Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates (10 page)

BOOK: Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates
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Maybe the pontoons were more buoyant back then. Maybe they were sick fucks like Mike and I are, and they actively tried to sink it. Between my folks, their friends, and then later a degenerate band of Stangle brothers and their buddies,
The Entertainer
has proved completely unsinkable. No seaworthy vessel has survived more troublemaking white folks since the
Mayflower.
The thing just won't die. It reminds me of Inigo Montoya from
Princess Bride
. Remember at the end when Christopher Guest just keeps stabbing him all over the place, but Montoya won't quit, because he needs to avenge his father?
The Entertainer
is like that, applied to drinking.

Despite the boat's advanced age, I would actually argue that
The Entertainer
has peaked in the last five years. It's rare to see an old-school pontoon out on the water anymore, let alone an unsinkable BEAST with eighties lettering and more than two decades of Lake George registration stickers proudly displayed across the bow like an arm-sleeve tattoo. That makes
The Entertainer
recognizable everywhere it goes. One time years ago, the Warren County Sheriff Department had put an APB out on it. My dad and his buddies were fishing and got pulled over by a police boat. It turns out the APB was because the police wanted to borrow it for a parade, but they didn't know who owned it. They figured they'd pull it over the next time it was spotted, so the cop could ask the favor. Yes, it's been in several parades now. Show me another boat with a more impressive party resume besides maybe,
maybe,
the Beatles's Yellow Submarine.

•  •  •

One Fourth of July a few years back, some buddies, Mike, and I took
The Entertainer
out on Lake George all day. You know that southern end I was talking about? That is where most of this story will eventually take place, but for most of the day, we were bopping around miles north of there, from bay to bay. Upstate folks will recognize the landmarks by experience, but they're all aptly named, anyway. First we hit Log Bay (the one with logs lining the bottom), then Sandy Bay (the one with sand on the bottom), and then Paradise Bay (the one with loose women everywhere). At the time, I was twenty-five, fresh off a nice dump (by Nancy, not my butthole) and in a really sick phase of my life. I was playing host on
The Entertainer
all afternoon, and I've got to tell you, it was tough. I was one of eleven people, eight of whom were coupled off. The remainder were male buddies. If you were wondering, (twenty-one-year-old) Mike had a (twenty-one-year-old) girlfriend at the time. She was awful, but she was an absolute babe. So shallow, Mike. I don't know how my friends pulled this off, but at the time, every single one of their girlfriends was a real knockout. Good for us, we peaked!

What did this translate to? Basically, all I was doing all day was driving people around on a boat while looking at girls in bikinis. And drinking. People were cupcaking left and right. My buddy Nick was getting a hand job while floating under the anchored
Entertainer
. Although that sounds extremely difficult from a logistical standpoint, it can happen. Fact is, the very idea of everyone being so sexual around me was driving me nuts. It was fucking torture. You know how I feel about bikinis, you guys. Hey, everyone, let's go to Log Bay and tie up with a bunch of other boats that are DRIPPING with bikini-clad women.
Oh, Dave, are you putting a shirt on so you can hide the tip of your dick when you tuck your boner in?
(Power move.)
No problem!
I drank slowly to stay in control and help escort everyone around. That isn't like me, since
The Entertainer
practically drives itself . . . but it was the Fourth, guys. I wanted to honor our forefathers with some responsibility.

By the time an afternoon of day drinking turned into happy hour, and happy hour turned into everyone in the gang getting gussied up to hit the town for the night, everyone had gotten their sexual thrills out of their system. Except for me. A man can only be in such an environment for so long before his carnal nature takes over. Mike and the guys with the girlfriends had brought sand to the beach, so they were all set. My other single friends had branched off with those they met during the day. They were laying groundwork, at least. Me? I was right where I left off. Captain Dave, president of the boner club. I was running hot. Real hot. I didn't know what to do. I started acting funny. It was as if I couldn't hide how horny I was. I was a dog in heat. The sexuality was seeping out of my pores. Women around me were disgusted, alarmed, somehow flattered, and intrigued all at the same time.

I wanted to have a little Dave time, frost my belly button if you know what I mean, that would have been the natural move to take myself down from dangerously horny to reasonable horny, but I kept getting interrupted. Tried to JO on the boat, but it was too open, people kept walking up. Tried to JO in the bathroom, but girls kept knocking on the door. Tried to JO in the water even, but that just wasn't working. Ever tried it? It's hard having sex in the water, and even harder without a vagina in the mix. Drinking was plan B and also plan A. I suppressed my horniness the way a twenty-five-year-old male properly deals with any issue—by drinking until I temporarily forgot about it. While doing so, and while everyone else was still cupcaking with their gals, I was getting weird.

At some point, we had befriended strangers and docked at their lake house, where I found a Davy Crockett raccoon hat. Those hats are pretty on point. Why do you think it was one of the most historic bad boys in American history who put them on the map? Why do you think no one has been able to pull one off since? Maybe because no one can combine fashion with frontier pioneering quite like Davy Crockett did. Davy was close to something, but he wasn't thinking far enough outside of the box. After some toying, I tucked it into the seat of my pants, in a way that suggested that I had myself a raccoon tail.
Boom!
At that moment, an incredible gimmick was born. I really pulled it off, too. I was born to have a tail. It absolutely killed with the lake house crowd. Everyone needed to talk about it, everyone needed to ask about it, many wanted to touch it. I let them. “Just please, don't tug.” I developed a repertoire, where I explained that I was born with a tail and my parents declined to have it removed at birth. After a few years, when it was growing at a faster rate than predicted (I would later change it to “hairier”), doctors told my parents it was part of my spine and that they risked certain paralysis if they attempted surgery. The decision practically made itself—I
had
to go out with this thing on tonight. The only problem was my sobriety. It was gone. It was the last one to leave the party, and it turned the lights off on the way out.

We had a big van, and we were going to drive to a few bars in a town up the road, but there was no way anyone could drive at that point. I was the last one to start drinking and coon-tail-mania got me all antsy in my pantsy. I was already wobbly from unsuccessfully trying to drown out my horniness. It left me aroused, tailed, and
drunk
. I couldn't drive a car, no one could . . . but we did have
The Entertainer
. Hell yes! It was like a lightbulb went off in my head. I don't want to be seen at the
cool
bars with a raccoon tail, anyway. I've got a gimmick going, and I want to use it on fellow sickos who would appreciate it. I was the raccoon tail guy; I'll drive the shit out of that boat! Southern Lake George, here we come.

If you want to have a raunchy time in Lake George, you go to one bar and one bar only—Christie's On The Lake. That's where people go to get wet, and not with lake water. When you pull up to a waterfront bar on an overflowing pontoon boat blasting Boy George, people turn their heads to see what they are dealing with. That's exactly what the scene was by the time we got there. We were tuned up and we made an entrance that went further than I could have imagined. What happened next was as if the gods looked down upon me and decided to conduct an experiment to see how much pleasure the horniest guy in the world could possibly get from a best-case scenario falling into his hands—and whether he can survive this without a heart attack. We had been at Christie's for just one drink before she approached me. She was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. She was short (which I typically don't go for) and had funky blond hair (which I always go for). She was dressed differently than most of the gals there. She was wearing exclusively skintight denim and not much of it. She was putting out one cigarette as she lit her next. She was moving, shaking, and picture taking. Everything she did looked attractive to me. It was as if she was approaching me for an hour as I watched her move closer. The real kicker? On top of everything, she was French. Jackpot. Maybe she was French-Canadian, but I stuck with believing she was a purebred Frenchy, because it was sexier in my head. Canucks are cool, but not for this story. Her accent was blowing me away.

As I was halfway through my first drink, she approached me from across the bar and introduced herself. I loved how forward she was. Her name was Lisa L'Poop. Yup. Lisa L'Poop. I swear to God that is what she said when she introduced herself.
Hello, I am Lisa L'Poop.
I'm sorry, did you say Lisa . . . L'Poop? She had a little French accent that somehow made L'Poop sound sexy. Not if you say it like I would say it. I would say it “LAH POOP.” She said it way cooler and quicker, like
LEH-POO'b.
I don't know why, but for some reason typing it in a smaller italic font with a silent
b
made me think it reads more like she said it.
Tricky French people.
How do they do that?
Yes, Lisa L'Poop.
She asked,
How do you do?
No one else had ever asked me how do I do, because it wasn't 1952, so I was of course taken aback by her. It didn't take me long to fuck things up. The second I opened my mouth to say something, things went south. I couldn't have sounded like a fatter, duller American dude.
I'M DAV . . . IDOff.
That's what I said. It was as if all of a sudden, halfway through saying the name I've had, oh, I don't know, my entire life, I decided that Dave was the stupidest name in history and I needed something sexier to counter L'Poop. I also made this decision while I was halfway through saying “Dave,” so I had already committed to the first syllable. Lisa L'Poop didn't miss a beat, though.
Very nice to meet you, eh, Davidoff? Please do tell me about this tail?
Holy shit. What? The tail! I forgot about the tail. In fact, while I was busy embarrassing myself, I had forgotten altogether how incredibly pent-up I was in the first place. Now it all came rushing back to me. I'm shitfaced in a bar wearing a coonskin tail, fighting off a libido that will
not
cool out, and I'm talking to a once-in-a-lifetime babe who somehow hasn't walked away after the worst introduction in the history of the United States.

You can't fall off the floor, right? It was time to pick myself up and see where I could take this. As it turns out, pretty goddamn far. L'Poop and I hit it off big-time. We exchanged pleasantries until we finished our drinks, then I bought us another round. I would joke, she'd laugh even though the joke went over her head. She'd say something in French, I'd laugh because I'm not sophisticated enough to understand her. The tail jokes were incredibly successful though. Every one was a home run. I couldn't believe how well it was going. I actually
couldn't
believe it, though—as in, it was going so well I thought she might be a hooker or something. All of these paranoid thoughts started going through my head, like what if my friends had found this chick and put her up to it, because they knew how desperate I was? I thought maybe I was being messed with. Those feelings temporarily subsided when we began Frenching before we even finished our second drink! That's right! I'm talking full-on smooching in the middle of the bar, Davidoff and L'Poop, within ten minutes of meeting each other. I was grabbing her butt, she was grabbing my tail, it was magic. Mike was twenty feet away from me, hootin' and hollerin' at me with my friends, like a pack of dogs.

The DJ must have even been in my corner, because we made out for at least three Usher songs in a row before she whispered that we should step outside.
For a cigarette?
I asked her. I must have came off so boyish and dopey. What was she doing with me? I sounded like Eeyore from Winnie-the-Pooh.
Eh, somezing like that?
She said with a cute little smile. Okay what the FUCK is going on here? Did someone seriously put her up to this? It was all somehow working. We walked out of the bar, fingers interlaced like we'd been dating for all four years of high school, and the bouncer gave me this huge grin like, “Didn't I just see you come in here like . . . twelve minutes ago?” I gave him the cool-guy nod back, naturally. L'Poop and I got outside and she started kissing me
again
. I didn't even get a cigarette, which was probably a godsend, because with the way things were going, I would have taken one dorky pull off of it and erupted in a fit of coughing as she took a long, slow, smooth pull and blew smoke rings that morphed into the shape of hearts. No butts, though; at least not the smoking ones. We started to get pretty handsy outside the bar.
I want you to take me out of here, Davidoff.
Come on. Really? I mean, I will, but really? I had to be getting played here. I'm not going to say that Lake George is overflowing with eligible and desirable bachelors, but why me?

I evaluated my options.
The Entertainer
was a no-go; it was in plain sight down on the docks, so the entire world would see. Not that I'm opposed to that sort of thing; just wait for our chapter on that. There was a hotel not far from Christie's, but my credit card was still inside at the bar being maxed out by Mike and the gang. L'Poop was staying in another hotel right next door to Christie's, but it was occupied by friends who got too much sun that day. With no plan at all, L'Poop and I started walking south. At this point, we were only looking for privacy. After about ninety quick make-out breaks with L'Poop whispering in ol' Davidoff's ear about how sexy he was (note to self: MOVE TO FRANCE) we found ourselves in front of Fort William Henry. I could go into a whole history lesson on just what Fort William Henry is, but this isn't a history book. All you need to know is that it's a British fort on the southern end of Lake George best known for the notorious atrocities committed by Indians against surrendered British troops following a successful French siege in 1757. Ever see
Last of the Mohicans
? That's where all that shit took place. On the vast front lawn of Fort William Henry, there is a statue. I'm not sure who the statue is of. I'd assume it's of William Henry. I'm also not sure who William Henry even was. He was probably tortured by those savage Indians. What I do know is that William Henry's statue is like a playground made of marble and L'Poop was getting downright freaky with me on it. She was taking her clothes off and giggling, which is possibly the hottest combination of two things a French chick could do, as we chased each other around the statue. I imagine if Martians were observing Earth at that very moment and saw the two of us—one goofy, uncoordinated white guy chasing around a gorgeous giggling French gal—they probably wrote in their Martian notebooks
Note to Self: MOVE TO EARTH
.

BOOK: Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates
3.72Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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