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.

Yesterday, I spent two hours driving up and down Dan Allen Dr. picking out girls that could come to Felson’s with me in the same way that rock stars pick out which girls get to come backstage. To my surprise, a lot of these girls showed up at the bar last night before I even had a chance to send them a formal invitation. Forrest and I arrived at Felson’s around 10:30pm to check out Old Habits because bluegrass music is so fuckin’ cool right now (even though I don’t know what bluegrass music is). We posted up in a booth and what occurred over the next two hours was nothing short of a disaster. We noticed a significant number of people we’d never seen before. Among other things, these foreigners ruined multiple laps that I was trying to take around the bar (by spending most of the night walking around aimlessly), slowed down my bar service (by asking for a drink menu), and decreased Forrest’s chances of hooking up (by not immediately slutting it up on the dance floor). Strike one, two, and three, you’re fuckin’ out. Forrest and I were infuriated and began drinking heavily to deal with our problems. Now, I’m all for pro-choice, as long as we’re talking about the choice between going to Felson’s at 11:00pm or 11:30pm. People should have the right to make such a monumental decision on their own and shouldn’t be rushed into making a hasty decision in the back alley of their sorority house or upscale apartment complex. However, there are some rules that must be put in place to prevent this new class of talent from making poor decisions and ruining my bar experience. In order to prevent this from ever happening again, Forrest and I have come up with an open letter to these newcomers that includes a list of rules that must be followed if they’re going to attend the same bar that we do.

Dear foreigners,

A new school year is upon us and it’s time to address those of you who are thinking about making the transition from Crowley’s to Felson’s. For all of you newcomers who aren’t familiar with either establishment, Felson’s is located in the Greenlight district of Raleigh. While the morals and values found in the Greenlight district resemble those found in the Redlight district of Amsterdam, the only thing that matters in the Greenlight district is the color of money. I’m sure you’ve all heard stories about this hallowed establishment and have been counting down the days until you look old enough to pass for 18. While I hate newcomers, I think we’ll get along just fine if you follow some rules that Forrest and I came up with last night. What we refer to as “The 24 Commandments” are listed below.

Girls:
1.) If I get drunk enough to decide to talk to you, don’t tell me where you’re from. If you do, I’ll openly judge you for being from a small town and you’ll walk away in tears. I already don’t like that you’re in my presence, I don’t need you rubbing it in that I still have to deal with outsiders.
2.) When you give me your number (you will) put your full name in my iPhone. I don’t want to waste my valuable Saturday couch time looking through 3,000 Jennifers when I’m Facebook stalking you the next day.
3.) Avoid asking me questions that are unrelated to me. I don’t care about anything else.
4.) Don’t ask for a drink menu. When I buy you drinks, it goes like this; I order shots, Forrest distracts you for 5 seconds, I give you your shot, you get hammered, and then leave with me.
5.) Don’t ask me for drugs. I probably already did them and I was taught early on in life not to share with others.
6.) If this is your first time, don’t just sit there. Get on the dance floor and slut it up, it’s the only way you’ll fit in.
7.) If your drink tastes funny, you didn’t get it from me.
8.) You’ll need GPS on your phone because I’m not taking you home in the morning. I don’t run a bed and breakfast, it’s more of a “bed and get the fuck out I’ve got to make my tee time at the Club”. (Note: I probably don’t have a tee time, but I keep my golf clubs in my room so I can have a reason to tell you to leave when I wake up. This prevents you from trying to hang around in my room watching shitty reality shows on E! hoping that I’ll get up and take you to lunch. Keep dreaming.)
9.) When you take a lap, make sure you start at the upper bar and go counterclockwise. I don’t need you fucking up my flow. By the time I’m hammered, instinct takes over and, depending on what I’m on that night, I automatically enter either my Lazy River mode (slowly staggering around, using the bar as a handrail, slurring “cuse…..me” as I pass by you) or my Pinball mode (bouncing off of anything in my way, spilling drinks and leaving a trail of destruction in my wake) while traveling counterclockwise around the bar.
10.) Don’t talk to me unless you’re on the pill. Even though Planned Parenthood is programmed into the GPS on my SUV, I’m not going to risk getting my seventh DUI the next morning while driving your ass over there.
11.) Last call is just a suggestion. If you’re with me and Forrest, plan to continue drinking at the bar until at least 3:00am.
12.) You’re not allowed to come to the bar from somewhere downtown, unless you went downtown with the understanding that by 12:30am (at the latest) you would be catching a cab or drunk driving to Felson’s. I don’t need any downtowners trashing the place up.
13.) Your dress must be short, allowing for easy access on the dance floor. Pants are frowned upon.
14.) If you don’t like jager bombs, then you’re not going to like the shot I just bought you. Don’t complain, I basically just gave you $7. Deal with it.
15.) You must be on the dance floor within 30 minutes of arriving. Standing around having intellectual conversations about what classes you are taking and what you want to major in are unacceptable. A.) I don’t care and 2.) Opinions are unattractive, so be sure to leave them at home or save them for one of those bars where you can hear what other people are saying when you’re talking to them.
16.) When Forrest grinds on you on the dance floor, embrace it, don’t walk away with a look of disgust on your face.
17.) If a group of girls looks like they are having a better time than you and your friends, your group must go take a round of shots and try to out-slut the other girls on the dance floor. Competition is encouraged. This is capitalism, not Russia.
18.) Be sure to bring $20 for the cab ride home the next morning. I’m not taking you home.
19.) If I do anything to offend you, sorry for partying. Don’t think this is an apology. Think of it as more of a “I don’t give a shit about your personal space, what are you going to do about it?”. “Sorry for partying” just allows me to do the exact same thing that I did to offend you the next time I see you out. You think I’m going to waste time learning from my mistakes?
20.) Don’t go upstairs, unless you’re invited.
21.) Late night is a privilege, not a right. When asked if you want to go to late night, your answer should always be “yes”. If you have a boyfriend, he can take a cab home.

Guys:
1.) When Forrest or I begin to hit on your girlfriend on the dance floor, deal with it. Just walk away knowing that you’re dating (for now) a girl worthy of our time.
2.) If we’ve never met you, you’re allowed to buy us shots with the understanding that we’ll walk away at any point of the conversation because you a.) aren’t a girl and b.) aren’t ordering a second round of shots immediately after the first. I don’t need new friends, but thanks for the shot.
3.) Some of you may think that these rules don’t apply to you since you’re from Raleigh, even though you’re OTB. If we don’t know you it doesn’t matter how many times you show up and pretend to be one of us by getting in fights in the parking lot, talking shit, and spending your parents’ (new) money. You still aren’t welcome.

Following these rules will ensure that you and, more importantly, I can coexist without me having to spend the entire night bitching and moaning about how much I hate commoners before talking shit to you and getting the bouncers to throw you out. If I’ve missed anything, I trust that the veterans will add to these rules in the comments section below.

I was going to talk about how I went to the Raleigh Party to pre-game for Felson’s last weekend, but I’m saving that for the ITB book. I don’t want commoners reading about all of the exclusive shit (underage drinking) that goes on there. Now that I’m an almost famous socialite and blackout alcoholic, I’ve begun to video record parts of my nights out so I can sit on the couch hungover the next day and watch what happened to me. Viewing these videos doesn’t make me remember any of the events that took place, but I’m at least able to watch what essentially amounts to a movie starring myself. Fortunately for you all, as I was filming myself outside of Felson’s last Saturday, I was able to capture an actual fight on camera. Now, I know you’re all thinking, “Yeah right, this is just gonna be another classic 2:15am shit-talking pushing match in the parking lot that resulted in at most a torn shirt sleeve and a lost contact lens.” You thought wrong. Before getting to the video, the scene from Saturday night needs to be set, as this was one of the strangest things that I’ve seen in a while.

The lights in the bar had come on and the bartenders had stopped serving everyone, except Forrest and I (we get served until 4:00am). It looked like things were going well for Forrest, as he was in the middle of trying to take some slut to late night with us. All of the sudden, Forrest tried to get my attention while I was filming myself about to take shots. He didn’t even need to tell me what had happened. The look on his face said it all. This girl had been talking shit about America, not about the bad America where Obama is trying to euthanize my grandparents under his healthcare plan, but the good America, the one with freedom, classism, and capitalism. Her nonstop ramblings about the cash for clunkers program finally set Forrest off. Obviously, we immediately questioned her patriotism and when she wasn’t convincing enough, we took action. We began to make a scene,(which is something I’m great at doing), knowing that we had to make everyone in the bar aware of the traitor walking amongst us. I was able to capture our efforts on video.

After the freedom-hating terrorist ran off crying to the bathroom, we headed for the door. What started as the usual drunken stumble around the parking lot looking for late night quickly became the scene of a heinous confrontation. As the bar let out at around 2:30am, two groups of people, dressed in their carmel pink, wicket yellow, chatham blue, newport navy, and chic cream Polos clashed in the parking lot of Felson’s. These rainbow warriors stopped at nothing to defend the honor that each of them (incorrectly) thought they held. As the fight broke out, Forrest and I stood staring in shock, wondering why a girl was beating the shit out of a bunch of guys. We had never seen anything like this, especially on the night of the Raleigh Party when we should have been honoring the debut of Raleigh girls by getting blackout and doing blow. The whole altercation made me feel like I was in a bizarro ITB. Clearly, I recognized the mix of pastel Polos rolling around on the pavement in front of me, which was coupled with the familiar sound of one guy telling the cop, “My Dad’s a lawyer, wait till he gets down here!” It seemed like a normal night, but I had never once seen any of these impostors at Felson’s and had certainly never passed them on my Saturday afternoon St. Mary’s St. to Lassiter Mill Rd. to White Oak Rd. scenic driving route.

Thinking that an ITBer may have been at the bottom of the pile, I considered jumping in to defend my brethren. However, as I looked around I realized everyone I knew had remained on the sidewalk. It wasn’t until one of the heathens on the ground yelled out something about “Ravenscroft” and “Cardinal Gibbons” that I realized these people were actually from rival OTB private schools. These OTBers were basically fighting amongst themselves for our entertainment. I stared in amazement, figuring this was the closest I’d ever get to watching one of those illegal dogfights. Never one to miss a business opportunity, I immediately began taking bets on which pastel would emerge the victor. Unfortunately, none of my friends or I carry cash, so the excitement of winning a quick grand or two off of “chatham blue” quickly dissipated. Moving to Plan B, I pulled out my camera phone and began to record some amazing footage of these OTBers gone wild. Now, I’m not saying it’s as big as the footage from MJ’s last rehearsal, but I do expect to get a lot of offers from the cable news networks and I’m certain TMZ will be very interested as well. While the video may resemble one of those “riots” in Iran or some other poor country that can’t afford democracy, I can assure you that it’s real and that I was just blackout and could barely hold my phone up to record this exclusive footage.

The most shocking part of this video, aside from the sucker punch, mass chaos, and OTBers in Cameron Village, was when the words, “Ya’ll will never be allowed at Felson’s again!” were yelled out by one of the owners. Hearing this now really makes me think twice about getting in fights at Felson’s. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still run my mouth and instigate the shit out of some people, but I need to make sure Forrest and I don’t get in any trouble with the cops. I’d obviously pay them off, but it would just make Felson’s look bad if they allowed me back in week after week after week even though I’ve instigated 90% of the altercations that occur there.

As for the fight itself, I’m not exactly sure what started it, what it was over, or who won. According to the footage, there was some sort of “7-year old Ravenscroft Gibbons fight” that must have still been brewing. I didn’t know private schools disliked each other, I just assumed everyone else disliked them. Around 4:00am, as Forrest was finishing up the statement he was drunkenly giving to the cops, the girl who was in the middle of the fight from the beginning started running her mouth again. The cop told her to be quiet and, in typical commoner fashion, she kept talking. After failing to comply once again, the cop picked her up from her seat on the curb, handcuffed her, and put her in the back of the police car. We didn’t think this would be a problem for her since she was with the guy who yelled out about how his Dad was a lawyer. Unfortunately, it turns out his Dad is actually just a paralegal for the Law Offices of James Scott Farrin, which doesn’t carry much weight in Cameron Village. Realizing that we’d pretty much seen all the action, Forrest and I yelled a bunch of shit at the OTBers, knowing they wouldn’t do anything with the cops still present. Still feeling patriotic, we embarked on a mission to raid Harris Teeter for late night food before going home. If you have any more details on the fight, feel free to leave them in the comments section.

The next day, as I laid on the couch watching all the video footage I had taken, I realized that we might have a bit of a problem on our hands. Obviously, fights between ITBers are fine. For example, arguing about which of you gets to take the underage girl home or who’s turn it is to get a DUI are both situations that deserve a good shoving match and stare down before leaving the parking lot for late night. But we can’t let it get to the point where OTBers show up every weekend with their concealed weapons looking for a fight. Before we know it Cameron Village is going to resemble, dare I say it, Fayetteville, and that’s the last thing we need happening around here. If things get worse, I’m going to have to call in a private security firm or get the city to send more cops out to patrol Cameron Village, or wherever it is I go out that night. I should probably get a bodyguard now that I think about it… I’ll be out of town this weekend, so I’m counting on Forrest to make sure these kids don’t show up at Felson’s again.