The Halloween Schedule For Every Bro
If you agree with the moms from “Teen Mom,” then you know this Saturday is important. It could actually be the most important Saturday of the year. There’s college football, costumes, and brazen sluttery going on and we all need to be ready. How will I spend the day? Luckily, like on St Patrick’s Day, just as I was pondering that question, I was throwing a coin in a well, I hit my head really hard, and lightning struck me all at the same time…and when I came to, I was living…. IN THE FUTURE. Here’s what happened (what will happen? whoa.):
3:00 AM: It’s technically Saturday but for me it’s still Friday night. I’m hammered to the point where I’m doing the “creep stare” at the end of a bar. You know the stare. The one where you gaze directly into a girl’s soul while looking awesome and bone-worthy. She only gives quick looks your way as if she’s looking at a version of the sun who could make her every sexual desire come true (or she's wondering how many small pieces I would cut her into). Nothing happens but she got the message. I’m sure she’ll be posting on Craiglist’s Missed Connections tomorrow morning. “Dear Brown Eyes,” it will read; “you saw me across the bar, and I was captured by your gaze as you used the Megatouch machine to steady your balance. Was that an incredible amount of urine on your pants? Or something else?” It was lightning and fire, baby. Thanks for noticing. After she leaves the bar at a slow to medium trot, I decide to get to bed. There’s a big day tomorrow. It’s Halloween and literally ANYTHING can happen.
11:00 AM: I wake up. Fully clothed. My memory is fuzzy but in a miracle on par with the birth of Christ, I’m not hungover. Is this because I’ve been drinking all week? Is this because I need to relax? Is this because I’m awesome? I’ll go with awesome. The one thing I know is that I was staring at some chick who wanted a ride on the J-Train. If I did hook up, her vagina must be the kind that tastes like street meat that I washed down with pizza, french fries, and Oreos. I get hard. Almost too hard.
11:20 AM: I’m sitting post whack, disgusted with the pornography choices that I’ve made. Women dressed as dogs dressed as women shouldn’t exist and be so hot. I puke. The thing about a hangover is that it can happen anytime. In this and every case, “Anytime” means “the minute I cum.” The blood rush made my head feel like it was going to explode. I need to shower.
11:50 AM: The shower brought me back to life. I feel renewed just in time for my favorite part of every week, Lee Corso’s football picks. Watching Lee make his picks is like having your buddy eat three chipotle burritos, drink a cup of coffee, take a nitrous balloon hit, then asking him to impart some wisdom. Anything is possible. Lee (or your buddy) could pass out, poop himself, or say something profound. Or he could do all three at once, which is called a “Lee Corso.”
12:30 PM: It’s football time. I get to the bar and meet the crew. Everyone is there: Toilet Face (the good looking one), Drunk Steve (Sober two years now), Fatty Matty (Skinny guy who loves fat chicks), Gay Tim (kills it with the chicks), Straight Ted (totally gay), Poops McDuck (the quiet and sensitive type), and Tranny Jane (actual transvestite). Shots are being taken, drunken adventures are being told to the group. This is why football season is so great, just a day to be with your best friends, drinking beers, not even realizing that the game is really just the background of your life. At least that’s what Straight Ted keeps saying.
3:30 PM: It’s my favorite part of any football Saturday. I'm the perfect kind of drunk, an evolution spurred on by about 10 stadium cups of beer and an occasional shot. The sun is shining, and the bar is ALIVE. It's a moment of humanity where we all seem to bleed into each other, everyone in that bar facing the same direction, all differences cast aside as we strive for nothing more than momentary happiness. It's a revelatory feeling. I want to keep it going. I order a fishbowl.
5:30 PM: My alma mater, Penn State, plays. I'm completely wasted. Revelatory feeling gone. Replaced with vague nausea and a need to constantly yell “We are” while I hold hands with the guy next to me at the urinal.
7:00 PM: It’s time to get into costume. I’ve decided that I’ll be a baby. I’m shaving my entire body, putting on a diaper, and carrying around a giant teddy bear. It makes too much sense: babies are cute, chicks love babies. What’s hotter than a 27-year-old man in a diaper looking as much like a newborn as possible? Nothing. When did I get this smart? I vow to retake the SATs to prove a point.
9:00 PM: I pre-game a little by myself and a little over at my friend “Weird Rod's” place. Weird Rod is not a guy I usually like to hang out with. He's usually on some odd drug like cat tranquilizers and playing Call of Duty as if God personally spoke to him and told him that was his purpose. He uses plastic bowls and silverware for everything. I don't like hanging out there, but for whatever reason, he throws a pretty good Halloween party. He finally gets out of his robe that he bought as an ironic tribute to The Big Lebowski, but has since morphed into a completely unironic standard of dress. He makes a concoction called 'Witch's Brew' and gives everyone their own plastic bottle of it, complete with a cinnamon stick garnish. I ask him, quite seriously, if there's any acid in it. He laughs and then stares at me for a second, and then walks away.
11:00 PM: I've made it to the bar, barely. Witch's Brew did its thing and the drunk I thought I was before has run away terrified of the drunk I am now. I am REAL MAN drunk. I am homeless drunk. And I now realize Diaper Rash is a real and terrible pandemic afflicting our nation's babies. Nevertheless, I've found a good crew and, somehow, a couple babes almost as drunk as I am. I ask the girl dressed as Betty Rubble where Barney is, and she is confused and I break the awkwardness with an offering of shots. I realize this is either the best idea I've had or the worst, but there's no turning back, and standing on the razor's edge like that has me inspired. I am not a man who wavers. I make decisions. Betty Rubble is feeling that vibe. And I'm dressed as an infant.
1:00 AM: OK, this part of the night is almost completely gone for me. But I remember pizza, and an approximation of sex that seems to just fade into sleep. It's like mid-sex, someone just switched us off.
8:00 AM: I am naked. Betty is naked, except for her big white stone necklace. Insanely hot. We're both still a little drunk and this condom is still on. We do something that a gentleman will not reveal. But it rhymes with “we had sex.” I last for about a minute. Whisper into her ear “my bad.” Back to sleep.
10:00AM: Oh my God. Murder me. I’m still at Betty’s place with nothing but a diaper to wear home. I'd imagine I’ve stayed this long because we're both too afraid to be alone. I just keep moaning, because it seems to relieve the headache. I get up to grab about 35 Advil, slip and fall, hit my head on the kitchen counter and I'm out cold.
When I come to, I'm back in the present. And in the un-hungover present, I think, “Wow, I time traveled to the future, and found that the perfect approximation of what Halloween Night can deliver. I should write that down and share with the world.” Later, I think – right now, I need to find an adult diaper.