The day my friends tried to kill everyone with bacon (and jorts)

You know those days when you sleep in until noon, hung over from four days of drinking that started with seeing a midget strip show, and a person you deeply respect, but makes terrible decisions calls you and says, "Come over to Selena's. They're making everything with bacon. Chris will be wearing jorts."?

No? What are you doing with your life? Let me back up.

Last week, I went to see a midget strip show with the Person I Deeply Respect but Makes Terrible Decisions. (aside: watching a midget strip show is not something I would consider a terrible decision.) The night quickly turned into a swirling vortex of tequila, $8 domestic beer, tiny boobs, vienna sausage fingers and many different forms of sexual harassment. Coincidentally, this night was also possibly the first and likely the last time I would ever be motorboated by a sort-of-famous porn star midget. After that, we went to a club where men were line dancing and it was a very real possibility that we were going to be kicked out of a Whataburger drive through.

The point I'm trying to make here is that this night very quickly devolved into something that was far beyond the realm of our control, which lead to the rest of the week and then the weekend careening out of control as well, kind of like what must have happened with Gallagher's standup routine. Yes. A Gallagher reference. Because Gallagher is fucking timely.

Fig. 1.1
"I had a lot of funny material. But I'd rather not use it."

So Midget Strip Show Wednesday melted into Sleep Through Biology Class Thursday which melted into Happy Hour Thursday Night which melted into Bad Karaoke Friday which melted into Sonic The Hedgehog on Xbox Friday Night which eventually melted into Baconpocalypse Saturday.

I woke up Saturday, still hung over from Bad Karaoke Friday, and my phone rang. The Person I Deeply Respect but Makes Terrible Decisions (from here on out, we'll just call him Josh. To protect his identity. If I didn't want to protect his identity, I'd tell you that his name was Josh Morgan.) was calling to let me know of several other terrible decisions that were scheduled to take place that evening.

"Come over to Selena's. They're making everything with bacon. Chris will be wearing jorts. We're pregaming now."

Because obviously, the plans for the evening were so tame, pregaming was a necessity to assure that bad decisions would eventually emerge from their bacon-wrapped coccoons to evolve into beautiful, atrocious decisions. Like a butterfly whose defense mechanism is that it looks like vomit.

If you're not lucky enough to know my friend Selena (theoretically, because this is the internet, the vast majority of people reading do not. Objectively, because only six people read my blog and all of you went to school with me, you do) and her husband Chris, then you are not aware of how amazing they are. The only way to accurately describe Selena is this: Picture a unicorn. And on top of that unicorn is a puppy. And on that puppy is a tiny saddle. And in that tiny saddle is a prairie dog who is holding a popsicle for you. And that popsicle is a banana fudge bomb.

Yep. She's that amazing.

Fig. 1.2
It was strangely difficult to find a picture of this.

And there's no other way to accurately describe Chris than this:

Fig. 1.3
Back off, ladies. This man and these jorts are spoken for.

The most important thing I want you to know about that photo, is that it was not taken on the day of Baconpocalypse, but on a completely separate day entirely. Which means he wears the jorts with a fair amount of regularity.

This was not the day to start realizing that Josh makes terrible/awesome decisions.

When I got there, there were already pieces of chicken wrapped in bacon on a grill. There were cheese sticks covered in crushed jalapeño chips ready to deep fry. There was bacon covered in brown sugar and drizzled with Jack Daniels in the oven. Josh was in the process of wrapping corn in bacon. There was cheese wrapped in venison, wrapped in bacon and dipped in beer batter frying. Someone made meat balls out of venison, I'm pretty sure with the express purpose of allowing a really drunk group of people with rapidly climbing cholesterol to say repeatedly "try these balls" and "she bit my balls". Because we're adults. That's why.

Also, there seemed to be a lot of Jack Daniels involved. And what happens when there seems to be a lot of Jack Daniels involved? That's right. Mel Gibson's career.

Fig. 1.4
"I AM THE MOST NORMAL MAN ALIVE! NOW NO ONE HAS LAKER'S TICKETS!"

The Jack Daniels seemed to be a key ingredient in a lot of the dishes for Baconpocalypse. And, while it was not used in the recipe Chris invented for bacon shot glasses ("bacon, muffin tin, oven, GENIUS!" I believe were his exact words) Jack Daniels was definitely a catalyst.

Take the liquor, the bacon, and the several sweet deer with soulful eyes (I'm assuming) that gave their lives so we could eat them in terrible ways, and it wasn't long until people started exhibiting signs of bacon madness. (That is the scientific term, in case you were wondering. No, you do not have to look it up.)

Here's a short rundown:

• Selena walks outside. Chris is playing air guitar. His buttondown shirt is not serving its purpose. "I see we're already down to two buttons," she says. "I have to let the hamburger meat breathe!" he says, rubbing his chest with pain in his eyes.
• "Where are the jorts?" I ask. Chris immediately leaves and comes back out in jorts, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat. He is now down to one shirt button.
• Several people are upset that there are no more dead animals around which to wrap bacon, while others glance nervously at their dogs in the back yard.
• Lyndsey, another amazing person, who was also an instigator of hilarious ideas, keeps saying "this bacon has no idea what I'm going to do to it."
• CCR is being played. Followed by Tenacious D. Followed by Social Distortion. Followed by a rap song by Chris and his friends that sounds professionally recorded.
• We run out of tequila, lime and triple sec, so I start making Chris's margaritas with Jack and margarita mix. He does not notice. In fact, he says, "this is straight tequila."
• Selena throws a bacon-wrapped chicken leg at Chris. The reason was at first undetermined. Later, someone will ask why there is a chicken on the floor. No one will know the answer.
• People find out the hard way that, while the bacon shot glasses are "genius", they are not water tight. They eat the shot glasses in protest.
• People begin playing the blues on various guitars in the house. The songs are about bacon.
• Chris and Josh take shots of Jack mixed with bacon grease in legitimate shot glasses. They do not regret this decision enough.
• Lyndsey convinces Chris, in his jorts and cowboy boots, to stalk a pedestrian who is jogging in front of the house. Chris runs after him. The man is not interested in training Chris. Chris is upset because he "could have been the next Rocky."

The night ended with some of us passing out on the couch (me, because I'm a terrible guest) and others of us helping to clean up, (like Selena and the most adorable girl you've ever met, named Sierra, who is saved in my phone as Sierra Who Is Awesome, which was a drunk statement and not a drunk question), so it seemed as though everyone got out ok, even though it's realistic to believe that it would have been entirely possible for everyone to die of a heart attack.

You know that scene in Apocalypse Now when whichever crazy ass Sheen that was turns into a roiling ball of insanity? And he starts breaking things and screaming and cutting his face and flying and getting into a fight with Faruiza Balk? (Also, I think maybe I'm combining Apocalypse Now and the fight scene in The Craft). That’s more like how it felt the next morning, when there were several Facebook statuses decrying bacon.

Fig. 1.5
"AFTER ALL WE’VE BEEN THROUGH!?!?!”

But we all got to see Chris chase down a pedestrian in jorts, and you know what? If that’s not the American dream, I don’t want any god damn part of it.

The Worst Date of All Time: Part 1

(Note-This Worst Date of All Time was such an epic Worst Date of All Time, I’m dividing it up into three entries)

Part 1: So I forgot to tell you. I’m blind.

I was talking to a friend the other day about how I'd rather lick a homeless guy's shoe that date strangers and I think it’s time for me to tell you about the Worst Date of All Time. Do you think your worst date is worse than mine? You’re incorrect. Unless you were murdered. If you were murdered on your Worst Date of All Time, speak now. Unless you're Candace Cameron. Date rape-murder movies don't count.

So last summer I started dating. It was really weird because I had been with the same person for eight years and being around people that weren’t The Person You Have Been With For Eight Years was a lot like putting yourself in a box, shipping that box to northern Azerbaijan in the winter, jumping out of that box, and then being forced to kill a polar bear for food using a spoon while riding a unicorn. It wasn’t easy and it made no sense.

Fig. 1.1
Me, after being shipped to Azerbaijan, fighting a polar bear with a spoon on a unicorn.

I went on a couple of ok dates and a couple of bad dates and then I met this guy named Bodie. I didn’t know a whole lot about him. Which is good. Because I didn’t know him. If I had known a lot about him, it would have meant I was stalking him like some Creepy McCreeperson. I imagine Crispin Glover is a Creepy McCreeperson. ( I do not know Crispin Glover. I have never spoken to Crispin Glover. I do not know anyone who knows Crispin Glover, but he looks pretty sketchy to me.)

Fig. 1.2
Crispin Glover: Creepy McCreeperson. He's probably under your bed right now.

Let me preface this by saying that My best friend's sister's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend heard from this guy who knows this kid who's going with the girl who saw Ferris pass out at 31 Flavors last night set him up with me. So no one knew him that well. Still, I hope that person has to live in agony with this horrible mistake for the rest of their lives. Like Brad Pitt has to live with finding Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box in Seven.

Fig. 1.3
I couldn't find a picture from Seven. Just pretend like He-Man is Gwyneth Paltrow and Brad Pitt is really upset off camera somewhere.

Anyway, his name was Bodie and I thought his name was amazing and that we would obviously get married because he had an awesome name. I later found out that, contrary to my original belief, you should not marry someone just because they are named Bodie.

Bodie and I talked for a while on the phone and he passed the serial murderer test, so I agreed to go out with him. The following are things he told me before we went out:

1) He was a history teacher
2) He lived in a house in Cypress
3) He made good grades in school
4) He loved to read
5) He was 34
6) His name was Bodie and I thought that was awesome

The following are things he neglected to mention before we went out:
1) He was legally blind.

I found other things out, but this was the first, and most shocking, in a series of shocking revelations throughout the evening. Here’s how I found out:
Me: So what time are you picking me up tonight?
Bodie: Oh, you’ll have to drive.
Me: Um. Ok. Is your car in the shop?
Bodie: Oh, no. I don’t drive
Me: …
Bodie: …
Me: Any particular reason? (At this point, I believed that he must have drank six bottles of Everclear and run down a bus full of Catholic school children on their way to a field trip to the zoo where they were caring for abandoned baby seals.)
Bodie: I’m legally blind.
Me: Oh. (translation: this should have come up before. not that it matters, but this should have come up before.)

So I got directions and left my office to pick him up at his house, which is where I found out another shocking revelation: He lives with his parents. At 34. On a teacher’s salary. I know you’re mad at me because he’s blind. As it turned out, though, he wasn’t that blind. trust me.

So I went to pick up my date at his parent’s house. Which is where I found this out: he hadn’t “worked in a while” because “he wasn’t sure if he liked kids”. I guess he thought, “ok. I’ll be a teacher, or I’ll throw in the towel and never work again.” Convictions.

Back to the “he’s blind” thing. I expected a full-on Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman.

Fig. 1.4
I did not expect Chris O'Donnell to be there. It would have been a bonus.

He had glasses. That was it. He didn’t touch my face. He wasn’t counting steps. He didn't have a cane. He didn't have a dog with a vest that tells me not to pet it. He said, “you look great! I love your zebra-print shirt! How do you walk in those heels?” (translation: I can see you! Look at me and my working eyes go!)

So I thought, “ok. Maybe his problem is in depth perception, so he can’t drive and it would make sense that I just picked up an unemployed 34-year-old man from his mom’s house to go out on a date”. Remember that blog I wrote where I said I suffered from either incurable optimism or you-are-the-biggest-idiot-alive disease?

I am the biggest idiot alive. Bigger than Glenn Beck.

Fig. 1.5
Look at this idiot. Get a hold of yourself, idiot.

Then came the time for us to solidify what we were doing.

Me: What do you want to do? (translation: where do blind dudes go to have fun? I can’t read Braille and I only saw Ray twice.)
Bodie: Let’s go to the movies. Then we can go to Barnes and Nobles, if you want.
Me: Ok. (translation: there’s no effing way you’re blind.)

So I started driving us to the movies, convincing myself that he has no depth perception, until he says, “you’re going to turn left in about 20 feet”. Which means that not only does he have depth perception, he doubles as an irritating GPS. I ignored it, because, like Julia Roberts, if you don’t believe in something, it just goes away. Until Robin Williams claps you back to life.

Fig. 1.6
"I played a fairy to clean up my act after playing a hooker!"

So we went to the movies. And like a good date, he asked me what I wanted to see. Then, like someone you’ve been dating for a while, he completely ignored my suggestion and took me to see Harry Potter and The Movie I Wasn’t Interested In Seeing, or something like that, where he proceeded to receive texts all night and kept trying to nonchalantly (translation: extremely obviously) hold my hand like I was in the seventh grade. ("What? Oh no. I sit with my hand upturned on the arm rest all the time. It's comfortable.)

You may have noticed that I said he was receiving texts all through the movie. I didn’t ask him about the texts for two reasons. One, I didn’t care. Two, I’m not crazy. Your texts are none of my business, no matter how rude you're being. As it turns out, I didn’t have to ask. He told me. It would have been better if he didn’t.

The texts (that he could READ oh his PHONE) he was receiving for a solid three hours, were from his mother.

He beamed. “She wants to meet you!”

Have you ever felt your entire body go cold and start shaking, then you feel your stomach twist, then your mouth tastes like pennies and you feel light headed and all you want to do is get blackout drunk and listen to House of Pain? Like probably the way Michael Caine felt when he saw, and then realized he was in, Jaws 4? That moment felt a lot like that.

Fig. 1.7
"Holy Christ. I was in that movie?"