Hiscock & Pusey, Attorneys at Law

I'm not even sure if you'd believe what happened to me this weekend. Okay, so Friday I worked until about 7 because the man has a habit of dragging me down and kicking me in the head repeatedly with a steel-toed boot. When I arrived home, I could sense that something was amiss. Immediately, I realized that both Jessie and I had not yet eaten dinner. Guys, I'm not even kidding. Jessie started flipping out and throwing shit all over the place -- vases, plates, Harley, TVs -- all while singing "Kiss You All Over" by Exile. Every time I tried to interrupt, she would yell, "not while I'm singing 'our song' dammit!" which I thought was odd because "our song" is, has always been, and will always be "Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley. I did the only thing I could do in that situation: ordered carryout from Penny's and prayed for a quick, painless death.

I practically sprinted to Penny's, arriving soaked in sweat and panting like a hell hound on the trail of a fresh corpse. I muttered something to the petite Asian woman behind the counter about being a couple days early for the marathon. Unamused, she gave me my food and informed me that the police would be arriving in less than five minutes.

By the time I returned home, Jessie's condition could only be described as ravenous and unstable. The puffiness around her eyes told me that she had been sobbing, and the knife and small doll carved from an onion sitting on the now-broken coffee table told me that she had once again been dabbling in voodoo. I handed Jessie her tub of fresh ramen, and locked myself in the bathroom with my chicken lad nar.

The food satiated me, but did little to calm Jessie's bloodlust. After killing a pigeon with her bare hands, she and Harley began to fight. Only the soothing voice of Bob Saget on NBC's new hit show One Vs. 100 finally brought Jessie up from the floor (mind you she was covered in a combination of feathers, pigeon's blood, and dog's blood). While visibly shaken, Harley was physically well enough that we spared a trip to the vet. I spent the next several hours vigorously cleaning the apartment (thank God for microfiber) while Jessie soaked in a warm milkbath I had drawn for her.

At around 11:30, "NaviKate" Rohrer and her boy toy Mike "The Ulltimate Warrior" Ullmer arrived at the nearby (as in a block away) apartment of their friends, the Stickrods. By this time, the PCP had worn off and Jessie was back to her normal self. The six of us went to Lawry's, the dive bar that is equidistant between our apartment and the Stickrods' apartment. After closing the place down, we all went back to our respective places. I found out that VH1 Classic has a "show" called Metal Mania that runs in the wee hours of the morning. Essentially, it shows hair band videos. Knowing that I had to get up somewhat early the next morning, I taped it, since it was on until 5.

Saturday morning we woke up around 10. I tried to talk to Jessie about her erratic behavior from the previous evening, but she seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. In fact, she vehemently denied that any of what I was telling her actually happened, saying outlandish things like, "What are you talking about?", "That never happened," "You're making this up," and "This is all in your head." Poor girl.

A bunch of us went to Rocks to watch the IU/Ohio State game. When we got there, it was 3-0 Hoosiers. I should have just turned around and not watched any more, leading myself to believe that we had held on to defeat the #1 team in the nation on the road, keeping intact IU's Rose Bowl dreams. In reality, those were the last points IU would score, yielding 44 to the Buckeyes. OSU managed to beat the 31.5-point spread, thanks in part to some questionable no-calls by the refs. I'm not saying that IU would have won, but I am saying that the hand of the #1 team in the land seems to be firmly planted in the pockets of the Big Ten referees, leaving not only cash, but also some pretty disgusting stains.

After Rocks, we met up with Tron -- who failed to tell anyone he was going to be in town until 2pm Saturday -- at Ivy on Clark. He was beaming (as he should have been) after MSU's 35-point comeback win over Northwestern, thus saving John L. Smith's job for at least one more week. In fact, he had been at the game, but left at halftime because Northwestern was so far ahead.

While there, we watched Notre Dame barely defeat a mediocre UCLA team at home with a last-minute touchdown by Howard Stern. The refs seemed to miss a holding call on the winning TD pass that everyone in the bar noticed. Although no ND fan will admit it, this is just another game that proves ND is overrated.

On a related note, the Text Message of the Weekend award goes to Holt, for the following: "Samardzija may be the best lookin' chick at ND." He's right, you know.

After Ivy, everyone went home, took naps, and then The Six Pack (as I am now -- and only now -- referring to NaviKate, Mike, the Stickrods, and me and Jessie) headed to Grand Central for some dinner. Apparently Grand Central is doing some sort of community outreach program because several of the waitresses appeared to be current or former hookers. God bless 'em and their short shorts.

After Grand Central, we went to Alive One, where we drank beer. In this weekend's most random sighting, as Jessie and I were about to leave, who walks by us, but Kelly "Formerly Lynch" Jones. After having a kid not too long ago, she was getting one of her first real nights out, which I assume was awesome, although I'm not sure if I would trust Mike to care for an infant by himself, since I don't think his breasts can produce the requisite volume of milk. I could be wrong, though.

Saturday night ended once again with me watching Metal Mania and taping the rest of it. I highly suggest flipping over to VH1 Classic late night if you have the chance. '80s hair band videos are some of the best ever made. Among other things, I saw and/or heard W.A.S.P. get transported back in time to an old Texas frontier saloon, Ronny James Dio freak the hell out of some people, Mick Mars look like he was only 40 (he was actually about 35 at the time), Danger Danger (I'm pretty sure the video I saw was the last time anyone has seen any of them), Rick Allen's left arm, the demure harmonies of Slayer, and Jason Bonham's shitty-ass band.

Yesterday I worked from noon to 5:30, which is nearly as awesome as it sounds. Then I had my Second City class until about 9. Then I met the Stickrods, NaviKate, Mike, Ari, Klint, and the Jester at BW-3, where it was clear to me they had been drinking for hours. We had a great conversation about terrible full names or last names that we have heard or seen. Among those discussed were: Penix, Dickinsheets (not sure if that's spelled correctly), Phil Hiscock, Pusey (pronounced "pussy") (by the way, Hiscock and Pusey both work at the same law firm), Hitler, Jack P. Knauf, Tapan Buch (pronounced "tappin' bush"), Mike Hunt (seriously), Richard Head (seriously). I think there were others, but I might not have heard them because they might have been drowned out by my deafening laughter. Please feel free to post any hilarious actual names, or if you were there, please post any of the ones I forgot.