Here are two related tales that I like to call, "Half Tie" and "Beer Leg" which both hold hands with our good friend, friction. Enjoy.
Half Tie
Handsome Joe and I used to wear ties out on the town at Ohio University. It seemed like a good way to pick up classy chicks. I had an awesome flowered tie that was obnoxious and suave. I wore it out one snowy night in Athens.
The ties didn't work and Handsome Joe and I headed home alone together. On the way, we ran into a number of students who were sliding down Jeff Hill on stolen cafeteria trays and cardboard boxes. Half drunk kids would slide down the frozen, brick street, screaming the whole way. At the bottom, they would generously hand off their makeshift sleds, giving guys in ties a chance to sled down.
We ran up the stairs that paralleled the street with drunken stamina. At the top of the brick street I took a running dive and flew down the hill. It was exhilarating.
At the bottom, I handed off the tray to another student. Handsome Joe almost took me out as he flew by. He handed off his sled and noticed that my tie was sticking half out of my jacket. Actually it was all sticking out of my jacket, just that half of it was missing.
My tie got caught under the tray. The brick street, though nicely iced, caused a bit of friction. The tie was frayed. It was destroyed. I still wonder why I didn't choke to death. God bless the Double Windsor.
Beer Leg
One beautiful snowy Athens evening, Joe, Knitter and I were stealing beer out of a friend’s screened porch. It wasn’t really stealing because it was rightfully ours. Had we been inside the house at the party, we would have polished the entire case of beer. Since we didn’t like anyone at the party, we took our beer to go.
The porch was locked, but the window was not. I crawled through the narrow, screened window, flopped on the porch floor and passed the case of beer out to Knitter and Handsome Joe. Someone from the inside started to come outside so I dove out the window and we ran laughing through the back yards.
At Mill Street Hill, I took the case of beer from Knitter and did a running dive down the icy sidewalk on top the case of beer. It was just like a sled! I made it about half way down the hill before I ran out of ice. Knitter and Joe caught up and we continued home.
Once we got back to 19 Palmer Street, I made two observations and one conclusion: 1. My right pants leg was wet. 2. Eight beers had holes in the bottom of them. Conclusion: The cardboard was eaten through in half circles by the ice and sidewalk and the little smiling faces were drooling beer. The case somehow retained structural integrity so that the beer could leak out and on to my jeans. 16 beers is not as good as 24, but always better than zero.
Friction is a bitch.
Showing posts with label Knitter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Knitter. Show all posts
Roll out the Knitter
As with many of my writings, I try to protect the innocent with nicknames and plumes of nomness. It’s not their fault that I remember and record. Why should they suffer the burden of my writings and their friends’ internet searches on Google? With this tale I must reveal the name of the main character as it is an integral part of the story. This story involves my friend Knitter. (Pronounced like you would pronounce someone who knits stuff. A Knitter.) Here is a photo of him kissing a 40oz of Magnum at Chris and Karen’s wedding.
No, the story is not about how we snuck 32 bottles of different varieties of malt liquor into Chris and Karen’s wedding (to their dismay,) though it does involve another wedding and the consumption of malt liquors.
Let’s go back about X years to Ohio University and a crisp Spring Quarter Saturday night. Earlier that evening, we had a two 40oz party. The night would start with a trip to the Quik-e-mart and the purchase of two 40oz bottles of malt liquor. There was a time in my life where I could list off 12 – 18 varieties of malt liquor. Oh a whim, let’s see what I can pull out of my ass right now:
Colt 45
Cool Colt*
Lazer
Magnum
Red Bull
Schlitz
Crazy Horse
St. Ides
Mustang
Crap. That’s it. Well, I am from Lancaster and not Lorain.
(*Cool Colt was Colt 45 with spearmint flavoring added. I totally forgot about it until recently at a keg party when I didn’t have a cup and used an empty Rumple Minze bottle to drink from. Nothing like a drunk asshole with fresh breath.)
Back at the Quik-e-mart, you would pony up $3.87 of change and leave with two, mostly cold bottles of, hopefully not skunked, malt liquor. At 23 Palmer Street, we’d sit in the living room and drink down our two bottles of skunked malt liquor and watch public access television. Normally, you could drink one 40ozer and kick in a solid buzz that would last for a few hours and save you $10 up at the bars. Two 40ozers and you would stagger Uptown and try to hold down your cookies after eating $10 worth of beans and meat at the Burrito Buggy.
This night, Knitter continued to drink once we walked uptown and got himself good and solid hammered. And as we walked uphill/downhill home (we are talking about Athens, Ohio) Knitter decided to trip and fall down on the top of a hill. As he lay prone on the brick street, I realized that it would only take a little effort to get him rolling down the hill. I gave him a generous shove with both hands and he began to roll. Any normal person would have airplaned their arms out and stopped the momentum. Knitter tucked his arms in to minimize friction and continued to roll. As we chased/stumbled after Knitter, a song erupted from my mouth that went a little like this:
(To the tune of "Roll Out the Barrel.")
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
Everyone joined in on the song, (at least the first verse,) and we took turns rolling him down Mill Street. We got Knitter to the bottom of the hill and he shot upright and was able to walk a straight line back to Palmer Street. I think he slept for 38 hours after that.
Fast forward X – 3 years. We are all at a good friend’s wedding reception on Lake Erie. In a show of respect to the happily married couple, we drank our 40ozers out of plastic cups. I was very good friends with the groom, but did not know the bride or her family that well. I met her family at the wedding, but did not interact with them at the reception.
As it turned out, this patch of Lake Erie waterfront had a slope that was perfect for rolling drunk Polish guys down it. Knitter complied and once again we rolled him down the hill singing our now trademarked song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
You may not realize this, but drunk guys singing “Roll out the Knitter” may be misheard at a distance. It could have been the crashing of the 2” waves on the shore or the shitty sound system, but the brother of the bride thought he heard us singing something else that night. Here’s what he heard:
“Roll out the n*gger, we’ve got a n*gger of fun!”
And it turns out, that does not go over well at wedding receptions.
The in-law only shared this with a few of his family (not the bride) and kept it bottled in for several months. It came out months later at some family event as the brother of the bride finally released his discontent. Upon this revelation, it was quickly cleared up as to what was actually being said and the in-law felt a bit silly if not a lot silly.
It’s been a long while since I have had the opportunity to tread up/down the hills of Ohio University and longer since I have used leverage and gravity to propel my friend, laughing and grunting down a brick laden street. I haven’t had a 40ozer in years. But I still can sing the song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
No, the story is not about how we snuck 32 bottles of different varieties of malt liquor into Chris and Karen’s wedding (to their dismay,) though it does involve another wedding and the consumption of malt liquors.
Let’s go back about X years to Ohio University and a crisp Spring Quarter Saturday night. Earlier that evening, we had a two 40oz party. The night would start with a trip to the Quik-e-mart and the purchase of two 40oz bottles of malt liquor. There was a time in my life where I could list off 12 – 18 varieties of malt liquor. Oh a whim, let’s see what I can pull out of my ass right now:
Colt 45
Cool Colt*
Lazer
Magnum
Red Bull
Schlitz
Crazy Horse
St. Ides
Mustang
Crap. That’s it. Well, I am from Lancaster and not Lorain.
(*Cool Colt was Colt 45 with spearmint flavoring added. I totally forgot about it until recently at a keg party when I didn’t have a cup and used an empty Rumple Minze bottle to drink from. Nothing like a drunk asshole with fresh breath.)
Back at the Quik-e-mart, you would pony up $3.87 of change and leave with two, mostly cold bottles of, hopefully not skunked, malt liquor. At 23 Palmer Street, we’d sit in the living room and drink down our two bottles of skunked malt liquor and watch public access television. Normally, you could drink one 40ozer and kick in a solid buzz that would last for a few hours and save you $10 up at the bars. Two 40ozers and you would stagger Uptown and try to hold down your cookies after eating $10 worth of beans and meat at the Burrito Buggy.
This night, Knitter continued to drink once we walked uptown and got himself good and solid hammered. And as we walked uphill/downhill home (we are talking about Athens, Ohio) Knitter decided to trip and fall down on the top of a hill. As he lay prone on the brick street, I realized that it would only take a little effort to get him rolling down the hill. I gave him a generous shove with both hands and he began to roll. Any normal person would have airplaned their arms out and stopped the momentum. Knitter tucked his arms in to minimize friction and continued to roll. As we chased/stumbled after Knitter, a song erupted from my mouth that went a little like this:
(To the tune of "Roll Out the Barrel.")
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
Everyone joined in on the song, (at least the first verse,) and we took turns rolling him down Mill Street. We got Knitter to the bottom of the hill and he shot upright and was able to walk a straight line back to Palmer Street. I think he slept for 38 hours after that.
Fast forward X – 3 years. We are all at a good friend’s wedding reception on Lake Erie. In a show of respect to the happily married couple, we drank our 40ozers out of plastic cups. I was very good friends with the groom, but did not know the bride or her family that well. I met her family at the wedding, but did not interact with them at the reception.
As it turned out, this patch of Lake Erie waterfront had a slope that was perfect for rolling drunk Polish guys down it. Knitter complied and once again we rolled him down the hill singing our now trademarked song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
You may not realize this, but drunk guys singing “Roll out the Knitter” may be misheard at a distance. It could have been the crashing of the 2” waves on the shore or the shitty sound system, but the brother of the bride thought he heard us singing something else that night. Here’s what he heard:
“Roll out the n*gger, we’ve got a n*gger of fun!”
And it turns out, that does not go over well at wedding receptions.
The in-law only shared this with a few of his family (not the bride) and kept it bottled in for several months. It came out months later at some family event as the brother of the bride finally released his discontent. Upon this revelation, it was quickly cleared up as to what was actually being said and the in-law felt a bit silly if not a lot silly.
It’s been a long while since I have had the opportunity to tread up/down the hills of Ohio University and longer since I have used leverage and gravity to propel my friend, laughing and grunting down a brick laden street. I haven’t had a 40ozer in years. But I still can sing the song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
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