Hurricane Floyd Part I
This is the Hurricane Floyd Story. It is rediculously long so I will post it in 3 parts...here goes:
Back in September of 1999, Florida got hit by Hurricane Floyd. In my infinite wisdom, I advised my friends Lumpy (from Maine, never experience a hurricane before) and PC (from Boston, never experienced a hurricane either) that there was no way we were gonna get hit in our area. Palm Beach county hasn't been hit in years, I told them, and this will be no different. I spouted off some shit I had heard the local weatherman say about dual-dopplers and barametric pressure and the gulf stream pushing it north of us and they bought it. So while the bank we all worked at was closing early to allow employees to go home and board up their houses, I was able to convince the two of them to go out drinking. Before closing time, I hit the yellow pages to inquire which establishments were going to remain open. No sense in wasting valuable drinking time driving around looking for an open bar, I tell myself. It seems the Gods of Alcoholism were smiling down on us as our local Hooter's was going to be open regular hours. Sweet. First beer and now boobs, too? Jackpot. This is gonna be a good night. Lumpy and I went to drop my car off and then made our way to pick up PC. At this time, the outter bands of the hurricane are starting to hit the coast but all reports are that the storm will continue north and miss our area, leaving us with nothing but some nasty rain. Well, we weren't gonna let a little tropical storm rain on our intoxication parade. After we picked up PC, Lumpy drives out of the development telling us how his alternator is acting up and he has to turn off the air conditioning and radio or his car won't start. However, with Lumpy, telling us this is not enough, so he stops in the middle of the road -not to mention the middle of a torrential down pour- and turns the car off. Of course, when he goes to turn it back on, it won't start. What an ass. So we are sitting in the middle of the road in a God damn monsoon and we need a jump start. No one is out because the weather is so bad and PC and I are getting restless because this is cutting in on our drinking. Finally, after a half hour of waiting, someone pulls up and we are able to ask for a jump. We make Lumpy do all the dirty work because he is the brain surgeon that put us in this position. He gets out, flags the guy down and asks for a jump. The guy thinks we're idiots (he's probably right) for being out in this weather and wanting to mess with electricity. So there's Lumpy, standing in half a foot of water using jumper cables. Lumpy actually gets the car started without electricuting himself and he wants us to pop the trunk so he can toss the cables in the back. Now I'm not sure if you're aware because I wasn't, but on a 95 camaro, the trunk release is in the glove compartment. Something else I wasn't aware of is that people from Maine call a glove compartment a cubby hole. Yeah, a fucking cubby hole. So there's Lumpy, standing with the driver door open, telling me to pop the trunk and that the button is in the cubby hole. Then there's me, leaning over to the driver's side looking for a trunk release and wondering what the fuck a cubby hole is. It's like an Abbott & Costello routine. Lumpy finally leans into the car and opens the glove compartment to push teh button. He tosses the cables in the trunk and gets back in drenched. He then points and says "Cubby hole!!"
Woody - "What the fuck is a cubby hole?!?!"
Lumpy - "That's a cubby hole!" (pointing to the clove compartment)
Woody - "That's a fucking glove compartment!"
Lumpy - "Well, back home we call a glove compartment a cubby hole!!"
Woody - "I'm from Florida, how am I supposed to know that?!?! Did you know that?"
PC - "Of course I knew that, I'm from Boston, it's a New England thing."
Woody - "Why didn't you tell me?"
PC - "I just thought it was funny watching Lunchbox get soaked." (FYI Lumpy's dimentions: 6'3" 300lbs of pure man-child)
Ok, he was right, it was funny. We all have laugh at this -ok, me and PC do, Lumpy's a little pissed- and head on to Hooters. We can't turn the car off or we'll have to jump it so PC and I convince Lumpy to drop us off at the front door so we don't get wet while he parks and leaves the engine running. We walk in and there's 6 other people in the place: 2 waitresses, a cook and a manager, and 2 guys that looked like truckers. While PC and I sit at a table, the waitress comes up just as Lumpy comes sloshing in. She looks at him all wet, looks at us dry and says "What the happened to you?" Lumpy doesn't miss a beat, "These two bastards drove here, but they made me ride my bike!" in his super thick New England accent. HooterGirl - "Awe, you poor thing!" It amazes me how some girls can make it through day to day life being as stupid as they are without hurting themselves. We get a pitcher and start the drinking. Meanwhile, the weather outside is getting worse. Apparently, Hurricane Floyd never got the report that it was supposed to go north. We ende up getting catagory 1 winds in our area with several places losing power for a while and numerous trees being knocked down. But the power stayed on at Hooters and so did the drinking. We get down with our 9th pitcher and attempt to order our next one when the manager comes over to inform us of The Rule. The Rule is that there is a limit to how much beer you can be served at a Hooters...supposedly it's 2 pitchers per person in a party, and I've encountered it before. Maybe it's not really a rule, just a guideline they use to cut people off when they get too drunk and rowdy.
"You should have been cut off at 6, but I didn't realize how many you've had." "How many is that?",I ask. "9. We can't give you any more. You are more than welcome to stay and eat, but we can't let you have more beer." As I've said many times before and will say many times again, no one frequents Hooters for it's fine cuisine. They go for boobs and beer. Yeah, there was still boobs, but we were out of beer, and we weren't grabbing any boobs, so we said fuck it and left. Where to? The Ugly Mug.Continued in Part II. -
This is the Hurricane Floyd Story. It is rediculously long so I will post it in 3 parts...here goes:
Back in September of 1999, Florida got hit by Hurricane Floyd. In my infinite wisdom, I advised my friends Lumpy (from Maine, never experience a hurricane before) and PC (from Boston, never experienced a hurricane either) that there was no way we were gonna get hit in our area. Palm Beach county hasn't been hit in years, I told them, and this will be no different. I spouted off some shit I had heard the local weatherman say about dual-dopplers and barametric pressure and the gulf stream pushing it north of us and they bought it. So while the bank we all worked at was closing early to allow employees to go home and board up their houses, I was able to convince the two of them to go out drinking. Before closing time, I hit the yellow pages to inquire which establishments were going to remain open. No sense in wasting valuable drinking time driving around looking for an open bar, I tell myself. It seems the Gods of Alcoholism were smiling down on us as our local Hooter's was going to be open regular hours. Sweet. First beer and now boobs, too? Jackpot. This is gonna be a good night. Lumpy and I went to drop my car off and then made our way to pick up PC. At this time, the outter bands of the hurricane are starting to hit the coast but all reports are that the storm will continue north and miss our area, leaving us with nothing but some nasty rain. Well, we weren't gonna let a little tropical storm rain on our intoxication parade. After we picked up PC, Lumpy drives out of the development telling us how his alternator is acting up and he has to turn off the air conditioning and radio or his car won't start. However, with Lumpy, telling us this is not enough, so he stops in the middle of the road -not to mention the middle of a torrential down pour- and turns the car off. Of course, when he goes to turn it back on, it won't start. What an ass. So we are sitting in the middle of the road in a God damn monsoon and we need a jump start. No one is out because the weather is so bad and PC and I are getting restless because this is cutting in on our drinking. Finally, after a half hour of waiting, someone pulls up and we are able to ask for a jump. We make Lumpy do all the dirty work because he is the brain surgeon that put us in this position. He gets out, flags the guy down and asks for a jump. The guy thinks we're idiots (he's probably right) for being out in this weather and wanting to mess with electricity. So there's Lumpy, standing in half a foot of water using jumper cables. Lumpy actually gets the car started without electricuting himself and he wants us to pop the trunk so he can toss the cables in the back. Now I'm not sure if you're aware because I wasn't, but on a 95 camaro, the trunk release is in the glove compartment. Something else I wasn't aware of is that people from Maine call a glove compartment a cubby hole. Yeah, a fucking cubby hole. So there's Lumpy, standing with the driver door open, telling me to pop the trunk and that the button is in the cubby hole. Then there's me, leaning over to the driver's side looking for a trunk release and wondering what the fuck a cubby hole is. It's like an Abbott & Costello routine. Lumpy finally leans into the car and opens the glove compartment to push teh button. He tosses the cables in the trunk and gets back in drenched. He then points and says "Cubby hole!!"
Woody - "What the fuck is a cubby hole?!?!"
Lumpy - "That's a cubby hole!" (pointing to the clove compartment)
Woody - "That's a fucking glove compartment!"
Lumpy - "Well, back home we call a glove compartment a cubby hole!!"
Woody - "I'm from Florida, how am I supposed to know that?!?! Did you know that?"
PC - "Of course I knew that, I'm from Boston, it's a New England thing."
Woody - "Why didn't you tell me?"
PC - "I just thought it was funny watching Lunchbox get soaked." (FYI Lumpy's dimentions: 6'3" 300lbs of pure man-child)
Ok, he was right, it was funny. We all have laugh at this -ok, me and PC do, Lumpy's a little pissed- and head on to Hooters. We can't turn the car off or we'll have to jump it so PC and I convince Lumpy to drop us off at the front door so we don't get wet while he parks and leaves the engine running. We walk in and there's 6 other people in the place: 2 waitresses, a cook and a manager, and 2 guys that looked like truckers. While PC and I sit at a table, the waitress comes up just as Lumpy comes sloshing in. She looks at him all wet, looks at us dry and says "What the happened to you?" Lumpy doesn't miss a beat, "These two bastards drove here, but they made me ride my bike!" in his super thick New England accent. HooterGirl - "Awe, you poor thing!" It amazes me how some girls can make it through day to day life being as stupid as they are without hurting themselves. We get a pitcher and start the drinking. Meanwhile, the weather outside is getting worse. Apparently, Hurricane Floyd never got the report that it was supposed to go north. We ende up getting catagory 1 winds in our area with several places losing power for a while and numerous trees being knocked down. But the power stayed on at Hooters and so did the drinking. We get down with our 9th pitcher and attempt to order our next one when the manager comes over to inform us of The Rule. The Rule is that there is a limit to how much beer you can be served at a Hooters...supposedly it's 2 pitchers per person in a party, and I've encountered it before. Maybe it's not really a rule, just a guideline they use to cut people off when they get too drunk and rowdy.
"You should have been cut off at 6, but I didn't realize how many you've had." "How many is that?",I ask. "9. We can't give you any more. You are more than welcome to stay and eat, but we can't let you have more beer." As I've said many times before and will say many times again, no one frequents Hooters for it's fine cuisine. They go for boobs and beer. Yeah, there was still boobs, but we were out of beer, and we weren't grabbing any boobs, so we said fuck it and left. Where to? The Ugly Mug.Continued in Part II. -
posted by Woody at
11:03 AM
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