Hey look, I put some links on the right-hand side

As you may have been able to surmise by the title of this post, I put some links on the right-hand side. Among the links are various sports-related pages, some funny pages, and a blog started by Wee Wee, the man who inspired me to start this blog and in turn I inspired him to start his own blog.

Since today is pretty boring as far as non-hurricane-related stuff, I didn't have much to talk about. Although, I would like to point out that Hurricane Andrew is currently still the costliest hurricane in terms of real dollars and inflated dollars spent (http://www.nhc.noaa.gov/pastcost2.shtml?), and I don't think Katrina has a chance in hell of catching that. Boo-yah!

Tomorrow morning, I'm heading to Detroit for my grandma's wake and funeral. Jessie has never been to either. My prediction: Jessie + open casket = crying and puking. I'll let you know how it goes.

Explanation of the name "Give Me Your Handrew"

Several inquisitive little SOBs have asked what the hell "Give Me Your Handrew" means. I shall tell you. It all started in the glorious fall of 2001 when I lived with Tradd "Don't Call Me Chad" Fromme and Ryan "Don't Call Me Brian" Christoff (as well as the best roommate of all-time, Jason "Byrnsie" Byrnes). Tradd, Ryan, and I decided that enough was enough: we needed to make our use of the English language more streamlined and efficient. Refusing to be bogged down by words that started and ended with the same sounds, we developed a plan: we would use word combinations whenever possible. So, when Ryan grabbed a large knife and said, "give me your hand, Andrew," I said, "Don't you mean 'give me your Handrew?'" He replied with a smile, "Of course I do." So I did.

After returning from the hospital, I vowed to turn our dream into reality. Wanting to stretch this brilliant idea as far as possible, we founded AbbreviNation, a non-for-profit organization devoted to enhancing the efficiency of the use of the English language through word combinations and abbreviations. We can achieve this through several steps:
1. Promoting the use of currently used word combinations:
-calf + ankles = cankles (the unfortunate occurrence, often in middle-aged women, when the calf and ankle become one)
-shit + fart = shart (when more than gas escapes during flatulence)
-she + him = shim (someone whose gender is indecipherable)
-wimp + pussy = wussy (anyone of the pampered brats on E!'s "Filthy Rich: Cattle Drive")
-frisbee + golf = frolf (a pastime of George Costanza)
2. Encouraging the support of companies whose names are word combinations or abbreviations:
-Unocal (United Oil of California)
-3M (Minnesota Mining & Manufacturing)
-The Michillinda Beach Lodge (a hotel in southwestern Michigan that services travelers from Michigan, Illinios, and Indiana)
-GEICO (Government Employees Insurance Company)
-Evite.com (Electronic invite)
3. Engouraging the combination of words not previously combined:
-Abbreviation Nation becomes AbbreviNation
-Black Acura becomes Blackura
-Red Honda becomes Rhonda
-Give me your hand, Andrew becomes Give me your Handrew
-Good day becomes Gooday
4. Encouraging the invention of new words with new definitions through the use of word combinations:
-Al Qainada (Canada's Islamic fundamentalist terrorist sect)
-Aireykjavik (Iceland's new national airline, replacing the more cumbersome Iceland Air)
-Hookery (playing hooky with a hooker)
-Exgermanation (ridding the world of those pesky Germans)
-Spermination (murder by ejaculation)
5. Encouraging the visitation of geographical areas that promote efficient word usage: Texarkana; Illiana; Kentuckiana; Michiana; Benelux

Anyway, I hope this clears up any confusion about the name "Give Me Your Handrew." I wish you a gooday.

In Memorium: Carmela D'Alleva

Well, after nearly 95 years of zest, my grandma died today. She was a great woman who cared about everyone she met. I've never written an obituary before, so here is hers from my point of view:

Carmela Teresa D'Alleva, born Dec. 16, 1910 in Carlopoli, Calabria, Italy, died Aug. 28, 2005, in Royal Oak, Michigan, USA. Carmela was born in Italy's southwestern-most region, Calabria, in 1910 to Teresa and Carmine Talarico. Her father came to America and Canada in the 1920s to work, and in 1927 (after he had made enough money to bring them over), the rest of the family joined him. When Carmela first arrived in the US, she lived with some relatives in Brooklyn. According to Grandma, these relatives, the Mancaruso brothers, lived in a mansion in Brooklyn, owned their own construction company, and everyone did favors for them and they did favors for everyone else. Despite the obvious, Grandma vehemently denied my suggestion that the Mancarusos were Mafia dons, even though they clearly were. Either she didn't know (since she was a teenage girl and they wouldn't have let her in on the "family business"), or she was sworn to secrecy.

At some point, the family moved to sunny Erie, PA, which at the time was apparently not the armpit of Pennsylvania that it is today. Carmela's mother and two brothers, Guiseppe and Salvatore (or Joe and Sam, as they were called in America), lived there until their respective deaths. Somehow and somewhere and some point in time, Carmela stumbled upon a brilliant and dashing young chap by the name of Basil D'Alleva. They married in the early 1940s and moved to sunny Detroit, MI, which at the time was not the murder capital of the world that it is today.

After birthing two daughters, the happy couple moved to the suburb of Royal Oak around 1950. It was there where Carmela honed and perfected her cooking abilities, eventually becoming maker of the world's number one ranked gnocchi and lasagna, and number two ranked pizza (only behind Chicago's original Uno's). And she did all of this with the same stove for 50+ years and without ever having a microwave. Her cooking has actually become kind of a curse because I can never have gnocchi as good as hers. No matter where I go or how much I spend, no restaurant has come close. I only wish I would have videotaped her making it (she never had a recipe--she just made it).

In addition to her cooking prowess, Carmela was a chronic gambler, never missing a chance at playing the lotto. In fact, she was so addicted to gambling that she started a tab at the nearest party store and she would actually get her neighbors to go get her lottery tickets when she couldn't walk down there herself. If she ever gave me $20 and I said I was going to spend it at a bar, she would scorn me. But if I told her I was going to Casino Windsor with it, she would praise me and give me another $20.

She was also psychic. There was one rule with regard to her dreams: If she dreamed you were going to die, you would. It was actually kind of freaky to hear her tell some stories. For instance, she had a dream that one of her cousins died in a shipwreck. The next day, she got a letter saying that her cousin drowned. Now that's just sick.

There wasn't a heart she didn't touch or a stomach she didn't fill.

She is survived by two daughters, Christine (of Troy, MI) and Anita (of LaGrange, IL), and two grandsons, Andrew (of Dayton, OH) and Reed (of Chicago, IL).

Here is a short timeline of Carmela's life:
-1910 - Born
-1927 - Moves to US
-1942 - Marries Basil
-194? - Daughter #1, Christine, born (I was sworn to screcy about the actual year)
-194? - Daughter #2, Anita, born (ditto)
-1950 - Moves from Detroit to Royal Oak
-1951 - Carmela's gnocchi and lasagna both debut at #1 in the world
-1977 - Grandson #1, Andrew, born
-1982 - Grandson #2, Reed, born
-1982 - Teresa Talarico dies in Erie, PA at the age of 93
-1987 - Carmela shatters one hip after she and Basil for some reason tried to move a 500-lb wood lathe in their basement
-1990 - She accidently (and innocently) refers to someone as the "jackass of all trades"
-1995 - Basil dies in Clawson, MI at the age of 86
-1996 - Carmela shatters other hip after falling down stairs in Erie, PA
-1997 - Brother Sam dies in Erie, PA at 89
-2004 - Carmela's gnocchi and lasagna ranked #1 in the world for the 53rd consecutive year
-2005 - Brother Joe dies in Erie, PA at the age of 93
-2005 - Grandson #1, Andrew, gets married
-2005 - Carmela dies peacefully in her sleep in a hospital room Royal Oak, MI, thus reuniting with her husband and family, and leaving a huge void in gnocchi and lasagna circles

Why firm golf outings suck

So I'm back from my law firm's annual golf outing. Aside from the free Michelob Ultra (the athlete's beer), my sweet pastel blue Arnold Palmer golf pants, and 2 0r 3 straight drives, it was a mostly forgettable round of golf for me (not that I've ever had a round of golf worth remembering). Jessie and I were paired with an older guy in my firm (65 or s0, but easily the best player in the group) and a guy about 10 years older than me who hadn't played in four years. The key to our team, aside from our cocksure determination an vocal harmonies, is that everyone worked at the firm or (in Jessie's case) was a family member of someone in the firm. We shot a respectable 1 over, and we were a few putts away from shooting below par. Good round, or so we thought.

I'm all for the firm allowing family members to play in the golf outing. After all, these people have to deal with lawyers at home on a nightly basis. But I draw the line when people bring in ringers with no blood relation to anyone in the firm. Our firm happens to represent Lexis-Nexis (which employs thousands of people here in Dayton) in many matters, so apparently the guy in charge of the golf outing (we'll call him Fairplay Phil) invites the 3 best golfers at Lexis-Nexis to be a part of his foursome. After it's over, and everyone else is sitting, eating, and drinking under a big tent, they stroll in with shit-eating grins on their faces. All the other teams were talking about how happy they were to shoot 1-unders or even 1-overs (thank you very much), so we ask them what they shot, and what do these assholes say? Fucking 14 under! That means they shot a 58. They won by 9 or 10 strokes. The whole thing was gayer than Liberace and Elton John's gay son. I called "shenanigans," but it seems those don't hold any value outside my own mind. Seriously, 14 under. Anyway, I hope Fairplay Phil is happy, since he bought all the prizes with the firm's money. He might as well have just given himself a $50 gift certificate to Golf Galaxy (or whatever the hell it is that you get for winning one of these things) and called the whole thing off. What he really should have bought himself was a $50 gift certificate to Firestone so he could fix the 4 slashed tires waiting for him in the parking lot.

On the bright side, my dog hasn't shat blood in about 27 hours.

I have created a blog

At the behest of Jason "Wee Wee" Whitney, I have created a blog for his pleasure so that he has something to laugh about each day. Well, here goes...

So my dog, Harley, puked a couple times last night. No big deal, dogs get sick. I'm sitting at work today, busting my ass for the man, and my wife (Jessie, aka Jester, aka Pea Head) calls telling me that Harley has shat blood. Yes, shat blood. Not having a band-aid for that particular situation, we had to take Harley to the vet. Outside the vet's office, Harley proceeds to shit blood without shame or concern, only stopping when yanked by the neck into the office. I guess she had some sort of intestinal virus that has been floating around the Miami Valley's dog population. To remedy the possible dehydration that Harley was bound to be experiencing on account of the constant vomiting and blood shitting, the vet jams an IV into Harley's back and fills her back with fluid, thus giving Harley a camel-esque hump of water. Luckily it dissipated within a couple hours, but messed up nonetheless. Fear not, the little bitch is well on her way to recovery and can now eat without puking or shitting blood.

So now I'm sitting at home on a Friday night, about to go to bed because I have my firm's golf outing tomorrow morning, which should prove to be an embarrassment on account of the fact that I suck at golf and they have free beer.

Sorry Wee Wee, this isn't the best start, but I went with what I had to work with: a dog who shat blood. I promise it will be funnier in the future, and hopefully less to do with dogs (or anyone, for that matter) shitting blood.

Def Leppard Rocks

So last night several of us went to see the Def Leppard/Bryan Adams concert at Fifth Third Field here in lovely Dayton. I guess they're doing a tour of minor league ballparks, alternating each night who opens and closes. Last night, Def Leppard went first. It was general admission, and we got there early enough that we were about 4-5 people back, center stage. Def Leppard was awesome. I don't remember any of Bryan Adams. I puked when I got home, but it was all good because the next morning, I came across this picture in the Dayton Daily News:

Yeah, that's right. I'm totally rockin' the sleeveless Union Jack t-shirt. It's hard not to do. As you can see, the crowd was an attractive one. I'm surprised you can't see the sweet state fair hair on the chick in front of me. I'd be surprised if she hasn't blown at least one member of Enuff Z'nuff.

The Next Four Years

I'm pissed off and borderline lethal right now, especially having to live in the state that sealed the election for our fearless leader. Needless to say, I'm disappointed in the American people. Apparently I expected too much out of them. However, what most concerns me is that the Republicans again control the Senate, House and Presidency, but now Bush does not have to worry about getting re-elected. I am skeptical that he will actually unite both sides of his zipper, much less the American people. Here are some things to look for in the next four years:
-Jesus replaces the bald eagle as the national symbol
-The U.S. secedes from the world
-Every child is left behind
-Only those who make over $200,000 a year are allowed to laugh
-Heinz products are no longer available in stores
-After William Rehnquist and Sandra Day O'Connor retire and Justices Stevens, Kennedy, Souter, Ginsburg, and Breyer die in a hail of gunfire during a mysterious ATF drug bust at the Court, a law passes to reduce the number of Supreme Court Justices to two, leaving only Antonin Scalia and his man-child Clarence Thomas (don't worry, somehow there will never be any 1-1 ties)
-The Yellowstone, Yosemite, and Denali National Refineries open, creating thousands of opportunities for recently unemployed forest rangers
-Women and minorities are no longer allowed to vote
-As thousands of peasants watch, Michael Moore is hanged at the new National Gallows, located just blocks from the White House
-To boost the still-struggling economy, the nation's homeless and unemployed are sent overseas to do their old jobs for their old employers for a fraction of the salary they used to get
-Alan Keyes is appointed to the newly created position of Pastor of the United States
-Medicare and Medicaid are replaced by the new Vice-Presidential Pension Fund
-Crawford, Texas becomes the new capital--that way Bush technically won't be on vacation for 200 days a year.
-John Ashcroft "accidentally" confuses the U.S. Constitution with toilet paper
-A 500-foot wall is built around the U.S. (which will soon include Canada--they have oil, too, you know), and large dragons are bred to keep watch over the kingdom
-Leaded gasoline is reintroduced to combat any benefits gained by hybrid cars
-Non-country music is banned, as well as books not entitled "The Bible" or "Gone with the Wind"
-The Texas Rangers win 4 World Series rings after mysteriously receiving a $1 billion donation
-The Department of Education's funding is inexplicably cut by $1 billion
-In an effort to end the war, Iraq is declared the 51st state and renamed Happyfunland
-Dick Cheney dies, and Bush immedately falls to the ground--strings, handles, and everything
-Murder is no longer outlawed, assuming of course that you murder a foreigner
-Santa Claus is murdered by FBI agents after he is mistaken for a terrorist
-The feudal system is reinstituted
-The costs of medical malpractice insurance decreases immensely after Congress bans plaintiffs from the courtroom
-France disappears
-In order to get an abortion, a woman must get a signed note from three judges, her teacher, her co-workers, her parents, her grandparents, and her fetus
-Teachers and factory workers will be required to give half of their salaries to the newly formed state-sanctioned megaconglomerate Halli-Wal-General Electrosoft & Gamble-Warner
-With hopes of promoting teen abstinence, the following are made illegal: condoms, the pill, and having HIV, AIDS, herpes, gonorrhea, or the clap (oddly, at the urging of several Senators and Representatives, syphilis is still legal)
-Upon graduation from kindergarten, every child receives his or her own AR-15 (for the boys) or Uzi (for the little ladies)
-America gets a new national mascot: Georgie, the slow but loveable elephant who loves to step on gays, atheists, dissenters, and New Yorkers
-The South somehow rises again
-To combat that pesky endangered species problem, all non-human animals are killed (especially puppies)
-Only those making less than $100,000 a year will have to pay the national tithe
-"Trickle Down" replaces "E Pluribus Unum" on the penny
-America meets its new Surgeon General: Dr. Phillip Morris
-The war on terror ends during the newly added fifth (and final) season: nuclear winter
-A race of machines takes over the world
-One man and one cyborg go back to 1984 to impregnate and kill Sarah Connor, respectively
-John Connor leads the human resistance, and with the help of Barack Obama, defeats the machines in 2008.

Little 5 Recap

Thanks to all who showed up for my final Little 5 as an IU student. It was a hell of a time. Combined, I think we cut about 42 years off of our lives. I know that I'll be living for at least 4 fewer years than previously expected. For those who came and those who didn't, this should either help you remember what you might have forgotten, or fill you in on the weekend's events that you missed.

First off, I found the following things at my house today after cleaning up. Please let me know if they belong to you:
1. A Palm Pilot
2. 76 empty beer cans, 37 empty beer bottles, and a few wounded soldiers
3. Several enlarged livers and 3 pints of blood
4. 63 cents
5. Kazaam on DVD
6. My kicked-in front door
7. A note explaining why someone kicked my front door in
8. The remains of 3 cats, 2 chickens, and 1 pygmy
9. A complete set of jarts still in the box
10. 14 kilos of uncut opium
11. A family of Uzbek refugees
12. 4 issues of American Bitch, the magazine for the lesbian pure-bred dogowner
13. The head of Alfredo Garcia
14. 1 white athletic sock
15. 3 cases of Crystal Pepsi
16. A few gold dubloons and a map
17. A duffel bag full of human hair
18. The complete recordings of Rick Astley
19. Rick Astley
20. The portal to Narnia

Second, here are the Top 20 highlights (or lowlights) of the weekend:
1. Thursday night at the Bluebird, T. Green nearly getting in 2 fights
2. 4 hours of drinking in the 60-degree rain at Swampwater
3. Zumpano leaving Swampwater after 30 minutes (and only about a half glass of Swampwater) to go take a shit, and then not coming back, but rather walking back to my house (about a mile away) and kicking in my front door for no reason (the bill will arrive shortly), and then driving back to Chicago. Oh yeah, and then telling Adam (who was on his way to Bloomington) that he had to leave because Megan (Tony's pregnant wife) had an accident, after which Adam called Megan to make sure she was okay, and Megan had no idea what Adam was talking about or that Tony had even left Bloomington.
4. Spawn rear-ending 2 girls (take that however you want to)
5. One of Reed's friends seeing AJ Moye at the Bluebird Thursday night and demanding that AJ punch him in the chest, which he then did
6. At least 6 people puking, including the phantom puker Friday night who puked what strongly resembled Jager all over my coffee table (luckily it blends in well, so I won't have to clean it up
7. On a $50 bet, Chambers belly-flopping into the condiment/utensil table at Gresham Food Court in Foster Quad, and not somehow getting arrested
8. Not going to the women's race
9. The best men's race I've been to (top ten teams finished within 4 seconds of each other)
10. Widenhofer and I seeing AJ Moye at the race, and having the following awkward encounter: Weed walks up to him and exuberantly exlcaims, "Carlos Boozer," and Moye slaps Weed's hand several times and says "what you know about that?" several times. Moye then turns to me and I tell him that I'd just like to shake his hand. He obliges, and kind of pulls me in for a shoulder bump, and what do I say? "Keep on . . . keepin' on." I then ran away weeping.
11. Watching Jessie kick her first homeless guy
12. Watching nearly every episode from the 1st 2 seasons of The FamilyGuy
13. Receiving the following sage-like wisdom from a fortune cookie at Great Taste China Buffet: "Good work, good life, good love, good-bye oppression"
14. Listening to Barry Manilow records before going out Saturday night
15. Plotting with Goni, Jessie, and Ari to slit Widenhofer's Achilles tendons in his sleep
16. McCallum not going out Saturday night, even though he's a senior
17. While eating at Ladyman Cafe this morning, some guy that marginally knows Jessie and Ari coming up to the table to say hi, and then, for no apparent reason, saying to Ari "I hope you feel better"
18. Being blindingly drunk 4 separate times in a 36-hour time period
19. Gibran Hamdan getting drafted before Ken Dorsey
20. Tradd and I ordering a secretary's station for $1800 from the National Business Furniture catalog (we're now accepting applications forthe job)

Anyway, it was a good time for all, and a hell of a way to culminate the better part of a decade that I've been an IU student.

Puking on The L

Yesterday afternoon, I'm sitting at work, minding my own damn business when I get a call from Brian "Soho" Sohovich who says he has 2 tickets to the Cubs/Phillies game. He went to the same high school as Scott Rolen, so he was all excited about it. Who am I to pass up free tickets?

So after work I head to his apartment, which is right off Diversey, but over a mile west of the Diversery Brown Line stop. He lives with a family friend who is apparently loaded because the apartment was awesome and it was in a gated complex. Anyway, we decide that the best course of action to avoid giving those bastards at Wrigley one more cent than they deserve would be to bring a fifth of vodka, Dark Eyes to be exact, which for some reason, Soho had (in a convenient slim plastic traveling bottle no less).

Since we're both cheap and idiots, we walked to Wrigley, which was about 2 miles away. Our seats were pretty good (upper deck, but right behind home plate). We took care of the nearest vendor's Sprite inventory on our way to polishing off the fifth. In fact, we had finished in enough time to get a beer at the park before beer sales shut off at the 8th inning (I think).

Needless to say, I couldn't tell you who won the game. Afterward, we head across the street to the Cubby Bear, where we down some cans of Old Style for fucking $4.50 a pop. It must be nice to be making at least $120 on each 30-pack of Old Style. Anyway, at some point, I realized that I still had to make it back to the Loop so I could make the last Metra of the night back to the burbs (which leaves Union Station at 12:30).

I stumble the couple blocks from the Cubby Bear to the Red Line stop at Addison. As soon as I get on the train, I grab a window seat, prop my head up with my elbow and pass out. In my state of semi-coherence, I could feel the wheels in motion in my stomach. This was not a good thing.

Miraculously, I wake up at the Monroe stop, which is one before I need to get off at Jackson. I stand up and make my way to the door. There are probably about 10-15 people on the car with me. Bear in mind that I am still dressed in my business casual attire, which included a white button-down shirt and what used to be nicely pressed khakis, carrying my bag over my shoulder.

Anyway, on my walk to wait by the door for the next stop, I began to realize that I really needed to get the fuck off this train before I puked. I grabbed the railings on both sides of the door, essentially preventing anyone from getting in front of me. I began to psyche myself up in my head. "You're doing great, buddy. Just about 30 more seconds and we'll be there. You know you can do it."

The train begins to slow, and I'm telling myself, "Just a couple more seconds. You're gonna make it." My fellow passengers were hushed with anticipation. I keep my inner monologue going: "You're gonna make it. You're doing great. You're gonna make it. You're . . . not gonna make it."

About 2 seconds before the train came to a complete stop, I rocketed vomit all over the inside of the door. In unison, everyone else on the train gives a disappointed and disgusted "ohhh." So the doors open, and I keep puking all over the platform while I'm trying to walk away. Apparently I was on the first car because the conducter leans his head out the window and asks me if I'm alright. Doubled over and puking while stumbling towards the escalator, I thrust my right arm into the air to give him a big thumbs up.

I stopped puking just in time to notice the time: 12:20. Shit. I have 10 minutes to get my drunk ass to Union Station, which is about 7-8 blocks away. As much as was possible, I composed myself and started trucking up the escalator and out the exit. After running 2 blocks, I came to a big street and I thought to myself, "Well that's funny. They moved Michigan Avenue. . . . . Mother. Fucker." Yes, I had run two blocks in the wrong direction.

So I turn around and start really running the right way down Jackson. I got the Union Station and hopped on my train to the burbs about 10 seconds before the doors closed. Then I made my way to a seat and plopped down. It was at that point when I noticed everyone on the train staring at me. And with good reason. I was drenched with sweat and I stank to high heaven. By that point I didn't give a shit, so I just smiled politely and fell asleep until my stop.

It then took me about 45 minutes to get from the Stone Ave. train stop to my house, which is normally a 10-minute walk. Of course my mom was still awake when I got home, which had to be sometime around 1:45 or 2. The first thing she says to me when I get upstairs is, "My God, you reek." Then I told her the whole story. Not one to usually laugh about drinking stories, she was laughing her ass off.

Needless to say, getting up this morning was rough, but I managed to make it to work on time and without too bad of a hangover. Then again, I did get rid of about 5 gallons worth of puke at the Jackson St. L stop. Fucking Cubs.

Spring Break in South Carolina

I'm back from from spring break in Isle of Palms, South Carolina. Besides being appalled at how many confederate flags and "South will rise again" bumper stickers I saw, one story in particular sticks out above everything else. Here it is:

There were 5 of us (me, my roommate Garret, 2 Chrises and a Kevin). We stayed at Garret's house in Isle of Palms. Garret's family's boat was in the shop, so on Thursday we got to borrow a demo boat from the Sea Ray dealer. The guy at the dealer is a family friend of Garret's, so he brought the boat out to the marina near us. It was about 12:15pm, and the guy was going to come back at 4 to get the boat. Bear in mind that he is supposed to be on the boat with us, and that he was 100% liable if anything were to happen.

The 5 of us depart, not yet aware that we had no means of communication. At about 1, the boat stalls in the middle of Charleston Harbor. After 30 minutes the engine finally started. We went back down the Intercoastal Waterway, which is an inlet in between the ocean and the mainland. We went past the marina, because the boat was running fine for over 15 minutes. About 5 minutes after the marina was a path to the ocean, so we decided to have some fun in the Atlantic.

We went back and forth for about 20 minutes hopping waves and having a grand old time. It was great. We started to head back to the marina, but then we decided to go back for one more loop of wave hopping. Upon our attempt to turn around again, the lovely demo boat stalled. As we started to drift, we figured that the boat would start after a while.

After a while we realized the boat wasn't going to start, so we tried paddling with cushions, which proved to be extremely unsuccessful. We blew off the airhorn a few times, and fired a flare. After 10 minutes, we realized that the people on the beach (which was probably between 1/2-3/4 of a mile away at this point) weren't responding, so we blew the airhorn more, and fired off another flare. We started waving our shirts, and we finally saw someone waving back.

30 minutes later we hear sirens, and we were able to make out a pick-up truck on the beach with flashing lights, pulling a jet ski. We figured that we were finally saved. A half hour later, and few more hundred yards closer to Africa, the jet ski had not come yet. There were approximately 100-200 people gathered along the beach watching our escapade.

Soon, we hear a fluttering noise overhead. It was a helicopter in the distance, coming towards us. We finally figured out that this was a US Coast Guard helicopter, and it was coming for us. It circled us for 45 minutes, and much to our dismay, we didn't get an airlift. One of the Chrises even volunteered to let us break his leg so that we could get an air lift. Unfortunately, common sense got the best of him. Finally, a small boat from the Fire Department came and began the towing process. Another bigger boat came and towed us back to the marina. The whole towing process took another 40 minutes. We were pulled at about 2 miles an hour past the beach and several marinas and docks, so that everyone could have their look at the 5 dumbasses who managed to get stuck in the ocean.

We finally got back to the marina at 5:15, over an hour after we were supposed to have been there. The guy from the boat shop was there. He had heard what happened, and luckily he didn't get in trouble because Garret told the police that he was the guy's nephew. Appearantly we made the Charleston news that night, but we didn't watch it. Oh well.

That was my spring break story. Believe it or not there was no alcohol involved at all.