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Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise
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The Lost Summer of Punk | AEW Thoughts
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Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase three heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Off we go.
It was my last year at camp I was in the oldest age group (around 15 years old) who were CITS. Feeling like the man, I figured that continuing the fling that I had the summer before camp isn't a great idea, and that I should try to hook up with the younger chicks. Seemed like a great idea at the time. It wasn't. I pretty much wasted all summer hooking up with better looking younger chicks instead of going for the sure thing.
Fast forward to the last night of camp. Banquet. For all that don't know, they bring everyone into the dining hall, and serve us a grease riddled meal of some chicken that when you cut it open, drips melted butter. How they got the butter into this piece of shit chicken still boggles my mind. Now it's "Camp Dance" time, but I am too old for DJ Jazzy Jeff. After flirting with my old fling from the year before, we decide, it's time to rekindle the fire.
We leave the indoor basketball court, and head for my bunk. Open the door, and it's my buddy and another camper girl, no room for us. We then trek 15 minutes down to the CIT Lounge, open the door, my buddy and his girl, no room for us. We head to the counselor lounge, start making out, only to get caught by some counselors, and told to leave. My dream of getting my first BJ is decreasing by the second. My girl says she is tired, and it's not worth it, I say, let's try one more place.
So the smart 15 year old kid I am, we walk to the back of camp, where all the old school buses sit. These school buses are practically rotting, they haven't been used in years. I open the door, and lift my girl into the school bus. Things are getting hot, and my pants are halfway off and ITS FINALLY HAPPENING. Only then, we hear a car drive by, with people yelling in Russian(the maintenance people). My girl looks up says, "This is really really sketchy and creepy, take me home". After 5 solid minutes of trying to convince her that this rotting school bus "is the perfect place for this right now" she gets up, gets dressed and we walk back to the dance.
So to wrap it up, after wasting 45 minutes finding a perfect place, I get my first ever (half) BJ in the back of a rotting old school bus. It was the best day of my life.
It's my freshman year of college. After having a few at a pregame, some friends and I head out to the local bar. Once there, I quickly spot a girl on the dance floor who I had hooked up with a few times. I walk over, we dance and, shortly thereafter, we begin making out.
Fast forward 30 minutes and we're back at my dorm. I unlock my room and we're both ready to get going. There's only one problem: As soon as I opened the door, the smell of shit hit our nostrils. I turn to her, give her a "I don't know what that smell is, but I'm sorry" look, turn on the lights and find that my roommate (who had also gone out that night and wasn't in the room at this point) had taken a big, big dump right in the middle of the floor.
This isn't some nice, clean log, either. This is a stinky smear, some really smelly shit ground into the carpet.
After spending about one second investigating, I turn to the girl and say something along the lines of, "Oh my God, my roommate shit on the floor." We step back into the hallway and I ask her if we could go back to her place. Unfortunately, her roommate is there and we can't. Bummer. Being a gentleman, I offer to walk her back, figuring I could at least make out a little bit more on the way to her place. Surprisingly, she refuses my offer, saying that we can stay in my room, shit on the floor and all. I think I laughed in her face, asked her if she was serious and, after finding out that she was, decided that it might not be the worst idea. I mean, if I was gonna sleep in there, I might as well have some company, right?
Before we get down to business, though, I have to find my roommate and tell him that I need the room for the night. I heard the shower going, so I stepped into the bathroom (which is completely destroyed – shit stains on the sinks and hand dryers, toilet paper everywhere, poop smeared all over both stalls) ask my roommate if he pooped in the room (he groaned in response) and then if I could have the place for the night (another groan – All clear!). So I head back in there with the girl, my roommate grabs some stuff and clears out, the girl and I proceed to get naked and – of course – I can't get it up. Spend about 30 minutes drunkenly eating her out/trying to wake up the little guy but nothing worked. We ended up passing out in the poop room pretty quickly thereafter.
After the girl left the next morning, I go out into the common area to wake up my roommate so he can clean up the room. He doesn't know what happened, but gladly cleans everything up. After laughing about it with him for a while, I decide to hit the shower (not the one he was in the night before), only to find that my shower sandals had shit all over them. Turns out he had shit on those and wiped his ass with the sleeve of my dress shirts. Great stuff. I packed a bag and stayed at a friend's dorm for the next 3 nights. Still friends with the roommate though, actually ended up living in the same building as him all four years of college.
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When I was in college at UW-Madison, I went to visit my best friend for Halloween weekend at UC-Boulder. I'd broken up with my first serious boyfriend several months before and was just starting to feel fully healed, so I decided that that weekend would be an excellent weekend to meet a cute guy and see what transpired.
My best friend, Stephanie, had a group of friends in Boulder that I was pleased to discover were fairly normal people. Dressed as a sheep, I made my way out to the bars with them and began to drink heavily, as I did in those days. I had my eyes on a good-looking guy dressed as Tyler Durden whose name now escapes me. He and I had some interesting political discussions (this was mere days before the 2004 presidential elections), but I blew it when I got too drunk, things weren't happening, and I declared to him and everyone else within earshot, "I'm gonna hook up with someone tonight!" Fail #1.
I began to flirt with another guy, who was dressed as a Domino's delivery man and whose name I do indeed remember: Bob. Bob was unusually tall and I am somewhat unusually short, but we hit it off and by the time someone (I hope whoever it was wasn't too drunk) drove us all home, Bob and I were snuggling in the car and then on the couch of my best friend's living room. We finally made our way up to the bedroom of one of Stephanie's absent roommates to make out. And make out we did! It felt awesome — I hadn't had a romantic or sexual experience of any kind for almost a year. After about half an hour, though, Bob stopped me. He proceeded to tell me that he was "religious" and that what we were doing (making out while fully clothed) was against his religion. My impatient atheist self was speechless and annoyed. I rolled over and went to sleep. Fail #2.
A couple of hours later, I was awoken by Bob getting up to use the bathroom. When he came back to bed he started touching me and trying to make out with me again! I figured, what the hell, this is a drunken hookup anyway, and proceeded to go with the flow. But ten minutes later, Bob was all, "No, no, I can't." Again. Fail #3.
The next time I woke up, it was light outside and Bob was getting dressed. I groggily asked him what time it was (8am) and where he was going. He said, "I'm sorry, I've got to get to church. So long, Madison." Infinite fail.





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“It’s little dicks, not micro-penis,” the reporter from Gothamist was told outside of Kings County Saloon just before the event started
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“It’s little dicks, not micro-penis,” the reporter from Gothamist was told outside of Kings County Saloon just before the event started. And it seems that the distinction between the two is what makes Brooklyn’s Smallest Penis Pageant what it is: a little joke with a lot of pride.





This was the third year for Brooklyn’s most idiosyncratic and irreverent pageant, and based on the crowd that was lining up to pay $10 to see some small dick (when a few probably could have just stayed home and looked in a mirror), it was an outstanding success.





Once again, Kings County Saloon was selling “Penis Coladas” with plastic dick straws to the 100+ crowd of mostly women, many of who seemed pretty eager to be close to the stage when the little fellers made their big debut. When resident drag Queen Chicken Bitches , dressed in her finest, most sparkly and cumbersome Jedi attire (this year was Star Wars themed), asked the audience if they were here to hate or celebrate, they exuberantly shouted, “celebrate!”




Seriously, why doesn’t every bar in Brooklyn have a resident drag Queen? There are certainly enough of them living here. The only answer that I can come up with is that every bar owner and manager in the borough are well aware that no Queen can MC like the witty, cheeky and downright hysterical Chicken Bitches.








After Chicken Bitches warmed up the crowd, out came the competitors in see-through tuxedo-speedos. Two of them were returning for a second shot at the crown, a Mr. Rip Van Dinkle and The Puzzlemaster. The former won the first pageant, whereas the latter was a close runner-up last year . The other contestants, a well-tatted and rotund Chino Loco, the shy and endearing Gentleman and the Tecate-wielding Cromwell all seemed to have a shot at the title when the show started, but after the introductions and pageant walks, it seemed like the bout could only favor one man: The Puzzlemaster.








From the start he brought a flair and confidence that the other contestants struggled to deliver. He had a handful of jokes (last year he lost only by the “smallest margin”), and went all out during the cocksplash segment, when one lucky young woman was invited onstage to spray the dancing contestants with a squirt gun. I knew better from last year than to get too close to the stage. The Puzzlemaster also killed it with a Shirley Bassey cover renamed, “Golddinger.”








So when the Puzzlemaster was crowned and handed the scepter (a toy light-saber tipped with a plastic dick) along with $500 in cash, few people could be surprised. True, The Gentleman delivered a heartfelt poem that made the ladies in the crowd swoon, Chino Loco presented a hilarious and deeply traumatizing striptease in a Stormtrooper outfit, Rip Van Dinkle dropped a poorly timed but amusing rap, and Cromwell killed it with a Braveheart-level rousing speech about orgies in America, but nobody delivered the sincerity and cocksured-ness of The Puzzlemaster.





Confidence, it seems, is truly the key to winning the hearts of Ameri- er- Brooklyn.







I’m much smaller than the winner! Soft 0cm, hard 2cm!

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