18-1

18-1
It is a month later and I still think the Pats can pull out a victory. I’m in denial on one level and in total mourning in reality. I feel violated and sad. How did that happen? Never mind, I don’t even want to talk about the game. Or think about it. Or ever see another replay of that fucking shitty cunty fucking pig sucker motherfucking cocksucking, third down, piss drinking ass eating, fucking catch. I may never watch football again. I haven’t been this shook by a loss since Aaron Fucking Boone beat the Sox in 2003, but at least I saw that shit coming. The Super Bowl loss was the equivalent suddenly finding out Shal is a serial killer and all our closets are full of the bodies of dead Kinko’s employees. (I assume that’s how she would roll as a serial killer, and who would object? See, even when I fantasize about her being awful, I still try and justify her. Such a sweet girl, nice person, and perfect enabler!) At the end of the game, I was just puzzled. It did not add up. We lost? I just assumed I was hallucinating from the massive amount of booze, weed, and cocaine I’d ingested. I attempted to re-orient myself to reality by huffing a couple huge rails and drinking a large glass of rum. Still 17-14, so I tried again. And again. Turns out I wasn’t having some kind of horrible delusion. The mighty Pats had blown the perfect season and I had a serious substance abuse problem. Never one to let reality or extreme intoxication get me down, I decided to hit the casino. As an aside to those who didn’t read previous blog, I was at Mohegan Sun with my childhood friend Glenn. We met there around 11:00am and he brought a $220 party package, which was high quality and massive. Frightfully massive. I’m talking, “Hey dude, you have blood all over the front of your Patriots jersey!” massive. Glenn is a funny guy. He is currently a responsible adult and a father of four boys…but, he’s a life long stoner and occasional gakker. Hard core. He sold weed in High School and used to drive us there every morning. Smoked two joints every day on the way. Every fucking day for four years. He gave me the sound advice that if you have to meet new people, you should get high first so they will always think that is just who you are. People won’t know you are high if you are always high! Needless to say, this theory doesn’t apply to me. I’m an extremely obvious mess when I start the train rolling. Glenn also had the noble and expensive idea that we had to get a room at the casino ($333) so we could, you know, run up whenever we want. Well, that quickly evolved into us barricading ourselves in our room and jabbering at each other like a couple of speed freaks. Wait, scratch “like” from that sentence, we were a couple of speed freaks. Pretty sure we covered every topic in the universe, which is fun when you are just trying to kill time until the game starts, though he didn’t appreciate my finely tuned pedophile jokes aimed at his sons. “Shut the fuck up Mills, not about my boys!” “Come on Glenn, I’m not being gross, I’m just saying a pinkie! Only one knuckle deep, like a gentleman!” I thought it was comedic genius. We watched the game in the room and might as well have been in a Motel 8 in hell. The first half was torture. We would have been better off watching sumo wrestling. Nothing is more frustrating than being wired and wanting fireworks but getting 7-3 at the half. We both assumed the Pats would win, and of course that was the way it was going until that fucking final drive. Whatever, I don’t want to re-hash that nonsense and will never mention or discuss it again. I headed down to hit the blackjack table and promptly went into a blackout. Next thing I know I’m sitting at a table and it is 2:30am. I got about $70 in chips and realize they are not serving alcohol. I hit the room to freshen up a touch and try to get the blood out of my shirt from some crazy nose bleed I’d suffered. Most likely from the dry air I’m guessing. So I freshen up with a bump or two and a couple of nice stiff rum and cokes. I try to bring my drink back downstairs with me, but apparently my overall appearance tipped off security that I may have an alcoholic beverage and it’s now 3:00am, which is a no-no. Mohegan ain’t Vegas, where you can carry a drink and a dead hooker with you anywhere at any time. After a brief discussion with security, which ended with me laughing and chugging the drink. The security can best be described as the Freshman Team. Nothing makes me happier than when I realize I’m dealing with the backups. The primetime security would have beat me down and sent me back to my room. Luckily, it was the wee hours of Monday morning and no one really gave a fuck. They certainly didn’t want any kind of trouble with me, and I don’t blame them. I’d been drinking and gacking for 15 hours and my blood splattered shirt and Pat’s hat indicated my team had just blown the Super Bowl and a perfect season. I proceed to find a smoking table for a little $10 blackjack. Two hours and at least two trips to the ATM later, the realization hits me that I am a fucking disaster area and I’m playing with real money. I kept a nice green chip with me ($25) out of God only knows how much, and headed up to the room. After another bumper and a beer, I realize that the room is empty. I say to myself, “Isn’t someone else with me?” I no sooner think this then the door comes flying open and Glenn comes marching in like a man possessed. “Mills, your still doing that shit!?!” I was. This isn’t something you should be doing before bedtime, but I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly or planning for the future. I’m very Zen like that, I live in the moment. Poorly. I innocently ask what Glenn had been up to. He’d been playing video poker like a coked up monkey pressing the button until it’s paw bleeds. He’d lost all of his money plus the breakfast fund he had put aside in the safe. Luckily, we’d put down a cash deposit on the room, so we’d have walking around money once we checked out. Against all the laws of nature and chemistry, I catch a solid four hours of sleep. As I’m waking up, Glenn is screaming at me about his inability to sleep. I snore, the next door guests were making too much noise, and upstairs folks were apparently building an arc. This is nothing new to me, Glenn can never sleep and blames everything but the massive amount of blow he did. I equate it to drinking 60 beers and vomiting, and then you blame it on food poisoning. I awake to an angry Glenn, which I was totally expecting. I recite the full version of “There is no Joy in Mudville: The Mighty Casey has Struck Out.” It seemed fitting given the Patriots loss. Went right over Glenn’s head and only seemed to irritate him more. “Shut the fuck up Mills, you’re smart. I get it. Let’s get some fucking breakfast, I haven’t eaten in 20 hours.” “Well, I was referring to the Pat’s loss with a famo…”
“Shut the fuck up. You hungry?”
“Yeah, starving…literally.”
We roll down stairs and hit the buffet. I eat my plate and Glenn’s, cause he starts having stomach issues. He tries to blame me for this, which is met by loud guffaws from me.
“You can accuse me of snoring and keeping you up, though if I had to guess, other factors were involved.”
We are in public so I have to modify my terminology,
“Maybe it was all that caffeine you had?”
“Fuck you Mills”.
“Noted. You gonna eat that ham?”
“Fuck…I feel like shit….Help yourself.”
We both ended up finishing the meal with yogurt, blueberries, and strawberries.
Perfect ending to steak, sausage, bacon, and ham with 37 eggs. We go back up to the room and let the food coma take over for an hour. I slowly emerge back to reality and start shouting at Glenn that it is time to get out of Dodge. He concurs and gives me a couple joints to make up for spending the breakfast fund. We start heading for the exit and exchanging our usual parting shots,
“Great time, this will take weeks to recover from..”
“Yeah, nice job, you were really fucked up Jay”.
“ I slept and ate breakfast motherfucker…”
“Fucking A, I think I left my keys in the room!”
“Of course you did Glenn, peace be with you. I’m out.”
I hit the road and haven’t spoken with Glenn since. I assume he is fine and back to normal. I’m working on it but doubt I will ever get over the tragedy that is Super Bowl XXLL. I drove back to NY/NJ that afternoon. It was like voluntarily walking into Hell, only worse. I don’t have to explain this part, NY won against Boston in the most improbable manner. It sucks. I gpt a lot of funny phone messages and even more emails. Fuck you all. The winner of rubbing it in goes to Aaron T., who sent me a "In Sympathy and Friendship" card in the mail. Motherfucker actually took the time to go out and get a funeral card and mail it to me. The icing on the cake was his quote inside "18-1 is something to be very proud of. Only 3 teams in the history of the NFL can say they have recorded 18 wins. It is true the other two teams won Superbowls, but hey..." Very funny. I have made a shank out of my Patriot's pennant and plan on sticking him in the eye next time I see him.
Cheers Motherfuckers!