Today's Post Is Something New...But Familiar

Sometimes you just feel a need to post things. We'd been thinking for about a week that this needed to be posted. You've probably read it before, but if you read it now you will have good luck for at least the length of time it takes to read. Pardon the crude language, but we firmly believe that true literature should not be censored.

Anyhow, while you wait on the phone to purchase your tickets for the Nationals home opener, enjoy what is arguably the greatest piece of literature to come out of Texas since, well, probably ever --

This is pretty long, but it's HYSTERICAL! If you've ever been a
die-hard fan at a sporting event, or been with someone who is,
you can relate. This is an e-mail from some guy named J.D.
Horne, who, according to the messages that were attached to
this, is not a 21 year-old frat boy, but an attorney of indeterminate
age. He sent it to his friend Brian Brice and it got forwarded
around the country. You have to give the guy kudos for being
self-deprecating...but I hope I never meet him on game day.

A chronology of events for Saturday, December 4, 1999, and the
early morning hours of Sunday, December 5, 1999:

6:00 Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and Texas Fight at
Full-freaking blast

6:20 Get in car, drive to New Braunfels

7:30 Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time of the
morning)

8:50 Turn 9 (crack open first beer)

8:53 Crack open second beer

8:58 Crack open...(you get the idea)

10:30 Finish 18 (holes, as well as beers), sign scorecard for
smoooooth 95

10:35 Headed for San Antonio (Alamodome - NU vs Texas)

10:50 Buy three 18-packs for pre- and post-game festivities

11:10 We decide we don't have enough booze, so we
double-back to a liquor store and buy the good ol' 750 ml
plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam

11:50 Arrive at the tailgate spot. Awesome day. Not a single
cloud in the sky. About 70 degrees.

11:55 I decide that we're going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.

11:56 I tell my first Nebraska fan to go fuck himself.

12:15 The UT band walks by on the way to the Alamodome.
We're on the second floor of a two-story parking garage on the
corner (a couple hundred of us). We're hooting and hollering like
wildmen. The band doubles back to the street right below us
and serenades us with Texas Fight and The Eyes of Texas.
AWESOME MOMENT.

12:25 In the post-serenade serendipity, 50-100 grown men are
bumping chests with one another, each and every one of them
now secure and certain of the fact that we are going to kick the
shit out of Nebraska.

1:00 The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the
Alamodome. Again, we hoot and holler like wildmen. Again, the
band doubles back and stops right below us to serenade us,
this time, however, with the Nebraska fight songs. Although
somewhat impressed by their spirit and verve, we remain
convinced that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.

1:30 I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow managing to
stuff the "Traveler" and 11 cans of beer into my pants.

1:47 I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans. They are
taunting me. I am taunting back, still certain that we are going to
kick the shit out of Nebraska. I decide to challenge a particularly
vocal Nebraska fan to play what I now call and will forever be
remembered as Cell-Phone Flop Out." Remember flop out for a
dollar? The rules are similar. I tell this Nebraska jackass that if
he's so confident in his team, he should "flop out" his cell phone
RIGHT NOW and make plane reservations to Phoenix for the
Fiesta Bowl. And then I spoke these memorable words: "And not
those damn refundable tickets, either! You request those
non-refundable, non-transferable sons-of-bitches!" He backs
down. He is unworthy. I call Southwest Airlines and buy two
tickets to Phoenix, non-refundable and non-transferable. Price:
$712. He is humbled. He lowers his head in shame. I raise my
cell phone in triumph to the cheers of hundreds of Texas fans. I
am KING and these are my subjects. I distribute the 11 beers in
my pants to the cheering masses. I RULE the pre-game
kingdom.

2:34 Kickoff. Brimming with confidence, I open the Traveler and
pour my first stiffy.

2:45 I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big. Nebraska is
fast. Nebraska is very pissed off at Texas.

3:01 The first quarter mercifully ends. 9 yards total offense for
Texas. Zero first downs for Texas. I'm still talking shit. I pour
another stiffy from the Traveler.

3:36 Four minutes to go in the first half: the Traveler is a dead
soldier. I buy my first $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants.
While I am standing in line, a center snap nearly decapitates
Major Applewhite and rolls out of the end zone. Safety

3:56 Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas 0. I wish I had another
Traveler.

4:11 While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the bathroom at
halftime, I attempt to revive the classic Brice-ism from the South
Bend bathroom: "Hey, buddy, niiiiiiiiice cock." He is unamused.

4:21 I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from the Alamodome
merchants. I share my beer with two high school girls sitting
behind me. Surprisingly, they are equipped with a flask full of
vodka. I send them off to purchase Sprites, so that we may
consume their vodka. I have not lost faith. Nebraska is a bunch
of pussies.

4:51 No more vodka. The girls sitting behind me have fled for
their lives. I purchase two more $5 beers from the Alamodome
merchants.

5:18 Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0. I am beginning to lose
faith. This normally would trouble me, but I am too drunk to see
the football field.

5:27 I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir. Those tickets have
been confirmed and are non-refundable and non-transferrable."

5:37 I try to start a fight with every person behind the concession
counter. As it turns out, the Alamodome has a policy that no beer
can be sold when there is less than 10 minutes on the game
clock. I am enraged by this policy. I ask loudly: "Why the fuck
didn't you announce last call over the fucking PA system??!!"

5:49 Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in defeat. All of
a sudden, the Texas crowd goes absolutely nuts. "Whazzis?," I
mutter, awaking from my coma, "Iz we winnig? Did wez scort?"
Alas, the answer is no, we were not winning and we did not
score. The largest (by far) cheer of the day from the Texas
faithful occurred when the handlers were walking back to the
tunnel and Bevo (the Texas mascot) stopped to take a
gargantuan shit all over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in the
"Nebraska" spelled out in their end zone. I cheer wildly. I pick up
he empty Traveler bottle and stick my tongue in it. I am thirsty.

6:16 Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back to the
truck. I would taunt them with some off-color remarks about their
parentage, but I am too drunk to form complete sentences. With
my last cognitive thought of the evening, I take solace in the fact
that if we had not beaten them in October, they would be playing
Florida State for the national championship.

6:30 Back in the car. On the way back to Austin for the basketball
game.

8:00 Texas-Arizona tip off. We can still salvage the day! I crack
open a beer. It is warm. I don't care.

7:12 We have stopped for gas. I am hungry. I go inside the
store. I walk past the beer frig. I notice a Zima. I've never had a
Zima. I wonder if it's any good. I pull a Zima from the frig. I twist
the top off and drink the Zima in three swallows. Zima sucks. I
replace the empty bottle in the frig.

7:17 There is a Blimpie Subs in the store. I walk to where the
ingredients are, where the person usually makes the sub. There
is no one there. I lean over the counter and scoop out half a
bucket of black olives. I eat them. I am still hungry. I lean further
over the counter and grab approximately two pounds of
Pastrami. I walk out of the store grunting and eating Pastrami.
The patrons in the store fear me. I don't care.

8:01 We are in South Austin. I have been drinking warm beer
and singing Brooks and Dunn tunes for over an hour. My
truck-mate is tired of my singing. He suggests that perhaps
Brooks and Dunn have written other good songs besides "You're
Going to Miss Me When I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and that
maybe listening to only those two songs, ten times each was a
bit excessive. Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the CD play
on its own. I tell him to fuck off and restart "Neon Moon."

8:30 We arrive at the Erwin Center. My truck-mate, against my
loud and profane protestations, parks on the top floor of a nearby
parking garage. I tell him he's an idiot. I tell him we will never get
out. I tell him we may as well pitch a fucking tent here. He
ignores me. I think he's still pissed about the Brooks and Dunn
tunes. I whistle "Neon Moon" loudly.

8:47 I am rallying. I have 4 warm beers stuffed in my pants.
We're going to kick the shit out of Arizona.

9:11 Halftime score: Texas 31, Arizona 29. I am pleased. I go to
the bathroom to pee for the 67th time today. I giggle to myself
because of the new opportunity to do "the bathroom Brice." There
are no Arizona fans in the bathroom. I am disappointed. I tell
myself (out loud) that I have a "Niiiiiice cock." No one is amused
but me.

9:41 I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light out of a can.
Needless to say, they do not sell beer at the Erwin Center, much
less Bud Light out of a can. I am stopped by an usher: "Where
did you get that, sir?" I tell him (no shit): "Oh, the cheerleaders
were throwing them up with those little plastic footballs. Would
you mind throwing this away for me?" I take the last swig and
hand it to him. He is confused. I pretend I'm going to the
bathroom, but I run away giggling instead. I duck into some
entrance to avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me. I sneak
into a large group of people and sit down. The usher walks by
harmlessly. I am giggling like a little girl. I crack open another
can of Bud Light.

9:52 I am lost. In my haste to avoid the usher, I have lost my
bearings. I have no ticket stub. I cannot find my seats. Texas is
losing.

10:09 Texas is being screwed by the refs. I am enraged. I have
cleared out the seats around me because I keep removing my
hat and beating the surrounding chairs with it. A concerned fan
asks if I'm OK and perhaps I shouldn't take it so seriously. I tell
him to fuck off.

10:15 After the fourth consecutive "worst fucking call I have
EVER seen," I attempt to remove my hat again to begin beating
inanimate objects. However, on this occasion I miscalculate and
I thumbnail myself in my left eyelid, leaving a one-quarter inch
gash over my eye. I am now bleeding into my left eye and all over
my shirt. "Perhaps," I think to myself, I'm taking this a bit
seriously."

10:22 I am standing in the bathroom peeing. I'm so drunk I am
swaying and grunting. I have a bloody napkin pressed on my left
eye. My pants are bloody. I have my (formerly) white shirt
wrapped around my waist. I look like I should be in an episode of
Cops.

10:43 Texas has lost. I put my bloody white shirt back on my
body and make my way for the exits. I am stopped every 20
seconds by a good samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me why I
am covered in blood, but I merely grunt incoherently and keep
moving.

10:59 With my one good eye, I have located the parking garage. I
walk up six flights of stairs, promise that when I see my friend I
will punch him in the face for making me walk up six flights of
stairs, find the truck, and collapse in a heap in the bed of the
truck. I look around and notice that traffic is lined up all the way
around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I take
a nap.

11:17 I awake from my nap. I see my friend in the driver's seat. I
lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic
is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and
no one is moving. I am too tired to punch my friend. I call my
friend a "Stupid cocksucker."

11:31 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that
traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights,
and no one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker."

11:38 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that
traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights,
and no one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker."

11:47 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that
traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights,
and no one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker."

11:58 I am jostled. The truck is moving. I lift my head to look out
the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is beginning to move on
the second floor. I jump out of the truck, walk to the edge of the
parking facility, and pee off the sixth floor onto the street below.
My friend looks at me like I just anally violated his minor sister. I
turn around pee on the front of his truck while singing the lyrics to
"Neon Moon."

12:11 We are moving. We are out of beer. I jump from the truck
and go from vehicle to vehicle until someone gives me two
beers. I am happy. I return to my vehicle

12:26 We have emerged from the parking facility. We make our
way to my apartment and find Ed sitting on the couch with a
freshly opened bottle of Glenlivet on the coffee table in front of
him. We are all going to die tonight.

12:59 We have finished three-quarters of the bottle of Glenlivet.
We decide it would be a wonderful idea to go dancing at
PollyEsther's. Ed has to pee. He walks down the hall to our
apartment and directly into he full length mirror at the end of the
hall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces. We giggle
uncontrollably and leave for PollyEsther's.

1:17 The PollyEsther's doorman laughs uncontrollably at our
efforts to enter his club. "Fellas," he says in between his fits of
spastic laughter,” I’ve been working this door for almost a year.
I've been working doors in this town for almost 5 years. And I can
honestly say that I ain't never seen three drunker mother fuckers
than you three. Sorry, can't let you in." We attempt to reason with
him. He laughs harder.

1:44 We find a bar that lets us in. We take two steps in the door
and hear "Last call for alcohol!" I turn to the group and mutter:
"See, dat wasn't that fuckin' hard. Day don't fuckin' do that at the
Awamo...the awaom...the alab...fuck it, that stadium we was at
today..." We order 6 shots of tequila and three beers.

2:15 Back on the street. We need food. We hail a cab to take us
the two and one half blocks to Katz's. The cab fare is $1.60. We
give him $10 and tell him to keep it.

2:17 There is a 20 minute wait. We give the hostess $50. We
are seated immediately.

2:25 We order two orders of fried pickles, a Cobb salad, a bowl
of soup, two orders of Blueberry blintzes, two Reuben
sandwiches, a hamburger, two cheese stuffed potatoes, an
order of fries, and an order of onion rings.

2:39 The food arrives. We are all asleep with our heads onthe
table. The waiter wakes us up. We eat every fucking bit of our
food. Most of the restaurant patrons around us are disgusted.
We don't give a fuck. The tab is $112 with tip.

2:46 I'm sleepy.

9:12 I wake up next to a strange woman. She is the bartender at
Katz's. She is not pretty.

HOOK 'EM HORNS, BABY!!! Out-

Jeff