One day when I was at Root (an ITB elementary school, please stop reading if you didn’t already know that), putting the finishing touches on my paper mache model of Raleigh that excluded the shitty parts, the principal came on the intercom for the afternoon announcements. He informed the latchkey kids that their bus number had changed and that they would have to wait outside in the rain until another bus from Lacy (the other ITB elementary school) could pick them up.

Sitting next to me, Forrest asked, “Who are these Latchkey kids? I’ve never seen them at the club or anywhere outside of school. They never come to Rootin’ Tootin’ Night either.” (Note: Rootin’ Tootin’ Night is a celebration of all things ITB. All the ITB moms work hard to turn the school into a Haunted House full of “fun” activities that are supposed to entertain the children. We normally got drunk at it.)
“Forrest, we each had like 3 beers and were hammered drunk at Rootin’ Tootin’ Night, you wouldn’t remember if Zach Morris was there. I’m not sure who they are, but they must be a huge family. Look at how many kids leave each day when the principal asks all the Latchkey kids to leave,” I replied.
“Yeah, why do they ride the bus instead of having their Mom sit in traffic for an hour before driving them back to their house that’s two blocks away?” asked Forrest.
“Well, it’s obvious that their parents can’t afford cars, or at least a car big enough for all of them. Also, they definitely don’t live two blocks from school like we do,” I said as I added more paper mache to the ITB landfill that covered up the Trailwood of Tears.
“I don’t think it’s a family, sure they all smell bad, but those kids all look different from each other. Why are they all wearing keys around their necks?” Forrest continued.
I don’t know why he was so interested in these Latchkey kids. Our parents had told us dozens of times that these clearly were not people that we needed to associate with.
“And why do they eat that free shit they call “lunch” in the cafeteria instead of having their Mom pack a lunch full of name brand foods for them?” he continued.
“Look Forrest, you’re pissing me off. I only have fifteen minutes to finish the moat that extends from Lassiter Mill to protect the newly annexed North Hills from the commoners on Six Forks. I don’t give a damn about a bunch of retards that wear keys around their necks, eat the shitty cafeteria food, and go to some place called ‘latchkey’ because their parents hate them. Just drop it,” I demanded.

I arrived home that afternoon, dropped my L.L. Bean bookbag in the foyer so Rosa could take it to my room, and went to the kitchen to get some Hi-C. Upon entering the kitchen, I was shocked to find one of the Latchkey kids standing there, dripping wet. It suddenly dawned on me that this was what my mother was trying to explain to me when I wasn’t paying attention on the SUV ride home. She had said, “Now, don’t be alarmed, Rosa’s son, Jose, missed the bus because he doesn’t speak English and didn’t understand the principal on the intercom. He walked over to our house in the rain and is going to stay until Rosa leaves.” Why didn’t I listen? I could’ve planned for this. I could’ve avoided him completely if I’d just gone in the second kitchen in the basement to get my Hi-C.

So there I stood, across from the latchkey kid, afraid for my life. Rosa entered the kitchen and saved me from this awkward showdown. She said something in Mexican to Jose that I translated as “Wait here and do your homework on the expensive marble kitchen counter”. Damn right, I thought. He better not scratch up our dining room table with one of his poor ass non-mechanical pencils, it’s worth more than his life.

Afraid to be left alone, Jose followed Rosa out of the kitchen to get some of my dry clothes to wear. Unacceptable. Yeah those clothes were from last season, but still, they were MY clothes. I wasn’t going to stand for this. I grabbed his K-Mart brand bookbag and shoved a Smirnoff Ice from the fridge in between his ESL books. Choke on that Jose, I thought, as I placed the dripping wet bag back on the counter. (I knew about icing years before it became famous from the internet.)

Jose returned from the laundry room wearing a crisp pastel polo, khaki shorts, and topsiders. He sat down at the counter, unzipped his backpack, and started to reach inside. Hiding around the corner, I waited for the perfect moment. The look on his face let me know that he’d found something foreign, almost as foreign as he was. As he pulled it out, I jumped from my hiding spot and yelled, “HA, you got ICED bitch! Get on one knee and take that ICE to the face!”
Clearly confused, Jose replied, “Por que?”
“You just got ICED. Rule number one of icing is you can’t refuse an ICE. Drink up,” I explained.
Rosa ran in screaming, “ICE, where is ICE?!? Immigracion?!?”
“Boom. Right there, he didn’t even see it coming,” I said as I pointed to the ICE that Jose was holding.
Rosa didn’t seem to understand this. She grabbed all of Jose’s things and kept talking fast in Mexican, saying something about “No mas, ICE!! No green card! No pay taxes! Can’t be finded by ICE!! Rapido! No ICE!”
I was confused as to why Rosa hated Smirnoff Ice so much. Yeah, it tastes like shit, but Mexicans will drink anything. Before Jose could even start to chug the ICE, Rosa hurried him out the back door and into their non-SUV.

As I stood there in the kitchen confused, but glad that they had left, my mom came in and saw me with the Ice.
“William, what are you doing?” she asked.
“I just iced Jose and Rosa flipped her shit. What’s the problem?”
“Watch your mouth, William. You can’t go around icing everyone, especially the help,” she said.
“What if someone saw us conversing in the same kitchen? What if they thought that I’d actually invited a latchkey kid over? What is a latchkey kid by the way? I had to show my dominance by Icing him.”
“Latchkey kids are children that have to go home to an empty house and unlock the door using a key worn around their neck because their parent is away working a second job. I understand that you felt the need to Ice him but to them ICE means a group of people that are going to make them leave the US, or get green cards, or pay taxes.”
“Interesting… How can I join this ICE group you speak of?” I inquired.
“You can’t. They’re government workers. You’re above that. The point is, you have GOT to stop icing people,” she demanded.
I was tired of being lectured, so I did the one thing I knew to do, “Sorry for partying, Mom,” I said as I took a drink of the Smirnoff Ice.
Turning red, she yelled, “You can’t drink that!”
“But Mary Ivey Laura gets to,” I complained.
“Yes, but your sister is 15 years old, she’s allowed to drink in our basement with her friends. You’re 10, you can’t do that,” she explained.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered as I took another swig, just to piss off my Mom, and left the kitchen to begin giving her the silent treatment in my room. To add insult to injury, Rosa hadn’t even put my stuff away.

This was my first run in with what some call “diversity”. I didn’t dislike these latchkey kids based on their ethnicity, I disliked them because they weren’t exactly like me. I’d gladly shun a white kid if he didn’t have a new Trapper Keeper at the beginning of each school year. Call me a segregationist, an elitist, or whatever you want, but there was a lot to be afraid of back then. At the time, Magic Johnson had just caught something called HIV, which I just assumed all of them had (“them” being basketball players). Since our school was somewhat (barely) diverse, we had several basketball players from poorer neighborhoods in our class. Forrest and I worried about catching HIV from these basketball players. We decided our best option was to avoid touching the same basketball they were using, sit at different lunch tables, use different water fountains, and so on. To this day, I blame the fact that I never got any scholarship offers to play basketball on my fear of catching HIV from the other kids in 5th grade. How was I supposed to develop my game without touching the ball? I know, it’s tragic. We eventually learned that you can’t get HIV from basketball players, and that you were more likely to get it from prostitutes, hypodermic needles, and coming in contact with people who shop at Food Lion.

Now that you all know the history of diversity inside the beltline, let’s address the current “busing problem” that everyone is protesting. When I heard the commoners complaining about busing, I just figured they were upset about having to bus tables because they were too stupid to work their way up to a wait staff position. Basically, the School Board said, “we aren’t going to bus poor kids in to nicer schools”. Then all the poor people got pissed, along with the normal quota of rich people who “care” about the poor and protest on their behalf whenever they can.

The leader of this pack of retards is Reverend William Barber, a morbidly obese guy that gets arrested at most of these meetings and protests. Because of his protesting, Wake county has spent $16,000 to hire security for all of these school board meetings.

Barber commented on the decision, “Your plan is wrong. It’s wayward. It will make things worse, and you know it. It doesn’t matter if you are white and support it, this is bad policy. It doesn’t matter if you are black and support it. The data doesn’t support it. Morality doesn’t support it.”

What does morality have to do with our school system? Everyone knows you’re supposed to go to school to socialize all day and then “learn” all the stuff you missed from the private tutors that your parents hired.

“During one of the meetings, Barber asked the board for 45 minutes to present information and data about what could happen if the school system moves away from the diversity policy. He says research shows schools with large majorities of poor children fail because they are underfunded, have a high teacher turnover and low student performance.”

No shit, poor kids have the attention span of me when I’m not on adderall. Add on the fact that they don’t have private tutors and of course they’re going to underperform. I don’t need a bunch of “data” to tell me that. It’s not fair to bring others down just because these kids are retarded due to the fact that they’re raised by BET, MTV, UPN, and Univision as soon as they get home.

Barber said he would be watching the school board’s proceedings closely. “We are here. We are not going anywhere,” he said. “We are not turning around. Don’t you be fooled. We may not sit in tonight. We may not go to jail tonight, but if it comes to that, we’re going to draw attention to this nationwide and we’re going to do it together.”

Yeah, well he went to jail a few weeks ago when he took his protest down to Fayetteville St. The video below shows that he couldn’t fit into a police car when he was arrested, so they had to use an ambulance (aka am-bah-lance) to take him to jail. He’s obviously had a few too many free lunches, which, thankfully, we won’t need at Broughton anymore.

Even more ridiculous is that the majority of rich protesters aren’t even from Wake County. Most of these protesters are hippies from Orange County, not the one with the cougar housewives, the one in North Carolina with the hybrid driving, Birkenstock wearing, Prop-8 overturning, martyrs for diversity. Half of them are gay and can’t even have kids, so I don’t understand why they have a problem with this decision.

Then there’s this tool from some OTB school named after a creek, who gave a speech about how awesome diversity was (yes, I’m using “was” because diversity is gone, get over it). Try to watch this without laughing, especially when he starts chanting “justice….now…….justice……now” while he begins to cry like the little bitch he is. This is unbelievable…

A commoner protestor whined, “54% of minority students do not graduate.” So what? That’s 54% of the MINORITY students, not 54% of the entire class. Here are the statistics for the 2,122 students that went to Broughton last year.

60% white
40% black
10% Mexican
1% other

So 40% of the diverse population equals 848 students. 54% of that is 458 students. Spread that out over each grade and you get 114 poor kids who aren’t going to graduate each year. Cry me a river. It’s not like these 114 kids, or roughly 3 Mexican families, aren’t going to survive. They’ll find plenty of jobs washing dishes or building houses, all while getting paid under the table. We should actually be trying to deport these 114 kids, because if there’s one thing worse than not graduating high school, it’s getting a job and not paying taxes.

I don’t have kids (that I know of) so I don’t really give a shit about this whole debate. My only issue with segregation is how it impacts our athletic program. If we segregate our schools, the Broughton athletic programs will basically fall to the level of Ravenscroft. “What’s Ravesncroft?” some of you are wondering. It’s a “private school” so far outside the beltline that some say it doesn’t even really exist. I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard it’s miserable. If we don’t have diverse athletes that draw attention to our sports teams, how will the hard working, scrappy, white players that have “a lot of heart” get noticed and offered scholarships (that they don’t need) to Division III schools?
(Note: While trying to come up with the typical adjectives used to describe white players, I asked for Forrest’s input and received the following e-mail: “White people are always described as having “a lot of heart”, “scrappy”, “team leader”, and the only award they ever win is the “coach’s award”. How do I know this? Because I won the coach’s award for our basketball team in high school. I played about 7 minutes a game behind those who were more tan than I was, and who eventually went on to play in college.”) I don’t know the answer to this, but we do need to ensure that our athletic program remains dominant. Maybe Reverend Barber has some ideas.

If you enjoyed reading about my childhood, and want to read more of my thoughts on diversity, you’ll probably want to buy my autobiography that I’m currently about to start thinking about writing someday. I’ll keep you updated as it develops.

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.

William Needham Finley IV was found dead in his home inside the beltline this morning. Authorities say that Finley IV died at approximately 4:15am from a deadly cocktail of ecstasy, HGH (human growth hormone), Red Bull, and Jagermeister.

Authorities have found evidence that Finley IV had returned from New Jersey earlier that day. Records show that on his 7 hour flight from the Jersey Shore to RDU he consumed upwards of 24 liquor drinks, before being cut off by the Air Marshall. Finley IV arranged for White Horse to pick him up from the airport, at which point he went directly to a bar called Felson’s and began drinking by himself. One bartender who witnessed the downward spiral said, “Yeah, he’s in here every weekend, so I didn’t think it was strange to see him on a Wednesday night. He kept muttering something about the guidos coming and how he needed to build a “real wall, not like that lousy Berlin Wall shit” to keep out the commoners. I just kept serving him because he usually tips me 100%.”

Authorities searched through Finley IV’s home, inside the beltline, and found maps of Raleigh, bottles of hair gel, graphic t-shirts, and printed out Wikipedia entries on tanning beds, electric fences, raves, house music, and chloroform. Finley IV’s most recent Google searches revealed the following, “how to kill guidos and get away with it”, “flights to New Jersey”, “why did the Berlin Wall fail?”, “DJ Pauly D’s home address”, “does liking Dancing with the Stars make me gay?”, “when is the Chick-Fil-A in Cameron Village going to fucking open?”, “how to do a guido or gel head genocide”, “hotel Rwanda”, “why does Facebook keep changing their layout”, “when is the Saved By the Bell reunion?”, “how to make guido internment camps”, “William Needham Finley IV”, “did Snooki kill someone in high school?”, “how to get into sex rehab with the hottest celebrities”, “what are guidos allergic to?”, “do guidos have souls?”, “why do people think World Beer Fest is fun? It sounds hella gay to me”, and “how many jager bombs does it take to kill a guido?”.

Police also found hand written letters, addressed to a “DJ Pauly D”, that professed Finley IV’s obsession with “beating up that beat” and included an offer of $50,000 for one night of “DJ Pauly D’s spinning services”. His iTunes playlist was set up to repeat songs by the artist Girl Talk, a semi-famous DJ who’s songs resemble that of an 8th grade cheerleading routine, which is also similar to Jock Jams.

“Yeah, this shit is straight outta A Beautiful Mind. Kid thought these “guidos” were coming in from the North to take over “his” city. From the crap we found in his room, most of the Google searches, these weird letters, and the maps of the beltline, it looks like he wanted to set up some sort of trap and had a plan to get rid of these people,” noted one Raleigh police officer.

Childhood friend Forrest F. Forrester III was reached for comment. “William had spent the last four months undercover on the Jersey Shore, doing research for a book that he said was, “gonna blow the fucking lid off these fuckers”. In order to learn as much as he could about these guidos he had immersed himself in a world of GTL’n, going to clubs every night, experimenting with steroids, referring to certain nights based on the food he was cooking that night (Tuesday was Surf n’ Turf night), and determining the exact amount of Jager and Red Bull a guido could consume before blacking out. He had a paranoia that guidos and gel heads were trying to take over the world. He thought if he studied everything about them he could find a weakness and put a stop to it all. He was amazed at the success of the MTV reality show “Jersey Shore”, and was furious that MTV had turned him down time and time again after he pitched various reality shows, all based on life inside the beltline. I really don’t know what I’m going to do without him. He used to always make me hook up with the grenades (ugly girls) of the group. Now I guess I’ll get to hook up with hotter girls. Now that I think about it, this is kind of awesome.”

A funeral service will be held Saturday night at White Memorial. In lieu of flowers, please send donations, via Paypal, directly to William Needham Finley IV at raleighitb@gmail.com.

April Fool’s, shitheads. I may or may not have spent the last few months in sex rehab with Tiger. But once I realized that sex rehab is no different than a three night stand at Felson’s, I just came back ITB. Every socialite or famous person has to go into hiding or have a reclusive period in order to make an even bigger comeback. Bob Dylan after his motorcycle crash, Spencer and Heidi after last season of The Hills, Michael Jackson after he molested that fourth kid, and now me. There’s a lot that needs to be addressed around here, namely, the awesome decision to segregate our ITB schools again, the horrendous decision to remove the “inner” and “outer” signs from the beltline, how fucking stupid Bonner Gaylord is for letting Google name his kids (who cares if Raleigh gets this “super high speed” internet? I’m fine with paying more money so that only I can have this service. It’s not nearly as cool if everyone has it. That’s why Blackberrys aren’t cool anymore. They pretty much give those things out in cereal boxes now), the book deal I’m signing, and possibly the movie rights to my life story that I’m selling. The Lifetime network has been all over me for those movie rights, but I’m pretty sure they’ll just portray me as some sort of egomaniacal self-centered asshole that treats women like objects and is completely detached from reality, which I’m totally fine with. I’m heading to the lake with Forrest to get blackout this weekend. Check back next week for more updates.

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.