Billy’s Got His Beer Goggles On
He’s on the dance floor yelling, “Freebird”
Singing off pitch but he knows every word
Grabs him another girl he hold on tight
He don’t see ugly
Through blood shot eyes
He’ll fall apart when he gets home
But right now his worries are gone
Cause life looks good, good, good
So good, good, good,
Life looks good, good, good
Billy’s got his beer goggles…on
– Neal McCoy
Contrary to popular to belief, you can argue with stupid.
Stupid, being a drunk six foot two football player sportin’ a “Take a picture, it’ll last longer” muscle tank.
I didn’t get to the beach until Wednesday night at 10:30 p.m. Mind you, this was four days after my family arrived at our beach house. Wahh wah.
Anywho, my day hadn’t been the best. Actually, it sucked. In my rush to get out the door, and avoid Sonny’s cries, I locked myself out of the house. My whole damn purse sat lounging on my living room couch just taunting me. At first I panicked. #firstworldprobs. Then I realized, “Wait a minute, none of these fools around here work (at least not normal people hours). I’ll go use one of the neighbor’s phones.”
I knocked on two doors – all with multiple cars in the driveway. Nothing. “You’ve got to be f*&king kidding me. Assholes.” Finally, I decided to try a neighbor’s door I didn’t know. (Note – When I say “didn’t know” I mean “haven’t nearly hit his/her vehicle/dog/kid with my car.”) A big man answered. I told him my situation and he was glad to help.
Eric – that was his name, Eric – walked across the street and tried to jimmy my door open with a credit card. At first, I was kinda sketched out that a stranger was trying to prove to me he could break into my home with a credit card. I relaxed a little when he wasn’t successful. The two of us chatted as we waited for Mr. Big to respond to all of my phone calls and texts.
Long story short, I spent two hours sweating my balls off on my front porch waiting for Big to come allllll the way home from work to rescue me. I had to take another shower before I left the house for good. That afternoon, I sat in traffic for two hours just trying to get on the other side of Charlotte.
So by the time I reached Surfside, I was exhausted.
I didn’t feel like going anywhere, or doing anything, or running any errands. I really didn’t even want to stop and grab that dozen donuts at Krispy Kreme either. I just wanted to stretch out on the couch and relax. So that’s what I did.
On Thursday, I slept as long as my loud ass family would let me. It was 11-ish in the morning and the sun was shining bright. Bubs was just coming back from the beach to watch the World Cup as me and the little girls (Mace and her BFF Stasya) were headed out. “Hey, yo, I don’t feel like running to the store. It’s too hot. So I’m just gonna take your beer, alright? I’ll buy the next case, cool?” I hollered from the kitchen. Bubba’s response, “You’re not taking my beer.” The two of us went back and forth for a few minutes. He still wasn’t getting it.
You see, my brother has the mine mentality. What’s his is his. It doesn’t matter if yours is the same, or comparable, or even better – he wants his. It’s stupid. I literally had to show on my fingers that the idiot was going to come out the same, if not better, by going halfsies with me on beer. Talking slow now so he could understand, “Look, you’ve got 20 beers. If I drink 10… buy a 24 pack… give you half… then you end up with 22 beers. It’s simple f*&king math. So get over here and pack the damn cooler, dumbass.” Even Mace was chiming in, all backin’ me up on how big of a douche bag he was being.
Once it clicked, he was all in, “Gimmie those ones in the fridge too. Now, the Millers are mine but you can drink all the Natty Light you want.” Whatevs. Four years ago, I would’ve been above it. But then again, four years ago, I wasn’t rockin’ a one piece on the beach either…
He made me lug the cooler all the way out to the beach (our spot is basically across the street from the house) all by myself. Selfish bastard. All the meathead does is work out and eat protein, I think the least he could have done was carry his beer out to the beach for me to drink. No respect.
I spent the rest of the day getting roasted and toasted by the water. It was glorious. Sometimes, I fell asleep on accident. My family calls it “passing out.” And you know what I say to that, I say,”Potato, potatoe,” my friends. Why? Because I was on friggin’ vacation, man. Who the eff cares?! I was happy. End of story.
Friday, Beergate came to a head.
First off, that morning, Bubs wasn’t gonna let me drink his beer again. “You aren’t drinking anymore of my beer, MC. You never went and got anymore yesterday. No.” What the hell did it matter? He still had a good 12-pack left (I only drank 7, 8, or 9-ish the day before). We could manage on that. Besides, the plan was for us to walk over to a bar that night once Big arrived. I’d buy the greedy f*&k more beer later – when we were actually out. In the meantime, he could pull the stick out of his ass, grab the cooler, and head to the beach.
Pull the stick out of his ass or grab the cooler, for that matter.
I pretty much laid low on Friday. I stayed under an umbrella, read a book, and only drank three of my brother’s precious Natty Lights. At some point during mid-afternoon, I managed to commit myself to taking all the little kids to dinner (i.e., everyone under the age of 26). Luckily, Mace and Stasya knew of a decent Mexican restaurant close by because things were about to get interesting…
As I was backing out of the driveway, Momma stopped the car and said, “Here. I’ll pay for food only. I’m serious, you two. No alcohol.” Bubba had drank a good many beers on the beach that afternoon, so naturally he laughed his goofy laugh and mumbled, “Uhuhuh. Aww man, I was gonna buy so much beer on her card.” What a DA (Disrespectful Ass).
The restaurant was bumpin’. Bubs went to the front to put our name in. I told him I was headed to the bar. “Hey, get me a Dos Equis,” he hollered back at me. After sitting at the bar for 10 or 15 minutes, the four of us just decided to eat there. I asked the bartender to continue ringing up all of our alcohol on the original tab and just start a new tab for the food.
Dinner was good. The food was spectacular. However, everything started to go down hill when Bubba looked at me and said, “Yeah, and after we leave here, you can go get our other case.” Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. I had just paid for that little lush to drink all throughout dinner. He had ordered nearly $14.00 worth of beer. At this point, we were more than even on beach beer. Hell, he had made me drink Natural Light, for shit’s sake! I could’ve bought two cases of Natty Light for $14.00.
“Nah, brah, we’re even,” I said.
His blue eyes – beady and black by this point – bulged out of his head. His deep voice filled the room, “No we’re not. You owe me a case.” Oh sweet Jesus. Was I really going to have to break out the finger math in the middle of this Mexican restaurant? “You drank half of my beer – at least a 12-pack. These 32 oz. Dos Equis only equal a 6-pack. You owe me six beers.” Ugh. “No. You see, it’s quality over quantity in this situation. I’m not going to pay $20.00 for a 12-pack of Natural Light.”
This argument went on and on for a few minutes. Mace tried to chime in a few times but the Bubanator would shut her up. I kept telling him, “Lower your voice. You are being ridiculous.” Still yelling, “I’m not being loud! It’s just my voice! I can’t help I have a deep voice!” Finally, I looked at him and said through gritted teeth, “If you don’t shut your f*&king mouth I am going to take the little girls, we are going to leave your silly ass here, and you are gonna have to call Momma to come pick you up. You are embarrassing me.” “Pissh, I’m not calling Momma. I’ll walk.” Yeah, okay, Mr. I-don’t-know-how-to-get-home-from-Conover. What a dick.
I promptly picked up my Kate Spade bag, turned on my heels, and walked out of there.
Once I was in the car I called Mr. Big and explained the whole situation. “He’s crazy. First of all, I can’t believe you drank Natural Light and you got cheated on those Dos Equis but still… he’s an idiot.” The entire seven minutes back to the beach house was more of the same. He would yell nonsense and I would either counter or make fun of him. Both only pissed him off more.
When we got home, he locked me out of the house.
As we all sat in the living room waiting for Mr. Big, Bubs only continued to taunt me. “Six beers. I’m gonna have to live with that for the rest of my life.” He’s only a smidge dramatic. Mimmie, Momma, and Dad were over it by the time Big showed up. I was too. I wanted to get out of there. I needed a break from that fool.
My plan was to just leave Bubba at the house watching Space Jam while Mr. Big and I walked over to a local bar. But when we got down to the sidewalk Mr. Big hesitated. “You want to go get him don’t you?” “Kinda,” he said. “Whatever. Just have your phone ready… when he does something stupid I want it on video.” Big practically ran up the house steps. Bubs came trailing out behind him.
The first bar blew. There was no music, lots of smoke, and a guy hanging around the next table who looked like he’d methed away all but two halves of four teeth. Needless to say, we only got one round of beer. Bubba tried to nonchalantly carry his half-full beer bottle out of the bar but was promptly stopped at the door by a fella taller than Big. Always one for theatrics, he guzzled the rest of his brewski and chunked the bottle in the trash.
Big lit a cigarette outside in the parking lot. Yeah, he’s a smoker again. Ugh. Trash. Moving on. Naturally, my wasted brother wanted a ciggie too. “Hey man, gimmie one of those.” Mr. Big handed him a smoke and his lighter. Bubba tried to light the end of the cigarette but failed. He tried again. Fail. He kept flicking the rolls on the lighter but never lighting the end of the white stick. Big and I got tickled. “What the hell is wrong with you? Haven’t you ever lit a cigarette before? Give me the lighter.” Mr. Big attempted to light the cig for him. “Stop breathing out of your nose, stupid! Your blowing the light out with your big ass nostrils!” Finally, “Just give me the damn cigarette.”
Gah. They’re both so cool. Probs the coolest guys I know…
“The Bar” sits on a side street close to where we rent our beach house. Bubba had been talking shit about checking it out all week long. So that’s where we went. After we walked in and sat down, I immediately snapped my head around to my belligerent brother and told him he had better keep his mouth f*&king shut while we were in there. That’s the kinda place “The Bar” was. It was a tiny hole in the wall type of joint with nothing but washed up beach regulars who liked coming in for the bad Jell-O shots and the raunchy karaoke. But oddly enough… it was our kind of place.
The three of us found ourselves ordering round, after round, of Bud Lights. We sang along to the songs we knew (which was saying a lot considering the majority of the songs people sung were old rock joints from the ’70s) at the top of our lungs. And when the DJ made smart ass comments we laughed, raised our bottles, and hollered, “Hell yes!” We were doing pretty good, you know. We were blending, and having a good time, and all-in-all just not getting our asses kicked.
But then the music stopped…
“Not sure if you guys realized this or not, but uhh… we’ve got a stripper in the house tonight!” announced the DJ from his designated corner of “The Bar.” “Everybody, c’mon! Let’s give him a round of applause here!” Not gonna lie, I was a little tip-say at this point… but I’ll be damned if there was a stripper in the room. Suddenly, DJ started to walk back towards where we were perched up at the bar. He walked past me, past Big, and then stopped right by Bubba. He slapped his hand down on Bubba’s bare shoulder, “Well, c’mon buddy! Let’s see whatcha got! Take your shirt off!”
How did this guy know?!?!
Bubs hesitated for a split-second… then he pushed his stool away from the bar, pulled his “Take a picture, it’ll last longer” muscle tank off, and just stood there grinning.
The DJ and I started making stripper music with our mouths (Why yes, a hidden talent of mine just so happens to be my superb ability to make stripper music with my mouth… didn’t cha know?). “Go dance on that woman!” DJ ordered him. Without missing a beat, my brother began backin’ dat thang up on a woman older than our mother. “Now dance on him!” Again, Bubs didn’t hesitate. He turned and started twerkin’ on a poor Mexican fella at the next table. I hit the DJ. “No! No! No! No! I’m just kidding, man! Stop!” The whole bar was roaring with laughter. I couldn’t catch my breath. Big and I were laughing so hard I thought he was going to burst out into tears. “Bahahahaha! When Dad finds out he was dancing on dudes without his shirt on at the bar tonight, he’s gonna flip shit!” I yelled over the music when started back up.
After a few Jell-O shots and a couple more beers, we walked back home. As soon as we hit the door, Big started frying up eggs for a bologna sandwich. Bubba went for the Cheetos. I headed for bed.
According to Big, Bubba only threw up twice that night.
The next morning, as my family packed for home and Big and I packed for our hotel up the road… Bubs actually had the balls to look over at me and say, “You still owe me three beers.”