You ever have those moments where you knew you were the cause of your own fuck-up but never wanted to take the blame? That was me last Tuesday night. Here's my story...
It was another average Tuesday for your boy, J-Wunder. I had to drive into the city because I was taking my car in for maintenance to my buddy's auto shop. BTW - big ups to my boy at Auto Analysts. Y'all motherfuckers always do me right. Anyway, I drop my car off, head to work and my day goes on like any normal fucking day working the grind.
The auto shop calls and tells me that my car will be done tomorrow and of course I say, "No worries. See you tomorrow." I figure, I can take the train home and either cab it from the station or just walk my ass home. What's one fucking mile, right?
As the work day is ending, my buddy who is helping me out with an upcoming project hits me up on text and says, "I'm free today. Let's meet up to talk about some stuff so we're all on the same page. Drinks at Hops?" I tell him, "About fucking time. See you there around 5:30." 5:30 rolls around and like the prompt man I am, I'm at the bar, shooting the shit with the bartender, sipping on an Old Fashioned. About 5 minutes later, a buddy I haven't seen in awhile rolls in and tells me two of my other buddies are meeting him here for drinks. This isn't a good sign at all. The goal was to have a goddamn meeting, maybe sip on two drinks and go the fuck home. Yeah, that didn't pan out so well.
It's now 6pm and I'm about two Old Fashioned's in and it's me with my buddy I'm supposed to meet and my three other buddies who I haven't seen in some time. Long story short, we got fucking drunk. Like 6-8 Old Fashioned's and a couple shots of tequila to celebrate a non-planned reunion, drunk. Thinking that the night was about to end and our drunk asses were going to part ways, one of my buddies says, "Let's go eat. How bout the Irish Bank?" Now, just so you guys are aware, the Bank used to be my old stomping ground in San Francisco. I spent many days and nights getting fucked up and walking out of that place not remembering a goddamn thing. My last few visits there, I had a thousand dollar tab as my 5 year anniversary gift from my old job and spent that shit in 4 days. No bullshit. I single handedly drank a thousand dollars worth of booze at an Irish Pub. In four goddamn days. Pure liquid goodness. Mind you, this was not a swanky joint with $20 fucking drinks, but a pub with $5 beers and enough Jameson to kill a pack of wolves. But I digress...
We get to the Bank, order food, shots of Jameson and rounds of Guinness. Laughing, having a good ass time...then all I remember is that I wake up on BART wondering what the fuck just happened and did I just get sucked into a goddamn time warp. I look around and get off the train because I have no fucking clue how my drunk ass got there. The train leaves and I soon realize that the train I was actually on was the right motherfucking train home. FUCK. 20 minutes rolls by, I hop on the next one and head home.
I get to my stop, start to walk towards a cab then it hits me. My keys. Where the fuck are my goddamn keys?! Somebody tell me where the fuck are my motherfucking keys?!?!?!?!?!? Then it clicked...
I LEFT MY GODDAMN KEYS WITH MY MECHANIC. NOT JUST THE CAR KEY. BUT ALL MY MOTHERFUCKING KEYS.
The key to my gate. The key to my apartment. Even the key to the goddamn mailbox. Now, a lot of you are probably saying, "Well why don't you just call the on-site apartment manager." I actually would if that motherfucker actually worked the hours he said he works and answers his "emergency" cell phone which I think is on silent every fucking day. I think I've seen that motherfucker in the office four times. And I've lived at my spot for over a year now. But that's another story for another fucking day. Back to what I was saying...
I have no keys. I have no way to get into my apartment and to top it off, I'm fucking shitfaced and confused as to what I'm going to do now. I pull out my phone and the only person I could call is my old roommate who lives about a mile from my spot. I hit him up, he calls me back and I'm relieved that I have a spot to crash for the night. We get back to his pad and it's lights out on his pull-out couch. Then 2:30am rolls around...
I wake up, still wasted, and have to take a huge piss. Lost, confused and very much out of it, I stumble around, walk down his hallway, pull trow and let it fly. AAAAHHHH THE RELIEF. Then I start to feel something. Something I normally don't feel when taking a piss.
Pitter. Patter. Pitterrrrrrrrrrrr. Patterrrrrrrr.
It's getting faster. It's sounding closer. Why the fuck are my feet wet and what's that goddamn smell? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!
People, I open my eyes and to no avail, I am pissing in and on my homeboy's kitchen floor. Pissing on his cabinets. Pissing on the oven. A little golden shower on his kitchen towels his grandma probably gave him for Christmas. Hell, I even pissed on the dog. On the fucking dog people. Totally drunk pissed too. You know what drunk pissing is, right? Where you can't stand straight and you're zig-zagging all over the fucking place. Making a goddamn mess. The shitty part was I also took a leak on my motherfucking feet because my boner went down and I was just too goddamn lazy to hold my wang while draining the main vein. But the dog? Really?
I don't know how that happened or where that little motherfucker came from. All I know is that she wouldn't shut the fuck up and kept yapping. Probably because I decided to aim right for her like I was trying to put out a fire. I finally stop, hold myself from slipping all over the goddamn place, turn on the flashlight to my iPhone and survey the scene.
Man, there was piss EVERYWHERE in that goddamn kitchen. And the dog...that little shit looked miserable. All soaked in alcohol based urine. Not to mention, smelled like a homeless person. All that said, I did what anyone else would do. I found every piece of paper towel, napkin, toilet paper I could gather and cleaned the place up. Sort of.
Still drunk and clueless as to what I was actually cleaning, I did the "blind test" and just felt around the areas I knew were wet and were "dry enough". During this whole time, I realized I was butt ass naked and had no clue where the fuck I put my boxer briefs. There I was, cleaning up my own piss, with loads of paper products protecting my feet, sliding around like I was a goddamn ice skater at the Winter Olympics.
It came to a point that I had no fucks to give, chose not to dry off the mutt and went back to sleep. Later that morning I had to wake up before my buddy did to survey the fuckery I created so he wouldn't say shit and find out. Low and behold, there was still piss all over the place. But, being the ninja that I am, I took my drawers and shirt from the night before and used that shit like a sponge to clean the mess up. BTW - they don't work like a sponge. Shit, a sponge doesn't even work like a fucking sponge. Anyway, I added a little Windex to the mix (because that was the only cleaning supply I could find) and it was like nothing ever happened. Dumped my clothes in a grocery bag, threw on my jeans, borrowed a shirt and off I went to work that day.
As we parted ways from our stop at BART, the only thing he said to me was, "Hey bro, did you do something to the dog last night? She looked all wet and smelled like piss." The only thing I could say was, "Can't say that I did, brochacho. Maybe she fell in the toilet after I went to the bathroom. You know dogs." He then responds with, "You pissed on her, didn't you, fucker?"
Some things never change. EVER.
