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Donka Do Balls

Donka Do Balls

This lady sums up my last couple of days pretty succinctly:  donka fucking do balls.  Allergies, insomnia, $15k drop in the ole trading account and Gristedes is out of funyuns.  Donka fucking do balls.  I think mentioning the iPad giveaway ruined my karma – that concept is on hold until there is a karma reversal.  At least it’s Cinco de Mayo, so I’ll be able to legitimately start drinking at noon.

I can’t recall whether I’ve told my quatro de mayo story on here, could swear I have but on quatro de mayo last year I wrote the Haunting Poetry of Lady Gaga post.  So if I’m repeating myself, forgive me, I’m having a shitty week.  In 2000 my boy Jobu came to visit me when I lived in the anus/armpit of California, Fresno.  My SOATT (Significant Other At That Time, for those of you who suck at figuring out clever acronyms) was out of town, so we planned to light up the town.  The only problem was, I’d literally never been out in anus/armpit; all I really did in my twelve months there was sling pharma and watch movies.  So we headed off to a place that we knew would be crackalackin: Chevy’s restaurant (they make their own tortillas, right before your eyes!).

Holy shit, writing this shit must be good karma or something, my account has bounced $3,500 to the good.  Guess I’ll keep going with this….Anyhoo, after having some fajitas or whatnot, we retired to the bar area, where we encountered an extremely generous Viet Nam vet/tequila enthusiast.  This guy had some fairly outrageous conspiracy theories and was possibly smoking agent orange or similar on the side, but he was gregarious in his shot-sharing.  We hung there for a couple of hours until we began fearing for our lives a little bit, then – in a gambit rare for that era of impaired driving foolhardiness – snuck off to a taxi and asked to be delivered to the hottest club in town.

All I remember of that club was that it had some funky-assed neon blue lighting and a pre-Affliction clientele that would’ve made even today’s jersey shore-goers blanch.  We ordered a couple of long island teas, threw the ice on the floor, and slammed them like shots, in a METHOD that was popular in the day.  That’s where my recollection of the night ended for me.

I woke up in the comfort of my bed the next day at around 1:00 PM (it was a Friday so, ostensibly, I should’ve been working, but since I was a pharma rep I rarely worked on Mondays or Fridays) and had 37 voice mails on my cell and about 16 on my home phone (so quaint that we used to have both.)  The cell phone messages were pretty evenly split between SOATT and my man Jobu, who was nowhere to be found in my general apartment area.  So I started going through the vmails to figure out what happened – the first several were of the annoying “where are you” type.  Then it got more interesting.

The next one was an incoherent Jobu, slurring out “hey man, I lost my pants and they won’t let me back in the bar.”  At that point I had to step back from the message reconciliation process and try to figure out a couple of things.  Like, how can you lose your pants?  And, having lost your pants, how do you still have your phone?  It seems like your options are pretty limited when staggering around a strange town with no pants.  (My friends generally have a bad history with pants and puncture wounds, and they are generally all related to efforts to climb fences while hammered.  Bat Rastard used to live in constant fear of his mom finding out he’d immediately shredded some new article of clothing she bought him, but he still insisted on climbing fences.  Myself, I’m more of a gate person.)

It turns out some Fresno State coed found Jobu and, in a moment of compassion, gave him some pajama bottoms and allowed him to sleep on her couch.  (Don’t for a moment think there were any other “benefits” accrued in this situation – Jobu may be many things, but suave closer-of-deals he is/was not.)  Eventually I found out where he was and went and picked up his duck pajama clad ass.  (Seriously, there were little ducks on the pajamas.)  He didn’t recall how he lost his pants, but did have his cell phone and wallet; how exactly he lost em will remain a mystery, but my money is on fence-climbing.  Moral of the story: if you find yourself drinking tequila with a borderline insane Viet Nam vet in a Chevy’s in Fresno, remember to pick up a spare pair of pants before hitting the next bar.

Donka do balls: If you watch The Soup, you’ve certainly seen this lady 100x, but if you are just sitting around twiddling your fucking thumbs, I highly recommend this clip.  Certainly seems like she should’ve blown more like a .3 BAC here.

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