If you’ve read this far, you’re fucked.
I kid you not — you’ve been sucked into the opinion page from hell. It’s more like a section, but let me preface this ramble by saying that the columns that will follow are so political, so concrete, so green and red that you may actually be politically moved — that, or you’ll spew out Christmas-colored puke.
I was hoping my solution to your election-induced stomachache would be to write a self-serving, liquor-driven endorsement for myself as A.S. president, but apparently, I could lose my job for such behavior.
Instead, I figured I would undermine all of these heartfelt political columns that follow with a little tale about gonzo journalism gone wrong.
It really was a great idea — in theory, at least. But as my good pal and role model Homer Simpson once said, “In theory, Marge, in theory, you can prove anything.” Homer was right — it really was a bad idea — but in theory, it sure as hell sounded fun. The two bike-riding girls who quipped to my roommate and me were also right: “It’s a bad day to go rafting,” one said. “You’ll float to Los Angeles,” the other added.
Not quite Los Angeles, but close.
Their advice was good. My problem, however, was that, when carrying a raft on a sunny day with a 30-pack, a giant sandwich and a couple of good buddies, why wouldn’t we want to go out on the ocean and kick a few back? In the end though, my headstrong, ill-advised expedition idea almost led to our demise.
So after charging into the ocean outside my DP residence on a raft, it was only a matter of minutes before we realized the dire nature of our circumstances.
Of course, the three males on the raft were far more concerned with doing some damage to our brew than how fast the current, coupled with the prevailing winds, were carrying us farther away from the shore. Using some rather shaky, testosterone-fueled logic, we maintained that, as long as the Channel Islands looked farther away than my house, we were fine to continue floating around and drowning ourselves in booze. The one female, my esteemed Nexite colleague Dina Vainer, suggested that we at least get a little bit closer to shore to prevent more work later on while inebriated. We tried her suggestion, quickly realized our paddling efforts were in vain, and than started to worry.
The next 45 minutes or so consisted of very little beer-consumption and much more of a sustained paddle effort. Our proximity to the shore did not increase — at all. Rather than being adrift in front of my house close to the end of the 6600 block of DP as I had envisioned, we were past Manzanita Village and getting close to Campus Point. We were cold, tired — and worst of all — sober. At this point, I started to get philosophical. I’m not a religious man, but I thought maybe it was God’s way of punishing me for my blasphemous ways. Perhaps it was karma catching up to me for any girls I have pissed off in my days.
And then came the kayakers.
My debaucheristic ways shall continue.
The two ocean kayakers ventured all the way out to pick our rookie-rafting asses up and carry us back to shore. At that point, we were freezing to an almost delirious degree. When they finally brought us back to shore, we had lost the sandwich, and much to my chagrin, many of the beers were jettisoned out to sea.
After the ordeal, my roommate and I enjoyed a few cold ones — and believe me, that ocean water kept them nice and cold — with our saviors. My hands were so cold and shaky that I could barely even make the beer reach its intended target of my mouth. But I will tell you this much: After our little rafting fiasco that would have made some superb reality TV, that was the best goddamned beer I had ever tasted.
Thank you, kayakers.
My liver shall live to fight another day.
Daily Nexus assistant opinion editor Sean Swaby was last seen back at sea donning a snorkel and goggles trying to salvage his lost beers.