Greatest IU Weekend Ever

Holy Toledo, talk about a great weekend to be in Bloomington.

Friday
Jester left for Seattle to visit Leslie "Dulie" Dulin for the weekend, which left me to my own devices with no one to limit my self-destruction.

Pissed Off Christoff and I left Lincoln Park in The Blaab at approximately 6:15pm CST, giving us 4 hours and 45 minutes to make it to Bloomington in time for Midnight Madness, which was to be attended by the newest IU supercommit, Eric Gordon. God and the Indiana Department of Transportation had other plans for us, however. On I-65, just south of Lafayette (read: worst smelling city in Tippecanoe County, and possibly the world), we slowed to a crawl. A 7-mile back-up before going down to one lane stole at least 45 minutes from us, although it did give me the ability to be driving slow enough to capture The Blaab's first milestone with me: 45,000.

Another backup on I-465 took even more time from us. By the time we arrived at the Days Inn in B-town, it was 12:53am local time. The gents we were supposed to be going to Midnight Madness with (Holt, Jacob, Sean, and Matt) were obviously not there, so I managed to convince the pod working the front desk to give me a room key to Jacob's room. The room itself smelled like someone had smoked between 60 and 342 Benson & Hedges 100s in it each day for the past 40 years. The bathroom (which had no window, fan, or other ventilating feature) smelled like someone had recently hotboxed it with said B&H's. Bottom line: the room fucking reeked.

No worries, though, because we were in B-town and we had about 2 hours left to drink. Despite Holt's pleading that we come to Nick's immediately, Christoff and I caught a cab to the Upstairs Pub so that we could at least try to catch up for lost time by starting off with an AMF. While in line to get into the bar, we listened to a guy who obviously didn't go to IU try to criticize another guy in line for wearing a Bears jersey that wasn't a Rex Grossman jersey. Here's the stupifying conversation Christoff and I had to listen to:
Drunk guy: "Hey why aren't you wearing a Rex Grossman jersey?"
Bears fan: "Uh, I don't know."
Drunk guy: "Well you go to IU, don't you?"
Bears fan: "Yeah."
Drunk guy: "So you should have a Grossman jersey."
Bears fan: "Why?"
Drunk guy: "'Cause he's went to IU."
Bears fan: "Uh, Grossman didn't go to IU. He went to Florida State." (Grossman actually went to Florida, not FSU)
Drunk guy: "Yeah, but he's a hometown hero. How can you not have a Grossman jersey?"
Bears fan: "I'm wearing an Ogunleye jersey. He went to IU."

As Christoff asked, "Are we really listening to an argument about whether Rex Grossman went to IU or Florida State?"

We arrived inside Upstairs at 1:17. I will reiterate my stance that smoking bans in bars are a horrible idea. Upstairs smelled like a fraternity basement, mixed with vicious flatulence, BO, and dog vomit. I would much rather stink of smoke at the end of the night that have to smell everyone's ass.

But I disgress. At 1:30, we had both finished a big AMF (for those of you unfamiliar with an AMF, it stands for Adios Mother Fucker, and it's big, blue, has 6-8 shots of various spirits located within it, and tastes better than a pair of sopping wet breasts). It was around this time that I got the following text message from Holt: "Sink the biz. Areola is here - be cool."

My heart started to race with anticipation. That's right, I was soon going to be playing Sink the Bismark with Are-fucking-ola. Christoff seemed less than impressed. Nonetheless, we went over to Nick's. And there she was.

Last I saw of her, her vagina was firmly planted, velcro-style, on the floor of the side room of the Metz Suite, with a man's hand gently placed on her exposed ass cheek, wearing only a t-shirt that she had so graciously been given when the good folks at Kilroy's found her puking topless in the bathroom at 3:30am. From what I could tell, not much had changed with young Areola. The style of her outfit Friday night could be described as Post-modern German Prostitute. Both her shit and "shorts" were black. The shirt was a button-down shirt, conveniently buttoned about one notch too low, thus allowing the world to see her ample bosom. Her shorts came down slightly below her aforementioned vagina. The refined scent of lager billowed from her mouth, and the sweet stench of mettwurst and kraut emanated from between her legs. I did not notice whether or not she was wearing clear plastic spike heels, and I assume that the last pair of underwear she owned was that purple pair she left behind last year to infest the Metz Suite with crabs.

Christoff made little effort to hide is utter disdain for this "woman," often mocking her to her face or boobs. Whether it was naivete, ignorance, or nonchalance, she seemed to brush the insults aside, much in the same way she did with her morals on that fateful November 2005 morning.

Unfortunately, the pictures I took with my camera phone are of a quality unbecoming to a camera. However, I assure you, one of those shapes in those two pictures is Areola.

Once the bars closed, we hit LaBamba for what would be the second-best burrito I had during the weekend. Then Jacob, Christoff, and I caught a cab back to our hotel room (it was the 3 of us in one room at the Days Inn, with the other guys at the Country Hearth a few blocks away). We watched some very interesting TV before going to sleep. I don't know how we stumbled upon the greatest informercial of all-time (kudos to Christoff for finding the link to the review), but we did. It was for Dual Action Cleanse, which apparently does wonders for the "length and girth" of your bowel movements. The man peddling this product is named Klee Irwin, and it became very clear that he has measured nearly every bowel movement he and his family members have had over the past several years. At one point, he explained that his daughter (who was 11, I think he said) had a shit (my word, not his) that was as thick around as his wrist and as long as her arm. I think that's called a Snake Charmer by proctologists. What was amazing is that she didn't even use Dual Action Cleanse, so I'm not sure how that story fit into anything he was attempting to do, except perhaps to (1) tout his daughter's dumping ability, (2) prove that he is a fucking lunatic, or (3) embarrass the shit (pun intended) out of his daughter. While his delivery and message seemed more than impressive, apparently you shouldn't buy Dual Action Cleanse.

Saturday
We awoke at 8 to make preparations for tailgating. A quick trip to the liquor store ensured that we would have far too much beer for what we needed. Only Holt, Christoff, and I were able to drag ourselves out of bed to tailgate.

We arrived at the tailgating fields around 9:30 (in Holt's car -- don't worry Jessie, The Blaab was safely parked at the hotel). The next several hours are likely to have occurred, but the details are hazy. I know I saw fellow Pi Kapp Drew Phillips while I was in the tailgating fields getting a halftime beer. Oh yeah, and at one point, I remember that the Indiana Hoosiers football team came back from a 21-7 first-half deficit to defeat the No. 13/15-ranked Iowa Hawkeyes, thus giving IU its first victory over a top 15 team since defeating No. 9 Ohio State in 1987 in what OSU head coach Earle Bruce referred to as "the darkest day in Ohio State football history." Until this coming Saturday Earle. Die slow motherfucker. IU 23 OSU 21. Biggest upset in Big Ten history.

While the victory over Iowa was huge, it only made the two 7-point home losses to SIU and UConn while Coach Hep was out even that much more painful. We're a brain surgery away from being 6-1. Frustrating, but I guess IU football will gladly take 4-3.

Number of victories until IU clinches Motor City Bowl birth: 2

After the game, we went to Yogi's, then Christoff, Holt, and I went back to our hotels to take much-needed naps. Christoff and I also ordered and consumed some much-needed Dagwood's. I think this was around 6. We woke up at 9:30.

Once we got cleansed (not dual action style) and dressed, it was off to Nick's with Holt. The other guys had stayed out the whole time. That decision would come back to haunt them.

When we arrived at Nick's, it was clear that IU was collectively drunker than I have seen it probably since IU beat Duke in the 2002 Sweet 16. Everyone was sloppy. But it was a happy sloppy. The kind of happy sloppy that ensured Planned Parenthood would be getting plenty of visitors in the near future. We got into the room upstairs with the pool tables, and nearly the entire room was singing along to "Fat Bottom Girls" on the jukebox.

Soon after, Pete "Shrockstar" Shrock, Drew Phillips, Brad "Gene Simmons" Mundy, his girlfriend, and one of her friends arrived, and we all sat down for a game of Sink. Shrock had somehow obtained one of IU star wide receiver James Hardy's gloves from the game, and he kept it on his left hand the entire night, meaning that his left hand accounted for 1.5 TDs against Iowa.

Again, the next few hours are a haze. The one thing I do remember is Mundy saying that he and a friend were going as Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley the Saturday before Halloween (which is usually a big costumes-at-the-bars day, even if the bars aren't having costume contests that Goni and I would undoubtedly win), and they were looking for an Ace Frehley and a Peter Criss. Enter drunken Andrew. I will now be parading around Bloomington the night of Saturday 10/28 as The Spaceman, breaking into random fits of "Shock Me."

As Christoff and I discussed on the drive back to Chicago on Sunday, I must now find someone to play the part of Vinnie Vincent's Egyptian Ankh. He won't show up until about midnight, about 30 minutes after I'm caught signing "New York Groove" in a different part of the bar from the other guys. Once Vinnie shows up, I'll go to another bar, making derogatory comments about Creatures of the Night under my breath as I'm leaving. Then I'll go hang out with some other guys at another, less popular bar. About 30 minutes after I leave, someone dressed as Mark St. John (i.e., in street clothes) will make his way to the first bar, and Vinnie will leave. Less than 5 minutes later, someone dressed up as Bruce Kulick (i.e., also in street clothes) will show up and Mark will leave. At about 2, I'll return to the first bar. Without a word, I will walk up to Bruce, grab the beer out of his hand, and he will leave quietly while I drink the rest of his beer. Around 3, someone dressed exactly like me (only with slightly different hair), who is supposed to be Tommy Thayer (not to be confused with former Bears offensive lineman Tom Thayer), will arrive. We will exchange pleasantries, and then I will go home.

In addition to the non-Simmons/Stanley/Frehley members mentioned above, currently we don't have a Peter Criss. Nor do we have an Eric Carr to replace him. Crazy Fox, God rest his soul. Nor do we have an Eric Singer to replace Criss the second time around and be dressed exactly like Criss. If you are interested in any of these openings, please submit an essay no longer than 500 words to gmyhblog@yahoo.com, describing why you think you would be the best Peter Criss, Vinnie Vincent, Mark St. John, Bruce Kulick, Eric Carr, or Eric Singer. You are free to apply for more than one position, although you are only allowed to submit one essay. After I receive what I assume will be zero essays, I will post them on GMYH, and you -- the fans -- can vote who gets the honor of parading around Bloomington on the night of 10/28 with other jackasses who are dressed up in full KISS regalia. It will be the highlight of your life.

After another trip to Upstairs, it was another trip to Bamba's for what turned out to be the best burrito of the weekend, even though it was essentially the exact same as the burrito I had the night before.

Christoff and I then got a ride back to our hotel, and Jacob never came back to the room, which turned out to be a good thing, as we learned the next morning.

Sunday
When I woke up on Sunday morning, I had a horrible feeling that the burrito I had 7 hours earlier was going to be soon finding its way out of my body, although I was not sure of the path it would take. A couple Excedrin Migraine and some water did little to help. Lying in the fetal position for an hour barely staved off whatever awful thing was going to happen to me. Sadly, my gastrointestinal condition assured that I would not be able to handle biscuits and gravy from Ladyman's, so I'll have to wait until my birthday in a couple weeks to enjoy the greatest breakfast in B-town.

Holt arrived at the room around 11 with a still-drunk Jacob, who gathered most of his stuff and was whisked by Holt back to the other hotel where he would leave with the other guys. Upon Holt's return, he told me that Jacob stayed with him and the other guys at the other hotel. In the middle of the night, Jacob puked what Holt described as a "black, tar-like substance" all over the sheets, which resulted in the sheets being tossed off the balcony. Then later Holt woke up to find Jacob kneeling in front of the little table in between the beds and pissing into the opening. Wow. I might be sitting in jail on murder charges if Jacob had come back to our room that night.

Christoff and I left a little after 1 local time, and it did not take us five and a half hours to get back to Chicago, thankfully. On the way home, we saw two things of note. The first was a sign outside a pawn shop in Martinsville (aka Martintucky -- sorry Shepley):

In case you can't read that, it says, "Wow!!! Annual Gun Sale." Sometimes I forget that IU is located in southern Indiana.

If I were to ask you where the most dreams in the world were caught, what would you say? Vegas? Paris? New York? LA? Wrong, wrong, wrong, and wrong. The location in which the largest number of dreams are caught is a truck stop just off Exit 193 on I-65 (the Wolcott/Chalmers exit). To say that it was peppered with dream catchers would be as much of an understatement as saying Cory Lidle should have kept his ass on the ground. It was overwhelming. And disturbing. This type of stalagtite pattern has not been seen since Drini's bunk bed his senior year. Look at this shit:

And the worst part is that this picture doesn't even show half of the dream catchers that were available for purchase. Some of these things were $70. Who the hell is paying $70 for one of these? Apparently not nearly enough people.

So, all in all, it was a pretty sweet weekend. I hope Jessie likes her new two-foot-diameter dream catcher.

Unfortunately, I'm now watching the Bears get beat like rented mules by the fucking Arizona Cardinals. So much for 16-0.