Making The Bail - Pt. 1

I owe you this. I finally have a good story worth talking about. I usually shy away from stories that don't extend to some larger meaning, but this stuff stands on its on. I finally accomplished one of my college goals with the help of the Elon Police Department. I was able to bail a friend out of jail.

This all happened on a magical eve called Saturday night. I had come home from work after 10, and spent the better part of an hour scrubbing away the sweet Chilian scent of failure in the shower. Afterwards, I decided that I needed to get out. I looked for a quiet place to go, but the only option was Buff's.

Now, to those who don't know Buff, his wall are covered in painted handprints from all his friends. They put both hands in a selected color and sign their name. It's adorable, especially since women have the added mandate of dipping their breasts in paint and 'putting them on the glass' if you will.

I nixed the idea of going out and stayed in to watch SNL. Boring stuff, but a suitable alternative. When it finished around one, I was still up, so I decided to go anyway and say goodbye. It would beyond that point where everyone commands 'Drink' with biblical authority, but not late enough that all the good people wouldn't still be there. This is a magical time when drowsy meets caffeinated, and the best of the skeezeballs enter in to make their move on the most intoxicated women.

So I take off with my roommate and get their around one. We cut through the party with too many unattractive, drunk people hanging off each other. Note: I am overly awesomely dressed. People stare because they know they can't have this. Amidst this, I speculate on whether I should let them live. I walk to the back and out the door without passing judgment. They all are spared.

Opposite Buff's is another place, where two of my friends live. I go in and sit on the couch to watch them play video games. They are catatonic and do not move. At some point, somebody farts. I find it infinitely more satisfying then the ugly farm next door.

Then a pile of womanly women come through the door and start clucking like hens. B A H! You ruin my games. But what's this? A manly man among them? I embrace the manly man like a brother, then go back to the couch.

As I lay on the couch, the women start clucking more. Between laying eggs and totally talking over the video game, they mention something about a sobriety test and my friend Jeff.

I'm not even going to lie to you. Even when they said it was Jeff, I didn't get up. Notice how I got up to hug the man and not to watch police? I'm stoic like that. I'm like a rock in the river. God Almighty could be at the back door passing out condoms, answers, and beer and I still wouldn't get up.

Plus the hens were giving a play by play. It was like color commentary on shuffleboard. Drunken commentary. "Shit, he slid the... the.... shuffle." "Ohmigawd, he suffled it across... suffled... ha...ha... I said suffled." "Bitch, oh my God, you did. Suffled." "I know. I'm so wasted... fuck."

Reasons like that are why I didn't get up. But then one of the gamers got up to check on the police. This man's name was Chad, and one of the clucks was coming from his chick. She said something about something. In a minute, he had left his heated apartment to go talk to the cops. He came back about seven minutes later with a phone number. And directions. Our friend was in handcuffs in the front seat of the car and being taken to processing.

NA NA NA.

Reminders for class: Show up tomorrow and hear the rest. Or just wait a few days and recap it all at once. Whatever. Fine. Don't show up.