When it’s 90 degrees out and the sun is slow-cooking your skin to a nice crisp, it’s best to leave the partying to the pros. Even the idiots on Jersey Shore know that the only way you’re making it out alive is to always bring back-up.
pudge NASTY continues his journey into the hell-hole that was Seaside, NJ.
I was growing restless as we sat in traffic for what felt like an eternity. My liver begged to be abused. Even Sanchez was growing agitated. And he never gets agitated. Not even when you’ve spent the last year and a half reminding him of the time he cried over the hump that got away that night he got a little too drunk on Spring Break.
We were growing desperate. And when young men grow desperate they do reckless things. Like driving the car over the divider into some unsuspecting stranger’s driveway and then pulling a U-Turn over said stranger’s front lawn before tearing down the sidewalk going 60 the wrong way. Apparently we had already passed the house.
“I’m so thirsty…” Squinty whined.
Shouldn’t be a problem I thought. One shot and he turned redder than a tomato. That was probably the only Asian stereotype he fulfilled. But hey, the sooner he’s whooping and hollering – the sooner we can get into some trouble. And I was looking to get into some sick shit that night. Sanchez’s friends, the ones who had invited us over to the beach house, were frat bros from Rutgers. They referred to their school as Slutgers. Again, I was looking to get into some sick shit that night. Hoping for a lesbian. Probably end up with a fat girl. I’d have settled for a girl with a missing leg, as long as she had a warm hole for me to stick my member into.
“2-3-2… 2-3-4… 2-3-8… ?”
“Fuck! We passed it again! 2, 4, 6, 8! What, the Vietcong never taught you to count before you went ninja starring troops?”
Again, Squinty was not good with numbers despite the slanted eyes. We screeched back before jumping out the car. It was 11:50 and we had already wasted valuable drinking hours by being sober. I was determined not to lose any more precious time that could’ve been spent with my head stuck in a warm pile of vomit. I rushed into the house. Looking around my surroundings, I made a mental note of where I’d rest my head later that night. Not too far from either exits, the far left corner closest to the windows looked like the safest bet. I threw my bag down and announced my presence.
“Who are these clowns?” Apparently, Sanchez’s friend, Meunster, forgot to inform his cohorts of our arrival. We introduced ourselves to Meunster’s fellow brethren as most men would. With a series of grunts, headnods, and farts. We had passed their preliminary tests as none of us looked that deranged, but I’m pretty sure they could smell the desperation coming from my pits. I reeked and while I hoped they wouldn’t notice, they must’ve known that I was starving — for some much-needed alcohol. That’d explain why they were so quick to offer me tequila. Left over from the night before.
“No lime,” I said.
Muenster insisted, “Take it.”
“No lime?” Meunster looked genuinely hurt that I wouldn’t take a slice of lime and salt with my tequila. It’s just not my thing. The only thing I chase is pussy. “Fine. Have a coke.”
He handed me a warm Coke can. I grimaced as I downed the shot of Cuervo. I poured myself another one and threw it into my mouth.
“Before I forget, there might have been some rufilin slipped into that tequila. I can’t remember.”
The tequila had already burned its way down the back of my throat before I could spit it up. “What?!”
“Yeah, we had some sorostitutes over last night… No biggie, at least you’ve got your reinforcements with you. Right?”