FW: [Fwd: a day in the life] ,
 thought you might enjoy

-----Original Message-----
From: Luis Mena [mailto:luis.mena.2003@anderson.ucla.edu]
Sent: Tuesday, November 27, 2001 4:33 PM
To: Lenhart, Matthew; Hull, Bryan; Bass, Eric; JOHN HARRINGTON; RYAN
JONES; FRANKLIN LOBO; JENNIFER BAUER; ijzarate@hotmail.com;
elias@teledynamics.com; colombiano88@hotmail.com; SACHIN SASTE; GLENN
LYDAY
Subject: [Fwd: a day in the life]


this is an old one but a great one.
If you dont like this email, then you just don't understand.



A chronology of events for Saturday,  December 4, 1999,
and the early morning hours of Sunday,
December 5, 1999:
6:00 Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and
Texas Fight at
full-freaking blast
6:20 Get in car, drive to New Braunfels

7:30 Tee off (me and a buddy were the
FIRST tee-time
of the morning)
8:50 Turn 9 (crack open first beer)
8:53 Crack open second beer
8:58 Crack open...(you get the idea)
10:30 Finish 18 (holes, as well as
beers), sign
scorecard for smoooooth 95
10:35 Headed for San Antonio
10:50 Buy three 18-packs for pre- and
post-game
festivities
11:10 We decide we don't have enough
booze, so we
double-back to a liquor store and buy
the good ol' 750
ml plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam
11:50 Arrive at the tailgate spot.
Awesome day. Not
a single cloud in the sky. About 70
degrees.
11:55 I decide that we're going to kick
the shit out
of Nebraska.
11:56 I tell my first Nebraska fan to
go fuck
himself.
12:15 The UT band walks by on the way
to the
Alamodome. We're on the second floor of
a two-story
parking garage on the corner (a couple
hundred of us).
We're hooting and hollering like
wildmen. The band
doubles back to the street right below
us and
serenades us with Texas Fight and The
Eyes of Texas.
AWESOME MOMENT.
12:25 In the post-serenade serendipity,
50-100 grown
men are bumping chests with one
another, each and
every one of them now secure and
certain of the fact
that we are going to kick the
shit out of Nebraska.
1:00 The Nebraska band walks by on the
way to the
Alamodome. Again, we hoot and holler
like wildmen.
Again, the band doubles back and stops
right below us
to serenade us, this time, however,
with the Nebraska
fight songs. Although somewhat
impressed by their
spirit and verve, we remain convinced
that we are
going to kick the shit out of
Nebraska.
1:30 I begin the walk to the Alamodome,
somehow
managing to stuff the "Traveler" and 11
cans of beer
into my pants.
1:47 I am in line surrounded by
Nebraska fans. They
are taunting me. I am taunting back,
still certain
that we are going to kick the
shit out of Nebraska. I
decide to challenge a particularly
vocal Nebraska fan
to play what I now call and will
forever be remembered
as "Cell-Phone Flop Out." Remember flop
out for a
dollar? The rules are similar. I tell
this Nebraska
jackass that if he's so confident in
his team, he
should "flop out" his cell phone RIGHT
NOW and make
plane reservations to Phoenix for the
Fiesta Bowl.
And then I spoke these memorable words:
"And not
those
damn refundable tickets, either! You
request those
non-refundable, non-transferrable
sons-of-bitches!"
He backs down. He is unworthy. I call
Southwest
Airlines and buy two tickets to
Phoenix,
non-refundable
and non-transferrable. Price: $712. He
is humbled.
He lowers his head in shame. I raise my
cell phone in
triumph to the cheers of hundreds of
Texas fans. I am
KING and these are my subjects. I
distribute the 11
beers in my pants to the cheering
masses. I RULE the
pre-game kingdom.
2:34 Kickoff. Brimming with confidence,
I open the
Traveler and pour my first stiffy.
2:45 I notice something troubling:
Nebraska is big.
Nebraska is fast. Nebraska is very
pissed off at
Texas.
3:01 The first quarter mercifully ends.
9 yards
total offense for Texas. Zero first
downs for Texas.
I'm still talking shit. I pour
another stiffy from
the Traveler.
3:36 Four minutes to go in the first
half: the
Traveler is a dead soldier. I buy my
first $5 beer
from the Alamodome merchants. While I
am standing in
line, a center snap nearly decapitates
Major
Applewhite
and rolls out of the end zone. Safety.
3:56 Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas
0. I wish I
had another Traveler.
4:11 While urinating next to a Nebraska
fan in the
bathroom at halftime, I attempt to
revive the classic
Brice-ism from the South Bend bathroom:
"Hey, buddy,
niiiiiiiiice cock." He is
unamused.
4:21 I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from
the Alamodome
merchants. I share my beer with two
high school girls
sitting behind me. Surprisingly, they
are equipped
with a flask full of vodka. I send them
off to
purchase $5 Sprites, so that we may
consume their
vodka. I have not lost faith. Nebraska
is a bunch of
pussies.
4:51 No more vodka. The girls sitting
behind me have
fled for their lives. I purchase two
more $5 beers
from the Alamodome merchants.
5:18 Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0. I
am beginning
to lose faith. This normally would
trouble me, but I
am too drunk to see the football field.

5:27 I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm
sorry, sir.
Those tickets have been confirmed and
are
non-refundable and non-transferrable."
5:37 I try to start a fight with every
person behind
the concession counter. As it turns
out, the
Alamodome has a policy that no beer can
be sold when
there is less than 10 minutes on the
game clock. I am
enraged by this policy. I ask loudly:
"Why the fuck
didn't you announce last call over the
fucking PA
system??!!"
5:49 Back in my seats, I am slumped in
my chair in
defeat. All of a sudden, the Texas
crowd goes
absolutely nuts. "Whazzis?," I mutter,
awaking from
my coma, "Iz we winnig? Did wez scort?"
Alas, the
answer is no, we were not winning and
we did not
score.
The largest (by far) cheer of the day
from the Texas
faithful occurred when the handlers
were walking back
to the tunnel and Bevo stopped to take
a gargantuan
shit all over the letters "S",
"K", and "A" in the
"Nebraska" spelled out in their end
zone. I cheer
wildly. I pick up the empty Traveler
bottle and stick
my tongue in it. I am thirsty.
6:16 Nebraska fans are going berserk as
I walk back
to the truck. I would taunt them with
some off-color
remarks about their parentage, but I am
too drunk to
form complete sentences. With my last
cognitive
thought of the evening, I take solace
in the fact that
if we had not beaten them in October,
they would be
playing Florida State for the national
championship.
6:30 Back in the car. On the way back
to Austin for
the 8:00 Texas-Arizona tip off. We can
still salvage
the day! I crack open a beer. It is
warm. I don't
care.
7:12 We have stopped for gas. I am
hungry. I go
inside the store. I walk past the beer
frig. I
notice a Zima. I've never had a Zima. I
wonder if
it's any good. I pull a Zima from the
frig. I twist
the top off and drink the Zima in three
swallows.
Zima
sucks. I replace the empty bottle in
the frig.
7:17 There is a Blimpie Subs in the
store. I walk to
where the ingredients are, where the
person usually
makes the sub. There is no one there. I
lean over
the counter and scoop out half a bucket
of black
olives. I eat them. I am still hungry.
I lean
further over the counter and grab
approximately two
pounds of Pastrami. I walk out of the
store
grunting and eating Pastrami. The
patrons in the
store fear me. I don't care.
8:01 We are in South Austin. I have
been drinking
warm beer and singing Brooks and Dunn
tunes for over
an hour. My truck-mate is tired of my
singing. He
suggests that perhaps Brooks and Dunn
have written
other good songs besides "You're Going
to Miss Me When
I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and that
maybe listening to
only those two songs, ten times each
was a bit
excessive. Perhaps, he suggests, I
could just let the
CD play on its own. I tell him to
fuck off and
restart "Neon Moon."
8:30 We arrive at the Erwin Center. My
truckmate,
against my loud and profane
protestations, parks on
the top floor of a nearby parking
garage. I tell him
he's an idiot. I tell him we will never
get out. I
tell him we may as well pitch a
fucking tent here. He
ignores me. I think he's still pissed
about the
Brooks and Dunn tunes. I whistle "Neon
Moon" loudly.
8:47 I am rallying. I have 4 warm beers
stuffed in
my pants. We're going to kick the
shit out of
Arizona.
9:11 Halftime score: Texas 31, Arizona
29. I am
pleased. I go to the bathroom to pee
for the 67th
time today. I giggle to myself because
of the
new opportunity to do "the bathroom
Brice." There are
no Arizona fans in the bathroom. I am
disappointed.
I tell myself (out loud) that I have a
"Niiiiiice
cock." No one is amused but me.
9:41 I walk to the bathroom while
drinking Bud Light
out of a can. Needless to say, they do
not sell beer
at the Erwin Center, much less Bud
Light out of a can.
I am stopped by an usher: "Where did
you get
that, sir?" I tell him (no shit):
"Oh, the
cheerleaders were throwing them up with
those little
plastic footballs. Would you mind
throwing this away
for me?" I take the last swig and hand
it to him. He
is confused. I pretend I'm going to the
bathroom, but
I run away giggling instead. I duck
into some
entrance to avoid the usher, who is now
pursuing me.
I sneak into a large group of people
and sit down.
The
usher walks by harmlessly. I am
giggling like a little
girl. I crack open another can of Bud
Light.
9:52 I am lost. In my haste to avoid
the usher, I
have lost my bearings. I have no ticket
stub. I
cannot find my seats. Texas is losing.
10:09 Texas is being screwed by the
refs. I am
enraged. I have cleared out the seats
around me
because I keep removing my hat and
beating the
surrounding chairs with it. A concerned
fan asks if
I'm OK and perhaps I shouldn't take it
so seriously.
I tell him to fuck off.
10:15 After the fourth consecutive
"worst fucking
call I have EVER seen," I attempt to
remove my hat
again to begin beating inanimate
objects. However, on
this occasion I miscalculate and I
thumbnail myself in
my left eyelid, leaving a one-quarter
inch gash over
my eye. I am now bleeding into my left
eye and all
over my shirt. "Perhaps," I think to
myself, "I'm
taking this a bit seriously."
10:22 I am standing in the bathroom
peeing. I'm so
drunk I am swaying and grunting. I have
a bloody
napkin pressed on my left eye. My pants
are bloody.
I have my (formerly) white shirt
wrapped around my
waist. I look like I should be in an
episode of Cops.
10:43 Texas has lost. I put my bloody
white shirt
back on my body and make my way for the
exits. I am
stopped every 20 seconds by a good
samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me
why I am
covered in blood, but I merely grunt
incoherently and
keep moving.
10:59 With my one good eye, I have
located the
parking garage. I walk up six flights
of stairs,
promise that when I see my friend I
will punch him
in the face for making me walk up six
flights of
stairs, find the truck, and collapse in
a heap in the
bed of the truck. I look around and
notice that
traffic is lined up all the way around
the garage, six
whole flights, and no one is moving. I
take a nap.
11:17 I awake from my nap. I see my
friend in the
driver's seat. I lift my head to look
out the bed of
the truck and notice that traffic is
lined up all the
way around the garage, six whole
flights, and no one
is
moving. I am too tired to punch my
friend. I call my
friend a "Stupid fuck."
11:31 I lift my head to look out the
bed of the truck
and notice that traffic is lined up all
the way around
the garage, six whole flights, and no
one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."

11:38 I lift my head to look out the
bed of the truck
and notice that traffic is lined up all
the way around
the garage, six whole flights, and no
one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."

11:47 I lift my head to look out the
bed of the truck
and notice that traffic is lined up all
the way around
the garage, six whole flights, and no
one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."

11:58 I am jostled. The truck is
moving. I lift my
head to look out the bed of the truck
and notice that
traffic is beginning to move on the
second floor. I
jump out of the truck, walk to the edge
of the parking
facility, and pee off the sixth floor
onto the street
below. My friend looks at me like I
just anally
violated his minor sister. I turn
around and pee
on the front of his truck while singing
the lyrics
to "Neon Moon."
12:11 We are moving. We are out of
beer. I jump
from the truck and go from vehicle to
vehicle until
someone gives me two beers. I am happy.
I return to
my vehicle.
12:26 We have emerged from the parking
facility. We
make our way to my apartment and find
Ed sitting on
the couch with a freshly opened bottle
of Glenlivet on
the coffee table in front of him. We
are all going to
die tonight.
12:59 We have finished three-quarters
of the bottle
of Glenlivet. We decide it would be a
wonderful idea
to go dancing at PollyEsther's. Ed has
to pee. He
walks down the hall to our apartment
and directly into
the full length mirror at the end of
the hall,
smashing it into hundreds of pieces. We
giggle
uncontrollably and leave for
PollyEsther's.
1:17 The PollyEsther's doorman laughs
uncontrollably
at our efforts to enter his club.
"Fellas," he says
in between his fits of spastic
laughter, "I've been
working this door for almost a year.
I've been
working
doors in this town for almost 5 years.
And I can
honestly say that I ain't never seen
three drunker
mother fuckers than you three.
Sorry, can't let you
in." We attempt to reason with him. He
laughs
harder.
1:44 We find a bar that lets us in. We
take two
steps in the door and hear "Last call
for alcohol!" I
turn to the group and mutter: "See, dat
wasn't that
fuckin' hard. Day don't fuckin' do that
at the
Awamo...the awaom...the
alab...fuck it, that stadium
we
was at today..." We order 6 shots of
tequila and
three beers.
2:15 Back on the street. We need food.
We hail a
cab to take us the two and one half
blocks to Katz's.
The cab fare is $1.60. We give him $10
and tell him
to keep it.
2:17 There is a 20 minute wait. We give
the hostess
$50. We are seated immediately.
2:25 We order two orders of fried
pickles, a Cobb
salad, a bowl of soup, two orders of
Blueberry
blintzes, two Reuben sandwiches, a
hamburger, two
cheese stuffed potatoes, an order of
fries, and an
order of onion rings.
2:39 The food arrives. We are all
asleep with our
heads on the table. The waiter wakes us
up. We eat
every fucking bit of our food. Most
of the restaurant
patrons around us are disgusted. We
don't give a
shit.
The tab is $112 with tip.
2:46 I'm sleepy.
9:12 I wake up next to a strange woman.
She is the
bartender at Katz's. She is not pretty.
e-mail <.brett@enron.com>, patrick.ryder@enron.com, m..love@enron.com, 