December 3^rd, 2004

 

Continuing with my exploits over Thanksgiving holiday, I’d like to talk about my second night out in Greenville, which was Wednesday, November 24^th.  Now, being that I had NO money, I was reluctant to go anywhere when Chad called me that evening.  Alas, Chad said he’d buy me a “couple of beers” if I went along with him to a bar called Spectators for open mike night.  I had no intention of getting up there to sing, but Chad’s roommate Danny was gonna be performing, and he needed as much moral support as he could get, (which I provided… ANALLY!!!)

 

Okay, so I arrived at Chad’s house around 8:30, there to wait patiently for him to play online poker while I looked at the new Playboy with Denise Richards on the cover.  By the way, Denise is a GODDESS, and an all natural one at that, (trust me, I’m an expert on such things).  No silicone in there.  No sir.

 

I hate you, Charlie Sheen.

 

Denise’s airbrushed pictorial got me so worked up, that I had to borrow Chad’s bathroom for a full minute and a half.

 

After I cleaned myself up, Chad and I headed out for Spectators, along with Chad’s singing roommate, Danny.  The place was deadsville, as is the general Greenville bar scene on any given Wednesday.  There were perhaps fifteen people there, tops.  And that’s including the three of us.

 

Nevertheless, I was glad I came because my cousin Melissa and two of her friends were seated at a table in the middle of the room.  I love Melissa, as I do all my cousins, and I immediately made my way over. 

 

One of Melissa’s comrades was a prepubescent fornication interest of mine named “Liz”, and the other was some neurotic chick I’d never seen before.  The latter, (who we’re gonna call “Smiley Laughenstein”), started hitting on me as soon as I sat down, but I pretended to be deaf and from another country. 

 

Every time Smiley asked me a question, I was all, “Huh?!?  What?!?”  And then when she would repeat herself, I’d scream “STOP YELLING AT ME!!!” and break into tears.

 

It’s an effective strategy, one I’ve used before.

 

Anyway, open mike night begins, and I’m bombarded by the worst assemblage of vocal donkey shit I’ve ever been privy too.  It was as if the rejects from American Idol had all taken a dump in a petree dish, only to have MIT scientists make clones from the fecal matter.

 

I kept yelling things like, “PLAY SOME DEBBIE GIBSON!!!” and, “THE GRATEFUL DEAD ARE GRATEFUL FOR A REASON!!!”, which made me slightly less annoying that the performers themselves.

 

My only reprieve from this auditory hell was that Chad’s “couple of beers” soon turned into three dozen rounds of hard whiskey cocktails.

 

Enter, Drunk Mike…

 

Eventually, Danny and his guitar wielding open mike partner got on stage, then to belt out Pearl Jam cover songs with a marginal amount of skill, (which made them Gods compared to everyone else).

 

Naturally, I yelled encouragement at them too, like, “You SUCK!!!”, and, “I HOPE YOU FALL INTO A SWIMMING POOL OF RAZOR BLADES AND TASTE YOUR OWN BLOOD!!!”

 

It’s a scientific fact that negative reinforcement enhances the expression of talent… or hinders it.  I can’t remember.

 

Soon though, open mike night ends, and the characteristically “Mississippi” mix of classic rock and contemporary country music blares from the four foot tall speakers on either side of the stage.  I would’ve killed myself, but I didn’t wanna miss out on all the free drinks.

 

As the night progressed, a never-ending cadre of characters came up to our table to talk to Chad, (because he OWNS Greenville), the funniest of which we’re gonna call “Billy Bob Assmaster”.  Billy Bob is one of those rarest of human stereotypes: the redneck homosexual.

 

Living in Asheville, I’m well versed in the idiosyncrasies of normal homos, but I’d never encountered a countryfied buttlord before, and it was a study in contrasts.  On the one hand, Billy Bob boasted the thick Mississippi twang which I myself revert back to on occasion.  Far from the eloquent “southern” accents you hear in Hollywood movies like Gone with the Wind, a true Mississippi twang is harsh, guttural, and somewhat intimidating.  Yet, on the other hand, Billy Bob Assmaster had a pronounced lisp, which made him sound really, really excited about nothing at all.

 

For example, as soon as he came sashaying up to our table, he hugged my cousin Melissa and squealed, “Good Gawd!  That’s a faaabulous handbag!  Where’d ya git dat?”

 

I couldn’t hear clearly over the music, but I think he asked Melissa who I was, then giving me a lusty “once over” from head to package.  I responded with the patented “Descado Glare”, and he decided NOT to try and shake my hand… or hug me… or buy me a drink.  Good thing too, ‘cause I was in no mood to get hit on by a trailer park stool pusher.

 

Billy Bob DID hit on Chad, however, and I was both shocked and amused by Chad’s response.  After I stared him down, Billy Bob rounded the table and hugged Chad from behind, simultaneously offering a greeting of “Hello, daaarling!  How you doing?”

 

“Aw shit!” I thought, “Chad’s gonna belt him one!”  But he didn’t. 

 

Instead, Chad kinda hugged him back and- with a markedly homosexual lisp- said, “I’m doing fine, sweetie.  How YOU doing?”

 

WHAT IN THE NAME OF ZEUS’S BUTTHOLE?!?

 

I was about to crap my pants, (thinking that Chad had turned bi), when I realized that he was just fucking with Billy Bob. 

 

That’s when I got pissed.  Not because Chad was humoring this colon stabber, but because he was using one of MY signature gesticulations to do so.  You see, that’s MY imitation lisp!  MINE!!!  And nobody gets to employ patented Descadoisms except for me!

 

Over the course of my stay in Greenville, I was to learn that Chad had stolen a lot of my stuff while I’d been away, the most blasphemous being the “Pat Glass”.  What’s the Pat Glass?  Well, allow me to explain.

 

You see, when anyone says anything fucked up, one of my favorite things to do is whisper, “Okay,” or, “Yeah, that’s totally normal,” before widening my eyes as if I’m freaked out, frantically bringing my beer or whiskey glass to my lips, throwing my head back, and then taking a massive gulp- all the while patting the bottom of the glass as if I’m trying to get as much alcohol into my mouth as possible. 

 

It’s hard to explain but funny to watch, and Chad has ripped it off, along with a host of other Descadoisms.  I’ve got a million of these, but the only other one that merits mention is something I got from the movie Tommy Boy with Chris Farley and David Spade.

 

When someone asks you if you want another drink, you hesitantly say, “Naw, I don’t think that I should- Oh KAY!!!”  As if you weren’t gonna drink, but then decided to.

 

Hilarious, huh? 

 

Yeah, probably not on paper, but if you ever see me do this, I guarantee you’ll soil yourself… at least the first hundred times… and you’d better still laugh after that… because I’ll bludgeon your fucking skull with a Tonka Truck.

 

All things considered though, I guess Chad has every right to rip me off.  After all, most of MY stuff I stole from obscure movies most people have never seen.  Ford Fairlane with Andrew Dice Clay is high art to me…

 

Where was I?  Oh yeah, Spectators.

 

After Chad dismissed his gay suitor, a pair of breasty newcomers entered the bar and made their way over.  Said newcomers were none other than Tits Finnegan, and Weepy McBitch.

 

Though Chad had smoothed things over after our first meeting, (detailed in the “Adventures in Greenville, Part 1” story), Weepy regarded me with barely concealed hatred, having apparently realized in the sober light of day that I was, indeed, an asshole.

 

Hey, she can go straight to Hell in a hand basket, because Tits Finnegan was as friendly and flirty as ever! 

 

Good lord.  I wish I had the literary skill to adequately describe the RACK on the nubile Ms. Finnegan, but words do not do her justice.  She’s a tiny little thing, yet “thick”, as the brothers say.  With a fifteen-year-old’s face and an ass like Jennifer Lopez, Tits was by far the best looking girl I met while I was in Mississippi.

 

Anyway, Chad does about five seconds of smoozing with the two, and then leans in to tell me that while Weepy McBitch is leaving, Tits Finnegan is gonna come home with us.  Is this guy a pimplord or what?

 

I spent the rest of the night talking to Melissa, Liz, and Tits, gradually getting drunk beyond the capacity for rational thought.  It wasn’t quite a “Satan Mike” night, but damn near, as I almost beat the fuck outta some redneck as the bar was closing down.

 

With one o’clock approaching, I looked up to see that most of the patrons had already gone home, and that the management had turned on the lights.  In the harsh glow of halogen, I noticed that this trucker looking dipshit was hitting on my cousin, and probably had been for most of the night. 

 

Now that the music was off, I positioned myself to join the ongoing conversation, at which time Melissa introduces me to Dipshit Trucker, and then scampers off to the bathroom.  Dipshit was sitting with an old high school acquaintance of mine, Ronny Iron, but Ronny contributed nothing to this story, so I probably won’t mention him again… except to say that I would’ve beaten his tall, skinny ass too if things turned sour. 

 

Anyway, Dipshit proceeds to tell me his life story; how he was an engineer, but that he’d been laid off and couldn’t find work in Greenville.  I don’t know much about engineering, but I do know a smidgen about physics, and when I casually asked Dipshit some rudimentary Newtonian questions, he looked at me like I was retarded.

 

If this guy is really an engineer, I hope to fuck I never have to drive across any bridge that HE built.

 

At some point, Ronny- whose balls are bigger than his brain- brings up the fact that I’m a martial artist, and Dipshit starts grilling me about Tae Kwon Do, Karate, and Kung Fu.

 

Anybody else might’ve thought that Dipshit knew a thing or two about combat, but I ferreted his lying ass out in about five seconds, then making it clear that what I train is more like boxing or wresting, rather than what you see in the movies.

 

I thought I was gonna have to hand him his own ass right then and there, (because he got an attitude), but he immediately backed down when I asked if he’d like me to show him a move or two.

 

Ah, paper tough guys…  How I love them.

 

Melissa returns a couple of minutes later, and Dipshit proceeds to try and woo her back to his doublewide.  Melissa refused, (partially because I loudly proclaimed that she could do better than this waste of flannel, no doubt), and Dipshit laughingly called her a bitch, as in, “Aw, come on, bitch.  You KNOW you wanna stay the night at my place.”

 

Oh, NO HE DI ‘INT!!!

 

“Look, friend,” I said, leaning across the table and unleashing the Descado Glare, “I can tell you two have a rapport, but don’t you ever call my cousin a bitch again.  She’s family to me, and I take that shit real fucking personal.  We savvy?”

 

The table got real quite, and- for half a second- I thought Dipshit was gonna bow up.  Alas, he punked down with a sheepish smile, then stammering something about “joking around”, before scooting back to put some distance between us. 

 

Needless to say, Melissa did NOT go home with Dipshit; in fact, she agreed to come home with me and Chad, along with Liz, Danny, Tits, and a few other people Chad had seduced during the course of the night.

 

After being chased out of Spectators by a staff that- for some reason- would not pour me a “drink for the road”, we all piled in our cars and drove back to Chad’s house.  Once there, a group of about ten of us played drinking games until the wee hours, everyone eventually bailing except for me, Tits, and Chad, (Danny went to bed).

 

That’s when things turned ornery.

 

Drunk, abandoned and alone, the three of us decided to play strip poker, which lasted about five minutes.  I lost one of my two shirts almost immediately, but the next hand went sour for the savory Ms. Finnegan, and I demanded that she take off her own shirt.

 

Now, Tits was dressed in jeans, a white spaghetti string tank top, and a blue zip up fleece jacket.  Chad and I were both coaxing her to take off the tank top, but Tits refused… unless I did another shot.

 

I didn’t mention this before, but I’d already vomited once during the night, (in secret); my tolerance for alcohol having far exceeded its limits.  You must understand that I have a reputation to protect, and that declining a free drink is something I just don’t do.  As such, I knew the shot in question, pure Tequila, would send me to the toilet again, and I hesitated… for about two seconds.

 

“Seriously, Mike,” Tits goaded me, “I’ll do it if you down this shot.  I’ll take off my tank top.  And I’m not wearing a bra.”

 

Comically, this became a grand production, me briefly retiring to the kitchen to pour myself a skim milk chaser.  I knew I shouldn’t drink anymore, I knew it.  But I suspected that Tits had one of- if not the- best pair of, well, TITS, that I had ever laid eyes upon.  Enticing, yes, but I likewise suspected that if I downed the shot, I would puke all over the table, and then the sexual tension in the air would be irrecoverably thwarted.

 

“Come on, Mike!” Chad slurred, “You’re the best!  I have faith in you!!!”

 

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it…” I groaned, then pointing over their shoulders, “WHAT’S THAT OVER THERE?!?”

 

Chad and Tits simultaneously turned in their chairs to look in the direction of my outstretched finger, and I immediately punched myself as hard as I could in the leg.  I was trying to induce just enough pain to make my body forget its queasiness, but I hit with my right hand, (the knuckles of which are made of solid titanium), and I succeeded in giving myself a deep muscle bruise which took a week and a half to heal.

 

Nevertheless, the dull agony was more than ample to distract my stomach.

 

“What?  Where?” They both gasped, turning back to no doubt see my face contorted in anguish.

 

“Never mind,” I croaked, then downing the shot and chasing it with skim milk.  I waited the required ten seconds to make sure I wasn’t gonna hurl, and then my eyes locked to Tits.  “Well Ms. Finnegan, I did it.  Isn’t there something you’re now obligated to take off?”

 

Tits laughed seductively and then slurred, “I do go bathroom first,” before scampering off to the lavatory. 

 

Chad looked at me and said, “Man, you are the drinkingest son of a bitch I’ve ever known!  …Except for me.”

 

“So let it be written, so let it be done.”

 

Five minutes later, Tits emerged from the crapper and joined Chad and I in the game room, (which usually boasts a full sized pool table, except that said pool table was currently out at the billiard shop getting re-felted).

 

Stumbling incoherently, Tits collapses in front of the stereo, puts in a CD, (which I THINK was Barry White), and then rights herself to begin slow dancing with me AND Chad.  This wasn’t normal slow dancing either; this was “I want you guys to double team me right now” slow dancing. 

 

She’d make out with me for a few seconds, and then make out with Chad; periodically pulling down her spaghetti string tank top to show us (finally) her ample yet perfect breasts.  

 

Merry Christmas, Mike.  And God bless us, every one!

 

I wish that I hadn’t been so drunk, because maybe now I could recall enough mental images to keep me stocked with beat off material for the rest of my life. 

 

I shit you not.  This chick had the best non-surgically-enhanced rack I’ve ever fondled, and I can honestly say that the only reason neither Chad nor I had sex with her, is because both of us were there.

 

I remember thinking, “Can I do it?  Can I actually double team a girl?  With Chad?!?”

 

The answer, after being THOUROUGHLY debated in my mind, was “no”.  And not just for me.  Chad didn’t try to seal the deal either, and (I fucking hope) for the same reasons. 

 

You see, despite what I’ve written above, I fully accept the homosexual lifestyle.  Yet, I’m totally straight, and I seriously doubt I could manage so much as a chubby during sex if another guy was in the room.

 

Blasted heterosexuality!!!  DIE, male insecurity!  DIIIIIIIIIEEEEE!!! 

 

My next memory is waking up on Chad’s couch with my blue jeans off and a terrible taste in my mouth.  Apparently, I’d mistaken a dog turd for a grilled cheese sandwich.

 

Tits had already gone home, Chad had already gone to work, and Danny’s door was closed, so I didn’t bother him. 

 

I would later learn that Tits, (after being left unsatisfied by me and Chad), had wandered into Danny’s room, taken off her blue jeans AND her panties, and climbed in bed with him.  Did Danny succeed where Chad and I did not?  No one knows, not even Danny… or Tits, for that matter.

 

They both claim they can’t remember.  And, who knows?  Maybe that’s for the best.  After all, Tits is/was Alan’s girlfriend of the hour, (well, kinda), and I don’t think he would’ve appreciated ANY of us having sex with her.

 

If there’s any moral to this story, it’s that I should’ve choked Chad unconscious while Tits was in the bathroom.  At least THEN I would’ve been the one who couldn’t remember having sex with the ultimate pair of boobies.

 

Sleep tight boys and girls.  And yes, there’s even more to come from my adventures in Greenville…