Like all plans after the age of 25, assembling the perfect cast of characters was proving to be quite a chore. Sure, there were the usual suspects that would never miss out on this sort of thing — Mike, Stu and John — and the predictably indecisive — Tanner and James. But only one person issued a definite hard no, one that said not only will he not be going, but demanded we stop contacting him altogether. Jack.
I could write 3,000 words trying to explain Jack the person, and you’d still be left scratching your head. Just trust me when I say that Jack is a guy you want in New Orleans with you. A friend from college that meshed well with all of my high school and work friends, Jack is one of the very few people that actually live up to their reputation. In college, he was just your run-of-the-mill boozer. Took five years to graduate, had a weird semester-long phase with the sketchy faction of our fraternity, was a rampant womanizer, but who wasn’t? Well, it wasn’t until shortly after college that Jack’s wheels began flying off.
Jack boned a coworker (she wasn’t that hot) within the first two months of his first job. It was on a week-long training seminar, and some try-hard instructor busted them mugging down outside of the Marriott downtown. Seems harmless, except for the fact that his company had a strictly enforced no dating policy, and violating that policy meant either one party transferred offices, or both were terminated. Jack transferred, which is why he now lives in San Antonio. Sucks for Jack. I would’ve just quit.
Jack lost his ass on our first bachelor party in Las Vegas. No, he didn’t lose everything rolling the dice. Nope, that wouldn’t be Jack enough. Instead, Jack fell in love with a stripper; technically two strippers. When you’re 24 and riding the wave of your good bud’s bachelor party, you have to keep your head on a swivel. Unfortunately for Jack, dances cost triple in VIP what they cost out on the floor, and the same goes for bottles. Jack flew too close to the sun, and he ended up with a bill that was somewhere between “a new MacBook and a high-end mountain bike.” I’ll assume that’s a lot because I don’t ride bikes anymore.
This was the real wakeup call, and rightfully so. Two or three years ago, a group of us decided to do New Orleans for a completely random weekend trip. I’m not sure what spawned it, although I’m sure it was Mike’s idea, but we were basically the classic group of tools that were not too far removed from college that were trying to go just as hard as we did in our prime. I know, I know. Dangerous move. Well, on our last night there, after striking out on every piece of SEC ass that crossed his path, Jack finally found someone to give him the time of day.
Details are sketchy as we were on the bad side of a two-day New Orleans bender, but Jack lost the group after leaving the Goldmine Saloon with a group of “local” girls that were just completely digging his shit. I say “local” because we’d soon learn that these girls were completely full of shit, so there’s no telling where they were from. I vaguely remember what one of them looked like, and it wasn’t great. Tattoos, but not like edgy hipster tattoos. Nah, they were more like “You’ve seen some shit, huh?” tattoos. But Jack was on a mission to prove to himself he could still execute a one-night stand, and we weren’t going to stand in the way of that. Oops.
At some point after departing the bar, this group of young ladies convinced Jack to go to another bar that was more of a local favorite across town. This would require getting into a vehicle with the queens of the double-wide. Huge red flag. Thinking with his rarely used dick, Jack agreed, and on he went with 3 girls, all complete strangers. You’ve probably figured out by now that this doesn’t end well for Jack, and you’re right. It ends horribly.
Apparently at some point during the ride, the girl riding shotgun pulled a gun from the glove box and told Jack to remove all of his clothing and put his hands above his head. To those who know him, this image is kind of hilarious because Jack’s body can only be compared to a large bag of milk. But yeah, they robbed his ass. These girls took his phone, wallet, clothes, hotel key, and the 40 dollars in Harrah’s chips he’d managed to hold onto and dumped his ass in Slidell. The poor bastard had to run into a gas station wearing nothing but his boxer briefs to call 911. Spoiler alert: They never found those slut bandits. It was baaaad. Jack missed his flight out of Louis Armstrong the next day because he had no ID, and he had to call and tell his boss the entire story. Luckily he had one of those young, still wants to be cool, bosses and he didn’t catch any blowback.
Jack retired from raging that day. It was his Tiger on Thanksgiving night moment. He was never the same.
So that brings us to 2016, and our desperate attempt to bring Jack out of his much-needed hibernation. Would we have a good time without him? Of course, we would. No one member is bigger than the group. But Jack’s the kind of guy you want to be around. He’s up for anything, and he’ll approach any group of girls that you wouldn’t even dream of making a move on. You want that element. You need that element.
The time has come to put on the full court press..