Staten Island is the cesspool of New York, don’t let anyone tell you differently. To this day, I still have no idea how Deekweed and I wound up in the middle of “fistpump, USA” but nonetheless, we were there, and god damn, we were going to make the best of it.
So we walk in on this block party and to our dismay there are fist-pumping douchebags as far as the eye can see. Surveying the festivities, I notice a ‘Tiki Bar’ set up on the side of a street; immediately, a smile breaks out on my face as Deekweed and I both make a beeline to the bar.
Me: “Dude, free booze!”
Deekweed: “Lets do this.”
Stimulating conversation, no?
Anyways, we walk up to the ‘roided out Guido behind the counter, and I flash my toothiest grin;
“I’ll take a Jack and Coke” I say instinctually.
Within seconds my drink slides across the counter to me.
Barely thirty seconds later, I’m asking for another one.
This process continues for a good thirty minutes before I get bored.
Time to switch to Vodka and Redbull.
The party is just getting started as Deekweed and me are in the middle of thirty year old Guidos, pounding back round after round of God’s nectar. That is when we noticed it, however. Gleaming in the sunlight, the light reflecting off its horn, it stood illuminated, like some statue of the Gods.
The mechanical bull stood there, surrounded by - dare I breath their name? - carnies! Yes, carnival folk.
Coming to an unspoken agreement, Deekweed and I headed over to the mechanical bull - straws were drawn, and I won.
As Deekweed hopped on the mechanical bull, my phone entered my hand and began to record.
Within two seconds he was bucked off the back of it; his testicles firmly clamped between his thigh and the cold steel of the bull, I giddily watched his face contort in agony.
Within four seconds, he was off of the bull, holding onto the inflatable container under his body for dear life.
Deekweed: “Your turn asshole.”
Without a word, I eyed the beast before me; truly, this was no easy feat. Mounting the beast, I immediately held on and began to pray to every major and minor God that I knew of to protect me.
The moment the ride began, I immediately lost my balance and fell perpendicular to the ride; holding on and screaming to Vishnu to save me, I made it to five seconds before being viciously thrown from the bull. After gathering my bearings, I stumbled to the Carnies and offered them a drink; they deserved one for their hard work. Nicking a bottle of Malibu from underneath a counter, I brought it over to them in a sign of friendship.
Within twenty minutes, Deekweed, me, and the carnies were entering “blackout territory.” Undeterred, however, I stepped up to the controls for the mechanical bull and attempted to control it for the next participant; my actions resulted in a near-death experience before I was restrained by our new-found friends and sent back to the bar for more refreshments.
Stumbling back to the bar, I can’t help but notice the biggest black man that I have ever seen in my life taking shot after shot with ease.
Me: “Deekweed, this man is a God.”
Deekweed: “A black God.”
Me: “A big black God.”
Intrigued yet undeterred, we continue on our path to the bar. Upon arrival, we immediately order four Jagerbombs for the two of us. The moment we begin to pound them back, the bartender starts chanting,
“JAGERBOMB, JAGERBOMB, JAGERBOMB WOOO!”
Naturally, this gets my showboat blood pumping as I down them and ask for another four; tonight should be interesting. While we are pounding down these beautiful depth charges, however, the black man from earlier approaches us and tells us to pause; he then orders six more Jagerbombs, slides them across to us, and begins to drink them like they’re water.
From somewhere behind us, a chant arose which slowly began to get picked up by everyone around us,
“BLACK, JACK! BLACK, JACK! BLACK JACK WOOO!”
And then it hits us. Dickweed and I stare at each other as we realize that this magnificent alcoholic was indeed Black Jack. These thoughts are promptly washed away by more jagerbombs shots of Cafe Patron at the urgence of Black Jack - and shit, who could refuse a guy named Black Jack?
Sometime after the drinks, I remember sitting down against the base of a tree and passing out, but the rest of the evening vanished in a fog, as once again, Dickweed managed to get both of us home alive.
God bless you Dickweed, god bless you.