Last week I unveiled the latest masterpiece on brycedonovan.com, a little thing I like to call “Drunken Tales.” (NOTE: This was after much deliberation where I made the tough decision to go with it over “Drunken Tails.”) Much to my surprise, it was met with a vigorous response. (TRANSLATION: Somebody other than my mother e-mailed me about it.) Which leads to this week’s inspirational tale: One that takes place several years ago at the College of Charleston and centers around a girl, a car, and four(teen) glasses of wine.
The year was 1990something and Helen Glasscock was on top of the world. She was a (seventh-year) senior, the apple of every (drunk fraternity) guy’s eye, and most importantly, the owner of a brand spanking new VW Jetta. Let’s just say this magical combination meant she didn’t ever have to pay for many drinks. Or sticks of deodorant. (She might have had B.O. issues.) (In fairness, I don’t really remember if she smelled or not because she would hook up with anybody within 50 square miles EXCEPT me, so I never got close enough to determine if she did, indeed, smell.) One night Ms. Glasscock and a group of friends proceeded to go out for a night on the town. Needless to say it was the kind of wholesome night all college kids partake in. Provided they are the kind of college kids into bestiality and snuff films.
They proceeded to get drunk. And drunker. And drulsjef ofu jdlkm.
Anyway, by the end of the night, Helen was so sideways that she didn’t know the difference between a toothbrush and a guy named Chet. (Too far? Sorry.) Anyway, against all odds, somehow Helen made it home where she “fell asleep” in her own bed, safe and sound.
The next morning, after six or seven cups of coffee and a 12-pack of Goody’s headache powders, Helen made her way outside to her car so she could go get some breakfast. Things were all normal except for the fact that her car was missing. Being the well-trained young(ish) lady she was she didn’t panic. Instead she calmly called the police and reported her car stolen. For the next few hours she answered questions both on the phone and in person with police officers, describing the make and model of her car as well as the last time she remembered seeing it. After that was done, she called her insurance company to inform them of the bad news. Like a good neighbor, they immediately hung up on her. Just joking! They actually told her once the police had finished with their investigation they would begin processing her claim and send her a check as soon as possible.
Perfect, Helen thought. So for the next few days she bummed rides off friends to get anywhere she needed to go. One of those places just happened to be the same bar she went to the night before her car was stolen. Much to her surprise, sitting right out front of the tavern was a car that looked exactly like hers, right down to the exact same license plate number. The only difference between this car and Helen’s car was the 14 parking tickets under the front windshield.
Which she eventually paid after convincing her insurance company she didn’t purposely commit fraud.
Next week: Join us as a crazy aunt makes an unusual choice of restrooms at a sushi restaurant. (Crap. I might have just told the story.)