It's TMI Thursday my friends. For more stories that will entertain and disgust you at the same time go to LiLu’s place for this week's full list. And now, on to the fun!
Y’all remember that summer before you went off to college? Remember how busy it was and the things you did and how you thought life couldn’t get any better? Many of us had that summer but, unlike most of you who had yours when you were 18, mine came a little later.
I’d finished up my stint in the Marines the previous fall and had immediately jumped into school part-time (the admissions folks in the Southern Part of Heaven thought it best I ease into the whole college thing, pshaw!) and working most of the rest to pay bills I didn’t know existed while I was in the Corps. Yanno, like rent and food and such. The real world outside the Marines is an expensive place.
Anyway, after I blew off the crappy job working at the Applebee’s in Durham on two-hours notice so I could spend the next nine days working the load-in and -out of the Pink Floyd concert in Raleigh, I had enough money to relax a bit during the coming summer months.
If I moved home, that is.
So I packed my meager belongings in to my Dodge Shadow and headed back to the ‘Burgh for the next three months. Turns out that was one of the best choices I ever made.
My pretty damn smart youngest brother (as opposed to my pretty damn smart younger brother) was spending the summer at home as well after graduating from UofD and being commission in the Marine Corps. Coincidentally, at this time, younger brother was in the Panama Canal Zone with the Marine Security Forces. But that’s neither here nor there.
Youngest brother and I went on a tear that lasted from the first weeks of June, until the middle of August when he spent the long weekend down in Chapel Hill as I started my freshman year of school. During the days we were mild-mannered construction workers building a new retaining wall for our parents. By night though, we became alcoholic super heroes.
For example, late, late one night, at a place called Chiodo’s in Homestead, my brother decided walking to the bathroom just wasn’t worth it, seeing as how we were on the dirt patio out back. (Check out the picture of the bra collection hanging from the ceiling, the owner of one I got to know very well that summer. But that’s another story.) Instead, he grabbed the empty Xingu bottle on our table and … refilled it.
A few minutes later, as the bar tender was tidying up to close the joint down, he came out back and began gathering up the bottles. Any left-over beer was unceremoniously dumped.
When he reached the Xingu and tipped it over, I commented, “Man, what a shame to dump that out.” And he said, “It was warm anyway.” To which my brother replied, “Yeah, and I bet tastes like piss anyway.”
As the summer went on out nights started early and ended later and later. So late, in fact, they once or twice collided with our parents’ mornings. One morning in particular in spectacular fashion.
The story actually starts around noon of the day in question. My brother entered my room just as I was regaining consciousness, looked at me and said, “I need a Beef ‘n Cheddar, Stat.”
So I threw on some clothes and we headed up the road to the local Arby’s. Over our lunch of meat, cheese (we actually got the Arby Melt, a smaller and equally delicious version of the B’nC, which were on sale 5 for $5) and curly fries, little brother told me how our night actually ended.
After arriving home around 4:30 (a record that stood for almost a week) we immediately headed to bed. As we all know, one of the things that often happens post-cocktail (especially post-a lot of cocktails) is the absolute necessity of taking, as it is known up in Red Soxland, a wicked piss. It’s a good thing the last thing he did before getting into bed was strip nekid, since boxers would just get in the way in the moments to come.
This is where the collision of worlds takes place. Around the time my brother is dragging his drunk, naked ass out of bed, our dad, who’d already been up for five or 10 minutes, was in the bathroom shaving.
Knock, knock.
Dad opens the door, shaving cream on his face. “I gotta go,” my brother mumbled. “I’ll be done in a minute,” was the response. “Don’t worry, I’ll just go downstairs.” “No, no, I’m almost done…” this to my brother’s back as he heads for the stairs.
‘Bout halfway down the stairs my brother meets our mother who’s coming back up with a cup of coffee.
“Hey Mom.”
Y’all remember that summer before you went off to college? Remember how busy it was and the things you did and how you thought life couldn’t get any better? Many of us had that summer but, unlike most of you who had yours when you were 18, mine came a little later.
I’d finished up my stint in the Marines the previous fall and had immediately jumped into school part-time (the admissions folks in the Southern Part of Heaven thought it best I ease into the whole college thing, pshaw!) and working most of the rest to pay bills I didn’t know existed while I was in the Corps. Yanno, like rent and food and such. The real world outside the Marines is an expensive place.
Anyway, after I blew off the crappy job working at the Applebee’s in Durham on two-hours notice so I could spend the next nine days working the load-in and -out of the Pink Floyd concert in Raleigh, I had enough money to relax a bit during the coming summer months.
If I moved home, that is.
So I packed my meager belongings in to my Dodge Shadow and headed back to the ‘Burgh for the next three months. Turns out that was one of the best choices I ever made.
My pretty damn smart youngest brother (as opposed to my pretty damn smart younger brother) was spending the summer at home as well after graduating from UofD and being commission in the Marine Corps. Coincidentally, at this time, younger brother was in the Panama Canal Zone with the Marine Security Forces. But that’s neither here nor there.
Youngest brother and I went on a tear that lasted from the first weeks of June, until the middle of August when he spent the long weekend down in Chapel Hill as I started my freshman year of school. During the days we were mild-mannered construction workers building a new retaining wall for our parents. By night though, we became alcoholic super heroes.
For example, late, late one night, at a place called Chiodo’s in Homestead, my brother decided walking to the bathroom just wasn’t worth it, seeing as how we were on the dirt patio out back. (Check out the picture of the bra collection hanging from the ceiling, the owner of one I got to know very well that summer. But that’s another story.) Instead, he grabbed the empty Xingu bottle on our table and … refilled it.
A few minutes later, as the bar tender was tidying up to close the joint down, he came out back and began gathering up the bottles. Any left-over beer was unceremoniously dumped.
When he reached the Xingu and tipped it over, I commented, “Man, what a shame to dump that out.” And he said, “It was warm anyway.” To which my brother replied, “Yeah, and I bet tastes like piss anyway.”
As the summer went on out nights started early and ended later and later. So late, in fact, they once or twice collided with our parents’ mornings. One morning in particular in spectacular fashion.
The story actually starts around noon of the day in question. My brother entered my room just as I was regaining consciousness, looked at me and said, “I need a Beef ‘n Cheddar, Stat.”
So I threw on some clothes and we headed up the road to the local Arby’s. Over our lunch of meat, cheese (we actually got the Arby Melt, a smaller and equally delicious version of the B’nC, which were on sale 5 for $5) and curly fries, little brother told me how our night actually ended.
After arriving home around 4:30 (a record that stood for almost a week) we immediately headed to bed. As we all know, one of the things that often happens post-cocktail (especially post-a lot of cocktails) is the absolute necessity of taking, as it is known up in Red Soxland, a wicked piss. It’s a good thing the last thing he did before getting into bed was strip nekid, since boxers would just get in the way in the moments to come.
This is where the collision of worlds takes place. Around the time my brother is dragging his drunk, naked ass out of bed, our dad, who’d already been up for five or 10 minutes, was in the bathroom shaving.
Knock, knock.
Dad opens the door, shaving cream on his face. “I gotta go,” my brother mumbled. “I’ll be done in a minute,” was the response. “Don’t worry, I’ll just go downstairs.” “No, no, I’m almost done…” this to my brother’s back as he heads for the stairs.
‘Bout halfway down the stairs my brother meets our mother who’s coming back up with a cup of coffee.
“Hey Mom.”
