A Brief History of Mike


Dear Hamstring,

I really don’t know if this story is an appropriate follow-up to Mike’s Stephen Hawking piece, but I also don’t care enough to make it an issue. Reading that last post literally brought me to tears, as it was a poignant reminder of my own childhood.  It also reminded me that maybe I should start taking Mike a little more seriously sometimes, which is seriously the last conclusion I would have wanted to reach about him today.  So, now that you’ve cleaned all of the sand out of your vagina, can we please go back into the water?

So, check it- There was this one time, maybe 8 or so years ago, when Mike went apeshit (holy fucking awesome! spell check accepted apeshit as correct!) in our friend’s (the relationship is obviously questionable) apartment and dropped knowledge in the form of piss and turds!

I was hanging out with some friends in Irvine when I got the call from Mike letting me know he, Scott, and Gentry were on their way over to pick me up. They had been at our friend Henry’s apartment drinking with his roommate, Brianna, earlier in the day when I called Mike to let him know I would need a ride back to Orange that night. From the minute Gentry jumped out of the car to greet me I could tell something was a little off with the 4 of them (Brianna was there, too). Mike had this very urgent look on his face. It was the kind of look one gets when they have cocaine in their possession, or the determined stare that emanates from the eyes of a child who really needs to take a poop but is afraid to tell his parents because 10 minutes prior, when asked by them if he needed to go to the bathroom he said “no”. I had known Mike for close to a year at this time and it was obvious to me that 1. he had cocaine in his possession, or 2. he really needed to poop but had just told Gentry that he did, in fact, not need to use the bathroom before leaving Henry’s apartment.  Following a quick slap and pound, Gentry and I entered the car. I sat in the backseat next to Scott, who was squeezing and rubbing Brianna’s tits while they made out. I really don’t remember much else from the car ride, so we’re going to fast forward to Henry’s apartment.

Henry was a wiry Jew from Chicago who sometimes wore an Asics t-shirt and always wore a pair of Buddy Holly styled horn rimmed glasses (this was before those were “trendy” cool, and they may have been the only redeeming characteristic of his appearance ). He was attending the film program at Chapman University and lived off-campus in an apartment that he shared with, yes, you already know, Brianna. I’m not sure where Henry was that night or why Mike and guys were hanging out with his roommate, but about an hour after arriving there Gentry and Scott disappeared with her into her bedroom, leaving Mike and I in the living room with a stereo, two couches, a coffee table, and a bong. This is when shit got weird.

(I recommend clicking here and letting this be the soundtrack for this post from here on out…fast-forward to 1:28 if you’re a fast reader.)

Mike and I were discussing the ingenuity of the drum’n’bass producer, Ed Rush, when the look of urgency began to resurface on his face. The rate at which words exited his mouth gradually dissipated, and our silence was greeted with guttural moans from the adjacent room. Before his eyes could completely trace the trail of potential sex, his feet were leading his penis into Brianna’s bedroom. Within a minute’s time Mike reemerged, naked, and before I could comprehend the magnitude of what was about to happen he had tackled me and was attempting to pin me as if he were King Kong Bundy. There wasn’t much I could do at that time because Mike used to be a lot bigger than me, so I screamed for help. Gentry emerged, shirtless, out of Brianna’s room and immediately attempted to pry Mike off of me. For close to 2 minutes, what looked like a CMNM threesome ensued on floor as we unwillingly wrestled for my freedom. The air was punctured several times by the slapping of Mike’s bologna against our faces. He eventually gave up, groped around for his inhaler, took a pull, and headed for the kitchen. Gentry flashed a “what the fuck was that?” look at me, I reciprocated, and he returned to the bedroom. Unfortunately, this event only served as a catalyst for what was to come.

All I’ve been able to recall from the remainder of that night are unorganized flashes of images; I present them to you in no chronological order-

-Mike standing, still naked, in front of Henry’s dishwasher holding his penis while delivering a stream of urine onto the just washed, mostly likely IKEA cups, plates, forks, knives, and spoons.

-Mike perched, still naked, on top of Henry’s toilet with his feet on the bowl, delivering a, mostly likely, soft serve style stream of hot poop into the water filled chamber of the open tank while simultaneously peeing on the floor. This, I would later learn, is his signature disgruntled houseguest move; The Upper Decker. Oh, and while this was happening he was reading one of Henry’s Playboys. Following the Upper Decker he used one of Henry’s shirts (was it the Asics shirt?) to wipe, and then threw it onto Henry’s bed.

-Mike picking up, holding, and then dropping and shattering Henry’s 2 ft. glass bong onto the coffee table.

-Mike toppling the two couches and strategically placing one against the front entryway door, almost as if to serve as a barricade.

-Mike chucking eggs into the living room walls.

Yes, I followed him every step of the way. How could I not? The eloquence with which he expressed himself that night was breathtaking. It was as if he was channelling our early ancestors, the great Home rhodesiensis.

When he came to, and the fervor that held him began to melt away, we were overtaken with laughter. We laughed as we exited through the side window of his apartment (the front door was barricaded, remember?), and as we leapt over patio fences, and during the entire car ride home. Scott and Gentry, unfortunately, did not laugh when they awoke the following morning to find themselves trapped in the wake of Mike’s fugue.

Yep, that’s the Mike I know and love. And now I guess it all makes sense.

For you, Mike,

Tyler