Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase a few heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Off we go.
Goddamn athletes. It's not enough to make millions. Now they're out stealing your hookups everywhere you turn. We have TWO such stories this week, one of them involving a surprisingly creepy Kevin Appier.
Alex:
So this is in the fall of 2006. I'm living in Ann Arbor, MI, across the street from my then-girlfriend (now wife), and the night after game 4 of the ALCS (Oakland @ Detroit), we're out a local drinking establishment.
My roommate has come along because he's trying to score with my GF's roommate/best friend (we'll call her Debbie). He's been working on it for a while, and had gotten halfway there a couple months earlier before vomit interceded.
So anyway, this night they're all over each other at our apartment during the pregaming ceremonies, and holding hands and whatnot as we make our way to the bar. Well, as soon as we enter the bar, we discover A's partyboy Nick Swisher, drowning his sorrows after batting .100 in the four-game sweep. The moment Debbie sees Swisher — or more accurately, the attention around him, since she doesn't actually know who he is (but we tell her he's a baseball player) — she literally shakes my roommate's hand off of hers and makes a beeline towards Swish.
She ends up doing shots with him, dancing with him, making out on the dance floor with him, and leaving the bar with him. According to my source (my girlfriend), she ended up Swishing Little Nicky in her mouth at a greater than .100 success rate later that evening. My roommate went home alone.
P.S. The photos are attached as evidence for your pleasure.
I think we can refer to that as being "leathered" for the rest of history.
Jeff:
It's a Friday night and I'm at a neighborhood bar that has a reputation as being the biggest meat market in the neighborhood. After about 20-30 minutes of being there, I get approached by a comely young lass who wants to dance.
We dance for a bit, introduce ourselves. Now, I'm normally an awkward spaz when it comes to the ladies, but for whatever reason (probably the six straight hours of drinking beforehand), I'm absolutely on fire when talking to this girl. I'm not tripping over my words, I'm witty and charming, my jokes are all winners, and I'm saying intelligent things about the things she likes. I even manage to remember her name when asked directly. Soon enough, we're making out on the dance floor, and after a good half hour of that, she disappears for a bit to go find her friends. By this point, I figure that everything is good to go…
Pause. Really? Because the "go say bye to my friends" part is always the most horrifying part of any potential hookup for me.
…and there's only one possible outcome for the night. That is until she comes back and says, "So do you want to come on the party bus with me?"
As it turns out, she was talking about an actual bus rented out by one of her friends to drive them from bar to bar, in this case parked out in front and apparently about to leave. Undeterred, I say "fuck it" and decide to go with her, thinking that I'll go wherever she goes and figure out a return route to my apartment when needed.
I get on the bus, or try to, only to be told by the hulking bouncer on the bus (yes, the bus actually had a security guard), in so many words, that my ass was not getting on that fucking bus. Not willing to get the shit beat out of me on a converted airport shuttle, I tell him that it's cool and get off the bus, figuring that my new best lady friend will soon realize that I'm not on board and either get off the bus or make an argument to get me on.
Then the bus closes its doors and begins to drive away.
Though I did know the girl's name, I at no point got her phone number since I figured that us hooking up was a done deal. I also didn't bother asking her where the bus was going. At that point, I had two options: Admit defeat and go back into the bar, or follow the bus.
I chose the latter.
As the bus drove down the street, I started walking alongside it (on the opposite side of the street), first at a normal pace, then at a jog, then finally a full-on sprint as it started to pull away. I ran after the bus for what felt like 30 seconds but, in reality, ended up being about 10 city blocks before I lost it on a two-way street, leaving me gasping for breath, my lungs feeling like someone had poured bleach into them, in the middle of a shady neighborhood I'd never been in, about a good mile and a half away from where I started, with no way of finding or contacting this girl.
The rest of the night consisted of me walking back to home, cursing every 30 seconds or so. I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, a horrible shooting pain in my left leg, and the knowledge that I had been cockblocked by a goddamn party bus.
That is the least partying bus EVER. But big bonus points to our boy for trying to keep up with a fucking VAN while on foot.
Hey, how about ANOTHER Zito story? This one has a Kevin Appier twist!
David:
I had been talking up this gal who was a friend of a friend, and was making some significant progress. I had been led to believe that I was in the clear and that on this particular night, I should have no problem making my move.
We decided to meet up for drinks at Mauna Loa - just me and her. With no liquor in my belly, and suddenly realizing all our conversations had been drunk ones, it was awkward to start. "Hey!" and "How are you?" and all that...for about 5 minutes. So we start talking about our friends who introduced us and I explain that my friend Mike is a huge Angels fan. Turns out they were in town that weekend playing the A's. And she goes "Oh wow, I actually know a few of the Angels. I can probably get them over here - you should call your friend and tell him and we can surprise him!"
Sweet, right? No more awkwardness. So she calls Kevin Appier who somehow shows up in 30 mins. And Barry Zito walks in with him. And my friend is still not there. So now I'm with this chick, Zito, and Appier. They start getting drunk. Appier gave off a molester vibe. Zito seemed cool. I suddenly realize I am not a MLB pitcher and that this could cause problems. So I dial my friend and he finally gets there. He walks in, sees us, and the chick says "Surprise! I heard you like the Angels. This is Kevin Appier." And my friend looks at him and doesn't even shake his hand. He then turns to her and says, "Kevin Appier is pretty much the worst pitcher on the team." Her jaw drops.
At that point, things turned south. Kevin Appier began to dangle his hotel key in front of a group of chicks who could've been his children, saying "Who wants to go back to the hotel room?!" I'm thinking, "Man, what a douche. Why can't these ballplayers be cooler, like this guy Zito over here..."
I turn around and Zito and my chick are playing footsie. I'm trying to edge around him to tell the chick my friend didn't mean that about Appier, and Zito does a turnstile on the bar with his arm so I can't get past him. I turn to my friend and say, "I think Barry Zito just cock-blocked me." The night ended with her getting Zito's phone number and my friend trying to tell her that Zito wasn't that great.
Zito strikes again! ZITOOOOOOO!
/shakes fist
Anonymous:
It was my last day at college for the semester, and I was leaving the state the following day to go back to my annual summer amusement park job. Over finals week, I had gotten pretty close with a girl (who I'll call Meg) and I knew this was my last chance to seal the deal before departing for three months.
We were at her house on a Saturday afternoon, when she got a knock on the door. A good friend of hers had stopped by briefly to say goodbye for the summer. This gave me a much-needed opportunity to use her bathroom for a monster dump.
This wasn't another of the liquid explosions that ruins so many hook-up attempts, but a very large solid #2. With no fans or windows in her bathroom, I knew it needed to be a quick mission-drop it and flush as quickly as possible. I was very confident in my ability to pull this off. Just as I was about to wipe up, I heard Meg invite her friend into the living room, which bordered the bathroom. I finished wiping, pulled up my pants, flushed, and... dammit. It wasn't going down.
Water was rising and nearly ready to flow over the bowl, and my crap was floating near the top, spinning around with the rising water. No plunger was anywhere to be found. Thinking quickly, I emptied her trash can and began scooping water from the toilet and into the bathtub to prevent overflow. It appeared I had at least stopped the overflow, but there was still that giant crap to deal with.
Digging through the cupboard under the sink, I found an old plastic sack with some rags in it. I picked the poop out of the toilet, placed it into the plastic bag and tied it shut, then washed my hands over and over, and added the final touch by spraying some sort of cleaning fluid everywhere to mask the odor.
I knew there was no way around the girls in the living room, so I was left with two options-either leave the bag of shit in the bathroom, or just make a run for it past them and dispose of the bag. I opted for the latter. I opened the bathroom door, darted through the living room, scurried through the kitchen, flung open the door, and side-armed that bag of crap as far as I could throw. It landed near Meg's friend's car in the parking lot.
"What the hell was that?!" asked Meg as I returned to the living room. "Why does it smell like Clorox in here?"
I thought about making up an elaborate story, but decided perhaps she and her friend would find this story humorous, so I actually told the truth. After I delivered the final line, I waited for the eruption of laughter. The only response to my tale was "So where did you throw the bag of shit?" We looked out the window and saw a pair of stray dogs clawing at it. There was to be no last-day hook-up.
Greg Ostertag Body Spray:
I was on the last night of a post college road trip with a stop in Vegas. I had to cut out of the road trip early the next day and fly home. So there I was: Me and 3 buddies and my potential hookup for the night (a UNLV student named Allison that I chased in high school that always had a boyfriend) sitting in one of Vegas' classier joints - "Lil' Darlings". My 3 wingmen had secured lap dances with the "best" the club had to offer.
I checked my watch: 3:15am. "Oh shit" I thought, "my plane leaves in a little over 3 hours - I'd better get back to our room we're sharing at the Monte Carlo and get her drunk ASAP." So I asked her if she wanted to go, and she did. Being a student at UNLV, she knew her way around and got us to the hotel, though it took longer than I expected. As we walked in, I checked my watch again - 3:45. It was getting to be crunch time.
At this point, I felt pretty confident that I could make this happen. "A few shots of Captain Morgan and the hotel view ought to put me well over the brink to achieve this hookup" I thought. As we get to the hotel I begin to calculate how long the elevator ride might take up to the 17th floor. But then, just as I am about to press the button, some bad news befalls me - This girl is EXTREMELY claustrophobic and deathly afraid of elevators…
DAGGER!
…to which I respond "Are you fucking serious?" Turns out, she is. Not only that, but apparently this is knowledge I used to have. This takes my momentum down several notches, not to mention that I now had a 17 story hike ahead.
So we tell the concierge that we need to use the stairs (an uncommon practice in Vegas, which means that the stairs are locked and we must get security to come open it for us - a 15 minute ordeal). Now my luck is fading as she gets almost too embarrassed by the trouble we're causing and I have to convince her that this is a good idea. Security comes, we get the stairs opened, and we take the hike (though she is in a constant panic when she has no windows or easily accessible exits). We get to the 17th floor - 4:30 and I immediately hit the vending machine for a Pepsi mixer and get to the room.
Luckily she can go from sober to drunk on Cap'n Morgans faster than I imagine. By 4:40, we're sitting on the bed, just taking shots, when she drops this gem on me: "Why did you never have the balls to hook up with me in high school?"
At this moment, I stand up, try to quell my semi, walk to the door and lock it. Right when I turn around, I hear a sound that should not be familiar, but for some reason was - the sound of my friends inserting their room key only to find that the door was locked. Then they start pounding on the door.
I know where this is going, so I open the door for them and watch them fall asleep one by one. After a failed attempt to get her to hook up in the bathroom, I go to the lobby of the hotel (taking the stairs, mind you) and play roulette with her until it's time to go to the airport. Between 5:15 and 5:45 I manage to lose about $200 and what's left of my dignity. Luckily, she's nice enough to give me a ride to the airport on her way home.
Oof. Not only did he not get the hookup, but he had to exercise instead. Tragic in every way.