The College Years, Part IV: My Friend Dick Always Gets Me Into Trouble...

“Nova-dude, will you get your buddy out of the bathroom?! Like, NOW!”

Slim Gene Cream, the 300-pound fraternity brother, was pissed off. Apparently, my friend Dick had locked himself in the lavatory. Worse yet, the drunken partygoers had no place to urinate except the sink (which was full of dirty dishes, dirtier panties, and even dirtier used condoms).

“If you don’t get him out, we’ll put the hurt on him – and then on YOU, MR. NOVA!” Slim said with his finger jabbing at me.

It was decided then. I didn’t want this behemoth finding a way to put me out of commission; I still had much work to do. Much snatch to pound.

“What happened? What he do to your frat?” I asked, opting to stall using the inquisitive approach.

“First of all, don’t EVER call my fraternity a ‘frat!’ I don’t call your country a ‘cunt,’ do I?! As for Dick, he knocked a beer off of a ledge when he was packin’ his smokes! Total party foul! Then that beer spilled all over the bass player’s girlfriend’s tits! She was always a stuck-up bitch and this made her face turn redder than a faggot’s asshole!”

I briefly pondered how Slim would know what a faggot’s asshole looked like, but thought better of asking that question. “Damn, that sounds major,” I empathetically conceded. “I can’t believe Dick would waste beer like that. So what made him go into the bathroom?”

Slim looked as if he was remembering a battle from long ago... like he had been on the frontlines as a Marine grunt during the Vietnam War, and was experiencing a flashback of the time Bob Hope shit his pants onstage during the USO tour. He just stared at the bathroom door and spoke as if narrating a movie: “He look embarrassed... but then he offered the stuck-up bitch his own shirt. It was a heroic gesture, but she gave him the meanest look I had ever seen. Then her boyfriend came over to see what was going on. She told the bass-playing dude to stand up for her. She showed the dork her beer-drenched shirt. Her nipples were all perky and hard and sticking out. He said to Dick, ‘That’s not cool, man.’ Dick then looked like he was going to puke. He pushed the unhappy couple out of the way and headed for the bathroom. After throwing out the occupant, he slammed the door shut behind him. He has been in there ever since.”

“When did this happen?”

“30 minutes ago, Nova. The people are getting angry. I don’t know how much longer their bladders can hold out!” Slim Gene Cream put his hand on my shoulder and in his most urgent tone said to me: “You must get him out of there or the consequences will be cataclysmic!”

I thought to myself that this 300-pound fraternity brother had a helluva vocabulary, especially for someone who just won a 15-team beer bong tournament and downed four shots of Jägermeister. I looked over at the bass player and his girlfriend, and saw that she was crying onto his shoulder. He looked dazed. Probably did some nasty drugs before his performance and really didn’t give a shit. Slim Gene Cream’s frat (oops, fraternity) brothers were flanking him – and giving me stern (but drunk) looks. I made my move.

“I will do my best, but the only way I know how: Nova-style, baby!”

I felt just like Jesus Christ, right before he escaped from the whale’s belly to slay Goliath. (Or whatever he did. Nova never went to Sunday School.) The people waiting in line gave me such looks of animosity that I actually feared for Dick’s life if he ever made it out of the poop-room. Guys and girls were squirming in their pants, desperately awaiting the chance to relieve the immense pain building up after consuming massive amounts of alcohol. One freshman girl was crying hysterically, with a gigantic yellow stain over the crotch of her jeans. I honestly didn’t know what the big deal was; between the balcony and the fish tank, there were plenty of places to take a leak.

I reached the bathroom door and lightly tapped on it. “Dick, come out... These people are starting to become angry. I don’t want to break up another mob.”

“My hand is stuck. And I’m drunk,” Dick said. He sure sounded pathetic. Why was his hand stuck?

“Why is you hand stuck?” I asked.

“I punched a hole in the wall. I got mad. I offered that bitch my shirt when I spilled all of that sweet beer on her. She wouldn’t take it. So I got mad and came in here. After I puked, I got so pissed I punched a hole in the wall!”

“Well let me in, you dumbass! I’ll help you get your hand out.”

I heard Dick sigh. “I am blocking the door. My hand is stuck right above the light switch. I am lucky I didn’t electrocute myself.”

“You are damn lucky! If you were to die that way it would be an electrocity!” I don’t think Dick got my joke. In fact, I was so drunk, I don’t even understand that joke. (It must be a play on words, or something.)

I had to think fast. The mob was starting to form. I didn’t want the Nova Bastille to fall and face death via the guillotine. I liked my heads, especially the one that has one eye and spits.

“Dick! Just grab some soap, lube your hand up, and pull it out really fast!”

“But it is gonna hurt!” he whined.

“Quit being a baby and fucking do it!” I commanded.

I heard some shuffling of feet and the faucet being turned on. He must have been getting the soap wet. There was a sound of fumbling and then something dropped to the floor.

“FUCK!” Dick yelled.

“You alright?” I asked, pressing my ear to the door to hear better.

The mob was swelling, getting closer. They were yelling at me to “Get him the fuck outa there!” I stayed focused.

I could hear Dick twisting his hand in the hole he made out of anger. “I’m ready,” he said.

I pulled away from the door. I held the mob at bay with my back to them and arms outstretched, ala Gandolf. Those people SHALL NOT pass!

“Alright, Dick! You can do it! Pull it out, buddy!” I exclaimed like any good coach would in a last-minute situation.

There was a loud “Ahhhhggggghhhhh!” and then a thump and a crash. The bathroom door swung open and Dick emerged with a bloody left hand. I ran forward, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out into the hallway and into safety.

The mob calmed down and went about the process of relieving their bladders. I went back in to tell Slim Gene Cream that everything was alright, explaining Dick’s unseemly behavior with an elaborate story about how he was actually a frickin’ retard. Nobody doubted a single word I said.

I looked around; Dick was nowhere to be seen. Where had my new friend gone? He needed to go to a hospital. Something had to be done.

How this epic tale ended is beyond Earthly comprehension...