“So, your going packbacking around Europe?” asked my best friend, who happens to be the World’s foremost expert in Jean Shorts.
I pondered the question. Then replied, “No, I am suitcasing around Europe.”
I felt that painted a more accurate potrayal of my travel style. I feel like backpacking insinuates that I will be sleeping underbridges, not showering for weeks on end and traversing rugged terrain.
I spent the last week with Frenchman. I don’t want to smell like one too.
Unfortunately for me, Skype did not allow video.
I am sure his head was hung low, occilating disapprovingly. He was thinking to himself, my friend thinks too much.
All I could get out of him was, “Your are retard. I hope you don’t come back.”
Some of my friends are about as supportive as Macually Culkin’s Parents. It healthy though, they keep my ego balanced.
“Your Suitcase is overpacked!” said Leslie, my favorite step-mother as I was humming Leaving on a Jet Plane
I should have taken note.
After spending countless hours confined to the Fedex London, the next time a female tells me I overpacked, I will take heed.
We say our goodbyes and I am off to New York.
I am slated to have a window seat, but notice there is a family with a newborn, in my row and seat. We make eye contact and the lady instantly starts pleading me with me Virgin Mary Style. My spine evaporates, and I ask where her seat was located?
Middle Seat. 5-Person Row. I am an anchoive until NYC.
Reluctantly, I take my middle seat in the empty row.
Then in comes the silver lining. 6′, Burnette, with a mischievous grin.
“There is a god.” the little voice inside my head tells me.
My friends and I have discussed this, and if my father had married for height, I would be in the NFL.
It is only fair to my kids to take this into consideration while prospecting.
You might be thinking, “Paul, don’t set unrealistic expectations for your kids.”
I can’t think of any releatstic reason to have them, unless that brat gets drafted out of High School. That’s early retirement baby!
The Stewardess, then approaches me and tells me “You are such a gentleman. You get free alcohol the whole flight!”
With the inner knowledge that I have the same tolerance for alcohol, Fred Goldman has for OJ, I spread the love to my rowmate.
Immediately, I launch into telling the most fasicnating version of the “Paul Wilson Gator Finger Story”.
Unfortunately, I killed Utah and Brandon Lawson will never walk again.
We lost a lot of good guys out there. She bought the whole story, hook line, sinker
I arrive at my hotel at 0600 hungover and exhausted, I hadn’t slept for 32 hours.
The front desk girl informs me, my room won’t be ready until 1100.
I inform her that I am going to watch the game.
While watching some African Country vs. Some Asian Country, I slip into a deep coma.
2 hours later, my room is ready and I rest my weary head until 1600.
The details of my night are confidential and hazy, but I do remember being at a house party on a block Jay-Z mentions frequently while describing the hood.
Fast-forward, Day 2…High Falls, New York.
Wedding of Monica Signorotti (cousin) and Darus Zahm(new cousin).
I am drunk. My little voice commands me to start drinking like a Russian after the 1980 Winter Olympics Hockey final.
I find cousin Jose.
We had an immediate bromantic connection. Jose and I have had about as many interactions as I have fingers on my left-hand.
(Interactions with Jose = < 4.75
Jose is built like a vending machine. It seems to be Wilson Instinct to seek back up when you think you might need it.
I had the the opportunity of putting him through the Signorotti Rite de Passage. It consists of getting your cousin wasted, especially if his parents tell you not to get him drunk. (Sorry middle namesake)
Domino intiated me, I intiated Jose, and it was now time for Enjamin(name altered) to join the Legion of the Signorotti.
Enjamin is a good kid.
Well Spoken and Mature for his age. He seems to have transcended some difficult circumstances life has dealt him. I liked the kid,but first he must cross the path into manhood.
HBefore we had to force him to drink he had already penetrated the bartenders watchful eye.
8 Jack and Cokes later, we were confident in calling him a man. Well, he was confident in calling himself a man and we were amused.
My present to the Bride and Groom were 10 Fresh Macanudo Cigars. I awarded them to those who displayed courage in the face of adversity, valor in the face of Catholicism or a 0.20 BAC.
Enjamin sauntered over and asked the elders for a puff of their Signorotti Stogi.
We girl code each other and approve.
I pass my cigar his way.
We watch on, proudly, as he takes his first inhale of the death stick…. From the WRONG END!
I drop to the ground, laughing so hard that my abdomen starts cunvulsing. Enjamin backs away from it, staring directly at the electric fence he just pissed on.
Everyone else is so embarassed for him no one makes eye contact. Enjamin blurts angrily, “What just happened?”
Silence from the crowd. Not a word.
“Nothing happened!” He demands, trying to recover while getting the ash out of his mouth.
Crickets. No one will answer him.
“OK, what happened?” he asks again.
From the ground I rolled over and answered,