Usually when the RU crew goes to a party or a UFC event, we come back with an epic story to tell. But recently we all traveled to Boston, partied hard, had a great time, and nothing extraordinary happened. There was no Angry Hobbit, all night Beer Pong, coked up psycho chicks, or wayward youths to guide through life. What we did have though, were ribs. Ribs from hell for the persn who will only be referred to by his secret agent name, “The Mole.”
“You’re really going to box those up?” I asked. After ordering a slab of ribs that came from Sasquatch itself and being unable to finish what he started, The Mole proceeded to box them up as if he intended to race straight home and put them in a frosty refrigerator to prevent bacterial rot-gut infestation. Therein lay the problem.
“Yeah, why?” he said, unwilling to follow my logic.
“When do you intend to eat them?”
“When I get hungry later.”
“We’re going to a party for the next five hours and they’ll get rancid with gangrene,” I said. “You don’t want to eat those.”
“Stomach of a goat,” he proclaimed proudly thumping his moley gut. “You should be so lucky old man.”
At that point I dropped it. Festering meat and a healthy dose of “I told you so” sounded like a good way for my evening to end, so I let youth be youth.
So there we were, having a great time at Tequila Rain by Fenway Park in Boston. Surrounded by UFC fighters, hot chicks, and…vodka. Lots of vodka. It’s only for this reason that our Mole isn’t a full fledged douche of the week for what happened next because I can almost understand it. It doesn’t stop me from busting his balls though. You see, Mole is a twenty-two year old Infantryman and professional race car driver. As such he’s indestructible in his own mind. He downed the vodka like Lindsay Lohan after prying off her ankle cuffs. Kid couldn’t get enough of the stuff. And what happens when young people get drunk? They get the munchies.
“Time for the ribs,” Mole says around 1 am.
“I’m telling you, you don’t want to do that.” I repeated my warning, knowing it would do no good. Within minutes the half slab was devoured and Mole was the topic of many photos out of the sheer disbelief that someone was eating a slab of short ribs at 1 o’clock in the morning at a bar.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said proudly. After a short cab ride back to our hotel we parted that evening and I ate crow for being wrong about the ribs.
Or so I thought.
“Dude…he was in bad shape,” Ranger Up’s designer, Luciano said the next day. “I got back to the hotel, walked into the bathroom to take a piss, and there he was…passed out in the bath, covered in bubbles and rib vomit. I thought he was dead.”
I still haven’t stopped laughing.
Moral of the story – You can’t have your ribs and eat them too, especially if you intend to take a bubble bath.