Showing posts with label douchbaggery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label douchbaggery. Show all posts

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Old Dogs

Things are pretty heavy in BlueJaysLand these days. The Tao's come down with some sort of PTSD shit usually reserved for veterans of Iraq, a "former teammate" that is so clearly Gregg Zaun (the piece did not say "former teammate/current Blue Jay") stuck Alex Rios's head on a pike in the middle of Bremner Boulevard. Add the coming inning controls exerted over bright spots Cecil & Romero and shit is gloomier than a Tragedy record.

Now my hands are wrung out like your sister's panties after a Jonas Brothers concert, so I've decided to give back via an anecdote from this past weekend. It's barely Blue Jays related (but somewhat!) and should also serve as a warning to any and all of you in your mid-twenties. Live now, it won't last long.

So the Reverend, EL Leal, and I make our way to Niagara Falls to attend the bachelor party of a mutual good friend. Some golf and assorted shenanigans are expected. If you've been reading here long enough you know I'm a new dad so there isn't much time for hedonism. I got the "we don't want Frank the Tank to come out" style speech before I left and genuinely wasn't up for heavy drinking.

We play our round of golf, I'm focussed on recovering past glories there more than the next appearance of the cart-tart. We return to the hotel for some drinks and pizza. I'm taking it slow, all is well. The guys we're with are pretty "regular dudes". They're into bottle service and night clubs and being bachelors of commerce. Whatever, good guys, we all get along. I generally dread the disco dancing aspect of their standard nights out because: 1) fuck that shit 2) seriously, it's the worst 3) I'm cheap and it isn't.

But we drank a lot of beer at the hotel so I'm coming around on the idea. We go to the club and do the pretentious "too cool for the lineup" dance and eventually get in. Booze arrives, we indulge.

Fast forward XXXX hours: I awake in the hallway of our hotel. On the 16th floor. A room attendant stands over me.

"Where is your room?" He asks sweetly.

Vowels and consonants fall out of my mouth, roughly in this order: "ajflksdjfklsdj 1911 (that's on the 19th floor if you're scoring at home.)"

This kindly man gently escorts me to my room where I promptly pass out alongside the snoringest GROFman around. I wake up some time later (fully clothed with a bonus mouthful of carpet fibers) and begin to fish through my pockets.
  • Wallet? Check.
  • Room key? Check.
  • Money? Check.
  • Phone? Check.
  • Blue Jays gift card? Check?????
There was a Blue Jays gift card right there in my back pocket! The fuck? Now I carry a couple gift cards as they're my "get into the 100 level" free passes, but why wasn't it in my wallet where it belonged?

Ahhhhhh right. While unsuccessfully trying to access (likely) every room on the 16th floor with my actual room key, I obviously went into my wallet for the correct key that I obviously stuffed into my wallet and obviously opens any door I need and obviously tried as many locks as I could with a Blue Jays gift card. Obviously.

Hardly a high point in my life, but not even within shouting distance of the lows. Overall a proud moment and reason for optimism. I didn't die! Nor was I mugged. The Blue Jays were there for me when I needed them most. I won't forget it Roy, I won't forget.