By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf
September 6, 2006
Mike: Dude, is there a bathroom up here?
Matt: It’s downstairs.
Mike: Oh, fuck that man. That’s too far.
Nathan: You’re honestly too lazy to walk downstairs to take a piss? You might be the laziest guy on Earth.
Mike: Quit talking shit, fucker.
If you happen to be a fan of Points in Case, and you’ve never heard of Michael Curtiss, it’s probably his fault. As funny as Curtiss is, he does not write a regular column for this site. He chooses instead to do… well, damn near nothing as far as I can see.
At any rate, because my brain, liver, and stomach are now tapioca or some other mucus colored pudding, I figured I’d forego a typical column and just recap some of the events of the weekend. Consider this a look into Michael Curtiss’ life.
I arrive in St. Augustine, home of Flagler College, Nalu’s Fish Taco Stand, Mike Curtiss, and a whole bunch of other animals, vegetables, and minerals. Because Mike has class until 2 PM, I find the closest bar to his house, sit down and drink a few Budweisers while trying my best to feign interest in some local man’s kid’s football career. What can I say? I’m sociable.
“‘Dude, do you think I want to see your girlfriend naked?' There are so many ways to interpret that question.”
I show up at Curtiss’s house with a Heineken in a brown paper bag. One of Mike’s two roommates, Ryan, answers the door. Inside of five minutes Ryan informs me that Justin Rebello is his favorite PIC writer and that I look nothing like my picture on the site. Thanks, buddy.
After meeting Curtiss and his other roommate, Matt, we decide to buy a case of beer and drink heavily. Curtiss warns us that we will miss all the fun if we drink all day. Matt and I inform him that we are professional drunks and we will not pass out and miss any parties.
Matt and I pass out and miss all the parties.
As I sit and watch college football previews, Matt wakes up and pops a beer. By this point, I’m pretty sure he’s a long, lost relative. I pop a beer as well. Curtiss awakes a few minutes later and joins us in the drinking.
We leave the house and hit up a few bars in the surrounding area. It is at one of these bars—a beach bar, I believe—that Curtiss, Matt and I develop a system by which all female asses can be measured. It’s called, for lack of a better term (we never bothered naming it), the Plank System of Measurement. Apparently, the bench seats of damn near every picnic-style, outdoor dining table are made up of wooden planks that measure somewhere between five and six inches wide. Curtiss describes one of his booty calls as a “four-planker” and proceeds to tell us about her “huuuuge ass.” From then on, every woman we see is defined and described by how many planks her ass is.
The funniest thing about this system is, for whatever reason, it works. And ladies, you probably want to be somewhere between a two- and a three-plank, depending on your waist size. Anyway, from now on, this is how I will think about every female ass I encounter. Some moments change the way we live day to day. This was one of those moments. Sad, I know.
Get this. Curtiss has a three-star restaurant located next door to his fucking house. I actually stumbled my drunk ass not even thirty feet and had shrimp and scallops. Way too awesome. That kid just falls ass backwards into good times.
We all go out to a few bars and drink heavily. For some reason, I get the bright idea to sit on top of the booth at our crowded table. Suddenly, the bartender at this place (again, forgot the name), actually starts throwing trash at me as some kind of punishment for my behavior. This causes me to throw ice cubes at him and deliberately spill my drink on the ground. Not to sound all high and mighty, but clearly, professionalism is dead. I mean, when bartenders are throwing shit at you, it’s a sure sign that the apocalypse is coming.
Or, more likely, he was a tool.
We leave the bar where bartenders throw shit at you and arrive at a gas station exactly one minute too late to purchase beer. This is probably a good thing since I was contemplating having my stomach pumped.
Probably the defining moment of the weekend. Curtiss hears puking sounds coming from Ryan’s bathroom, assumes them to be the sound of Ryan, and kicks open the door to take a picture. Unfortunately, it’s Ryan’s girlfriend who is puking loudly… and she is naked. (I don’t know why she’s naked—this is just the kind of shit that happens at 4 AM.)
Mike apologizes, sits down to play video games and is promptly blindsided by Ryan, who takes Mike down in the middle of his own living room. This is hilarious to me because our fearless editor, Court Sullivan once took Mike down in my old living room. So I’ve hung out with Curtiss twice, and both times he’s been taken down in a living room. That’s a streak that needs to stay alive.
Anyway, Matt defends Curtiss, they argue, they talk about it and I pass out. All in all, a good night. Well, at least it was entertaining.
I am woken by a soft tap on my forehead.
“Fuck you, fucker,” I groan.
“I’m not Mike,” responds a female voice.
Matt’s girlfriend, the voice of reason for most of the weekend, wakes me up and reminds me that we were going to the alligator farm to get drunk and watch alligators eat. Seriously, this is the kind of shit we do in Florida. Do we live the life or what?
After watching the gators eat, I am finally alive enough to have my first beer of the day.
The running jokes on this trip are culminating into a whirlwind of humor on repeat. Besides the four-planker argument (which Matt’s girlfriend, Meredith, even gets in on, proving that she is the kind of chick who is not easily offended and actually finds Mike funny—points for Meredith), we have a running joke revolving around a guy running for political office in St. Augustine. Signs all over town show his name, and, God only knows why, but his first name is Brud. We decide that it’s short for “beer crud” and from then on refer to every dirty beer glass, nasty beer bong hose, and dirty pitcher (and there were a lot more of these than one would think possible in a given weekend, especially if the “one” in question is me, and in this case, it is) as being infected with “brud,” the beer kind of crud.
But, possibly the funniest running joke from the entire weekend came from Curtiss, who, when apologizing to Ryan for the picture incident, said, “Dude, do you think I want to see your girlfriend naked?” There are so many ways to interpret that question, I think it may be the first line that can be applied sarcastically, seriously, and/or rhetorically and still be fucking hilarious. Just comedy gold.
By this point, I am officially stupid as fuck. Curtiss moves the coffee table so I can pass out on the couch. The weekend is coming to a close.
I wake up, thank Curtiss for his hospitality and promise not to write any jokes about his hair, which is a shame really, because I got a million of ‘em.
Anyway, if you’re ever in St. Augustine, look up Mike and Matt. You’ll have a great time. If you happen to be a raging alcoholic, that is.