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THE PENCOPAL PROJECT

2004-03-17 - 4:18 p.m.

I used to be a lot of fun. These days, not so much. I feel like a bore. This becomes painfully apparent on days like today, St. Patrick's day. So I reach back into my past, and reminisce on the days when I was wild and crazy.

The date: March 17, 2000. The place: Bill�s Tavern, somewhere in central New Jersey.

We got to the bar around 10. It was still early, but not early enough that we�d look like a bunch of assholes. It was me, my roommate (X), his friend (Y), and Y�s friend (Z), and some other guys I�d never met before.

�Let�s not fuck around boys, shots of tequila for everyone,� I shout, eager to get the party started.

�Oh, it�s gonna be one of those nights?� asks X.

�You know it,� I reply.

The shots go down nice and easy, just the way they�re supposed to. Thank god for salt and lime, or it would come back up. What is it about tequila that makes me retch? Maybe I�m just a wuss. At any rate, I start drinking Cap�n and cokes, while the guys are drinking Jack and coke or perhaps beer, for the pansies in the group. Guinness is fine, but I think some of those bitches were drinking Bud. How utterly lame.

Y orders Jolly Rancher shots for everyone. By this time I have enough tequila and rum in me to get a buckshot slug in the ass and not even feel it, but I�m down for the Jollies. I do make it a point, however, to call him a pussy in front of his friends, for ordering a pink drink.

We�re sitting around the table, talking shit. The guys are talking about getting laid, and since I�m single I�d like to join in the conversation, but I�m creeping with the guy next door and I don�t want everyone in my business. I start talking to Z, after finding out he�s an avid Aerosmith fan. We dish about the band, but his knowledge puts mine to shame. He�s talking to me about the $500 he paid for front row seats, and how he slapped Stephen Tyler�s hand a few times during the show. This is the same show I watched from the back of the fucking lawn at the E-Center. All this talk about rock and roll is making me horny, but he�s not my type so I make a note to tiptoe over to my neighbor�s later tonight.

Z and I are stuck in the �80s and start a rousing version of �Dude looks like a lady.� The others at our table are telling us to shut up, but I�m so wasted I start telling them to fuck off.

�How can you squelch my fun on St. Patty�s day? Leave me alone. Don�t you know I�m the black Irish? This is my night, bitches!� After yelling this at the top of my lungs, there�s some movement, my coat and purse are handed to me, and I�m half dragged, half stumbling out of the bar. Apparently that wasn�t a very PC thing to say and no one wants to have to kick someone�s ass over a drunk girl who was being obnoxious anyway.

We adjourn to Z�s house. He lives at home, and stereotypically has a pimped out pad in his mom�s basement. Bongs abound and soon, Y�s strumming a guitar, looking pensive. Whatever he�s playing sounds like it was created by God, it�s so beautiful.

�Hey man, what�s that?�

�Pink Floyd, dumbass. You never heard of �Wish you were here�?�

�Fuck you, their only good song is �Hey Teacher.��

Y throws a pillow at me. X is sitting there laughing, and Z is lighting incense. It's like That 70s show, but with two black people, a white guy, and an Indian. I�m swaying from side to side, and when I stop, my head keeps swaying. It changes from a soothing rocking motion to an out of control merry-go-round, being spun wildly by a psychotic demon.

�Whoa. What�s all this spinning?� X,Y, and Z start laughing.

�Ha ha, assholes. I�ve gotta whiz.�

As I get up to walk upstairs, I stumble. They�re still laughing. I give them the finger, and proceed to crawl up the stairs. I get into the bathroom, lock the door, and handle my business. After I�m finished, nausea comes to claim me. *I�ve never felt that nauseous again in my entire life.* I�m on my knees, chin on the sink. My hand keeps turning the water on, off, on, off. When I close my eyes the room stops spinning, then it starts, so I open them. I�m cool for a while, then I have to close them again.

�Beep. Beep.� Odd, but somewhat comforting.

�Beep. Beep.� When I say �beep� every five seconds, I feel a little better! I�m so glad I�ve found this crazy cure. There�s a knock at the door.

�Pencopal, what are you doing?� asks X.

�Nuthin'. Beep. Beep.�

I hear X walk down stairs and come back upstairs with Y in tow.

�Pencopal. Open the door,� says Y.

�Can�t do it. Can�t move. Beep. Beep.�

�You can do it, the door knob is right behind you,� says X.

�No. I can�t. Beep. Beep. Beep.�

I hear them muttering, then there�s more pleading, more beeping, then silence. The door knob starts rattling. They�re taking it off with a screwdriver.

X pushes the door open and picks me up from the floor.

�What the hell is wrong with you?� he asks, gently slapping my face. Or not so gently, as I remember it.

�Beep. Beep. Don�t feel so good. Beep.�

He picks me up, puts me over his shoulder, and walks out of the front door. My stomach is bouncing against his shoulder, and I mumble that I feel so sick. Like a dumbass he starts running for the car, and I start puking down his back. He feels its wet warmth, and dumps me unceremoniously on the grass. I�m puking and farting, farting and puking. When I think I�m finished, he picks me up again. The guilt kicks in as I begin to sober up.

�Oh, no, I�m so sorry,� I start crying.

�You will be tomorrow, that�s for sure,� Y replies, laying his jacket on his back seat before putting me in the car. On the ride home, I get sick once more, all over Y�s jacket. I start crying again, and mumbling about paying his dry cleaning bill.

�Don�t cry, it�s cool. Why do you think I put the jacket down? Don�t worry about it,� he tells me as we pull up to the apartment. X walks me inside. Before I walk into my room and shut the door, I turn to him.

�Thanks for all your help, man. Happy St. Patty�s day.�

He starts laughing.

"You too."

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