Strip Clubs, Little People, And Fake IDs: The Worst Reader-Submitted Stories From This Weekend

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Not going out on Friday and Saturday seems like a good idea. But it’s not. The second Sunday hits and NFL football graces screens across America, well, you feel refreshed and beers sound good. Real good.

At this age, pizza and beer will give you the same hangover as 2 a.m. vodka-sodas and tequila shots. Not proud of admitting that, but also not going to waste your time with stories about how old I am.

As always, we break some of the following stories down on Touching Base (subscribe on iTunes and SoundCloud). All the episodes can be found below. Proceed with caution.

Alright, let’s get into this weekend’s crop of stories which includes one of my favorite stories to date.

Long story short, slammed damn near an 18 pack of Natty Light by myself at a Sunday darty, drunkenly hit on a lady twice my age who is also married, managed to find a way back home, realize here at work that I, who’s BAC would kill a horse most likely, put on a pair of rodeo style bling jeans, a green short sleeve polo, a red Angels hat, and my polo vest. So not only do I look like a drunk mess, I look like a complete and total short sleeve, vest wearing douche, who also looks like a Christmas ornament with my nice choice of green and red. Mondays. They’re the best.

News for you, man. You don’t “look” like a “short sleeve, vest wearing douche” – you are a short sleeve, vest-wearing douche. You just used the words “darty” and “bling jeans” in the same sentence.

I went to my rival school this past weekend for our big game. This also happens to be the school that my ex who I dated seriously for over a year and a half goes for his MBA. More on that later.

My friends and I drive up on Friday night to stay at one of their parents’ places, only to be locked out because we were supposed to go through the garage and the electric company had turned off the power without notice besides a tag on the door. We call my friend’s grandma who has a huge mansion on the lake at 12:30 and miraculously she answers and we get to crash for a few hours.

We finally get there, and my friends stop at the place they’re staying at before one of my friend’s parents pick us up to drive us in closer to campus. When her parents roll up, I’m two mimosas deep (so I’m fine) but her lovely parents decide to start passing out Jello shots. We get to campus and I go find my friend who lives there to drop my stuff.

At this point, I decided to text my ex (who also lives in the same building). I end up dropping my stuff and agreeing to meet up with him after the game. Tailgates later, I lose my friends, end up at a random bar, leave for another bar to meet up with friends and leave my card at said bar and ditch my friends again. I end up sobbing in the line for the trashy undergrad bar about being lost while my team wins. My ex texts me about his plans, so I end up meeting up with him.

We spent a glorious night together that leaves me wondering where we stand as a couple. It was a very rough ride home that next day.

Am I absolutely insane for thinking that Jello shots just don’t actually get people drunk? Like, I know there is booze in them because I’ve helped make them before, but I feel like it’s similar to when you cook with wine or whiskey; it just disappears during the process. I’ve taken enough Jello shots in my life and felt absolutely nothing to justify wondering this.

Unfortunately, I have worse news for you other than Jello shots being a placebo. Your ex-boyfriend was prooooobably just having a fun night reliving your glory days rather than trying to reignite the relationship.

One of my best friends from college got married this past weekend and I was a bridesmaid in her wedding. As happen when college friends get together, I drank entirely too much at the rehearsal dinner and ended the night at a strip club slash midget wrestling ring in East Saint Louis with one of the groomsman.

I woke up the morning of her wedding to the sound of my phone ringing. Its the matron of honor calling to tell me “you’re late for hair and makeup, the bride knows, you have 5 minutes to get here.” (Coincidentally, I also blacked out the night of the matron of honor’s rehearsal dinner and took her down with me, but that’s another story). I made it to hair/makeup in record time (a feat I was praised for the rest of the day, low expectations), though it meant I had to forego a shower. After a night at the strip club. A fact I tried not to think about as I watched two of my best friends exchange their vows in the House of the Lord.

While my streak for throwing up the morning of every wedding I’ve ever been in continues, I suffered in silence and the only time the bride showed any annoyance was when I whipped a bowtie out of my bag, thinking I might’ve acquired it from one of the strippers (or midgets), to find out it belonged to one of the groomsmen and he needed it, like, 15 minutes ago. I managed to come back from the brink of death in time to watch my friends get married and ended the wedding night in a much tamer fashion, vaping with the mother of the bride in the middle of the dance floor.

“Ended the night at a strip club slash midget wrestling ring in East Saint Louis with one of the groomsman” is EXACTLY why we’re here people. Last week, we had asshole drunk drivers. Nah. This week? Strip club little people wrestling post-rehearsal dinners. And to follow up with tossing some clouds on the dance floor with the mother of the bride? I could cry tears of joy. High-key my favorite submission to date.

Last night I was supposed to meet up with two friends to have dinner and a few drinks. One friend couldn’t make it until later, so my other friend and I decided to kill some beers and watch the cinematic masterpiece that is the latest season of Trailer Park Boys. One thing led to another and we headed to a nearby dive bar that has $1 wells before 9. Next thing I know I wake up this morning nude and spooning my girlfriend’s childhood teddy bear back at our apartment.

Apparently I was unable home at 1 am and had to be driven back while I categorically denied that my apartment was actually where I lived. I also checked my phone to see if I’d done any further personal or professional damage and found I’d posted a snapchat video of the aforementioned dive bar while I slurred along to the B52’s Love Shack, one of my go to jukebox songs after getting into it.

In addition I sent a surprisingly coherent email to one of my colleagues at 10:30 about an upcoming project. Thankfully English isn’t her first language and she’s a homebody so my nocturnal email didn’t seem to raise any suspicions. My girlfriend had a yoga workshop this morning at 9 and I’m dreading the reproachful looks she’ll give me when she gets home. The only solace I have is that Taco Bell is 2 minutes from my apartment. I’m going to try and forget any of this ever happened by eating $20 of burritos by myself.

Okay, you seem like a nice guy, but I really think you need to reassess your blackout karaoke choices. “Love Shack” – are you serious? I default to “Only God Knows Why” because I don’t have to look at the screen and I love belting out, “you get what you put in and people get what they deserve,” so “Love Shack” really couldn’t be further from what I’m doing.

I’ll come out by saying that I have shit luck. I should’ve stayed in on Friday the 13th but I proceeded to bar hop in a celebratory mood. On Monday I have a big interview in SF with a VERY reputable company, one of the FANG companies. Friday night started well, but I progressively kept telling folks about this interview as was ordered celebratory shots. By the end of the night while waiting for an Uber with friends, a drunk sloppy guy proceeds to try to chat my friend. She looked visibly upset when the guy grabbed her by the waist. Seeing as I was closest there, I say “Hey man what’s up?” No warning, no squaring up nothing, the guy throws me a hard right directly to my left eye. Now I’m sporting a mean black eye, sitting in LAX as my flight has been delayed an hour and wondering how I’m going to handle the situation. Do I mention the elephant in the room? Or should I go to a Sephora and see if they can do magic some magic? Are black eyes always a bad look on interviews? Scaries hitting hard right now. Moral of the story, if you have a big interview coming up just lay low that weekend.

I was going to tell you, “if you have a big interview coming up, just lay low that weekend,” but you covered me on that one. I think you confront the elephant in the room by lying out of your ass and hoping they respect you for it. Walking in with a face covered in Sephora makeup will only hurt your chances more.

So about a month ago we decided to head to Chicago should have come two weeks ago but better late than never. So after an 8 hour car ride we shower and head to bars we’re there till about 3:30 a girl pays for our Uber so she can hook up with one of my friends and he did coke off her ass, so we thought we were headed in the right direction. But boy we’re we wrong…

We headed to wrigglyville around 2 on Saturday and started our day at sluggers and things were going well then our friend ordered shots so after a few rounds of shots we were feeling it my best friend and I were doing a lot better than our friends they get the boot and the waitress comes up to us to tell us they are passed out outside in the rain we decided to just figure it out later since we were having a good time and there really wasn’t anything we could do about it.

So it’s just me and my best friend talking to these three girls till we get a phone call from our friends mom apparently he’s in the hospital and she’s in the car with his dad to make the trek to pick his ass up so we leave the bars and try to find our other friends so we can go to the hospital and make sure our friend is ok. We get to the hospital and they only allow me and my best friend in the other two guys are left outside. We go up and the see last thing you’d want to see just a grown man in a hospital bed with a neck brace and a breathing tube, he’ll be ok but my God was that an awful sight, we get approached by the security guard apparently our friends are too drunk outside and they’re debating calling the cops but thankfully they left and called an Uber to the train. So it’s just two of us we find a closest bar to charge our phones and recollect our thoughts my best friend has been on the phone with multiple parents and things are getting out of hand. We take the train back to his house. From there we decided to just do the rest of the blow till our friends get back thankfully they do.

So now it’s Sunday a grown man is about to have an 8 hour car ride with his parents and he’s not going to be happy to hear Rodgers is out. Our other friend hasn’t left his bed and we all hurt in more than one way.

Much like what happens when you step into Wrigleyville, I blacked out the second that word came across my screen. I came to when I read the Aaron Rodgers part, but no comment on that.

Seriously, no comment about Aaron Rodgers breaking his collarbone and potentially being out for the rest of the season. No comment on that at all. No comment.

My Sunday scaries have me kneeling over a toilet on a 2h45min flight. Now before you make the correct assumption that I am a trash human being, lets back track a little to see how we got here.

I’d like to preface this story by saying that I am in grad school and I’m still trying to learn my new alcohol tolerance since I hardly drink anymore. My problem is that once I get tipsy I seem to think that I’m still capable of drinking like I did in undergrad and that’s when shit goes south.

I’ve been in Chicago since Wednesday for some giant conference that’s supposed to further my career and make me a more desirably hirable candidate. Unfortunately the Cubs advanced to the NLCS Thursday night and I became the mayor of Litty City. I’m not even a cubs fan. Somewhere between the bar I watched the game at and the 5 am bar I closed the night out at – I apparently Sweet Caroline’d too hard and took a tumble that left me with a sick scrape around my eye.

I arrived, late, to my meeting the next morning, Gatorade in hand- shaking hands with potential employers- in 3.5 years when I’m done with school- and honestly just shaking period. Nothing says “please hire me” or “thank you for the grant I received to come here” quite like the Alabama Shakes and a face raspberry.

The terror of Friday the 13th continues because after the professional grade suffering I endured all day, I had a date that night with an old flame from undergrad. Luckily he’s aware of my cheeky shenanigans from my from my former life, but trying to explain that “I’ve grown up, I swear” was a real good time. We stumbled upon a neat little joint that served drinks for THREE DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS… IN CHICAGO. I am still shocked and amazed and suffering.

I woke up Saturday, skipped the remainder of my meetings, and had decided that was it, no more. I will not drink myself into oblivion, I will be a functioning member of society. But my hotel didn’t have wifi (wtf, its 2017) so I was forced to go to a sports bar to close some deals and watch the UT game. All was well until I befriended the middle aged gay man next to me who kept getting people to buy us shots in the middle of the day. It went all downhill from there, I started ordering tequila way too early in the night and found myself in Wrigleyville again. Some might say I was Avion one- seeing as the L the cubs took still didn’t stop me from thriving or managing a steady brown out from about 4 pm to 4 am.

I woke up 45 min late this morning and somehow made it to my flight gate with 2 min to spare before they closed the doors. So here we are, riding bitch on this god forsaken airplane that will inevitably be the death of me, questioning every life decision I’ve ever made.

I want to replace “Stop Going Back To Your Alma Mater™” and replace it with “Stop Going To Wrigleyville™.” But I’m not going to talk shit to you since you got Avion one. Only the best for the best, baby.

I watched the Cleveland Browns.

Ohhhhhh, I feel soooooo badddddddddd for you.

1. What did you expect them to do? Go from being a shitty fucking team to all of the sudden a not-shitty fucking team?

2. Talk to me when you see your team lose literally every game in one single season. Until then, I don’t want to hear any complaining from any NFL fan who isn’t a fan of the Honolulu Blue.

My scaries are because of my friends, not because I’m procrastinating packing for a business trip that I leave for early Monday AM.

Started the weekend Friday afternoon by going to the emergency room to learn I have post-concussive syndrome (a gnarly fall from last weekend’s drunken festivities gave me a concussion. Who knew?). It only goes downhill from here.

My older brother’s birthday was Saturday. We started the day watching football at a brewery with friends. I only had 1 beer because I wanted to take it easy since, ya know, I’m concussed. That obviously didn’t hold true for the rest of the day. We moved to the next spot, which was my brother’s and our group of friends’ favorite drinking spot in undergrad. We took over the bar. Literally, we were behind the bar pouring the shots. Dancing on tables, the whole 9 yards.

We decide to go to a friend’s apartment to continue the merriment and pregame for a night out at the bars. Thankfully, my brother didn’t make it out (I was not trying to take care of that all night). My friend from high school convinces me to bring an oven mitt out and dared me to get guys’ numbers by introducing myself with said oven mitt. Idiotic, but it worked. The same friend and I end up going home with a group of groomsmen and we were amped to be getting some action with the hot guys at this cool townhouse. It’s 3:21am, and I call our guy friend (who we were supposed to stay with that night) to let him know we won’t be sleeping there since we’re with the groomsmen. A bouncer from one of the bars answers the phone to tell me my guy friend showed up to the bar gushing blood and “tried to whip his piece out and pee on the wall” in the middle of the bar. He offers to get him an uber home so I hang up the phone and text him his apartment address. My girl friend and I decide to leave the groomsmen and go save my guy friend to make sure he’s alright. We get an uber back to the bar, talk to the bartender, and we go to rescue my friend at his apartment after he, hopefully, got dropped off by his Uber driver. We come to his building hearing a loud noise…the fire alarm. It’s very on-brand for this friend to pull fire alarms whilst blackout, as it’s been done before, so while everyone was evacuating, we went inside because I knew he was responsible for this. We get to his door and he’s sitting there locked out, covered in blood. The keys were thankfully just in his back pocket. We get him cleaned up inside and put him to bed. The 3 of us woke up in a daze.

I’m happy to report everyone is alive, but not well. My friend’s elbow, back and palms of his hands are torn to shreds. Not a clue how he was injured. One of our friends had the wheels stolen off his car overnight. Not just the tires. Not just the hubcaps. I’m talking his entire truck was put on 4 blocks and his wheels were straight up stolen. Another friend got so drunk and separated at the bars that he called his parents to pick him up from an hour away. A night was had by all. Drinking with a concussion is wild.

“Drinking with a concussion is wild,” indeed. But in the same vein that I urged people to stop drunk driving last week, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that you shouldn’t be binge-drinking while dancing on tipsy bar tables when you have, um, a concussion.

Scaries in full effect after a weekend with the OG Hometown Squad celebrating Oktoberfest at a bar owned by the brother of one of my buddies. Essentially, this had disaster written all over it. Over my miserably hungover, rainy, three-hour drive home tonight, memories emerged from the brownout-ether that confirmed a disaster is just what it was. Details are still fuzzy on most of it, but I will leave you with the fullest, clearest, and grossest recollection of the day:

After hours of day-drinking, all I wanted was a cheap cigar. We stopped at a gas station on the way back, where I grabbed a Black and Mild. Having it perched in my ear most of the evening, I bent over to pet my buddy’s 120LB German Shepherd and it fell into the dog’s water dish, as it drank. Instead of taking my L like I should have, I confirmed my status as an eternal trash human with my next decision. Rather than tossing the soggy, $1.05 cigar, I decided I would get my money’s worth. I proceeded to dry the goddamn thing out on a portable, propane heater in the garage. The plastic tip melted, but, somehow, it worked, and I smoked it. I don’t know what’s worse; the dog germs that are probably taking over my body as I type, or the depth of the shame I will feel when I’m asked “how was your weekend?” 15 times tomorrow morning and I get to relive this moment.

I’d be more concerned about inhaling in the melted plastic than I would be about dog germs. But I’m also a guy who kisses his dog and lets her sleep in his bed so I can’t really talk.

Huge fan of this blog, my favorite thing to get through the normal Monday angst and really hoped to never submit but feel this is a good story.

I went out to Nor Cal for the weekend to visit my friend at Stanford law for their homecoming weekend. She made it seem like they don’t go too hard and had a pretty late Thursday night, so was expecting a chiller weekend and to just check out PAC 12 football. The game was at 8pm on Saturday so the goal was to just not fall to sleep at the game.

Of course, at 2 PM their time Friday I get the itch to start drinking since it’s 5 east coast time, and I live in DC aka I survive from happy hour to happy hour and need a beer. Proceed to start, go to her classes bar review and drink the night away. By 2am we’re closing down the 90s themed bar where my eyes twitching since I’m so tired and have basically been up since one their time the night before but push through.

My friend and I are both huge Michigan fans so we wake up to watch that stressful ass game at 9am. Somehow manage not to drink as I watch, but start soon after at their law party/ tailgate thing in the sun. Stanford apparently has no open container laws so we drink all around campus in 90 degree weather for the rest of the day, finishing at a SEC style tailgate before we head in. They have mulled cider and whisky and the most delicious sausage and wings I’ve ever had in my life and probably told the couple who’s tailgate it was that they were my favorite people ever at least ten times in between shots.

We don’t make it out after the game but headed into SF since I’ve never been pretty early this morning. After some exploring we end up at some beer garden like place and I force my friend and her boyfriend to stay for a second drink since they had my favorite beer that I can never find on the east coast.

As I get my second beer we move tables and end up sitting next to another group and start conversation and they offer to share their punch bowl of unknown alcohol. As people who don’t turn down free drink, we settle in and help them finish the aggressively strong pitcher. Learn that one of them raised a shit ton of money on Shark Tank (I still can’t figure out if this is a normal Bay Area thing or not) and was clearly insanely loaded, so let him buy a second pitcher as we continued to hang. I had a solid amount to drink since one of my group was driving and the other is more of a lightweight. We and our new friends move to a beer garden nearby where the 22 year old in the other group starts to get more worried then any of us that I’m going to miss my flight at 630. So after finishing my wildly unnecessary liter of beer we head out. Now at the terminal waiting for my flight back home drunk writing this.

I get in at 5am east coast time and heading straight to the office. Have two morning calls, just got a meeting to talk about my new position moved to the afternoon, and haven’t showered since Saturday morning. Send happy thoughts.

You should’ve requested video evidence of this guy’s Shark Tank appearance before leaving this story. This sounds like when I used to tell people that I just got done finishing my taping of the new season of The Real World when I was in line at bars. And yes, if this guy was on Shark Tank, there’s a 100% chance he’d have the video on his phone. It’s SHARK TANK.

Go Blue, though.

Not really sure what to do expect hide right now. A little backstory: A week and a half ago a girl I had been casually dating for 2-3 months asked if I would move across the country with her if she got a job. Not sober and post-coitus I said yes, thinking that she’s a teacher and it would be next summer and we would more likely be in a place where that would make sense.

It took her 4 days to get a job and she’s moving in a week. This weekend, while helping her pack, I was introduced to her whole family as the guy who is moving out west with her. They were all excited and supportive and instead of telling them I’m not sure if I would actually be going this soon, I told them a deadline by which I would have a job and be settled in with her. I also booked a flight to go visit her. Now I’m afraid I’m in too deep and have to uproot and go.

Oh, you’re in deep, my friend. Too deep. Like, deep to the point where you might as well get engaged and give up for the rest of your life because you done fucked. up.

In reality, though, just visit her a couple times and keep feeling out the situation. Make up excuses for why you can’t move for as long as humanly possible until you either know you want to move out there or move on. Just don’t get drunk her first weekend out of town and download Bumble. Or do. Your call.

I went to my Temple this past weekend for our fraternity’s alumni tailgate (I planned on ignoring your advice).

After going out and getting 5 hours of sleep Friday night, I woke up at 7:30 Saturday morning to drink for the noon game. Crush the tailgate and continue drinking until 6PM. Then I took a half hour nap and mustered up the courage to go out. I drank a Monster at 9 and should’ve went to bed after that, but no.

I go out, can barely drink at the bar, and left the bar an hour before everyone else. I spent all of Saturday night trying to sleep and deal with my delayed hangover.

Sunday morning after getting no sleep I woke up at 9 and drove 3 hours home for my Dad’s birthday. I was looking rough. I got back to my apartment around 6:30 Sunday night and the bags around my eyes are huge. I’m not doing any reading for my three classes (law school) tomorrow.

I’d say wish me luck, but it’s my own fault, and I’d do the same thing next weekend if presented with the opportunity.

If you’re going to disobey my advice about going back to your alma mater, at least drink an Iced Americano for energy rather than a Monster. Who even drinks Monster anymore besides BMX riders and truck drivers? Monster? Are you kidding? That’s more suspicious than the dude earlier who sang “Love Shack.”

Putting in an offer on my first house tomorrow. I’ve never been more anxious or nervous in my life. Is this how my childhood finally dies and my recreational prescription drug habit begins? Help me Will.

Too real. Far too real. Your childhood is long gone. Embrace your beer belly and begin to love lawn maintenence equipment.

This weekend was our PTA “House Hop” fundraiser. You pay a fee, and go to two different houses for 2 hours each for food and drink. Adults only, no kids. Everyone is local and everyone has little kids who are with babysitters, etc.

Since my kid is a kindergartner, it was our first time. Our first house was what you’d expect, nice place, well dressed people, lots of craft beer and fancy hors d’ouevres. Ladies sipped sangria. Low key hung out, only nod to debauchery was the passed tray of Rumchata shots we were to partake in as soon as we walked in. Classy event.

House two, from 9PM-11PM, was different. Upon entering you were tossed a Jell-O shot. There were coolers full of domestic lites in the laundry room, and no joke, jungle juice on the wet bar. Very little food to be found. People getting legit rowdy. Closest thing to a frat party I’ve been to in years. At some point my wife got a text from the baby sitter and had to leave; only a couple blocks away so I could walk or catch a ride, no biggie. Then I browned out. I came to getting into my buddy’s SUV, and his wife telling me “you talked to that skank with her jugs out enough, time to go.”

Woke up to a pounding headache, a Jell-O stained finger, and the feeling of regret that I may have disgraced myself in front of all the real-life Bad Moms at my kid’s school. The only saving grace is that I skipped getting into an Uber that was headed to an after party at a local bar.

My stance on Jello shots remains. Placebo City.

I went back home for the weekend to do laundry and get free food like any normal collage kid does but I know it was going to be a bad day when I almost wrecked on the drive home, LA traffic is the worst. Saturday night rolls around and I get a text from my cousin saying his friend is djing at some high end club in downtown LA so of course I’m down with the no cover since we were on the list.

Major problem though, I’m not 21 yet and I got this fake from China with a group of my friends last year. Thinking I could finesse my way in there with my decently grown beard and confidence I tried anyway. Got in line and went to get searched, gave the bouncer the fake and he immediately had suspicions. 2 seconds later he looks at me and snaps the ID like it was one of Micah’s ripe bananas. I was shocked. It worked everywhere else and was an almost perfect California fake. I tried arguing with the dude and he just picked me up gently threw me out of the line. I was pissed. My cousin was pissed and he couldn’t hit up his dj friend because he started his set at that time we were going in. I ended up taking an uber home with no fake and no way of getting alc to drown my misery away. So now I’m back on campus doing a paper with no fake that was expensive to big with and I had this awesome Halloween party to go to 2 weeks from now. Have to wait a whole 9 months to go out legally.

I got into a bar using this ID the other day.

But I also look like I’m 38 instead of 30, so I guess it makes sense. Only five work days until the weekend, everyone. .

30

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Will

Will (Twitter / Instagram) is the host of The Sunday Scaries Podcast.

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