Back in my norcal days, Taco Tuesday was my favorite drinking day of the week. There were almost never any tacos involved, but we didn’t mind — we were out to destroy our stomachs and livers with booze, not cheap Mexican food.
So, my dearest Chelsea and I would crawl out of the depths of last night’s hangover and somehow make it out to Walnut Creek for Karaoke night at Crogans. We went every week, and never once sang a song. Instead, we guzzled Vodka and Redbulls (poison mixed with poison, really) and smoked too many cigarettes on the patio.
Well, here in New Zealand, I’ve tried to keep the spirit of Taco Tuesday alive in some form. I usually rally together a crew for the House of Ales Quiz Night, which consists of teams of closet alcoholics, pretending that their innate love of trivia is the reason they leave the missus at home while they go out and down 7 pints of piss on a Tuesday night. Good times.
This week, my brain just wasn’t up for anything intellectual, so flat-mate Dave and I hit the town in search of cheap beer and good company. Stingray was closed, so was Sapphire. We decided to go the the Shark Club, a soulless pool-hall / nightclub on the main drag, where trash-talking locals liked to swig jugs of Tui and shoot pool to a playlist that mixed country western and euro pop, with the occassional Wierd Al Yancovic tune thrown in for good measure. I mean, the place has the overlit, sterile ambiance of a gynocoligist’s office –i didn’t get it either, but Nelson is a small town and our options were limited.
Anyway, I ran into some friends there — Courtney and Britta — always good for a laugh and a couple drinks. I meant to keep it mellow. I just wanted a beer to unwind and chill out. Half a pack of cigarettes and maybe a few too-many pints later, this crazy American douche bag is ramming his 4×4 truck into the metal railing of the outdoor smoking lounge and trying to kill us all.
wait. I should rewind.
So there is this American douche-face wandering around the bar by himself, downing beers and shots and causing a general ruckus, talking about smashing faces and spewing out the ridiculous banter of a drunken, wannabe prophet.
“9-11 was an inside job, man…an inside job!”
“I could snap three necks in 3 seconds, I shit you not!”
And to top it all off, the guy was wearing this ridiculous outfit with a too-small camo t-shirt, a leather jacket, and one of those outrageous leather cowboy hats, circa Crocodile Dundee.
Oh, and he was from fucking California — so of course, I’m immediately associated with this clown. He was my arch nemesis.
At one point, someone asks him if he just came from a dress-up party — a valid question for a man dressed like a backwater bogan — there was a scuffle, then an unaccepted apology, then way too many apologies, a round of shots (true to form, I weaseled my way into the conflict just in time to score a free shot of tequila), and then American Cowboy Douche was finally run out of the bar, and literally chased down Bridge Street by a group of about 10 Kiwi blokes.
We all enjoyed a good laugh at his expense, and then carried on enjoying ourselves. But, suddenly, the guy was back. And this time he was behind the wheel of some kind of big 4×4 truck. And he was drunk. And angry.
He pulled up onto the sidewalk and purposefully crashed into the metal railing of the outdoor smoking area. Bam! Bam! WTF? This guy was a maniac! Really, he could have killed a lot of people if that railing wasn’t so strong.
So the young Kiwi blokes hopped the railing and one guy put a barstool through his window, and another guy climbed in the passenger door, but was thrown free as the American Psycho sped off down the road, leaving a trail of broken glass and bent metal… but thankfully no one was hurt.
a few minutes later the cops showed up and I’m told they caught the guy shortly thereafter. If I can find the news story, I’ll post a link to it.
Total fucking madness. Just another Taco Tuesday in the life of Justin Jones.
