITB mothers should have their own day of recognition. Why should they share their day with all the other mothers in the world? Gel heads don’t celebrate Mother’s Day because most of them don’t know who their mothers are (mainly because they were dumpster babies). I propose that the Tuesday after normal Mother’s Day be reserved for such recognition. I’ll begin this new holiday with a tribute to ITB Mothers.

Happy ITB Mother’s Day to all you ITB mothers out there. Some of you are trophy wives, some have “jobs” “volunteering” at some pathetic charity (you all know I hate charity because I don’t like helping people who can’t help themselves), and some of you are simply hard working women that contribute to the wonderful bubble that we live in. Inside the beltline wouldn’t be ITB without those of you who devote your lives to constantly perpetuate the reputation that is passed on to the next generation of future trophy wives. I’d like to thank all of the ITB mothers for the following…

Thanks for planning all that crap we did in high school. The Queen of Hearts and Broughton Prom would be nothing without your incessant and neurotic planning that results from your desire to live vicariously through your children, since you recall high school as the best time of your life. Thanks for renting the limousines that we could get hammered in and for making reservations at restaurants that commoners couldn’t afford so we could eat in peace.

Thanks for lying for me on my community service requirements when I was at Broughton. Wasting three hours selling baked goods on a Saturday morning at White Memorial to raise money for some stupid Junior League crap was unbearable. I can’t imagine having to do that shit for the full 25 hours that Broughton required.

Thanks to the mothers who attend Book Club and Garden Club, even though some of you can only read on a tenth grade level, and all of you have Jorge do your gardening for you. The gossip wouldn’t be the same without these regular face to face meetings, since most of you don’t know how to use e-mail.

Thanks to Forrest’s mom, who graciously opened her house to all of us and her legs to our one friend who was drunk enough to do her.

Thanks for being an interior designer/boutique clothing store owner/insert your own “career” here, despite having no formal training, so that you can have something to take your mind off the fact that your husband doesn’t look at you the same way that he used to. Hint: It’s because you aren’t as hot as you were when he met you at that 80’s mixer when you were a freshman and he was a 7th year senior. Maybe if you spent more time in the gym and less time picking out fabric samples he wouldn’t take so many “business trips” on the weekends. The last thing I want to see is an obese wife asking me if I want to recover a chair that she can barely fit in with fabric that’s $700 a yard.

Thank you to the mothers that actually got drunk at Deb parties. The mothers that were naïve (stupid) enough to think their daughters didn’t get hammered every weekend were so strict regarding alcohol at the Raleigh party. These mothers, you know who you are, would go on an all out man hunt for anything that contained alcohol, including mini-bottles, cough syrup, Listerine, hand-sanitizer, etc. It’s easier to drop off a suspicious looking package in Times Square than it is to sneak in mini-bottles on the night of the Raleigh party. (For you underage kids: Going to lunch at the Club the day before the Raleigh party and hiding alcohol somewhere (not the bathroom) is the best chance you’ve got against these Nazi mothers.) We probably wouldn’t have terrorism anymore if these Nazi Deb moms were in charge of national security. But thank you again to the mothers that actually enjoyed themselves and got shit faced at these events.

Thanks to the cooler ITB moms that let us get hammered in your basement when we were in high school and when we moved home after college.

Thanks to the ITB mothers who tried to make their children child stars. If only American Idol was around when we were children, we’d have more than just Clay Aiken to claim as our own (I’m not claiming him). Your children are now off on their own making a difference in the world by living in New York trying to “make it” as an actor/singer/comedian/entertainer.

Specifically for my mother, thank you for favoring me over the other children that lived in our house growing up. I know you’d prefer for me to refer to them as my “siblings” but I’m not comfortable using a term of endearment when describing the only opponents I have when it comes time to divide up your assets. Sure they’re siblings now, but they’ll be my enemies some day.

Thanks for always accusing and blaming others for things that were 100% my fault. It was always reassuring to know that I could retell the events of a story and have you believe every word, knowing you’d go on a smear campaign to protect me. The time you robocalled every ITB mother to blame Forrest for me cheating on my AP US History study questions was especially touching.

Thanks for having a lawyer on retainer to handle all of my speeding tickets, assault charges, vandalism charges, DUIs, drug charges, and arson charges. To date, I have a spotless criminal record.

Thank you for forcing me to attend play groups, church functions, and play on sports teams with your friends’ children. How else would I have known not to socialize with people who weren’t exactly like me if it weren’t for you? (I’d like to think I would have figured this out on my own, but thank you nonetheless).

Thanks for being so disillusioned about Mary Ivy Laura’s underage drinking that you refused to believe she had gotten plastered at a concert. Thank you for attempting to maintain her innocence by e-mailing all the other ITB moms that totally fabricated story about how one of my friends roofied her. Thanks for thinking that including the story about how another one of my friends got roofied his freshman year of college would add credibility to your accusation. I’m sure he didn’t mind that you shared that story with all of Raleigh without asking him about it. You’re the best.

Thank you for teaching me to have children four years apart from each other so that we can maximize the amount of time I have a child attending Broughton. I know the last twelve years of being involved in Broughton has been as glorious for you as it has been for me, Mary Ivy Laura, and our younger sister (who refuses to be named on this blog, another reason I don’t particularly care for her). I’ll be sure to make my wives (not a typo) follow this pattern.

Feel free to add anything else in the comments section that recognizes the importance of all the ITB mothers in our lives.

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.

a.) a Fort Bragg soldier who killed another Fort Bragg soldier, then lit a house/car/apartment on fire for some unknown reason. A baby is usually involved in the story somehow.
b.) an unidentified cab driver, Arby’s employee, or gang member, who was shot in Cumberland County (Fayetteville), police are still searching for the suspect
c.) the House or Senate voted on some unimportant bill, law, or budget that doesn’t affect me and that I don’t understand
d.) the poor schools that don’t have any money because they lack ITB parents that will donate thousands of dollars for no reason or if their child doesn’t make it onto an athletic team
e.) the “mortgage crisis” and “recession” our country is (not) in