Monday, December 17, 2007

Dwight Smith Forgave Me, Won't You?

Guilt has gotten the best of me again, damn my moralistic, Christian upbringing. I feel that a confession is necessary for me to move on with my life and to alleviate some of the increased scrutiny that one of my friends is facing because of my actions. I hope that the supportive network that is the blogosphere will do the job that I used to have Jesus do. Forgive Me!

Thursday night December 13, 2007 was like any other Thursday night here in the upper Midwest. It was quiet until me and a few friends entered the neighborly confines of our local hangout, where we were greeted with music and open arms, legs, bikini tops and wallets. Sheiks is a refuge to young professional males like me and my friends, men who enjoy the visual stimulus of naked titties and enjoy the warm intimacy of women’s parts rubbed all over our laps with gusto. We all felt appreciated and with that we began to drink and spread the merriment.

Things would have been ok if we had stayed there, seated in the plush comfort of the VIP section of the club, with the loving company of our female friends and the bottles of Cristal to keep us company. But no, you know me and my green proclivities, I had to propose a trip to the car to enhance the happy feelings we were already a part of. In my constant pursuit of improving my elevated sensations, I made a poor decision. Not that the decision to go out and partake of the ganj’ was a bad one, because it never is, but that I had to go and do it with my friend Dwight, who because of his job, should not be doing it in public.

So, there we are sitting in Dwight's luxury mobile passing an excellently crafted blunt, rolled by moi of course, not really paying attention to our surroundings or more importantly, the strength of the weed, when Jimmy, my other friend, looks at his watch and notices that 2 hours had passed since we had left the club. I personally had no clue what my name was, let alone what time it was, so I had to take Jimmy’s word for it. The others proposed that we head back into the club, but both Dwight and I agreed that we were in no condition to do that—“Holy shit man, no fucking way man…I cccan’t go back up in there yo…holy shit feel how fast my heart is beating…shit I think I am gonna die Dwight…Goddamn that shit was so strong…hey where did everybody go?”—so we stayed in his car.

We were waiting for the super-high to leave off some of its edge before doing anything, however that never did happen, so we were forced to make another fateful decision in the fog of bake-o’d. I suggested to Dwight that we pull around to the front of the club and wait for the guys to come back out. I’ll admit that it was a poor decision, but at the time I was all weirded out sitting in the parking lot. I was convinced that there were some of those “28 Days Later” zombies rushing about in my peripheral vision. I was losing more and more of my shit with every passing minute. Anyway, I convinced Dwight that it was a good idea and that I was feeling well enough to actually drive the car around to the front of the club. Which is exactly what I did once I figured out how to turn the car on and navigate my way out of the entrance to the lot…it took a little bit of time.

Once we successfully made it around to the front of the club, it was just a matter of waiting for the guys to come out. Everything was copacetic, the doorman had given us a knowing and protective wave, and the night’s chill was helping to cancel out the upper elevations of the high. That is when the pressure and pain of not having gone to the bathroom in nearly 3 hours, after having consumed tons of VSOP and Cristal, hit me like a 12 lbs. maul. Without a word I opened the driver’s door and bolted for the club and the VIP restroom. Little did I realize at the time that I had left the driver’s side door open with Dwight all by himself, FUBARed in the passenger’s seat. The rest of course is history. The pigs showed up and ticketed Dwight for weed possession, even though he didn’t have any on him. They say it smelled like weed, but come on man the door was open and Dwight's window was open a crack for fresh air treatment. They also got him for obstruction of traffic, which was completely my fault for leaving the door open and taking the keys with me to the bathroom. Even if we was physically able to move the car when the cops asked him to, he wouldn’t have been able to because high ol’ me had the keys.

Now Dennis is facing suspension and a big financial hit because of all of this. I have already apologized to Dennis, we are cool, but I feel I need the forgiveness of all of Viking fandom to rest well at night…I am very sensitive.

So, please forgive me. And know that I will not mix titty clubs and weed together again until after the NFL regular season is concluded. As for Dwight, he has vowed to take out his frustrations on the Bears. He also said I have to provide him with all the weed he can smoke during his suspension.


Andrew Wice said...

Miwacar would seem to be a stand-up guy with this confession, but I am here to tell you he is not a stand-up guy.

My proof?

He was the woman in the stairwell that D. Smith groped. And you know what? Miwacar kind of asked for it.

L Rhode said...

Funny as hell. You should write more often.

Big Blue Monkey said...

be careful, miwacar, I'm pretty sure most of the talent at Sheiks isn't gluten-free.

Jerious Norwood said...

Well done.

Muumuuman said...

Anchower? Is that you?