At the end of a long July 4th weekend a couple of summers ago, my friend Jeff and I were hanging in a bar by the beach, when Jeff decided to get a beer. I don’t drink, and as I stood waiting for him in the middle of the place, Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” began blaring, and all the jerkoffs around me started singing and gesturing boisterously to the lyrics. Jeff returned, without a beer, and said, “Let’s get out of here.” When I asked him why, he said, “Because you look like you’re about to kill someone.”I don’t suffer drunks well. And Jeff is a very good friend.
Cut to late Friday night. As I was asleep in bed, Petey came into my room and woke me. I sat up, saw someone was trying to enter the front door of my apartment, and jumped out of bed. The guy was yanking on the doorknob and pounding on the door trying to get in, and I yelled at him to back off. He responded with option B: trying to pull off a screen and enter through one of my windows. I called the police.
I caught a glimpse of the guy stumbling off. He was a blackout-drunk dressed in a forest-ranger costume, and spilling food he had picked up from the Mexican joint around the corner.
The cops showed up quickly, but missed him. They were really cool and searched the entire neighborhood, but couldn’t find him.
I’ve blogged about Halloween in the past (Jeff, by the way, called me a grumpy, old man for writing that; Jeff is a very bad friend) and here it was, a fitting incident on the Official Weekend of Flaming Assholes Everywhere.
On the other hand, at least the son of a bitch was kind enough to leave me a Halloween treat:
