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Authors: David Steinberg
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in utter disbelief.
But it was Chuck and he was headed right toward them. After a proverbial double-take, Chuck exclaimed, “Holy shit! It’s the itty bitty limp dick committee.”
After some congratulatory high-fives from his buddies, Chuck followed it up with his trademark, “S’up, ladies?”
Dylan was a little buzzed and decided it was finally time to address the issue that had irked the entire school for years. “Look, Chuck. We’re about to graduate. You think you could retire the ‘s’up, ladies?’ line?”
“Whatever, dude.”
“No, seriously,” Dylan continued. “I think you should segue to ‘wassuuuuup!’” he said with an “urban” flair, calling back that decade-old catch-phrase from those Budweiser commercials that took the country by storm.
But Chuck seemed unfamiliar with the concept, so Dylan put the exclamation on the point: “That’ll go over like gangbusters at Manchester Community College next year.”
Zing.
Chuck was actually kind of offended. You could tell by the tone of his “Fuck you.”
Chuck retreated back to his buddies who were already ordering beers from a not-quite-hot-enough waitress.
Noah turned to Dylan and failed to whisper, “You’re giving him too much credit. You still have to know how to read to get in to Manchester.”
The guys all shared a laugh, until Chuck turned back to face them.
Oops.
They stopped laughing.
But Chuck didn’t look mad. He looked hurt.
“Hey, I heard that. And for your information, I’m dyslexic, man.”
The guys looked at each other. That was not expected.
Chuck continued, starting to get a little emotional, “So excuse me if I’m not going to a fucking Ivy League school, asshole, but reading is really hard work for me and it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
Chuck just stood there looking embarrassed, and this only made the guys feel even more like shit.
“I’m sorry, man,” Noah apologized.
“Yeah, we didn’t know,” Dylan said, looking contrite as well.
“Have you tried ‘Hooked on Phonics’?” Walker added, sincerely trying to be helpful.
Dylan elbowed him.
Chuck took a deep, pained breath.
Dylan knew one way to bury the hatchet for good. “Look, man. Let us buy you a lap dance. No hard feelings?”
Chuck tried to get past his surge of emotions. “Yeah, okay.”
Dylan patted him on the back and said, “There you go. Class of 2012 has to stick together, right?”
Chuck nodded, still too choked up to speak. Dylan escorted him through the club to go find a stripper.
“Awk-ward,” Walker chirped under his breath.
Five minutes and one airplay of Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” later, Chuck explained over a Long Island Ice Tea that he and Marco had had a falling out. It seemed that Chuck had worked as Marco’s personal bouncer all these years for no pay, just free entry into the parties. But after four years Chuck finally realized that he never got to go to any of the parties because he was always standing at the front door all night long. So Chuck asked Marco if he could just attend Beach Weekend without working the door. He even offered to bring the customary alcohol.
But Marco flew into a rage. “You ungrateful bastard!” he shouted, like he’d rescued Chuck from an animal shelter and now Chuck was refusing to guard the junkyard. “Who’s gonna man the door?”
“Dunno,” Chuck replied, then had the nerve to ask, “Why does there need to be a bouncer at the door anyway? I mean, who’s gonna drive all the way down to Rhode Island just to crash your party?”
Marco just glared at him. “Look, I’ll make it simple for you,” Marco threatened, “Either you work the door or you don’t show up.”
“What a dick,” Dylan said sympathetically.
So, long story long, Chuck discussed it with the rest of the team and they took a vote to support Chuck and boycott Marco’s. Steve Wasnicki’s brother lived in the city and the rest was history.
The guys sat and listened, and it occurred
But it was Chuck and he was headed right toward them. After a proverbial double-take, Chuck exclaimed, “Holy shit! It’s the itty bitty limp dick committee.”
After some congratulatory high-fives from his buddies, Chuck followed it up with his trademark, “S’up, ladies?”
Dylan was a little buzzed and decided it was finally time to address the issue that had irked the entire school for years. “Look, Chuck. We’re about to graduate. You think you could retire the ‘s’up, ladies?’ line?”
“Whatever, dude.”
“No, seriously,” Dylan continued. “I think you should segue to ‘wassuuuuup!’” he said with an “urban” flair, calling back that decade-old catch-phrase from those Budweiser commercials that took the country by storm.
But Chuck seemed unfamiliar with the concept, so Dylan put the exclamation on the point: “That’ll go over like gangbusters at Manchester Community College next year.”
Zing.
Chuck was actually kind of offended. You could tell by the tone of his “Fuck you.”
Chuck retreated back to his buddies who were already ordering beers from a not-quite-hot-enough waitress.
Noah turned to Dylan and failed to whisper, “You’re giving him too much credit. You still have to know how to read to get in to Manchester.”
The guys all shared a laugh, until Chuck turned back to face them.
Oops.
They stopped laughing.
But Chuck didn’t look mad. He looked hurt.
“Hey, I heard that. And for your information, I’m dyslexic, man.”
The guys looked at each other. That was not expected.
Chuck continued, starting to get a little emotional, “So excuse me if I’m not going to a fucking Ivy League school, asshole, but reading is really hard work for me and it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
Chuck just stood there looking embarrassed, and this only made the guys feel even more like shit.
“I’m sorry, man,” Noah apologized.
“Yeah, we didn’t know,” Dylan said, looking contrite as well.
“Have you tried ‘Hooked on Phonics’?” Walker added, sincerely trying to be helpful.
Dylan elbowed him.
Chuck took a deep, pained breath.
Dylan knew one way to bury the hatchet for good. “Look, man. Let us buy you a lap dance. No hard feelings?”
Chuck tried to get past his surge of emotions. “Yeah, okay.”
Dylan patted him on the back and said, “There you go. Class of 2012 has to stick together, right?”
Chuck nodded, still too choked up to speak. Dylan escorted him through the club to go find a stripper.
“Awk-ward,” Walker chirped under his breath.
Five minutes and one airplay of Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” later, Chuck explained over a Long Island Ice Tea that he and Marco had had a falling out. It seemed that Chuck had worked as Marco’s personal bouncer all these years for no pay, just free entry into the parties. But after four years Chuck finally realized that he never got to go to any of the parties because he was always standing at the front door all night long. So Chuck asked Marco if he could just attend Beach Weekend without working the door. He even offered to bring the customary alcohol.
But Marco flew into a rage. “You ungrateful bastard!” he shouted, like he’d rescued Chuck from an animal shelter and now Chuck was refusing to guard the junkyard. “Who’s gonna man the door?”
“Dunno,” Chuck replied, then had the nerve to ask, “Why does there need to be a bouncer at the door anyway? I mean, who’s gonna drive all the way down to Rhode Island just to crash your party?”
Marco just glared at him. “Look, I’ll make it simple for you,” Marco threatened, “Either you work the door or you don’t show up.”
“What a dick,” Dylan said sympathetically.
So, long story long, Chuck discussed it with the rest of the team and they took a vote to support Chuck and boycott Marco’s. Steve Wasnicki’s brother lived in the city and the rest was history.
The guys sat and listened, and it occurred
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