This week, a tweet from journalist Michael Segalov went viral: “what’s the most surreal encounter you’ve had with someone famous?” Celebrities like Sister, Sister star Jackée Harry weighed in, saying that Batman’s Eartha Kitt once slapped her after she found out she was sleeping with her boyfriend. Yikes.
The tweet has inspired me and this week’s Pissing Contest. Jezebel has many, being based in New York and all, a few of which you can read through here. But Pissing Contest is all about you, dear loyal reader, so I gotta know: tell me about that absolutely preposterous interaction you had with Keanu Reeves. Bonus points if you can tell me what he smelled like.
But first, let’s take a look at last week’s winners. Here are your wildest Spring Break stories:
I won’t lie to you, nerdybirdy’s story is about shit:
So my friends and I all live on or around Dauphin Island. It’s a great place to live, but not during Spring Break because tourists descend upon the entire island like it’s the last stop before migrating across the ocean. We decided to hop the ferry an hour away to Gulf Shores, which is an even bigger Spring Break draw, but also not an island.
Now, there were 3 of us girls and 2 male out-of-town cousins of one of the girls. I am the only non-drinker, so I was in the position of Troop Mother. Pushing my little drunk ducklings along to another hotel after a) we wore out our welcome, b) the cops were called, or c) there was a fight. We partied for hours, going from hotel to hotel, bar to bar – my friends and the guys are all trashed, but everyone is still having fun long into the night.
We’re all hanging out in a hotel jacuzzi and one of the cousins – Chris, whose name is not actually Chris – decides to go to the pool. A while later, we follow and even though he wasn’t there when we arrived, we planned on waiting in the pool for him to come back. But then Shelby, whose name is not Shelby, said the pool looked kinda gross and maybe Chris went to the next hotel and is in their pool.
There was chaos at the next pool, but we saw Chris going to the next hotel down the beach, so we just passed by it and followed him. We caught up to him just in time to see him slip into the pool. I almost followed him in with a cannonball, but then I noticed the brown cloud expanding out from his shorts around him.
THIS DIRTY MOTHERFUCKER HAD BEER SHITS IN THE POOL. And not just this pool, but the previous two pools! When Shelby said the first pool looked dirty – diarrhea. When we passed by people shouting at the second pool – diarrhea. And now, now this asshole was shitting in a third pool. I will never forget the look on his face when he saw us seeing him befoul that pool. A kaleidoscope of colors and emotions crossed his face.
We ran. We left him there in his own watery shit and we. fucking. ran. On the drive home, you’d think the 4 of us had accidentally killed somebody and were arguing over whether or not to tell the police. We raged at the other guy, like how could he let his brother do that? We raged at Carry, whose name is not Carry, for bringing along her stupid cousins in the first place. We fumed silently. We laughed like maniacs. We raged some more. We worried about how much trouble Chris could be in and how he’d get home. By the time we got home ourselves, we were too tired to care much about anything anymore.
Til the cops woke us up banging on the door a few hours later to deliver a stinky and bedraggled Chris to our front door. Apparently the hotel manager from the first pool caught him as he was backtracking trying to follow us to the car. He agreed to pay the three hotels for the cost of cleaning their pools if they didn’t press charges, so the police put him on the ferry and told him to not come back for Spring Break again. I think it cost him about a thousand dollars in the end and from what Carry has told us, his brother has never let him live it down.
Gizmodo senior writer Christina Warren got in on the action and her story made me want to take a long shower:
My sophomore year of college, Spring Break happened to coincide with Mardi Gras, so my frat-boy boyfriend, a bunch of his frat brothers, some stoners we knew from class, and a few of my sorority sisters and I caravanned from Atlanta to New Orleans.
The fun started on the drive down (which took about eight hours and was several cars following each other). One of my boyfriend’s frat brothers, we’ll call him Matt, was a few cars behind us. When we were driving through Alabama, he was speeding and got pulled over. The rest of us weren’t about to wait for him so we continued on without him.
It turns out, there were some open liquor bottles in the back of the car. It also turns out there were guns in his trunk (because hunting or Army stuff or something — I don’t know). Now, if we had been in Mississippi, the open bottles would have been fine b/c they don’t have open container laws (and Louisiana doesn’t really enforce them), but we were not.
So unbeknownst to us, Matt and a dude he’s with are detained. I’m not sure how they got out of the situation, but they wound up joining us like a day and a half late. Matt will come back into play later.
Meanwhile, in New Orleans, we’re getting absolutely shit faced and all kinds of fucked up, as you would expect college kids to do at Mardi Gras, Spring Break, or in this case, both. I don’t remember how I made it back to our hotel room the first night, but the next morning, my boyfriend and I woke up and realized the couple staying in the same room with us never came back. It turns out they passed out on a bench somewhere in the French Quarter.
Once Matt and other frat bro have made it down, more debauchery is to be had, as we kept going from strip club to strip club. Matt sets his sights on trying to get laid, and he paid one of the dancers $400 or something obscene to have sex with him. I do not know if she actually slept with him or just gave him a hand job. What I do know is she robbed his hotel room. Matt claimed he had no regrets.
For my part, there was lots of underage drinking, the usage of other illegal substances, and absolutely some flashing to get Mardi Gras beads — but nothing too extreme.
But props to Matt, who managed to get arrested/detained and robbed in the same trip.
A few months later, at fraternity formal (this time in Daytona, the classiest city in the world), Matt decided he wanted to get a tattoo. He offered to buy the tattoo of anyone who went with him — so I volunteered (that set off a whole argument with my boyfriend because getting a tattoo meant we couldn’t fuck in the hotel hot tub — something I was not going to do anyway, because hotel hot tub), because, free tattoo! We got to this place and Matt wants his frat letters on his bicep. It’s a big piece and the dude charges him a lot (too much, but it’s Matt so he doesn’t know better).
Now, my tattoo turned out fine. But the next day when we looked at Matt’s, it was crooked. He paid like $500 for a crooked tattoo.
That was also the trip we were pulled over by the police for drunk walking and ordered to get a cab to take us to more bars to get even drunker. Florida.
Anyway. I miss Matt and thank him for some truly great college memories.
And last but certainly not least, Minners12 saw Carlton on a hungover Denny’s run. Or not. I like to believe in magic:
Palm springs a long time ago. Had sex on the bed while my boyfriend’s friend watched. Then went to (I think it was) Denny’s for breakfast and realized that Carlton from fresh Prince of Bel-Air was waiting for a table in front of us. He and his friend were there with a couple of girls that I’m assuming they picked up from the night before. Maybe I’m just starting rumors. Maybe it wasn’t really Carlton? I’m 95% sure it was. Good times
Flamants went to a foam party and lost everything. You know, everyone’s greatest fear:
I went to a foam party in Panama City Beach, because at the time that combination of words didn’t sound absolutely horrifying. To keep things from getting ruined by the foam, none of us brought our phones, only one girl brought a cheap purse with our hotel key in it, and we all bought rubber flip flops. I ended up meeting a cute guy and slipping away to the beach to make out with him some more, somehow losing one of my rubber flip flops on the way.
We eventually decide we’d like to take things back to a hotel room, but we’d have to go back to the club to get a hotel key (I guess he didn’t have his either?) Well, we get there and the bouncer won’t let me in because I’m missing a shoe. No big deal, the guy will just find his friends, get his hotel key, then come meet me outside.
Fast forward 20 or 30 minutes, I realize he wasn’t going to come back outside. I couldn’t get back in and didn’t have my phone to call my friends. I trudged back to our hotel, dejected and damp and half-shoeless, and sat outside our room until my friends finally came back – massively relieved after being in a panic searching for me, because in their eyes I had just disappeared off to god knows where.
Moral of the story: Always bring your phone, even to a foam party. Or maybe don’t leave your friends to make out with random dudes who might just ditch you? Always keep track of your shoes? Maybe just don’t go to foam parties in the first place? I guess there’s a lot to be learned from my mistakes.
You know what to do in the comments below.
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