I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell (25 page)

Occurred-October 2002 Written-November 2002

Sometimes even I need a night off, and after an intense Thursday and Friday I decided to spend a relaxing Saturday hanging out with a friend of mine from high school who happened to be in town that night, "Mark."

He shows up at my place around 4pm with a 3D-pack of Old Style, which we manage to polish off rather quickly. As I am trying to decide how to steal some more beer from my neighbors, a commercial comes on for a regional minor league professional hockey team, which coincidentally has a game in two hours. Mark wants to go see hockey. He considers it the best idea of all time. I disagree. I want a relaxing night.

Somehow he manages to convince me that drinking 15 beers and then going to a hockey game can qualify as a "relaxing night." But not only does he want to go to the hockey game, he desperately wants to bring the CamelBak, having read about it in the UT Weekend story. I pause and consider my options. I can:

A) refuse to go anywhere, knowing myself well enough to see that this night is obviously on course to become a catastrophic trainwreck.

B) agree to go to the hockey game, but refuse to bring along the CamelBak, because it will quite obviously result in my early demise.

C) say "fuck it," tl1row all caution and temperance to the wind, go to the game with the CamelBak full of Tucker Death Mix, and dare the consequences of my actions to catch up with me.

You've read my other stories, what do you think I did?

I load up the CamelBak with Tucker Death Mix, but this time, instead of Everclear, I use real Kentucky moonshine. My mother lives in Ken- tucky, and one of her neighbors makes moonshine in his barn.

Seriously.

We arrive at the arena fully shit-housed. We don't have tickets, an
d
the only scalper we can find has got to be the dirtiest, poorest, shitties
t
looking crack addict in Chicago. He is trying to sell two ratty tickets
.
They look like he got them with a McDonald's Super Value meal. Thi
s
does not stop me from bargaining with him. I am a master negotiator
,
especially when drunk
:
Tucker "How much for the tickets?
"
Crack fiend "40 each.
"
Tucker "Get the fuck outta here? Do we get a handjob too? Are yo
u
kidding? I'll give 20. Total
"
Crack fiend "Awww, come'on man. Deez is good seaats, yo.
"
Tucker "You know ... scalping is illegaL
"
Crack fiend "Man, don gimme dat shit. Deez is 8th row, at the co'na.
"
Tucker "40 is steep. After all, you're just going to spend the money o
n
crack.
"
Crack fiend "Man, fuck you.
"

We settle on $40 total, find our seats right before the game starts, an
d
much to my displeasure, there are about 10 women total in the entir
e
arena. Not that we came to the game to pick up girls, but there is alway
s
that hope. I loudly say to Mark, "Jesus H Christ. What the fuck is this
,
Gay Hockey Night?" These two dorks on the left look at me horrified
,
while the old guys on the right start laughing. Fuck the idiots on the left
.
We start talking to the old guys, bitching about women and whatnot
.
One of them starts telling us a story. "Yeah, I was with these tw
o
beautiful girls the other night. Wonderful girls. The night was going grea
t
until they started using all sorts of horrible four-letter words. Horrible
,
horrible four letter words, like "can't" ... "won't" ... "don't" ... "stop.
"

Horrible, horrible four letter words." These old guys were cracking u
s
up. Of course, we were quickly approaching Tucker Max Drunk;
a
dancing Tele-Tubby would probably have had us in tears
.
Because I can see the entertainment value from miles away, I star
t
talking to the low-rent metrosexual on my left. I immediately wante
d
to punch him in the face. He was one of those annoyin
g
pseudointellectuals; horn-rimmed glasses, drinks Pinot Grigio by th
e
glass at bars, buys poetry books but never reads them, avoids red meat
,
shops at the Kiehls counter, acts indignantly offended by Howard Stern
,
likes to drop names like "Foucault" and "Sartre" in normal conversation
.
We all know one or two. I kept laughing to myself, because he looke
d
exactly like Chachi from
Happy Days.
He thought he was better than m
e
because I was drunk and acting like an idiot, while he was compose
d
and polite. Yeah, I got something for him
.

He condescendingly asks me what I do, and I tell him I'm a writer
.
Then the fun began
:
Him "Hmm. I used to be a writer, until I went to law school" A fastbal
l
down the middle
.
Me "Really? I never would have guessed. Where'd you go to la
w
school?
"
Him "The University of Texas.
"
Me "Well, I guess not everyone can go to a good school. So what di
d
you write?
"
Him "Mostly freelance think-pieces for magazines and newspapers.
"
Me "So you were an out-of-work copy editor?
"
Him "Uh ... no. My last piece was published in the Utne Reader.
"
IS THIS GUY FUCKING SERIOUS
?
Me "I bet you're very proud." I laughed, but he just ignored me. "S
o
what do you do now?
"
Him "Uh ... well, I'm a lawyer. That's why I went to law school
"
Me "Suuuper. So, Chachi, where are you from?
"
Him "I'm from Texas.
"
Me "I bet you were real popular there.
"

He didn't respond. Mark and I order a couple more beers. The gam
e
was boring, so I keep fucking with Chachi. His aggravation is growin
g
visibly, but he's the type that signs anti-sweatshop petitions, so I'm no
t
concerned about any forthcoming violence. I continue
:
Me "I've been to Texas. I liked it. But I've heard some strange thing
s
about the laws there. You're a lawyer: Is it true that you can have ope
n
containers in the car, as long there is one less than the number of peopl
e
in the car?
"
Him "Uh ... I'm not really sure. We didn't really study that in la
w
school
"
Me "Did you ever drink?
"
Him "Uh ... yeah.
"
Me "And you never drove afterwards?
"
Him "Uh ... no.
"
Me "You don't believe all that Mothers Against Drunk Driving propagand
a
do you?" He ignored me, so I continued, "Is it true that in Texa
s
you can shoot someone if you find them sleeping with your wife?
"
Him "No, that's not true. It's a myth.
"
Me "I don't know Chachi, I think it's true. What about if you com
e
home, and you find a guy on your porch, nosing around, and your wif
e
is inside, and she's naked. Can you shoot him then?
"
Him "No.
"

Me "What about your wife, can you shoot her?" He didn't answer
.
"What if there's a guy in your yard, and he's naked, and he's looking a
t
you funny. I bet you can shoot him then.
"
Him "No, you can't.
"
Me "What if some guy is on your porch, and he's dancing all funny, lik
e
a hippie, and your wife thinks he's attractive? Can you shoot either o
f
them? What is the self-defense standard in Texas-'He neede
d
killin'?"
,
Him "What? Are you serious?
"
Me "I'm just trying to figure out the law here buddy. You never kno
w
when you might have to come out blazing.
"

He and his friend get up and leave, but he leaves his beer in the cu
p
holder. As soon as he was out of sight, I pour half his beer into mine
,
finish it off, and head to the bathroom. When I get there, I see Chach
i
standing at the urinal, so I bust out in song
:
"THE STARS AT NIGHT, ARE BIG AND BRIGHT [CLAP] [CLAP
]
[CLAP] [CLAP] DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS!!
"

He looks over, not amused. I make a little gun with my thumb an
d
index finger, point it at him, and go "POW!" He is even less amused
.
Fuck him if he can't take a joke
.

The second period comes around, and Chachi doesn't return to hi
s
seat, so I finish his beer. He's not going to need it. Mark is busy suckin
g
on the CamelBak, and appears ready to slip into a coma. Then i
t
happens, that defining moment that I wait for every time I go out drinking
:
Right before the second intermission, some guy comes up and ask
s
our section if anyone wants to go on the ice and shoot pucks agains
t
the mascot
,

"OH ME ME ME!! I WANT TO DO IT!! ME ME ME!!
"

The guy kinda stares at me hesitantly, but since no one else in the
%
full section dares get up and challenge my drunken enthusiasm,
I
become the chosen one. I get down to the staging area behind th
e
penalty box, and the other two participants are a girl who was s
o
skinny she looked like she spent three weeks on the Miami 48-hou
r
Miracle Diet, and a fat guy who uncannily resembled the Comic Boo
k
Guy from
The Simpsons.
I asked him if he owns a comic book store
,
and I guess this is a joke he's heard often, because he got kinda ma
d
at me. Unsure of how to react to his visible anger, I say "Worst
.
Reaction. Ever." This didn't help
.

The waifish usher explains the rules to us: We get a hockey stick an
d
a puck, and are allowed to take one shot against the mascot, this big
,
furry, dog looking thing. Anyone who scores gets tickets to the nex
t
game. I chime in, Tucker "I don't want to go to the next game. This plac
e
sucks.
"
Usher [stares at me with contempt for a minute] "You can't take you
r
beer on the ice with you.
"

Once on the ice I flip off the crowd, and start my advance on the mascot
.
Right before I am about to shoot the puck, genius strikes me
.
I hurl my stick at the mascot to confuse him, kick the puck into th
e
goal, tackle the mascot into the net, pull his jersey over his head, an
d
start delivering directed body shots into his ribs
.
Raise your hand up if you've ever heard a professional team masco
t
say "What the fuck are you doing, you asshole?
"

I'm not sure if I have ever laughed so hard as when this big fuzz
y
brown head let loose with a rapid fire barrage of curse words. I am s
o
in tears laughing at him, that I can barely keep up giving him bod
y
shots. Of course, my laughter only makes him madder, and I eventuall
y
lose the upper hand. He gets me rolled over and ends up on top o
f
me. He is now completely engrossed in the fight, and starts hitting m
e
back, all while I am laughing hysterically
.