If Desmond King along with Vernone Hargreaves gives Tampa the best corners in the NFL then I would pass and I am also confused on how that is a luxury pick. The best DT, RT, or safety prospect will be better.
My friend Jamie had her graduation party last Saturday. I was already looking forward to it, and then I learned that her house is basically right around the corner from mine. That meant that I could drink as much as I wanted to because I wouldn't have to worry about driving home. As a former collegiate alcoholic, this made me very excited.
Even better though, I came away with 10 jerks from Jamie's party. Here they are:
Jamie's party started at 4. I didn't get there until 4:25. Why? Because I spent 20 minutes deciding whether to write "Jamie" or "Jaime" on her card.
Names that can be spelled differently really piss me off. Why can't it just be Jamie or Jaime? Or just Lindsay or Lindsey? Or just Cathrin or Cathryn or Cathrinn or Cathrynn or Cathrine or Cathryne or Cathrinne or Cathrynne or Catherin or Catheryn or Catherinn or Catherynn or Catherine or Catheryne or Catherinne or Catherynne or Kathrin or Kathryn or Kathrinn or Kathrynn or Kathrine or Kathryne or Kathrinne or Kathrynne or Katherin or Katheryn or Katherinn or Katherynn or Kattherine or Katheryne or Katherinne or Katherynne?
See, my name's cool. There are no spelling variations. There's no Waltre, or Waltair or Waltter. Or at least none that I know of. Come to think of it, there's probably some pretentious douche bag out there who spells his name Waltair. If so, f*** you, buddy.
Anyway, I tried Jamie's Facebook profile, but that didn't prove to be useful because she goes by a pseudonym. I couldn't find anything on her sister's profile either. I thought about flipping a coin, but what if I was wrong? Jamie would see her name spelled wrong, and she would be crushed on her graduation party of all days. She'd never forgive me, and I'd forever be banished from any future events at her house.
I had one last hope - I could look at the pictures we're tagged in together and hope that someone wrote her name in the comments. Luckily, I finally came across one picture where our mutual friend Man-Eaters (Injured Reserve's fiancee) commented "Oh Jamie..." or something of that nature.
Score! Man-Eaters and Jamie are best friends, so I was 100-percent confident that her name was spelled "Jamie." And sure enough, I confirmed it at the party. Go me.
2. Alcohol Tolerance:
When I was at Penn State, I went out four nights a week. Sure, I spent all my money on beer and liquor, but I had an unbelievably high alcohol tolerance. I could down 10 shots while pregaming and not even feel it.
Now, not so much. Man-Eaters poured me some pink lemonade vodka that she brought to the party (a half-cup's worth), and I mixed it with iced tea, per Injured Reserve's suggestion.
This concoction was very good, but because I had nothing to eat that day, it got me pretty drunk right away. It was like I was some 90-pound girl. Thank goodness there weren't any skeevy frat brothers at Jamie's party to take advantage of me.
The problem with being drunk early at a party, as you may very well know, is that you tend to say stupid stuff while everyone else is mostly sober and remembers it the next day. Well, Man-Eaters was showing us pictures of her 19-year-old sister, a former stripper. I was already on my second drink, so here's how I remember our exchange going down:
Me: Wowww sheeezz hottt.
Man-Eaters: That's kinda weird, she's nine years younger than you.
Me: Sooo what sheezzz hottt.
From what I remember, Man-Eaters' sister was kinda hot, I'm not going to lie.
3. Semi-Fat Chick:
I mentioned a girl named Semi-Fat Chick from Adrienne's party Jerk of the Week entry two weeks ago. She was one of the chicks I rooster blocked from my BFF Josh until he made out with Crazy Horse Girl at the end of the night.
Well, Adrienne wasn't sure who Semi-Fat Chick was. I saw Adrienne at Jamie's party for the first time since posting that Jerks of the Week entry, so we had a conversation about this Semi-Fat Chick.
Adrienne: Who is Semi-Fat Chick? I've been trying to figure that out.
Me: I don't know her name. She was semi-fat. Oh, you're in a picture with her on Facebook.
Adrienne flipped out her phone, logged into Facebook, and then asked me to find the picture I was talking about. I located it instantly.
Me: That's semi-fat chick.
Adrienne: She's not semi-fat!
Me: Yes she is!
Adrienne: No, she's skinny!
Me: Hey, Injured Reserve, is this girl semi-fat or not?
Adrienne gave the phone to Injured Reserve. He looked at the picture and came to a decision within seconds.
Injured Reserve: That girl is definitely semi-fat!
Me: Ha! Told you!
Adrienne: No way...
Adrienne took back her phone and quickly began mashing buttons on it. A minute later, our conversation resumed.
Adrienne: Is this girl semi-fat?
Adrienne gave me the phone. I looked at it, and saw a picture of a hot chick.
Me: No, she's hot.
Adrienne: That's Semi-Fat Chick!
Adrienne: It is. She's wearing the same shirt as in the other picture!
Me: No! It's obviously an imposter. Injured Reserve, look at this. Is this the same girl as from the other picture?
Injured Reserve: Hmm... you know, I think it is.
Me: No! I refuse to believe it. Someone obviously hired a stunt double.
I don't know why I refused to believe that they were the same person. After all, the word "semi" means half, so wouldn't it be plausible to say that a girl who's half fat can be half fat half the time? My nickname is even more awesome and apropos that way.
When I first arrived at Jamie's party, I heard some weird noise coming from her backyard. It sounded like some animal had its leg run over by a tractor, or something. I just assumed that someone was already drunk out of his or her mind, and decided that it would be a good idea to make dying animal noises.
I would later learn, however, that Jamie's family has a pet pig. Or at least that's what I was told. Everyone told me that she had a pig, but I never saw it. It's like that old saying - if someone has a pig, but no one is there to see it, do they really have a pig? What, you've never heard of that saying before?
At any rate, I learned something horrifying that day.
Injured Reserve: Jamie has the type of pig that you can't eat.
Me: What do you mean?
Injured Reserve: Her pig is poisonous.
Injured Reserve: It's not a regular pig. It's black, so it's poisonous.
Remember, I was kind of drunk early in the party, so I thought Injured Reserve was kidding, but someone later also told me that Jamie's pig is indeed poisonous.
I think this is blasphemy. How can pigs be poisonous? God created pigs so we could cook them into hot dogs, bacon and cheeseburgers. It's almost like God saying, "You can only eat so many hot dogs, bacon and cheeseburgers because they're not healthy for you." Yeah, good one, God. As my fat uncle once said, a cheeseburger a day keeps the doctor away. He had a heart attack a few days after he said this.
5. Beer Pong Bouncers:
Beer pong is one of my favorite pastimes, but there's one thing I absolutely hate about it - bouncing.
Shooting a ping pong ball into a plastic cup from across the table takes major skill. Bouncing the ping pong ball into a plastic cup from across the table is lame. And houses that have rules that balls successfully bounced eliminate two cups need to stop playing beer pong all together.
The first beer pong game of Jamie's party featured a battle between Jamie and her uncle against Jamie's sister and grandfather(??). Jamie and her sister shot the ball normally, but the uncle and grandfather bounced on every turn.
Look, they were novices. This was their first time ever playing beer pong, so they can be excused. You know who can't be excused? Anyone ages 18-35 who has played beer pong before.
I forgot to mention this about Adrienne's party. Adrienne didn't have ping pong balls, so she asked me to bring some over. I brought a six-pack of ping pong balls that I bought from Rite Aid. They didn't bounce for some reason, but I was fine with that. At one point during the night, however, this dude in his early 20s made a remark to me about my ping pong balls.
Dude: Those ping pong balls don't bounce!
Me: I know. Isn't that awesome?
Dude: Awesome? I like bouncing.
Me: Ugh. Bouncing is for women and children.
This guy looked at me like he was thinking, "What the hell is wrong with you?" But I stand by my statement.
6. Bad Influences:
The bad influences were us. As we were having fun playing beer pong, Jamie's young cousins (ranging from maybe 6 to 10 years old) observed our intense games.
After teaming up with Man-Eaters to defeat Injured Reserve and Trojan Kegs, we decided to play the 21 Game instead. After a while of playing that, I had to go to the bathroom. As I was walking into Jamie's house, I passed by the beer pong table and saw Jamie's little cousins playing beer pong.
These kids weren't drinking beer, but still - I've never been so proud to be a bad influence. When those kids grow up, go to college and dominate all the beer pong games, someone will ask them how they got so good at beer pong. They'll attribute it to the fact that they started playing at the age of 6 after observing some old fat slob play it one June afternoon in 2011. And that old fat slob is me.
I'm... so... proud... I think I have a tear in my eye.
7. Screen Door:
I had major issues getting into Jamie's house at one point. I was carrying a plate of food and a cup of beer. As I walked toward her front door, one of her dogs started following me.
Holding the cup between my arm and my chest, I was able to open the screen door to let the dog in. However, her screen door closed really quickly, and I didn't have any free hands to catch it, so it slammed right on my foot.
Two guys who were watching TV saw this happen.
Random Guy: Hey, are you OK?
Me (Drunk): Yeah! I'mzzz gooood hic!
My foot hurt at first, but the pain quickly went away - until the following morning. I got out of bed, and I nearly fell over because my foot was throbbing.
But hey - the good news is that I didn't spill my drink or my food going into Jamie's house. I'll consider that a win.
At one point during the night, Injured Reserve and I ran out of beer, so we went to the keg. The keg was parked next to a table of older people.
As Injured Reserve and I were filling beer into our cups, we suddenly heard some woman yell the following:
"That's my mom you're talking about, you lying sack of s**t!!!!"
It was so random because it came out of nowhere. We spent the rest of the night random shouting, "That's my mom you're talking about, you lying sack of s**t!!!!" Or at least I did because I thought it was hilarious.
I should point out that I was the oldest of our group at the party. I'm 28, while everyone else is pretty much between 20-22.
This usually isn't a big deal, but sometimes my references aren't understood. For instance, we observed Jamie's beer pong-playing cousins messing around with toy chain whips at one point during the party. I thought this was amusing, so I tried to make a joke in my semi-drunken state:
Me: Those kids are like Simon Belmont!
*** Everyone gives me a confused look. ***
Me: Simon Belmont. You know, from Castlevania.
*** Everyone gives me a confused look. ***
Me: You know, Simon Belmont, Trevor Belmont, they killed Dracula with whips?
*** Everyone gives me a confused look. ***
Me: Castlevania. You know, for Nintendo.
*** Everyone gives me a confused look. ***
Me: Uhh... Nintendo... Uhh... damn it.
As I was leaving, Trojan Kegs (Jamie's boyfriend) made a joke about my age.
Trojan Kegs: Are you going to Man-Eaters' party tomorrow?
Me: Nah, I can't, my dad's birthday party is tomorrow.
Trojan Kegs: How old is he?
Me: He's 58.
Trojan Kegs: What's that, like 10 years older than you?
No one gets my Castlevania references, and now Trojan Kegs says I'm 48 years old. My knees hurt, my back hurts, and I just applied for life insurance. I guess I am super old. Ugh. Should I just pick out my gravestone now, or should I wait until the winter when they're cheaper?
The party ended at midnight. After buying two sandwiches at Wawa - turkey and cheese, roast beef and cheese NOM NOM NOM NOM - I came home around 12:20.
It was still early, so I didn't feel like going to bed. I didn't feel like walking all the way back to the bar (near Jamie's house) - I'm old and can't handle the walking, remember? - so in my semi-drunken state, I decided, "Hey, I should work on my book!"
I've mentioned this before, but I'm working on a Jerks of the Week book. I'm basically going to compile all my Jerks of the Week entries and combine them with similar type AIM away messages I used to write during my college years, when I made fun of people who lived on my floor, my professors and random jerks that I saw around Penn State's campus.
At any rate, I still need to edit my collegiate entries, so that's what I drunkenly worked on that night. By 2:30 a.m. I had written about 2,000 words. I went off to bed thrilled, proud of myself that I was able to accomplish so much while intoxicated.
"I ssshould write errthing drunnnkkkk hic!" I said to myself as I crawled into bed.
I awoke the following morning and opened up Microsoft Word to see what I wrote. None of it made any sense. It was terrible. There were incomplete sentences and everything, so I had to re-write all 2,000 words.
The lesson - when you're drunk, it's better just to keep drinking instead of trying to be productive.