Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Three State Bender Part I: Donkey Fuckers and Hill Jack Boys
"I think it is important that everyone know the proper way to fuck a donkey. There are several approaches, but none more efficient than this one. I prefer to call this the "Backdoor Cut" approach, but it is also known in parts of Appalachia as "Slapjacking," "Mule Greasing," and "The Old Rough n' Tumble."" - Daddy
Somewhere, Indiana
6 May 2005

An iota of doubt flickered in my mind as I stepped off Northworst Airlines flight #169. Daddy from Snailtrax called me at 5am. He started his tri-state bender off a day earlier than me after he raged at a Karl Denson show in Bloomington and slid way past Shittysville during the course of the evening. He left a bizarre and rambling message that woke me up but I was too sleepy to pick up the phone.
"Fuck dude, this is fucking hilarious... (incoherent)... Doc, this is Daddy, man, call me when you are ready to get on the plane.... (incoherent).... I went to Karl Denson and ended up at some house party. I don't know, fuck, where my fuckin' car is parked.... (incoherent)... Call me so you can wake me up...(incoherent)... or otherwise I'm gonna to just gonna fuckin' rush into some houses and wake some motherfuckers up. Aw shit."
Aw shit is right. Five minutes before I boarded my plane I called and left a wake up message. I called two more times before take off... each time getting his voicemail. I did what I could. It was out of my hands.

The flight to Indy was nothing out of the ordinary. I re-read Wil Wheaton's entire book (minus the Q&As) on my flight.

(Editor's Note: It was weird that Wil happened to stop by last night and leave a comment because I began my trip reading his book and one of the first people to welcome me back... was Wil. Thanks Bub!)

I quickly made my way through Indianapolis airport. It might have been the quickest navigation I ever experienced at major city airport. It took six minutes for me to deplane, piss, check my messages and make my way outside. Six minutes. I called Daddy expecting that he'd be laying face down in a drunk tank and would not be taking my call. I was surprised when he picked up.

"Dude are you in Indy? Fuck," he said.

As I rode the escalator down towards the baggage claim area, he miraculously appeared at the bottom pointing at me. He made it on less than two hours of sleep. "Welcome to Indiana, Doc. By the end of the night you'll get piss drunk, get in a fight, and fuck a fat chick in order to fully absorb the Southern Indiana Hill Jack experience."

We were ready to get crazy. I was on a mission, well several missions. The first mission: Not to touch a computer keyboard for at least 80 hours. No email. No blogging. No Party Poker. Nothing. My second mission was to have fun, live in the moment, and see a kick ass concert. My third and most important mission... was a secret.

Daddy agreed to show me around parts of southern Indiana that I never would have set foot in I had not met him. I slowly slipped into vacation mode as we drove along the back roads. When arrived at his house, Daddy quickly showed me his dog, his banjo, and a framed picture of Hunter S. Thompson from a town hall meeting in Colorado. Mrs. Trax was at work and we would have to postpone our initial meeting a few more hours.

Daddy lives right next to a golf course, along the fifteenth hole. We decided to hit the links for a round, which would be my first round of the year. He busted out a pair of old clubs for me and we were ready for a little fun in the sun. Daddy grabbed two six packs of Miller Lite from the clubhouse and we drove up to the first hole. No driving range for us. The driving range is for pussies.

Maybe I should have hit at least one ball. My first shot looked ugly after I topped it and my Titleist spurted only a few yards in front of us.

The cold beer helped my golf game. It made me forget about the last shot and focus on the next one. We chatted about all things like baseball trivia, Round Room, the weight of a whale vagina, and the last blogger trip in Vegas. The first nine holes were relaxing. Every now and then Daddy would remind me about the upcoming poker tournament, "6pm Freezeout."

It seemed that Daddy knew everyone on the golf course. Even his old man, Major Trax, was on the course. It was an honor to meet a true Indiana sports legend and the father of one of the sickest demented motherfuckers I know.

The back nine went quick and I only had a hot dog to eat all afternoon. I shot much better and stuck to my 3-iron off the tees. My putting was horrible and my short game (40-90 yards out) is still my only strength. I used to play a lot of golf during college when I lived in Atlanta. Since then, it's been hard to find time to play.

Daddy is a pretty good golfer. He's a big guy and ripped a 300 yard drive on one of the par fives. Impressive indeed. After the round, we headed back to the house and I met Mrs. Trax. Like I suspected, she was a hip, hip lady. In our brief encounter our conversation jumped back and forth between Cincinnati race riots and Angela's infatuation with Jordan Catalono on the short-lived, yet critically acclaimed drama My So Called Life.

Before I left for the poker tournament, the lovely Mrs. Trax gave me a warning, half in jest and half serious, "Be careful of those Greene County boys."

We headed over to Greene County where Daddy's buddy the Weasel lived. That's were the game was being held... in the heart of Hill Jack country. If you are not familiar with the term "Hill Jack," well it's the equivalent to "Hillbillies." We stopped by the house of one Daddy's other friends to see if he was playing cards too. Unfortunately, he blew us off to watch movies with his girlfriend and her daughters.

We walked over to Aggies, one of Daddy's favorite local watering holes, and entered through the alley way in the back door. You gotta love a bar with a back door. We ordered a few drinks and Daddy introduced me to this weird fellow named Werner. He's a German guy with very few teeth. He was known as the best house painter in the area. He never spills a single drop of paint. Unfortunately, old man Werner blows all his painting money on beer and gets shitfaced. I met a few other people at the bar, all nice folks. Everyone I met in Indiana said the same thing, "Why the hell did you come here from New York City?"

I told them about the third leg to my secret mission. I was on special assignment by the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Station or C-Boot as I shall refer to it from here on out).

"You see folks, I'm here in Southern Indiana to investigate the subtle art of Donkey Fucking. The people of Canada are intrigued by the Donkey Fucker phenomenon and sent me to find out as much as I can about how some of you whackos participate in the fastest growing hobby in rural America. If you guys have any information, I'd love to buy you a drink and have you tell me everything you know about donkey fucking."

I handed out my business cards. No one offered up any information. Their silence led me to believe that they were covering up. I was on to something. But what? Could I crack the case of the donkey fuckers for C-Boot?

We had an hour before the scheduled 6pm Freezeout. I drank Amber Bock and mingled with the rest of the Happy Hour crew. In the back of the bar we started a quick $10 NL SNG with seven players. There were no blinds, just antes, which increased every time someone was knocked out. Top two places paid.
Aggies Bar SNG:
Seat 1: Daddy
Seat 2: Brad
Seat 3: Bubba
Seat 4: Werner
Seat 5: Bill
Seat 6: Pauly
Seat 7: Fred
On the first hand, three people pushed all in on the flop: A-9-8. Wow. The hands.... 99 vs. 88 vs. A6s. Two people, including Werner, were knocked out. The table was down to five. I made it all the way to the final three. That's when I found The Hammer! I raised on the button and the blinds called. The 8-9-10 rainbow flop gave me an OESD. One guy checked another bet half the pot and I moved all in. One guy called with two pair and I didn't catch any of my outs. The Hammer failed in Hill Jack Country. Hill Jack 1, Hammer 0.

We left Aggies and headed over to Weasel's for the 6pm Freezeout.
The Players - Freezeout #1:
Seat 1: Daddy
Seat 2: Weasel
Seat 3: Shad
Seat 4: TC
Seat 5: C.J.
Seat 6: Bubba
Seat 7: Pauly
Bubba was the only guy from the bar who played with us. $25 buy in. $1000 in chips. 20 minute levels. Welcome to the Hill Jack game.

By then, I had been drinking steadily for six hours and smoking pot with rednecks the rest of the time. We ordered a pizza and it felt good to get some local cuisine in me. The Weasel was a nice host for a squirrelly looking guy. He played a weird combination of music during the game... some country, some gansta rap, and lots of John Cougar Mellencamp.

I folded a lot of hands. Bubba was piss drunk. Daddy told me it gets ugly when he's "on the tequila." He could not figure out chip denominations. I wanted to take some pictures, but I feared for my safety. Hill Jack boys have no problem having their photos taken, but I knew if I busted out my snazzy digital camera, I'd be a mark. Not too many tourists frequent Hill Jack country and I stuck out like suit at a biker rally. I did my best to try to get some more inside information on donkey fucking. Again, the silence scared me. I was seriously on the verge of cracking the story wide open. I figured I might get one of the players to divulge more information as the night evolved.

I was knocked out by TC when I reraised him all in with AKs. His TT held up and I took fourth. By then a few random folks had stopped by. Weasel's house was where a lot of folks did "pre-partying" before they hit the local bars or drove to Bloomington for a night out. Again, I made the rounds and pumped everyone for donkey fucking information. Nothing. I ate more pizza and did a shot of Maker's Mark with C.J.. Yeah, I drank whiskey with the Hill Jack boys and they embraced me like one of their own, aside from the fact that they withheld juicy nuggets of information on donkey fucking.

I went back to the table. Bubba took over the chip lead and was even more hammered. He still could not figure out the chip denominations, "How much fer the red ones again?" seemed to be his catch phrase. I ended up posting his blinds and throwing out bets for him. He could barely keep his eyes open. Yes, Bubba took all our money in the first freezeout.
The Players - Freeze Out #2:
Seat 1: Daddy
Seat 2: TC
Seat 3: Matty
Seat 4: Pauly
Weasel left and we shook hands. He said, "I'm gonna go out and find me a piece of ass."

"Donkey ass?" I wondered.

The second freezeout was smaller. TC was the oldest guy there. He also knew how to play. He lived all over America and dealt poker for a few years at riverboat casinos. He knew his music and told me stories about living in New York City in 1964. He's done some living and was the only one I was worried about. Daddy was tired, a little drunk, and still hungover from his bender the previous night. He was on vapors and I could sense his exhaustion.

I limped in with KQ UTG. Daddy raised me and I called. The flop: K-x-x. I checked and he checked. The turn was a blank. I checked and he bet the pot. I moved all in and he called with 99. He never saw that coming. I won the coinflip (pair vs. two overcards) and knocked out Daddy. That's when I felt "the pukes" coming on. You know that feeling when the stomach juices and acids start shooting up and flaring around in your insides. I knew I was going to throw up. I just wanted to wait until I played my button! I mucked and bolted for the bathroom. I puked four times. The second and third hurls were impressive. I could see bits of pepperoni floating around in the toilet. I flushed a few times and gargled some mouthwash before I wiped the sweat off my face. That shot of whiskey did me in. Makers Mark and marijuana were never a good combination for me. I lumbered back to the table. I felt a lot better and sipped my Miller High Life. We were on the bubble and my plan was to play hyper-aggressive.

TC knocked out Matty. I was heads up with TC and had a small chip lead. On the second hand we ended up pushing all in preflop. I had 89o on the button and he held Big Slick. I outflopped him and issued my first really bad beat on the night. I won first place and broke even for the night. Daddy looked super tired and we headed back. We had to get up at 6am the next day to drive to Cincinnati so he needed some rest.

I looked up at the stars on the way back and I felt a second round of the pukes coming on. I knew that we were close to home and I planned on throwing up in he bushes near the golf course. As soon as Daddy turned down his street, he slowed down a bit. I wanted him to drive faster. He was telling me a story and I couldn't tell you what he was saying because I desperately tried to talk myself out of puking. I did my best.

As soon as Daddy pulled up to his driveway, I pushed his door open and puked. Some of it caught the car door. He quickly ran inside and grabbed me a towel and some water. I sipped a bit and in a half ass attempt tried to wash off the chunks of pepperoni on his car door. My only thought was that Mrs. Trax was seeing me at my worst moment and she wouldn't let Daddy head out to Cincy the next day. Lucky for me, she was inside watching TV and missed my puke-a-thon.

I apologized to Daddy and he shrugged it off.

"Dr. Pauly christened my sled!" he enthusiastically screamed.

My curiosity with the donkey fucking culture got me in trouble. I broke even for the night playing cards, but I lost my mud and blew chunks twice trying to keep up with the Hill Jack boys.

The scoreboard told the tale. Hill Jack 2, Pauly 0.

To be continued...

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