By Nick Jared and I are basically secret Kryptonite. Maybe it's because we end up drunk in weird places after hours, or maybe we just give off a “these guys really care about me” vibe, or maybe people are really so catastrophically screwed up that they feel the two guys sitting at the bar dressed in red full-body jumpsuits and fire hats are the ones that will really solve their problems. Bottom line: If Darth Vader had walked into the bar and we were there, he'd tell us that he was Luke's father; if Roger Kint had walked in, he would have admitted he was Keyser Soze; and if Jerrica Benton had walked in, she would have admitted that she was Jem, lead singer of the Holograms, and that she was outrageous…truly, truly, truly, outrageous. But none of them walked in on that fateful night in Innsbruck, Austria - Jimmy the Loser did. Innsbruck is not a place frequented by Americans, which is why any time we saw Americans there, such as during The Infamous Street Luger Incident, it gave us pause. So when a tall lanky baby-faced nineteen year-old kid dressed like a Gap ad walked into the bar, he stood out like Michael Moore would at Ranger Rendezvous. He of course, ambled his ass over to the bar stool right next to Jared and me. We ignored him as best we could, but when he realized we were speaking English, the jig was up. Jimmy the Loser got a great big smile on his face, took a deep breath, and launched into a story so painful to hear that we wished we were at a Yoko Ono concert. This poor bastard came to Europe with his step-dad as a "father-son" kind of trip. They got off the plane in Frankfurt, Germany, and the first thing that his step-dad did was bring him to a brothel. That's right kids, a brothel. Now, I'm not claiming to have the inside track on being a great parent, but I am pretty sure that in The Idiot's Guide to being a Dad, somewhere in the first chapter it says, "Don't bring your kid to a whorehouse." I believe it also says, "Don't go into the whorehouse in front of your kid and have sex with a prostitute." Nevertheless that's what Jimmy the Loser’s dad opted to do. Jimmy, distraught, had hopped on a train and just started riding. Hence his arrival at our barstool some four hours away from Frankfurt. Jared and I are not uber sensitive dudes, but we both have a great set of parents, and this otherworldy parenting technique blew our minds. This kid was in the hurt box, so we decided that we would cheer him up by getting him drunk and getting some girls to talk to him. Despite the fact that he had no confidence and was kind of a weird looking dude, we found a cute girl that dug him (we told her he was a Virgin) and he started to have a pretty good time. At one point, Jared, the Virgin Slaying Frauline, Jimmy, me and our favorite Innsbruck bartender, Irish, were laughing it up and having a great time. Irish was always good for a yarn or two and we had broken Jimmy the Loser of his suicidal spell. We did some shots and then Virgin-Slayer excused herself to the bathroom. Jimmy watched her go and then said, "Guys I can’t do this." "Do what?" I asked. "I can’t have sex with that girl." "Ummm…no one said you had to. This isn’t China. Is this China, Jared?" "This is not China, Nick." "Not China - you’re good man." I proclaimed. "I shouldn’t even have my hands around her waist - this is wrong." Jimmy replied. We were at a bit of a loss. Maybe he was a hard core religious kid? He failed to understand that we had no incentive to have him hook up with this chick. We're big on peer pressure, but usually only with the intent of getting people to do dumb shit and/or get drunk. Curiosity normally would have caused us to ask why, but oversharer that he was, Jimmy talked on. "I have a girlfriend in the States," he finally said. "Ah, cool man," Jared responded. "Good for you." "Well...I think she's my girlfriend. We're working some stuff out." Red flag! Red flag! "What do you mean, you think she's your girlfriend?" I asked. "Well...she kind of cheated on me right before I left for Europe." "Define 'cheated'," I said. "She slept with my best friend." "What the fuck, dude?!" Jared shouted. "She's not your girlfriend," I stated. "No, you guys don't understand, she's awesome. She's really smart and she;s hot, way hotter than I am. And she's a gymnast...if you know what I mean," Jimmy smiled. Jared and I were now angry and it was getting harder to feel bad for this guy. Some people have bad luck; some have no luck, and a select few simply beg to be shit on. This guy was riding around town in a horse manure bag and couldn’t understand why he kept getting hit. "Dude, dump her. She’s not into you and she's gonna do it again." I said. "I don't think so man. She feels really bad. Besides, I don't know how I'd be without her." "Dude, she fucked your best friend." Jared said with the fiery intensity of a Baptist minister on Sunday morning. I half expected him to introduce Mr. Randy Watson and Sexual Chocolate next. "Yeah, I'm mad at him too. It was kinda messed up that it went on for so long." Jimmy said sheepishly. "Wait. How long did it go on?" Jared asked. "Six months." "How long have you been dating this chick?" I asked, dumbfounded. "Eight months." "So, just to be clear, the girl you are thinking about not dumping has been sleeping with your best friend for precisely 75% of the time you have been dating?" "Well...yes...I guess you could put it that way." "Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Jared yelled with more than a smidge of contempt in his voice. "Nothing man. She just got confused, you know. She said she really loves me.” “Did she also tell you that you have the biggest penis she’s ever seen?" Jared fired. I chuckled. Suddenly Irish, the Sherlock Holmes of bartenders, threw out a gem of a question: "When’s the first time you slept with her?" "Umm...four months ago," he replied. Realization struck. "That’s fooked!" Irish said, his accent adding the perfect emphasis. "She slept with him first..." Jimmy trailed. He looked like someone had stolen his favorite teddy bear, and then had sex with it, and then had sex with a hooker, and then the teddy bear had sex with a hooker. "Break up with her dude. Beat your friend's ass. Never talk to either of them ever again. Punch your step-dad in the nuts. Tell your mom. Your life will be better." There, I had imparted my wisdom. Jared concurred. Irish remarked that he'd fooking kill the guy. Virgin Slayer returned to the table. Jimmy didn't notice her. He was melting down before our eyes. We had to rally him, because...well...what else did we have going on, so we ordered three rounds of Ramazzotti shots, which are basically Jaegermeister on crack. Slowly, but surely, we started to get things going again. Jimmy the Loser started having fun with Virgin Slayer and Jared, Irish and I were amusing ourselves at Jimmy's expense. All was right with the world. In fact, we were having such a great time that when the bar closed at 4am, Irish asked us if we all wanted to stay and drink for free. He promptly received the Dumbest Question of the Year Award. We now had free reign of the bar. We could walk behind it and fill our beer glasses with anything we desired. We were living a Hobo Christmas, and Hobo Santa apparently thought we had been great little Infantrymen this year. As with all drink-a-thons, things started getting silly and Irish thought that with all of us being military guys (he had served in either the Irish Army or the IRA - we weren't quite sure and didn't really want to ask) we should show Jimmy the Loser how to fight so that he could kick his former best friend's ass. This was a dumb idea that simply resulted in Jimmy the Loser getting his ass kicked for about twenty minutes. At one point, Jared threw Jimmy with a headlock and he knocked over roughly 157 chairs in the process. It was like chair dominoes, except at the end there wasn’t a cool picture, just a bunch of messed up chairs. Everyone laughed their asses off. Then Irish spoke. "I'll tell you what you do," he bellowed. "Ya take a condom, and fill it with water. Then you freeze it. When it is solid, ya peel the condom off and ya take yer knife and whittle the end into a sharp point. Then, you sneak behind that fookin’ bastard and ya jam the fookin' thing into his arm pit haaard. Ya hit him three or four times and then you leave it in his armpit. He'll bleed out and the ice melts. No weapon and no evidence." What. The. Fuck? Jared and I tried to laugh in the hopes that Irish was joking. Irish was not joking. I am pretty sure Jimmy pissed himself. With this new knowledge in hand, Jared and I decided to stay there and keep drinking, because regardless of the possible new threat to our lives, free reign in a bar like this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Jimmy the Loser and Virgin Slayer left. I hear they married two years later. They have three kids - one is Asian, one is Black, and one looks a lot like Irish. I understand they are very happy. When we finally rolled out at 7am, we bumped into OJ Simpson. Apparently, he did it. |
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