Monday morning Nickelback

The quintessential drunk moment this summer came at Scores in Las Vegas. One of the prettiest girls I've ever met once worked at Scores in New York. As a coatcheck girl. So yes, this place had some talent NOT taking your coat.

It had been a lifelong goal of mine to get a lapdance to the song "Ayo Technology." Something special. 50 Cent. Justin. Well, it wasn't the best song I heard that evening. On the giant video board, while some chick from New York (not the TV show or the coatcheck girl) grinded up on me, Nickelback's "Rockstar" blared. I actually had this thought:

"I fucking love this song."

Yes, I was pretty wasted. Well, this weekend blew that away. I may have a drinking problem. It's actually an eating problem. Probably both. When you're throwing back a diet of 400 to 700 calories a day, you tend to get pretty wasted on 11 or 12 beers.

Saturday night's trip to the Patio was one of the all-time besties. While McCampus was busy adding friends on Facebook, I met up with a buddy from work and his brother. Now, this kid knew everyone at the bar. It was an odd thing at the Patio for myself, despite me going there twice a week. I usually run into four or five people that I know there on a Friday night. Six or seven on a Saturday. This kid knew at least 60 people there. We did shots, we talked to randoms, we stayed 'til close (odd) and I never saw the Truth. This was odd considering me and the Truth made plans earlier in the evening. But you see, My Boy Whit was down in the German Village and the Truth's meeting us at 9:30 p.m., 10:45 p.m., midnight! and later never came to fruition. Taking the spot of the Truth was every hot chick in Columbus.

I went home and didn't pee on anyone or anything. That's a good thing. Disappointed I didn't see the Truth or My Boy Whit at Patio but my summer roomie, Miss July probably isn't disappointed she didn't see My Boy Whit. I think I could pee on her for 40 nights in a row (Noah-the-arc style) and I'd still rank above My Boy Whit in Miss July's Favorite People Rankings.

I was up until 6:15 a.m. last night in one of the worst nights EVAR. The Godfather and I bitched yesterday that July never is going to end. Sad truth is that there are 22 work days in July 2008. To put it in perspective, November 2008 only has 18. It's a motherfucker. I've long argued July is the worst month of the year, ahead of February because it has 31 days, and this year, we're feeling the influence of those extra days.

Why was I up that late? Not a clue.

Props to McCampus for hosting Friday Guyday on Friday evening. Before heading to the Patio, I chilled at the 813 (McCampus' house) for about 3.5 hours, drinking my six beers and taking off. Despite pleas from everyone in attendance, NJAG (aka 'B') didn't make it over there. Walked back over there in the morning and mocked him for painting his house on a Saturday. After moving one box and eating tons of chips practically moving him into the place back in May 2007, I didn't feel like I had to help out with the painting. Like a Jackson Pollock. Would have loved to have made like Jackson Pollock on some ladies at the Patio on Saturday night. Sadly for this Patty, it was a no.

I loved mistertrendy's column on the Tour de Beers. It was the highlight of an otherwise LAME Sunday afternoon. I watched a movie, which I'll touch on later today.

Easy week at work and a fun weekend. I'm off Wednesday and Friday and heading to Chicago on Friday with The Godfather to visit GVM Chicago Bureau chief The Dr. I love that we're going to a Cubs game on Saturday and none of us really like the Cubs. But I've never been to Wrigley, so I am pumped.

- Compiled by Art McGregor

Setting evolution back

What's up with states?

There's no rhyme or reason when it comes to the drawing of state lines. For example, you cannot escape the state of West Virginia. It's impossible. It never ends. All the maps are fucking wrong. Let's say you're driving down to Fredericksburg (not of Hollywood), Virginia on some mysterious back country roads that Garmin tells you to follow. Every 19 seconds you're going to be heading back into West Virginia. Now, that's not as often as mistertrendy needs to stop to take a piss (seven stops in a 15-hour roundtrip), but it's quite often.

But no one wants to hear about geography or mistertrendy's bladder the size of a penny. Fact is, I don't know how big a bladder even is. Whatever. I didn't major in math. It actually could be the size of the penny. Or smaller. Like a dime.

Speaking of dimes and bladders, let's get to the real issue at hand. Or in my hands, in this case.

"The Great Roommate Urination of '08"

By ART MCGREGOR
Blog on the Run editor

Nothing will top this moment. We could win the lottery or stop a four-gun stick-up when we go see "The Dark Knight" later this evening. Whenever Miss July's friends or pals (whoever they may be) ask her about her summer, she always will reply:

"Well, my roommate peed on me."

I remember taking the piss. I remember her waking up. I remember that's about it. At about 4:30 a.m. on Friday morning, I walked into Miss July's room, lifted up her blanket and began to pee on her feet.

"At least it's sterile and not vomit or shit, right? I don't think many people can say they've been pissed on by their roommate ... literally." - text from Miss July, 7-18-08

Who does that? I've had thousands of boozing nights and only about four times have I let go with a random piss in a closet, on a computer, in a dresser or on a roommate. That's about the same odds as my buddy The 1 following up on a "I'll text you later and meet up with you." Geesh. With how often I see that guy, you'd think I pissed on him.

I woke up Friday afternoon and laughed about the incident with The Sports Writer and his buddy. Speaking of. You know how when a friend visits you and brings someone else, they're usually very lame? Not this guy. Super nice guy, funny, knew about sports, was into being stupid. +1 for that guy. Now while I laughed about it with my friends from out of town, I didn't laugh about it with Miss July. I was fully expecting retribution of some sort when she got home from work. With all the midwest flooding, we really didn't need any more golden showering. Sunny skies are OK with me.

Isn't that always the case? I took the day off and the person pissed on still had to go to work.

She came home and we laughed about it and that made her the greatest sport of all-time. I also think the present The Sports Writer left for her helped with the laughter ... and then some more laughter.

I cleaned up, did some serious laundering, got her a bottle of wine from the place on South Third Street (I kept the Swedish Fish to myself) and hoped she wouldn't rip my head off.

Not that I'd need it the next time I decided to piss on a roommate.