Well, if you go back and look at the comments in the previous entry, there is not a real consensus on what story I should tell. No option won with an overwhelming majority, which makes the choice a little harder. So, I think I am going to pick the one that I most want to tell at this time, and that would be the time my roommate broke my ironing board.
My senior year in college I lived with a friend of mine who I will refer to as Mateo Feo. I will call him this because that is what his mom, who is from Mexico, and all of her Mexican family call him. Yes, he knows that 'feo' means ugly and he is alright with that. I think they call him that because it rhymes, not because he's ugly. Unless they actually do think he was ugly, and if that's the case, then that is all sorts of wrong.
I essentially begged Mateo Feo to live with me. He had been living by himself the past semester, but didn't really enjoy it so I knew he was looking for a roommate. I was living with 3 other guys who were great roommates, but could not fathom why I enjoyed going out and drinking a beer on occassion, despite the fact that it was legal for me to do so. I didn't want to be guilt-ridden my entire senior year, so I pestered Mateo Feo, who wrote the book on beer drinking, to live with me. It worked, and that year was the best year of college.
Every year at my university, one of the fraternities puts on this two-day outdoor concert and cookout. People can assemble "teams" and pay money to bring tents and camp out for both days. This is where the fun lies because most people go a little crazy with their teams and essentially set up apartments on their campsites. We're talking couches, tables, tv's with satellites, etc. Mateo Feo always got a team together, and this year was no exception. Our team didn't go as far as others, but we did always have a flag that flew proudly. I tell you all of this because it is part of the story.
The night before the cookout proved to be very different for myself and Mateo Feo. I had an exam that day and was supposed to go to work at 8am the next morning, so I planned on saving all my energy for the next two days. Mateo Feo had some kind of banquet that night and planned to hit the town after that. No big deal...this thing happened all of the time. I didn't expect him to be home for quite some time, so you can imagine my surprise when he stomped into the apartment around 10. To sum a few things up, the stupid girl he took to the banquet let him buy her drinks and such all night, then told him a little later that she needed to meet up with another guy that night. Crappy move, but it happens. Like I said...stupid girl. Needless to say, Mateo Feo was a little angered, and like all good half-Mexicans, Mateo Feo liked to fight anger with tequila. And that is what he did. Six tequila shots in a row. He didn't even flinch, so neither did I.
Things were normal for about 30 minutes. We began to get things organized for the big cookout and I intended to hit the sack after this. But then the tequila started to kick in. At first it was as if the tequila just wanted to come out and give a quiet 'hola', but it soon became clear that the tequila was 'fuerte' and planned on making a night of it. Mateo Feo became even more obsessed with getting the supplies ready, and I sat back on the couch and waited for the show to begin.
Somewhere down the line, Mateo Feo decided that our team's flag needed to be ironed, because heaven forbid if the flag was wrinkled! Nevermind the fact that most cookout participants would be too drunk to stand, let alone stare at the sky looking for wrinkled flags. The flag had to be ironed, and that was going to happen. To his credit, Mateo Feo did know to put the iron on a low setting, so I was not too worried when the following started to happen. Mateo Feo was ironing and going on about the stupid girl and how bitchy she was, and then he looks down at the iron and says,
"I bet this iron would never do something like that....would you."
And that is when, I'm guessing, my iron took on the form of an attractive girl in the eyes of my roommate. He would pick the iron up and lean it towards his ear as if the iron were whispering to him and say things like, "Oh, you want some of this?" Then he would rub the iron all over his chest as if the iron wanted to make out with him. Sometimes the iron must have whispered naughty things, because he would pull the iron away and say "Oh, I bet you would, you dirty girl." And then he would smack the face of the iron, as if slapping it. Then he would ask the iron questions, such as, "Do you want me?", to which the iron shook her head 'yes'. Then, "Do you like smartjuice?", to which the iron shook her head 'no'.
What does a person do when someone says that your iron doesn't find you attractive? Do you argue with the iron? Do you ask the iron to list the reasons why you don't attract it? Do you try to talk sense into the iron? Try to show the iron how good of a catch you are? Or do you shrug it off? Do you tell the iron that actually, you don't find it attractive either? That you think it's a little heavy and is not as hot as it used to be? Do you throw it away and get a new iron that would never dare call you unattractive? Or do you realize that it's not the iron talking, it's the roomate who had six tequila shots in a row? I chose that option.
So this has been going on for a good hour, and the flag has finally been ironed to satisfaction. It was at this point that the tequila decided to get a little hyper. Mateo Feo started to pick up the ironing board and slam it back on the ground. Then he would wave the ironing board around the room. Then, as if he was possessed by the spirits of his Mexican cowboy ancestors, los vaqueros, he threw one leg over the ironing board and hopped on top of it. What do you think happens when a 6'2, 200 pound man sits on top of an ironing board? I know what happens. The ironing board shakes a little bit, then the legs bend and give way, and the 6'2, 200 pound man comes crashing to the floor. The ironing boards legs are completely bent, and there is a giant dent on the top of it.
Now, after the 17 minutes I spent laughing hysterically, I began to clue in. Although that display of tequila-induced crazy was hysterical to watch, I couldn't help but realize, that was my ironing board. Well, caca.