What Would Jesus Do? He'd Wait Three Days.

A guy has a formula he uses to determine the number of days he should wait before calling a newfound target of his affection. I've never been too big on these formulas and usually call if and when I feel like it. Having said that, I'll concede that even if I feel like it moments after being given a phone number, and this has happened on a few rare occasions, I believe you have to at least wait until the following evening. That's just common courtesy, right? I mean, she could have been drunk...you could have been drunk. All sorts of things could have conspired to cloud the judgement of the parties involved and you're only going to make it worse if your zeal gets the best of you and you pick up the phone too soon.

I've heard the standard Three Day Rule explained ad nauseum, but a buddy of mine recently laid it out before me with pretty impeccable - strike that - Biblical logic. I'm pretty sure he didn't come up with this on his own, but that doesn't undermine the analogy's genius.

Jesus would wait three days, and here's why:

For a little context, the Bible never actually says on which day of the week Jesus was crucified. Most people go with Friday, but there's a whole lot of stuff that happened between the crucifixion, death, and resurrection to make Friday the least logical. Not to get too into it, but the Passover Sabbath and then the actual Sabbath of Saturday would have severely limited anyone's ability to get anything done and there was a lot of spice buying and feast preparation going on between Jesus being taken off the cross and Mary running into the Big JC on Sunday. No way all of that happened Friday afternoon before sundown and then super early Sunday morning. This is BCE we're talking here. It's not like there was a supermarket around the corner for all of your Sabbath needs.

I kind of feel like Wednesday makes the most since. Agree to disagree if you're breaking out your Bible right now to argue with me. I mean, come on! This blog is called Drinking Stories, for Christ's sake!

So, let's say Jesus died for all our sins Wednesday afternoon. If he'd been resurrected Thursday anyone who ran into him would be like, "Oh, hey Jesus! What's up?" No one would have known he'd been gone and more importantly, no one would have missed him. Sort of takes the miracle bit out of The Resurrection.

If Jesus had been resurrected Friday, people would be like, "Oh, hey Jesus. I didn't see you yesterday. How was Passover? What did you and The Twelve do?" No big deal. Same thing goes for Saturday.

Now, after three days and three nights, Jesus shows up on Sunday and it's like, "Holy fuck! Jesus! He is risen! I'm SOOOOOOO glad to see you!" That's a big deal. It's been long enough that people miss him, but not so long that they've forgotten about him.

Three days: Score!




Imagine what would have happened if Jesus had waited until Monday?

"Hey, who are you?"

"It's Jesus. I was crucified the other day?"

"Jesus who?"

"Jesus Christ of Nazareth?"

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus....hmmmmm. Oh, I think I remember you. Tall guy? Beard?"

No one wants that conversation. Wait three days. Not one. Not two. Three and no more. Do not wait four. It is written.

Nickname Friday!

Nicknames are tricky business. They come and go on their own time; they do not respect the rules of logic; they can be demeaning and meant to show affection at the same time; and they are often so powerful as to consign a person's actual name to irrelevance. In short, I freaking love nicknames.

So without further ado, I am officially beginning Drinking Stories' first recurring segment, Nickname Friday. Don't all get too excited at once.

The Texas Wagon - I met The Texas Wagon in college. She was the best friend of a girl that was sometimes sleeping with and sometimes not sleeping with one of my best friends. She made the trip up to our university one weekend and the four of us wound up hanging out for most of her visit. The Texas Wagon was certifiably gorgeous. Blonde hair, blue/green eyes, tanned, intelligent, quick-witted...the list went on and on. Why The Texas Wagon, you ask? Well, she had the most disproportionately massive ass I have ever seen in my life. Seriously. It's as if all of her other body parts belonged to her and at some point she experienced an ass transplant. She looked like a one of those Japanese Hentai characters with ludicrously sized breasts and asses, but minus the breast part and double the ass part.

Also minus the Japanese hang up on pigtails and schoolgirls who also know Karate...and may/may not be robots...or cyborgs...or under the influence of some mind control device. Also, she wasn't Japanese (in case the blonde and blue eyed part didn't clue you in). So I guess now the analogy is completely disproved and gasping for life on the floor of this blog somewhere. I tried?

Note: This nickname can be used in any geographical circumstance. Hoosier Wagon, Cajun Wagon, Jayhawk Wagon, Chi Town Wagon, etc. You get the point.

Another note: Rereading this, I know it sounds hugely chauvinistic, but that is not at all my intent.

Another note: The Hentai thing is common knowledge, right? Right? Someone please agree with me so I sound a little less pervy.

Thank God We Found and Tamed Those Frogdogs

I had this buddy in college named Aron (Yes, with one 'A'). Aron was maybe the best story teller I have ever been around. He was so good in fact, that I unknowingly began to mimic his mannerisms and pattern of speech in my own stories because they seemed to illicit peals of laughter independent of what he was actually saying. I also appropriated a good number of his stories and made them my own, or at least retold them as I-have-this-buddy-who stories.

No one had better stories. Everyone in every story had a great name, and if they didn't, they had a great nickname. There was Steve Ignash who everyone called Jaws. Johnny Yelverton (whose nickname escapes me). Stu who clearly didn't need a nickname and was actually in college with us at the same time so any story involving him could be immediately corroborated to make sure it wasn't total BS, and many of Aron's stories seemed like they had to be total BS.

There was a story about his summer camp counselor, Mr. Moon, who had a tendency to absolutely flip his shit and scream at the slightest provocation or violation of camp rules. Shortly after directing his wrath at a young and terrified Aron, he was arrested for murdering his mother with a hammer. There was the story about the Korean gang fight at his high school where everyone was LITERALLY Kung Fu fighting. There was the story about two mall hoods who tried to steal a shirt from Aron while he was wearing it. There was the story, light on details, about his father and something involving a bank robbery (Aron liked to say 'heist'). There was a famous story, often retold, about a conversation Aron overheard at a truck stop coffee bar at three in the morning between a trucker and two women Aron described as "Rode hard Biker bitches." Actually, it wasn't so much a conversation as a monologue by the trucker told for the benefit of the "biker bitches." The monologue went thusly:

"So there I was, right? And me and the bitch are getting it on. The bitch has whipped cream all over her. Things are gettin' hot and right as I'm about to blow my load, I grab one of the empty whipped cream bottles and I start to get high. Then the bitch gets mad at me. What's up with that?"

Ridiculous and absurd things like this seemed to only ever happen to Aron. Or maybe they happened to us all, but he was the only one tuned to hear, synthesize, embellish, and retell them to hilarious effect. He was/is a screenwriter so that must say something.

When he didn't have any material based in reality, Aron had no problem turning to his dreams for our entertainment. One dream in particular stands out in my mind.

"So we're on this island, right? All of us. And it's like fucking Water World and the water is continuing to rise. We're all running up to the top of this island and scrambling to stay ahead of the rising water. There are old women and babies and dogs and just a fuck ton of people, right? Everyone scrambling. I'm ahead a bit and I turn around to see this old lady with the water lapping right at her heels and I'm thinking, 'Man, that old lady better put it in gear,' and right as I think this, the BIGGEST FUCKING CROCODILE I have ever seen springs from the water and chomps her right in half. I'm like, 'Holy fuck!' --"

At this point in the story, Aron executed one of his patented mannerisms which was sort of a wide eyed look of shock combined with a partly agape mouth and a casual point for about a two beat pause. Clearly, I can't recreate this via the written word, but you get the point.

"-- So I turn around and start sprinting to the top of the island and there's very little room left up there and the water's still rising and now I know there are these massive, prehistoric killer crocodiles rising with the water. So, we all get to the top of the island and there's nowhere else to go. We're totally screwed. The water's almost to us and one of those massive crocodiles jumps out of the water at us. Right at that moment, this fucking mix between a dog and a frog, but like a vicious frog with fangs and a dog body, leaps out of nowhere and starts attacking the crocodile. Then there are like twelve more and they just shred the fucking crocodile. All I remember thinking is, 'Thank God we found and tamed those frogdogs and they're on our side.' Wildest thing I ever saw."

I'm thinking more the above and less the below.

In Which I Suddenly and Inexplicably Become Irresistible to Women 15 Years Older Than Me

I'm not old. Contrary to what some of my younger friends tell me, I'm still in the spring of my life (late spring, but spring nonetheless). Let's call it May? Which is why I'm still trying to wrap my mind around last Friday night and failing to do so.

Perhaps it was the venue. Perhaps it was the lighting. Perhaps it was the copious amounts of booze (some fruity wine, no doubt) clearly imbibed by my potential suitors, but I inexplicably found myself the main course of a cougars only buffet. Maybe not cougars. What's older than a cougar?Sabre-tooth Tiger?

The evening started promising enough. A buddy of mine and I went to a bar we frequent with some regularity. A band was playing. People were dancing. More importantly, there were plenty of men and women in attendance that I would easily, and with no creative mathematics on my part, call peers. Now, I'm not a pick up artist, never have been. There's just something sleazy to me about approaching a woman I don't know in a bar and trying to get in her pants. I see it as a sexual telemarketing call. Phone rings, you think it might be someone you know, you pick up, and then your heart sinks as you realize some douchebag with too much hair gel and after shave (and it's always after shave and not cologne) has interrupted your good time. It's just not for me.

Because of this reluctance on my part to ever play that roll, my buddy and I posted up at the bar for a few beers, some decent music, and some decidedly solid people watching. Then I got a tap on the shoulder. More accurately, I got a boob on the shoulder. As I turned around to see who said offending mammary gland belonged to, I was shocked to see a woman who resembled my portly, jovial, and matronly third grade teacher. Thinking it must have been an accident, I scooted my stool over so that the school mistress could have unfettered access to the bar and order her drink more easily. It was crowded and everyone was having trouble getting service. The boob followed...with a sly smile.

Nothing more followed at that point, boobs ordered her drink, and that was that. A few more songs were played and then she came back. Same routine with a little awkward banter this time. Nothing more followed, boobs ordered her drink, and that was that. A few more songs were played and then she came back again. SAME ROUTINE. Seriously? The male equivalent of this is an old guy approaching the bar, dry humping a young woman's leg, smiling creepily, and then disappearing only to repeat the cycle over again 10 minutes later...except it would probably only happen twice because guys like that tend to make an early exit at the insistence of a manager or a bouncer.

I was shocked the fourth time I felt a tap on my shoulder because I was pretty sure I hadn't given off the "I have a thing for larger, significantly older women vibe." However, this time when I turned around it was a different woman. 26 year old, smoking hot, blonde athlete? Negative. It was another massively overweight 40 something.

"Excuse me, are you single," she asked.

I was flummoxed and thinking I was on a hidden camera show so I didn't answer quickly enough. My buddy, ever the mischief maker, sprang into action.

"Yeah, he's single!"

"Single and content? Or single and looking," she pressed.

Again, I don't know if it was the beer I'd had or the still total inability to comprehend what sort of signals I was clearly sending out, but I hesitated to answer.

"He's totally single," my buddy laughingly answered.

"Well, I have a friend who's been staring at you all night. Would you like to meet her?"

I started to answer, "Well, I'm not really -," but before I could get out the rest of my objection, my buddy leapt off his bar stool and offered it up for the mystery woman waiting in the wings.

"Great," the middle woman exclaimed, "She'll be right over!"

I stared dumbfounded at my friend as he smiled back at me.

"Maybe it's a niece or younger coworker," he offered, still with a shit eating grin on his face.

I took a sip of my beer thinking that although that was a nice idea, I was pretty sure he was wrong. I was right. Moments later, a woman I can best describe as Skeletor dressed in drag, sauntered up to the bar and sat down next to me.

Mercifully, the music, crowd noise, and my total lack of desire to engage in any conversation whatsoever prevented us from having anything to talk about beyond me finding out that she had children my age (as in plural), and a gentleman equally as long in the tooth as her sidled up moments later to drop his best soccer mom game on her. Far from feeling like my territory was being intruded upon, I was thankful that at least one person in the bar (albeit a 50 year old dude) seemed to recognize that I was as old as I actually am and that there was no way in his mind that anything remotely amorous was unfolding between myself and his quarry.

Disaster avoided, I excused myself and sought out my buddy to tell him he'd better never, ever, ever, in a million years pull that type of shit again. He apologized, said that he owed me, but did all of this with a ridiculous smile and twinkle in his eye.

The "I owe you" part of his apology should have sent alarm bells ringing in my ears, but I let it go. Mistake. As the evening was winding down, he excused himself to go to the restroom. But he didn't go to the restroom. Instead, before I could object, he walked to the other side of the bar to tell the most Helen-of-Troy-like female in the entire establishment that his buddy (me) across the bar would like to meet her. I know I've said that I'm not one for approaching women I don't know, but I'm REALLY not for outsourcing said approach to someone else. The approach is douchey. The outsourcing is spineless.

Knowing I was stuck -I mean, you can't jump up and leave while your buddy is trying to point you out and you can't flail your arms and yell "No!" from across the bar (which is what I wanted to do) - I just sat and tried to act as unsuspecting as possible until he returned, and he did return.

"Your presence is requested across the bar," my buddy said as he walked up to me, shit eating grin still firmly plastered across his face.

Fuck.

I took a breath, not wanting to go, but forced myself to walk over to the other side of the bar and introduce myself to Helen. She was actually a friendly and talkative young lady (yes, young), but about 20 minutes into our conversation, she asked me who the woman on the other side of the bar was and why she was burning holes in her with her eyes.

Confused, I looked up, and there was Boobs, sitting alone, and absolutely shooting icicles at us both.

"Do you know her," Helen asked.

"No, I don't. She was ordering drinks between my buddy and I earlier, but I've never met her before."

As if on cue, the bartender set a beer in front of me.

"I didn't order this," I said.

"You're Doug, right," the bartender asked.

"Yeah."

"It's from the lady across the bar," the bartender replied.

Shortly thereafter, Helen left with her friends.

Shortly after that, my buddy and I left, but not after trying to decide what to do with the beer that the school mistress had ordered me. In case you're wondering, I drank it. Etiquette is one thing, but wasting a beer is another altogether. I'm not proud of it, but I did this while making as little eye contact as possible with the school mistress. I did, however, mouth "Thank you" across the bar before I took my first sip.

After we'd paid our tabs and left the bar I asked my buddy what the hell had just happened.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Once is an oddity. If it happens again, it's a pattern."

A few moments of silence passed as we continued walking and then he offered, "I mean, there is a little gray over your temples."

Thanks, Ass.

When Abstinence Goes Horribly Awry

I'm not a big believer in abstinence. And by "not a big believer," I mean I think it's pretty silly in the grand scheme of things. I'm not saying I advocate copious amounts of promiscuous sex, but not having sex until marriage is a little like allowing someone to teach you skydiving because they stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night. Bad business.

I could go on and on, but I'd probably just end up coming off as a typical guy who wants to sleep with women (I am, but that's beside the point), so I'll just retell a story that encapsulates my distrust of all things abstinence.

*Ahem*

Bob and Julie were like a lot of the people I went to college with. If you've ever read this blog, you know that I went to a conservative Baptist university in The Great State of Texas. The student body ran the gamut from heartless, pagan wild children to first century throwbacks intent on ruining the fun for everyone else. Bob and Julie were neither of these things, but fell more to the first century side than the pagan wood nymph side.

Bob and Julie were, in most ways, a delightful couple really, truly in love with one another. They were on the path to marriage weeks into their relationship and had that glow of young romance and the security that they had found The One in one another. As a newly minted couple wanting a Christ centered relationship, they decided to wait until they were married to have sex. Although Bob had done the deed in a previous relationship (Julie had not), he gladly accepted the no sex stipulation as he was confident Julie was the end all be all of his romantic life.

Fast forward one year.

Bob and Julie had just made it back to their hotel on the night of their wedding and were both anxiously anticipating consummating the marriage. This was the main event. Julie nervously went into the restroom to slip into something more comfortable and prepare herself for what she had built up in her mind as the most earth shattering, consequential moment of her entire adult life. Bob, as the cagey veteran in this equation, knew that his new wife was nervous and he anxiously fumbled around the wedding suite thinking of what he could do to take the anxiety out of the situation for them both. I can't say that I would have formulated the same plan of action that he did, but I give him high marks for thinking outside the box.

What was his plan of action? Bob stripped down to just his socks and laid stark naked on the bed with all the lights on. His big plan to break the tension was, as Julie exited the bathroom, to grab his ankles, roll onto his back, and fart. Like I said, not what I would have done, but who am I to judge? I imagine at this point in the story you're calling bullshit on any of this ever happening. All I can do is assure you that this is entirely true and that although you may think there are some embellishments, I heard this from Bob himself and when you read how this romantic mastermind's plan of action actually plays out you'll ask yourself, "Jesus Christ, why would he make that up?"

Back to the scene. Julie is finally ready. She's purchased classy lingerie for the evening (Think more La Perla and less Frederick's of Hollywood), redone her makeup, brushed her teeth, redone her hair, and whatever else women who have never ever had sex before do to get ready on their wedding night. She affects her most alluring and graceful posture as she sweeps into the wedding suite, rounds the corner, and sees her betrothed rolled onto his back, holding his ankles, and giving her the most unadulterated view of his asshole she's never wanted to see. There's a two beat pause and then a giggling Bob lets rip with a fart he's been holding in since they got to the wedding suite.

Except it wasn't just a fart.

As Bob was explaining later, the rich wedding food, wine, stress of the event, and anxiety surrounding having sex for the first must have all conspired to create what we call in Texas "a rumbly basement."

Bob shit all over the bed.

Julie screamed, burst into tears, ran directly back into the restroom, and locked the door.

Bob lay shocked on the bed wondering what exactly just happened. As he said to me years later when recounting that awful evening, "I saw things going differently in my head." Indeed.

After a hurried attempt at some sort of clean up, Bob donned a hotel bathrobe and spent the rest of the night talking to Julie through the restroom door. Part mortified, part concerned husband, part crisis negotiator, Bob was finally able to convince Julie that his actions had a sincere and caring intent and that he was not in fact a sexual deviant bent on doing God-knows-what to get himself off. Just before dawn, Julie finally left her restroom sanctum, hair down, make up off, lingerie put away for another time. They both went directly to bed and apparently didn't even try having sex with one another until nearly a month later.

Abstinence: Nice idea. Crisis of expectations. Can be messy.