Football season is upon us, which means that thousands of angry, horny, feisty pretend fans will converge upon this great nation's red cup-littered parking lots to participate in traditional tailgating revelry. These are not those stories
This series will run on MONDAYS this year. (Except today. Because shit was snapped yesterday.) Again, consult the initial post if you'd like to help us out with this.
It was the NFL season of 08 and several of my friends and myself were attending the Redskins/Rams game at Fedex Field. The Skins were 5-1 at the time and looking to have a decent season (boy we were fooled). Before I begin this story, I should describe the person it is about. My friend, we'll call him Jay for the sake of anonymity, is quite an interesting character. He does what he pleases generally, pesky laws and social norms be damned. It is possible to write a book about his exploits but this is the only one pertaining to football. Now Jay has dreadlocks down past his shoulders and is covered in tatoos; give him a pimp chalace and platinum grill and he'd look like a white version of Lil' John. He sticks out about 98% of the places he goes and this is no different at an NFL football game. I think during the course of the game we attendede about 4 or 5 drunk frat type guys stopped and screamed at him asking if he had weed. He probably did.
I arrive at his house at about 9 in the morning to see him as well as some other people I know already engaged in "festivities." By festivities I mean taking giant bong rips and doing lines of blow. I don't partake in these substances so I did the same thing I do everytime I see this happen; crack open a beer, let out a giant sigh, and shake my head. I knew I was in for a long day.
The car ride and tailgating were rather uneventful, just lots of drinking, shotgunning, etc. I'm sure my group snuck off to partake more at some point. Jay ended up stumbling and had to get carried into the game. Sometime in the third quarter, I'm sitting watching the Redskins suck and I look over and to my horror, Jay has a bullet (some cocaine apparatus, I think thats what its called. I'm not I'm not that cool) and is doing coke right in the middle of the game. In. Our. Seats.
Like I mentioned earlier he is not one to blend in here in the first place let alone doing hard drugs in a crowd full of families. Somehow no one seems to pay much attention or maybe they thought he's taking nasal spray of some sort. The sad thing was that this did absolutely nothing to perk him up which is a tribute to how wasted and stoned he was. So he just sat there shirt off, slumped over, and mumbling obscenities and other various offensive things non stop.
Flash forward to the end of the game. The Skins lose in a pretty embarrassing last second field goal to a winless team. Keep in mind this was last year and not the current rage like in the 2009 season. People are damn near rioting. We get in the car and Jay turns to me and utters a sentence so incredibly slurred and unaware of what just happened that it has become a bad inside joke.
We stopped and got Taco Bell on the ride back and went back to the house to eat it. I have seen people pass out holding drinks and in all sorts of wacky positions but until that day I have never seen anyone pass out while eating. Well, there was Jay sitting upright on the couch, taco in hand, food in mouth, and eyes rolled back in his head.
Oh Jay, you truly are a king of kings.
It may not be a nationally known school, but tailgating is done right in Conway, Arkansas, home of Central Arkansas University. Booze, tits, food, and football, thank you. The chicks even have teeth, and Scottie Pippen went there (Kris Allen, too, I guess it's OK to claim the American Idol winner).
This particular evening, the player of the week took eight consecutive shots of whiskey while sitting on the couch we had lugged down the street to the tailgating area. The couch had herpes, but incredibly, this guy never caught it (I'm pretty sure it's because Gingers don't get STDs unless they have sex with striped trout). Anyway, this old boy painted up before the game – he was completely purple with the exception of his ass and the bottom of his feet. After several shots of whiskey (one taken up his ass with a turkey baster) and at least 12 Keystone Lights leading up to the game, this fella decided he would head inside the stadium to help egg on the cheering students. He also insisted on bringing a CamelBak of whiskey with him. Oh, yeah, I should mention he weighed about 120 pounds.
It only took about seven minutes before our favorite purple Ginger ran into the speaker system in front of the student section while yelling "Fuck the JesusDonkeys!" (we were playing the Southern Arkansas Muleriders, which, as far as I know have no connection to Christianity), and the speakers hit the deck. The cops took Mr. Ginger away, and the rest of us drunks were left to figure out how to get him home.
Right after the game we called the jail to see about our friend; we told the jailer his name and he said there was no record of him there. Just then the jailer said an officer was bringing someone new in and said, "Wait a minute, would your boy be … purple?" At least we knew he would get breakfast.
Twenty-four hours later (that's how long the jail insisted on keeping him so he would sober up), the Gingerbread Man came out of the jail cell still hammered and flaking purple paint everywhere. No shoes, no shirt – only khaki shorts and a layer of purple paint all over his body – Go Bears!
It's 2004 and its my senior year at my I-AA school in Texas (name and location will go anonymous, but its known for Sex, Fun and Alcohol); some friends of mine and I thought it was going to be a sweet idea to drink as much as humanly possible, starting after class on Friday afternoon. My school had a Tailgate that was held in the huge parking lot for commuter students and was lined with fraternity tents, sorority tents, corporate tents, and association tents. My group set up outside of a Winnebago (straight out of "Christmas Vacation"), created a nice fire in a warming barrel, pulled up a sofa and some pretty ladies (marginal at best, my Girlfriend was in Dallas at some Fashion thing) and had a time of it....it was Friday afternoon.
A little into the evening, the chili, beer, and Jager were beginning to get to me and several other guys, not to mention how cold it was outside; so we set off for a bathroom, noting the our Basketball arena was only about 100yrds away, we went in that direction, passing several hundred Port-o-Johns. As we stumbled our way to the Arena, we dodged several campus police officers and local police officers conducting their pre-festivity meetings and with the skill of the most deadly Green Berets, we crawled to the side entrance of the Arena — all the while, assuming that the police would not notice us in our Purple, Red and White t-shirts. Two seconds into our attempt to gain entrance, a local police officer got me in his beam, "What you think you're doin' boy?" he asked. I explained that I had eaten way too much chilli, had some beer and was in desperate need to go to the restroom...as all of this is going on, two of my buddies, without even paying any notice to the police officer did their best Moose Johnston to the glass door and gained entrance to the arena. Suddenly not the the coolest kid in town, I took off; the police officers conducting their meeting all converged on the broken door, I ran the opposite direction like Forrest Gump. When I got back to the Winnebago I looked back and saw my two friends being cuffed and put into a police car...this again, was early Friday night.
When things calmed down, I went to the Port-o-John, froze, did my bidness, and returned to our group of sub-par I-AA pregamers, now two men lighter. Drinking and reveling continues at the Winnebago, I am now speaking in tongues, eating steak cooked on a grille fork over an open flame, and the 230lb girl that is not my pretty sorority girl girlfriend next to me is starting to look good; the couch is starting to feel good...I fade to sleep, beer and steak in hand- it is around 3AM.
I awake to the owner of the Winnebago, my girlfriend (WHERE THE HELL DID SHE COME FROM), and 250 people cheering me into a drunken tricycle race — you know a beer after each lap, 6 total laps. It is Saturday Morning...10AM, I cannot let my fans down... I race, and win. I dismount my tricycle and fall into the arms of 15 friends; I am a conquering hero, I am the Rudy of my little corner of Texas by Louisiana, I am 6'2" 235, I am being hoisted into the air by said people. Wait, I am now on the pavement, I have no idea what just happened, but I did just win the trike race, ALL IS WELL; holy hell — "I'm bleeding ....I need stitches!"
My roommate has now arrived, and in true Texas form says he can fix my bleeding head, so we go back to his truck, he pulls out a tube of Super Glue and Super Glues my head shut. We are getting ready to go into the game, I have blood all over me, vomit on my jeans, a beer in my left hand that I'm about to Shotgun, and a pretty girl on my right arm. Life is awesome....I didnt die, and I didn't go to jail, but I did burn down a couch and nearly a Winnebago.
In 2006 (I believe) some friends who are big Michigan fans and myself, a UMiami supporter, decided out of their love of Michigan and my love of college football (and more importantly Miami having an off week) that we'd head north from our Southern Indiana command center and take in the annual pillowfight that is IU vs. Michigan.. We arrived Friday night, and with beers cracked at 5:30am Saturday we headed into Ann Arbor to find a spot to plant our flag. We set up shop between a drug store and a car wash in an empty grass lot that during football season doubles as a parking lot.
No sooner than the first member of our team finished a beer, we were set upon by bums. "Hey man, can I have that empty?" it became like clock work hordes of bums would circulate through the lot looking to help you offload some of those cumbersome aluminum cans.
As the morning wore on it occurred that we had been remiss in not bringing anything edible. I mean nothing in that van would serve as food. Luckily some guy had set up shop selling fried chicken. Being generally fat and most certainly drunk we ended up purchasing (conservative estimate) a combined 1,200 pieces of chicken. The mountain of bones that accumulated resembled that of the pirate piano ("Play the right note or we'll all b flat") in The Goonies. As is usually the case after we burned through a ton of beers, that bitch mother nature came a'calling. With the only option a port-a-potty a mile away, with a line just as long we had to find something better. We had arrived in a conversion van with instead of a sliding door, 2 doors that opened outwards. And when opened formed something like the dividers in a men's bathroom at the urinals. So we all took our turn filling up a McDonald's cup and dumping it out on the pile of chicken bones we had been piling up on the opposite side of the van.
We hit the game, returned to the van and found the van and found the pile of our urine soaked bones gone. "Maybe some community service kids were picking up trash or something?" this was quickly ruled out as our and everyone else's trash was still billowing throughout the lot. "Uh-oh man, check that out" we all turned in horror to see one bum after another gnawing on the bones we had been dumping our piss on for the better part of 7 hours.
Attention tailgaters. It's a long season so please help us with this project and send along any and all shady stories, ridiculous videos, and photos from your tailgating experiences from this season. Or last season. Or 1952. Just make it funny/sad/gross/shocking. Email to firstname.lastname@example.org. Subject: FAILgate