I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell (2 page)

There are fun nights, there are crazy nights, and then there are those nights that make men legends.

It was a Saturday night in law school. Me and about 4 friends (Hate, GoldenBoy, Brownhole, and Credit) had collected at EI Bingeroso's apartment. EI Bingeroso had a college fraternity brother in town, Thomas, and wanted to show him a good time. We got there at around 7pm, and immediately began cooking large quantities of meat and drinking lots of alcohol.

EI Bingeroso, who lived with his fiancée, was excited about seeing his college friend and began attacking the Natural Light. His fiancée, Kristy, knowing EI Bingeroso's proclivity towards unruly drunken behavior, caught me in a corner and made me promise to stay sober so I could drive. Owing her a favor, I agreed. Though pissed at the time, it became the best decision I have ever made in my life.

All the meat and liquor in the apartment consumed, we headed out. It was decided that we needed to try a new bar. Someone mentioned that a place called "Shooters II" had a mechanical bull. This was an easy call.

By the time we arrived, EI Bingeroso and Thomas were so drunk they were singing Johnny Cash songs and kicking cars in the parking lot. The rest of the party was not doing much better. Hate, normally an edgy person anyway, was so drunk he was eyeing Stop signs suspiciously.

Having wrestled with Jim Beam for the past two hours and lost, he was ready for a fight. Brownhole and GoldenBoy were already staggering. I mentally prepare for the worst.

We paid $2 to get the obligatory bracelets. The girl behind the counter was dressed in a tight red Lycra cowgirl outfit, replete with white lace and frills. Her boots were black and white snake skin. But it was the white leopard print ten-gallon hat really brought the outfit together. The bar was decorated in classic neo-Western Roadhouse: longhorns,
oil cans, and saddles decorate the walls. I half expected Patrick Swayze to be smacking around unruly townies. I was so busy looking at the redneck paraphernalia, I failed to notice it before I heard Hate gasp, "No way! This is awesome!"

In the center of the bar was something I had never seen before in my life: Live professional wrestling.

Let's be clear about this: there was a ring, a full wrestling ring set up in the middle of the bar, and there were people, ostensibly professionals, in the ring, wrestling each other. I must have stood there for a good three minutes, trying to let my brain catch up with my eyes.

A real life ring, right in the middle of the bar. Two sweaty, out of shape wrestlers grappling, and a white banner behind the ring, proclaiming for all to see, "THIS IS THE SOUTHERN WRESTLING ASSOCIATION." Hate is the first into action. Being an ex-high-school wrestler, completely shit-housed, and constantly filled with rage, he immediately pushed his way though the layers of crowd to arrive ringside, and began yelling curses at the wrestlers.

''THESE FUCKING CLOWNS ARE AWFUL! MY GRANDMOTHER COULD WRESTLE BETTER THAN THIS! YOU'RE LUCKY I'M NOT IN THERE, YOU COCK-SUCKING PUSSIES!! LET ME WRESTLE, I'LL KICK THEIR FUCKING ASSES!!"

This continued for a good five minutes. All of us were mesmerized, drunkenly fixated on this surreal comedy playing out before our eyes. To Hate's credit, the guys in the ring were not in good shape. If by "not in good shape," I mean "fat and disgusting."

A mere one beer later, Hate made his move. He stepped over the ropes that separated the crowd from the ring, and began banging on the canvas, yelling at the wrestlers. A bouncer told him to stop. Hate takes this as a cue to get into the ring, and beer firmly in hand, tried to climb into the ring. Two bouncers pulled him out of the ring before he could climb all the way in. We collected Hate from the bouncers, promised that he will behave, and gave him another beer. Hate continued repeating "My grandmother could kick their asses, this is a complete joke," over and over to himself.

Then I noticed how much we stood out. We were dressed in the standard grad-school uniform; khaki's and button down's. No one around
us shared our fashion sense. They were dressed in "redneck casual;" dirty blue jeans and assorted trailer-park shirts (e.g. WWF shirts with logos like, "Come Smell What the Rock is Cooking"). The better dressed had on cowboy hats, cowboy boots, flannel shirts and clean blue jeans. Having grown up in Kentucky, I knew that these sorts of people generally don't take kindly to those they perceive as rich and snobbish, especially when they've been drinking. I filed that thought under "obvious foreshadowing."

By this time, Hate had separated from us and found his way into a discussion with a group of younger red necks about the relative merits of the North versus the South. Hate is from Pennsylvania. They did not share his views. He claimed that he could whip any wrestler in the bar that night. Two of the rednecks, one very fat, claimed to be cousins of one of the wrestlers, the one called "Motorbike Mike," or some such bullshit. Hate questioned the sexuality of their cousin. A girl in the group claimed to be the girlfriend of "Motorbike Mike." Hate questioned her taste in men, her moral turpitude, and her intelligence. The fat one, the alleged cousin of Motorbike Mike, who was apparently also somehow a relative of the girl, took exception to this. He was about 6'1", making him a good 8 inches taller than Hate. He had thick glasses, so horribly smudged I wanted to rip them off his face and clean them on my shirt (remember, I'm sober). His white tank-top shirt had grease and ketchup stains on it, partially covering the "George Strait" concert logo.

The redneck desperately needed a course in logic. He was losing an argument to someone so drunk he tried to climb into a wrestling ring: Hate 'The south is full of inbreds and red necks. How are you related to both of them?"

The redneck tries to explain. I'm not able to follow. Hate ignores him.

Hate "None of this changes the fact that they're dating, and they're related. That is incest. You are southern in-bred trash."

Redneck "Yeah, well the north is just a bunch of rich bitches." Hate "Possibly, but that doesn't change the fact that you have not responded to me. You are obviously an idiot also."

Redneck "Wa, well ... You ain't worth a shit, and neither is the north." Hate "That's a great comeback. You're making my point for me, moron."

Redneck "Bitch, I'll fight'cha ass. Well see who's better then, ya ric
h
bitch.
"

A few more minutes of this, and the wrestling round mercifully ended
,
creating a short break in the action. I pulled Hate away from thi
s
stimulating conversation, and we joined everyone else at the bar. Hat
e
ordered shots for the group
.

After a post-shot round of beers, the mechanical bull started up. Hat
e
not only signed himself up, but continuously yelled across the bar a
t
the fat redneck with the smudged glasses until he came over an
d
signed up also. EI Bingeroso slammed a ten dollar bill on the bar, an
d
called the redneck out
.

EI Bing "Hey FATASS, ten bucks says my friend rides longer tha
n
you." Redneck "Screw you, northern bitch. I'll fucking outride your mom.
"
EI Bing "What? My mother's not here, idiot. You just have to outrid
e
him," pointing at Hate
.

The redneck walked off without answering. After a few girls rode th
e
bull, the redneck got on and was thrown after about 4 seconds. A poo
r
showing. We mock him mercilessly. He flips us off. We cheer loudly
.
Hate rode for the full 8 seconds, an eventful 8 seconds at that. Th
e
first four or so he was doing fine, until the bull reared back, and flun
g
him forward. Hate, had he been like the redneck, would have flown of
f
into the cushions. But Hate is sort of like a British pit-bull: once his jaw
s
are locked, nothing short of death can get him to release. As a result
,
his entire body landed on his crotch, which hit his hand, which he ha
d
tied to the saddle horn. You could almost see him turn green as hi
s
entire body weight crushed his testicles against his wrist. To his credit
,
he stayed on for the full 8 seconds
.

Hate, along with EI Bingeroso and Thomas who have joined in th
e
North vs. South discussion, begin taunting the fat redneck
.
Hate "Hey, Jethro, how'd I stay on longer than you? Your fat ass alon
e
should have kept you on for more than 4 seconds.
"

Thomas "Can anyone from the South do anything right?
"

EI Bing "Maybe if you weren't fucking your cousin, you'd be able t
o
hold on tighter.
"

Hate "I thought the North wasn't worth a shit? I've never even seen
a

mechanical bull before tonight, and I outrode your sorry ass."

The redneck flips us off again, yells a stream of non-sequiturs that he presumably intended as disparaging remarks, and storms off with his friends. This enrages Hate,

Hate "HE OWES YOU TEN DOLLARS!!"

EI Bingeroso and I convince Hate that it's OK, in this case, a moral victory is sufficient.

The mechanical bull interlude over, wrestling began again. Everything stayed calm for a while. The two wrestlers were incredibly fat, but they were using props (trash cans and such) and fake blood, so it was entertaining.

I went to the bathroom and when I get back Hate had disappeared again. I found him up against the ring, trying to grab one of the wrestlers by the ankle. I run over to the ring, where the bouncers had pulled him off the ring, and were trying to calm him down. He did not respond to them agreeably.

At this point, dealing with Hate was like taking a leashed pit bull to the Westminster Dog Show. I assist the bouncers on moving Hate away from the ring, and he and I end up in the area where the fat redneck and his entourage are. By this time, Motorbike Mike has come down to hang out with his myriad cousins and girlfriend. Hate, seeing the fat redneck, demands EI Bingeroso's ten dollars. Motorbike Mike and I try to break them up, when Hate realizes who he is, yells at him, "YOU FUCK YOUR COUSIN! YOU INBRED BITCH, GIVE ME MY TEN DOLLARS. I'LL KICK BOTH YOUR SOUTHERN WHITE TRASH ASSES."

And then hell starts breaking loose.

The bouncers lose their patience with Hate, and three of them, plus Motorbike Mike, picked him up and literally threw him out the back door. It was a scene straight out of "Roadhouse." I go to find everyone else, still at the bar, to tell them that Hate has been thrown out. EI Bingeroso and Thomas are drunk, hanging all over each other, telling college stories to each other that both were there for. Brownhole is talking to the only female bartender with a full set of teeth, and GoldenBoy is cheering the wrestlers, urging them to spill more fake
blood.

When EI Bingeroso gets drunk, violence tends to follow. Provoked by the knowledge of Hate's ejection from the bar, EI Bingeroso begins smashing ashtrays and flinging them off the bar. This upsets the bar manager, who pulls me aside.

Manager "Son, I think it's time you and your friends left."

Tucker "Yes sir, I agree wholeheartedly. Let me just get them together, and we'll promptly leave."

I huddle everyone together, and explain the situation. We are getting kicked out. As I herd them toward the door, Hate walks up.

Hate "Hey guys."

Tucker "What are you doing here? You just got kicked out."

Hate "It'll take more than that to keep me out of here. I paid my two dollars, I've got a bracelet, and I'm getting my goddamn money's worth."

Fine, I tell him we've been kicked out anyway, it's time to leave. I get everyone moving towards the door. EI Bingeroso is one of the first outside, and as he waits for the rest of the group, he sees a truck parked right next to the door. He rears back and kicks the front grill of the truck. Twice. I am still trying to round everyone up, when a large redneck comes out the front door, and walks up to EI Bingeroso.

Redneck "Hay boy ... hay, did-jew juss kick dat truck?"

EI Bingeroso is unsure how to answer. The redneck is large and El Bingeroso knows he's guilty of the offense charged, but doesn't seem to want to admit this to the redneck. So he just glares at him.

Redneck "I asked you a question, boy, did you kick that truck?"

EI Bingeroso " Who the fuck are you?"

That was apparently the magic phrase, because the redneck immediately open fist slapped EI Bingeroso right in the face. Thomas, who was standing there watching, throws his beer bottle on the ground,
takes a little crow hop, and swings at the redneck. His aim is not good, and the fight degrades into a poorly choreographed dance, where EI Bingeroso, Thomas and the large redneck are each swinging at each other and alternately moving away so as to not be struck by any counter punches.