mychai's Diaryland Diary

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The night Dave Thomas shook my world.

Yay! Two entries in one day! I'm like Uncle Bob but with hair and a little shorter.

It seems that everyone in the blogging/journaling world online is referencing the recent death of Wendy's founder Dave Thomas. I can see why Americans hold a little place in their heart for the man. He stays open till midnight serving hamburgers so greasy that the bun starts to melt, and he has over 500 commercials where he basically says, "Our hamburgers have bacon, cheese, more bacon, a little square piece of meat from our special Wendy's square cows, a little more bacon, and some special sauce made out of bacon".

He's not particularly good-looking. He's a bit overweight. And he is self-deprecating.

Oh, and he still has had all of his hair.

Since everyone online seems to be saying as many good things about him as they can -- like what I just did -- I think that we here at JP-land will tell you a story.

So, go get a stick and put it through your weiner. Put your weiner over the fire, cause yer ol' bud JP is going to tell you a little campfire story that is sure to warm your little ol' hearts.

The date is Memorial Day, 1998. My best friend from high school, Marcus (who looks a lot like Matt Damon, actually), and I went out to his farm in South Mississippi. His dad had converted the upper floor of the barn into one happenin' bachelor pad.

His dad had left for a business trip and said we could party at the pad. We were thinking hot chicks, loads of drinkin, and all the hottt sex we could muster.

Turns out all we could gather up was alcohol. So, well... that last part was out of the question, fs.

Before heading out to the farm, we wanted some good junk food, even though I had eaten some spaghetti only an hour earlier. Wendy's was sounding damn fine. So, I got their half-pound burger, large fries, and a popcorn tub-sized Frosty.

Just for image sake, imagine all of this Wendy's food and spaghetti swimming around together in my belly.

We get to the farm, eat all of our food, and decide to break open the alcohol cabinet where we find a gallon-sized bottle of Jack Daniels.

And not a shot glass to be found anywhere.

"Hey! We could use these cups," I blurted, not realizing what I was suggesting. The cups I was referring to were those brightly colored Dixie plastic cups that come in either red, yellow, or blue. You know... the big ones.

glug, glug, glug "Yep, that looks to be about a shot," we agreed. And it did. Good sized shot.

We decided to shoot the whiskey, taking turns on making toasts.

"To the best friendship I have ever had. To being brothers!" I said.

"Brothers!" chug chaaaaase

When you are speed chasing whiskey, it takes about five shots for the first one to hit. So, you are always five shots of whiskey ahead of what you are feeling, a fact I didn't know (or didn't care to know) at the time.

As the stages of drunkenness go, our toasts went from sentimental, to silly, to downright depressing. And as the stages passed, the shots got much... MUCH bigger.

It got to a point to where we were literally crying. A day or two before Thanksgiving the previous year, a mutual friend of ours committed suicide. And this was the first time we both sat and really talked about it.

So, yeah. It was pretty f'n sappy.

It got to a point to where I could NOT feel my face. I found a sharp door corner and banged my head on it, saying, "Marc! Look! IT DOESN'T HURT!"

And we had a good laugh, until it started bleeding a little.

Then I fell backward onto the floor. That didn't hurt, either! Damn, were we having fu--.

I said... man, was it a good t--.

Goo--

Oh God! "BATHROOM! MARC, WHERE IS THE FUCKING BATHR--"

I never ran so hard to a toilet in my life. Well, there was the time I had some bad fish, but that's another story.

The very first thing I saw flowing quite freely into that porcelain altar was eight ounces of minced Wendy's meat, decorated with french fries, and colored some kind of funny from the Frosty mixed with the whiskey.

I held onto the sides of the bowl like I was driving the bus from "Speed." After the Wendy's decided to evacuate, I took a moment to stare into my creation and ponder if I really wanted to live.

Then I saw my spaghetti dinner again. And, in case you were wondering, no, it didn't look any better the second time. It actually came through my nose, which is NOT a pleasant feeling: pulling out spaghetti hanging from your nostral.

I finally stopped my heaving and hoing long enough to finally flush the toilet.

Marcus got me a washcloth so I could wipe the spaghetti from my forehead.

I then heard him say, "Oh, God." He ran to the balcony and blew his chunks from 14 feet up.

Which, in turn, made me sick, and I braced for another technicolor yawn.

Marcus stumbled back into the bed adjacent to the bathroom and lay on the bed, moaning and cursing God for letting him be born.

I was stuck in the bathroom, holding on for dear life. I would barf, feel better, feel queazy, then repeat the whole process.

This went on, constantly, from around 1:00am to about 4:00am. If you have ever thrown up constantly for 3 hours, you know it isn't something to write a journal entry about want to remember.

I think it was 4am, because that was when I woke up from having my head resting on the toilet (with lid raised... I didn't think at the time how guys "splatter" a lot on this area of the toilet -- the area I was basically licking).

I had a dentist appointment in 4 hours, and it took an hour and a half to get there.

And if any time in my life I felt like complete and utter ass, it was then.

At 6:30, I got my then girlfriend to come pick me up because I was *still* drunk. We got to the dentist at 8, and I realized I reeked of stale whisky and even staler vomit.

That, my friends, was the worst dentist appointment I have ever had.

So, any time I think of Wendy's, I think of that night. It was one of the last times Marcus and I really spent quality "guy time" together before we started our respective adult lives.

I know it sounds like it was complete hell, but that was one of the funnest nights I have ever spent with someone.

Next time I feel like telling a Marcus story, I'll tell you about the first time I got drunk (off of 3 Zima's and a bottle of Strawberry Hill. Ahh, the days of being a cheap drunk) and pooped my pants.

Unless you just don't wanna hear about me poopin' my pants.

I don't know why you wouldn't, but hey... Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

11:11 p.m. - Wed., Jan. 9, 2002

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