This is where GrumpyGOP will [hopefully] regale us with stories of his choosing, though I bet he'll take requests too.

7/18/2013 1:30:20 PM

I have no idea who that dude is

7/18/2013 1:33:52 PM

hopefully he hasn't been murdered for looking at a talking haystack lately

7/18/2013 1:42:41 PM

Isnt he a cop?

7/18/2013 5:23:12 PM

You're thinking of Republican18.

7/18/2013 5:26:44 PM

Isn't there already a thread for this? I thought we told you to keep this shit in euphalo

I'm Krallum and I approved this message.

7/18/2013 5:31:10 PM

^ There is a thread for his Africa stories. We demand more.

7/18/2013 5:50:00 PM

Who is we

I'm Krallum and I approved this message.

7/18/2013 6:06:07 PM

7/18/2013 6:16:58 PM

Oh, hello.

Sorry I haven't been online lately to see this. It's really quite flattering.

Stories, eh? Well at this point these are so far in the past that no potential employer would care, so here's one...

I have purchased marijuana twice in my life, each time for a different woman. There was a period during undergrad when I wouldn't necessarily turn down a proffered hit, but by and large I figured out early on that I was a booze man and didn't need anything illegal for personal consumption.

First time was for my girlfriend. She'd been bugging me about wanting to try pot for months, finally I caved. We went to a friend of mine who used to specialize in this sort of thing. He must have found it pretty funny, because I had no idea what I was doing:

"So how much do you want?"
"Uh...the usual amount?"
"So like what, a dime-bag, an eighth...?"
"I really don't know."
"How much were you looking to spend?"
"I was hoping to get away spending less than $100."
"Jesus, you're dumb."

I think we got a quarter for $40, but maybe I'm misremembering. Point is, on the way home we had an accident. 100% the other guy's fault -- he backed into us -- but it made my girlfriend so paranoid that she threw the whole thing down the toilet as soon as we got home and most emphatically did not have "thank you for going out of your comfort zone to help me experiment" sex with me.

Flash forward a few years, and I am desperately trying to get with this girl who was a huge pothead but was terrible at buying pot. I was so stupidly head-over-heels that naturally I volunteered. (To my credit, at least by this point she had stopped fucking my roommate, which is the most pathetic part of this tale and therefore one that we are going to blow right past)

I go to the same friend, have the same idiotic conversation, get the same thing. He even gave me a bit extra for some reason I've now forgotten, maybe just the goodness of his heart. I bring it back, the girl shows up, smokes the extra little portion and says it is shitty, leaving me to masturbate and contemplate what I'm going to do with the rest of these drugs. I don't want them -- don't have anything to smoke them with -- but I also don't want to just flush them again. So I ask around, find some friends who would like some, and sell it in two lots.

Later I did the math and realized I had lost $10. Selling drugs.

Folks, if you can lose money selling drugs, you have no business in private enterprise. And that was the moment that I knew for sure I had to work for the government.

---

That story is not very good but I was just telling it earlier today so it was on my mind. Sorry. I should have internet again tomorrow so I can redeem myself but right now this cafe says I have three minutes left.

8/2/2013 6:58:13 AM

i laughed.

8/2/2013 8:07:41 AM

Quote :

"Folks, if you can lose money selling drugs, you have no business in private enterprise. And that was the moment that I knew for sure I had to work for the government."

HAHAHA!

8/2/2013 8:19:20 AM

Haha

8/2/2013 8:43:42 AM

haha lawlz were had

thanks grumpy!

8/2/2013 10:14:52 AM

Quote :

""So how much do you want?" "Uh...the usual amount?""

lol

"i'll take one please"

8/2/2013 10:28:20 AM

if your dealer sells dime bags, you're gonna have a bad schwag time.

8/2/2013 12:48:13 PM

one drugs please, sir

8/2/2013 12:54:15 PM

oh, youre a junkie, no wonder you get all butthurt lol

8/2/2013 1:12:21 PM

yeah ill have the regular

8/2/2013 1:16:00 PM

good story GrumpyGOP. Dude is like face, but his stories are actually believable.

8/2/2013 1:20:59 PM

Quote :

"oh, youre a junkie, no wonder you get all butthurt lol"

LULZ

this is why i love you NCSUStinger

8/2/2013 2:47:53 PM

haha

8/2/2013 3:57:34 PM

I used to live in the skinny house on Method Road, and there are a number of stories associated with that place because I lived with a huge nerd, a lumberjack, and a tiny Rwandan man described as "a human hurricane" because of his capacity for destruction. Also, we were all really deplorable drunks. But two stories from that period in my life stand out in my mind, because they both involve angry mobs -- one which was led against me, and the other of which I led.

The first time would have been 2005 or so. The lumberjack was feeling kind of low and it was bumming us out, so we were thrilled to discover that this girl he wanted to bang had invited him to her birthday party at some or another apartment complex in Raleigh. We talked him into going and ended up taking my car to the event. The hurricane, the nerd, the nerd's girlfriend, and some guy I barely knew who had a stupid name -- Chet, maybe? -- came with us.

The apartment is on the top floor, and as soon as we arrive this girl recognizes the nerd and throws herself at him. He's always been preposterously good with women, I don't know why. His girlfriend cleared her throat and sent her a death stare, so she climbed down off him, looked at Chet, and said, "You'll do." Then they disappeared.

Pretty quickly it became apparent that operation "get the lumberjack laid" was not going to work out. The girl he was after was much more interesed in her ex. Meanwhile the Hurricane was the only black guy at the party and we were getting the impression that he was not particularly welcome. So we started gathering people to leave but we couldn't find Chet, who was our DD.

The girl he was with reappears, having obviously just fucked Chet in my car. I said, "Where's Chet?" She answered, "Who?"
Me: "The guy you just disappeared with for half an hour."
Her: "Oh. I didn't get his name."
Me: "That's because you're a whore."

She started shrieking and ran inside. The lumberjack gave me a look that spoke nothing but fear, which I thought was excessive until another girl came out, shouted, "Nobody calls my roommate a whore!" and kicked me in the balls, hard. Which would have been bad enough, except I was standing with my back to the stairs which I then fell down.

By now the whore has started rallying guys to her cause. It's an NC State party, so of course there's about 100 guys and maybe 5 girls, so all these dudes are falling all over each other trying to come kick my ass and impress one the ladies. The lumberjack tells me to go, and I limp down the stairs.

Then the lumberjack did the second coolest thing I saw in college. He took off his shirt, drained his beer, and then, facing the mob, smashed the bottle on the wall and said, "Any of you people follow me, I'm gonna knock your dicks in the dirt."

Most of us our in the car, but the mob has reorganized and is surging towards us. At the head of this mob is this girl with impossibly huge tits. The Rwandan, who had spoken with her earlier, made a last effort to calm things down. And in the process, he did the coolest thing I saw in college.

Facing her, he says, "C'mon, he didn't mean it, you're chill, you..." then his eyes glazed over and he just started slapping her boobs like they were bongos.

I don't know if it calmed the mob, but it confused them long enough that we got away.

8/10/2013 9:45:26 AM

8/10/2013 9:54:10 AM

lmao. <3

8/10/2013 9:59:51 AM

And now the story of the mob you led...

8/10/2013 9:59:53 AM

New favorite thread.

8/10/2013 10:40:03 AM

So I guess the mob I led wasn't really a mob, more like a hit squad.

After our lease was up at the skinny house, lumberjack and the hurricane went their separate ways, so nerd and I needed a new place to stay and we chose another nerd to round out the numbers. This one ended up joining the navy because of a series of events that really culminated in him jumping off the skinny house porch and breaking both his ankles, so to this day he is in my phone as Anky McFall.

So anyway, early on the nerd finds a guy who is about our age and needs someone to replace him in a house that his dad owns and had been renting to him and some others. It was a big place on Long and Winding Road. Cool neighbors, lot of other college kids, awesome two-story house with garage and a yard, which was important because by now we had a dog. The arrangement we made was very informal, and this is when I started thinking that the whole thing was too good to be true. And, of course, it was.

This guy had been squatting at the house for months and had basically gotten the previous tenants thrown out. We found all this out after my buddy paid a $200 security deposit -- in cash -- and moved some stuff in, only to return and find all his stuff out by the curb. The house's real owner had thought it was the squatter's. Come to find out, the dude had given us a fake name, and his own father had sworn out a warrant for his arrest.

The real owner felt a bond with us because we'd both been screwed by the same con man, so he let us move in with pretty much the same sweet deal. So we had a place to stay. But we were pissed at the con man and nerd wanted his money back. So we got his last known addresses and assembled the most ridiculous team ever to go on such a mission.

There's me with my machete -- I carried around a machete a LOT, even before I moved to Africa -- and then there's nerd, who has one of those cheap katana swords for some reason. Anky McFall had a knife, I think. And we had somehow convinced my indian buddy -- who is as straightlaced, conflict-averse, and rule-loving as the stereotype could want -- to come along. He had a broom handle. We're all riding around in my Corolla, looking for this guy so that we can...I have no idea what the plan was. None of us could have been planning to actually work him over. If the sight of us didn't cow him into submission we didn't really have a follow-up. More likely, he would have had a stroke from laughing so hard at the sight of us.

In the end, we mostly just confused a handful of twentysomethings that had subsequently moved into his various last knowns and who had no idea what we were talking about. None of them appeared to be particularly intimidated, but I'm equally sure that none of them was lying on the conman's behalf -- as the detective in charge of his case told us, "Nobody likes this piece of shit."

As far as I know, the conman was never found by anybody. I would be faintly shocked if he's still alive today, because he wasn't real bright and sooner or later he was bound to piss off somebody who was actually willing to take a machete to him.

8/10/2013 11:54:26 AM

Double post follow up:

We only lived in that house for one summer before the owner sold it, but it was probably the best summer of my life, because that was the Summer of the Bar.

Our neighbors were some fairly rednecky folks who were our age but didn't go to NCSU. We got along with them really well. We were at their house one night, and I was discussing my plan to get a bar for the garage. I was thinking small -- probably more of just a liquor cabinet with a tabletop, maybe on wheels. At this point one of the neighbor's friends offered up that his parents had a bar that they wanted to get rid of, no charge.

Looking back, what happened was pretty fucking sketchy. According to our friend, the bar was in a house owned by his parents that was about to be foreclosed on. They didn't have the means to empty the house out, so supposedly we were free to have at it. One day the guy shows up with the trailer and says we have to get everything out that night, before the foreclosure went through. At no point did I actually talk to the adults who were supposedly involved. To this day I hope we didn't just steal a bunch of shit.

But even if we did, it was worth it, because his bar was a real fucking bar. Twenty feet long and ten feet deep in an L-shape. Hardwood paneling. Fifteen barstools. It had been in a series of restaurants, each with a different style, so the panels were over tiles that were put on for an Italian theme and which about doubled the weight of each of the three pieces. We worked like demons to take it apart, load it, and get it home by about 2 AM. By this point most of us were drunk on joy and liquor and decided we were damn well going to reassemble it before we slept.

And so, the first lights of dawn fell on our new prized possession.

From that point on, our lives revolved around that bar. We ate dinner on it. We brought a TV out and set up a lounge area in the other half of the garage. And then we discovered another advantage: if you left the garage door open, people would just walk in off the street and start a party.

Every weekend after work, that's what we did. People walking to other house parties would decide that they liked our place better. We'd have fifty, sixty people hanging out -- maybe ten of whom we'd known beforehand. A guy who came by a couple of times was a professional bartender and made drinks and did tricks for free. At one point, I put out a tip jar. Every morning it would have $20+ in it. That bar was instrumental in losing my virginity and getting my first girlfriend. (Yes, I was too old for either of those to be going on, leave it alone) On more than one occasion, I slept on the bar rather than go up to my bed.

When the landlord told us we had to go, I could have cried. We took the bar with us to the next house, but the only place it would fit was the fairly dank basement. In the end, I put up a craigslist ad saying it was free as long as I didn't have to lift a finger to move it. It ended up in a carpentry shop, because of course it's a good idea for people to drink while using woodworking tools.

8/10/2013 12:08:49 PM

Aww, what a nice story.

Also, lol at the hit squad story.

you should write a book or something.

8/10/2013 12:16:25 PM

I'm going to give you a sampling of some mini-stories from my early years, to give you some idea how I ended up like this.

My dad's cousin set him up with my mom because he thought they both needed to get laid. He did not anticipate an actual relationship. But within a year, they were married. It happened three days after my mom's divorce was final, and took place at the courthouse. Their honeymoon consisted of watching one of mom's friends play pacman at a bar.

Mom had told dad she didn't want kids, but not long after she changed her tune and started nagging him. Apparently one day they were watching the Greensboro Bats play ball, and she was talking about how great it would be if he had a son to take to the game. Finally he stood up and shouted, "Fine! If you'll just shut up, I'll get you pregnant tomorrow!" And so he did.

From my earliest youth dad made it very clear that he had not wanted to have me. Instead of the stork story, we got the dump story. One day mom and dad were dropping some garbage off at the landfill and saw me lying in the garbage, being fed by seagulls and rats. Mom made him take me home. This story didn't bother us much because my brother and I LOVED our weekly trips with dad to the dump, because there were cool machines and weird animals and stuff.

(None of this should be taken to mean that my dad is anything but awesome at being a dad. Once he was bullied into the job he did it exceptionally well. It's just that one of his key pieces of advice has always been, "Boys, listen to me: women lie.")

The first song I learned the words to was "Alabama Song" by the Doors. The main lines in which are "Show me the way to the next whiskey bar...for if we don't find the next whiskey bar, I tell you we must die." We call this "prophecy."

We lived kind of in the middle of nowhere, so I didn't have much in the way of friends my own age. I did, however, go with my great uncle to walk with the old people at the mall every morning, and those geezers were the shit. There is no such thing as a boring World War II story. This is also where I learned to march, which is the only thing I was good at in ROTC.

At one point in middle school I made a joke about offing myself in shame for a bad grade. This landed me with the guidance counselor. After a couple of meetings that I thought were pretty benign, she called in my mom and said, "I think your son is the next Ted Kaczynski."

Mom thought this was bullshit, but she used it to her advantage. At another school I got bullied, but the principal did not like white people so she didn't do anything about it. Mom had a meeting with her in which she said, "My son is very smart. Probably smart enough to figure out how to make a pipe bomb."

8/10/2013 6:26:57 PM

YOU'RE the guy with that bar?!?! I went by there many times and got hammered just walking to my friends house.

I remember knowing only one guy that lived there but having some underage kid try and sneak a bottle of liquor and we caught him..so we told him he had to chug it halfway and he could have the rest.

I'm not sure what was in the bottle, maybe wild turkey? Anyways, the kid started chugging and turned purple. He got halfway through and the one guy I knew had this look of shock on his face and told the kid to take the bottle and scram. I think he made it about 10 steps and proceeded to vomit in a bush and we never saw him again.

That thing was sweet though. I think i even went to the basement house for some party yall had...was it out near wolf creek?

8/10/2013 6:51:05 PM

i, too, have drank at GrumpyGOP's bar...


he threatened to break a bar stool over my head

8/10/2013 9:46:02 PM

*Add to my Topics*

8/10/2013 10:38:47 PM

Not so much a story as a fun period of my life:

For a couple of years I worked as security at Katmandu, a shithole bar across the street from East Village that I assume has closed by now. It was one of the best jobs I ever had. The pay was good (and under the table). Most nights I didn't really have to do much but walk around, smoke, and glare at people. If I did have to work, it was just to throw a frat boy out on his ass. And that's not really work, now is it?

I got the job because I lived just a couple of doors down and so was pretty much always there. My usually routine was to get dinner, bring it to the bar, and watch the Simpsons with the bartender or manager. One day I heard him trying to get a hold of his former security guy, I offered my services, and bam, there I was.

Now, if you know me at all, you know I have no business bouncing. Put me in a fistfight against Stephen Hawking and it'd be even money at best. But that turned out not to matter at all in the situations I was working. Pretty much the only time I was needed was when the bar got rented out to a Greek organization, which was almost every weekend.

Here's the thing about frat boys: they don't actually want to fight. They want to posture and act like it, then they want a bouncer to come remove them so they don't have to. In the entire time I worked there, maybe one guy took a swing at me, and he was so far gone he just fell over.

The same cannot be said about sorority girls. They absolutely intended to fight, and they fight dirty. Fortunately I AM able to overpower most of them and get them out the door.

I prided myself on being able to talk people down without having to hit them. My coworker prided himself on the speed and agility with which he could hurl his 300 pounds over the bar to grab the aluminum bat that he used to handle pretty much any altercation.

My coworkers were hysterical. There was a goth chick that worked until she was about 11 months pregnant, a former professor (and current fake professor working for the University of Phoenix during the day), a couple of real bouncers (one of whom would get the bat out if you played "Katmandu" on the jukebox, and he WOULD hit you with it). My boss was a really nice guy who unfortunately had some substance problems that caught up with him later, but at the time I loved hanging out with him. He'd have poker games at his house in which people were sneaking into the bathroom to smoke hash off of a knife blade between hands. Plus, if he won, he'd take you to the Goat for breakfast.

Unfortunately the whole setup was too good to last. Between this gig and writing papers for Meredith/Peace/UNC girls, I was living comfortably, but the bar was spirally the drain. We started having more hip hop events. Most of the time, these were a vast improvement on frat parties -- the hip hop crowd was cleaner and less likely to fight. The problem was that when a fight did happen, it was in earnest, and nobody responded well to my pasty white ass breaking in on it. I finally quit when I guy got shot outside the front door, making this the first of two jobs I've had in which a gun was fired in anger.

The good news was that this gig helped me get another great job, bartending at the Ramada Inn across from the fairgrounds. Because it didn't get a lot of business, they paid me the full minimum wage. Because I'm really good at the important parts of bartending (shooting the shit with customers, not making fancy drinks), I made a lot in tips. Plus, the shifts were always just from 5-10 PM, which was perfect for me. One hour to set up, one hour to take it down, and the three hours in between were filled by Simpsons and the Daily Show if there were no customers.

It was the only job I ever got fired from, but that's for a separate post.

8/11/2013 5:24:50 AM

A+ storytelling. Would read again.

8/11/2013 8:14:04 AM

So unfortunately the awesome bartending job was short lived. The boss who hired me was this funny, laid back older guy who was about as queer as a thirteen dollar bill and wanted to make sure that you knew it. Under his rule, I could expect to get a decent meal from the kitchen. Cigarette breaks were fine during slow periods. And most importantly, I got to deliver room service.

Delivering room service in a place like the Ramada is a blessing from God. Customers don't expect flashy service, so it isn't difficult. Plus, they ALWAYS tip on top of the automatic gratuity that comes with such orders. It would be easy to make five, six bucks for running a tray down the hall. Add a few of those to my regular wages and bartending tips and even my short shifts were making good money.

Unfortunately, the old boss was moving out, and the new lady who came in was...look, I don't like to use this word, but there's nothing else that's going to get the point across. She was a cunt. She wanted to clear out most of the old staff to make room for her favorites from some previous job. To this end, she started making increasingly bizarre rules. The details aren't particularly interesting -- suffice it to say that not only did job perks disappear, but the process of doing our jobs became more and more difficult. People started quitting. I didn't. My plan was to pretend that this bitch and her new rules simply did not exist. I'd continue to do what I'd always done until she fired me.

Of course, once you're on borrowed time, it's easy to do dumb shit. At some point I drifted away from "do what I'd always done" and into "do stupid shit I would never have done" territory, because why not?

Things came to a head with the German.

The bar had been dead all night, so as per my instructions I started closing down early. Five minutes before official closing time, a handful of Europeans walk in from the dressage show across the street. You know dressage, it's the thing where horses walk funny and rich people clap.

Well, this old German prick comes up with a pink sweater tied around his waist. Doesn't even make eye contact with me, just says, "Gin and tonic, please."

"I'm sorry, sir, we are closed down."

Still without looking at me: "No, no, it is impossible that you are closed. There are still three minutes until ten."

Now, normally I'd be with him on this, except for a couple of things. One, all the liquor was locked up. Getting this guy a drink was gonna take twenty minutes at least, so even if he got it, he was gonna be pissed. Two, the only tipping stereotype I found to be true during my time there was that Eurotrash doesn't tip, ever. I made mad money the night after the Kat Williams show, but I'd been stiffed by every Limey, Kraut, Frog, and Dago to come through that place.

So I told him again that I had closed.

"No, no, it is impossible. A gin and tonic, please."

We go back and forth for about thirty seconds before I say in a harder voice than is usual for me, "Well apparently it is possible, Adolf, because you ain't getting a drink."

Let me tell you, that got me some eye contact. He went over and yelled at the receptionist, who dutifully took notes about my behavior. She showed them to me later -- it was a doodle of a cat.

Next day I roll up, and someone says, "Ian, the boss wants to see you."

Well, I thought, damn straight. I basically called this guy an ethnic slur, of course I'm getting fired, but at least I'm getting fired for something baller.

Except I wasn't. She fired me for not wearing a name tag that I didn't know existed. I could have cried.

---

Alright, it's back to village with me. You kids have fun.

8/11/2013 9:36:47 AM

So I've been asked to inquire about the DNL punching incident. Please feel free to link to your earlier explanation of the incident, and/or comment on it from your older, wiser perspective.

Also any other TWW related stories would be awesome, but as I posted in the OP, this thread is your world. Do what you want.

[Edited on August 12, 2013 at 9:40 PM. Reason : thanks for the ride thus far. solid fucking stories.]

8/12/2013 9:33:49 PM

On the real, this is marvelous stuff, Grumpy. I've read Tucker Max stories that I found less engrossing (and that's definitely a compliment.)

8/12/2013 10:07:09 PM

That's not a fucking compliment. That's like comparing Blind Melon to O.A.R.


Also really? You really liked reading Tucker Max's made up stories? Really?

8/12/2013 11:50:41 PM

Yes, really. Yes to all counts. I DO like Tucker Max's stories, and I DO think it's a compliment to state that GrumpyGOP's anecdotes are on the same level as his. I mean, whatever you may think of Tucker Max, he's a NYT bestselling author (and a popular one at that); and he seemed an apt choice since the typical subject matter and tone of the two authors are pretty similar (although Tucker Max is an asshole, while GrumpyGOP is not.)

I mean, who do you want me to compare him to? Herman Melville? Nicholas Sparks? To me, Tucker Max seemed the best comparison, and one I could make honestly.

8/13/2013 12:10:16 AM

These stories are awesome. GrumpyGOP has lived an interesting life...

8/13/2013 7:53:27 AM

i'm adding to my topics because right now all i can see is WORDS

8/13/2013 8:09:53 AM

Im sure plenty of folks here have lived lives just as interesting as this.

We sure cant write like Grumpy though. Hes a master of holding your attention in an entertaining way.

I wonder if he can also speak this way or if his strength lies entirely in text?

8/13/2013 8:13:24 AM

Added to my topics

8/13/2013 9:16:51 PM

Quote :

"To me, Tucker Max seemed the best comparison, and one I could make honestly."

I dislike the guy but it's a reasonable enough comparison. Both of us write stories that generally don't have a point and which revolve around poor decision making paradigms and alcohol consumption. I just like to think that mine don't involve treating human beings like scorecards.

Quote :

"I wonder if he can also speak this way or if his strength lies entirely in text?"

I think that I probably speak better -- on the first story. My problem is that once one story is well received, I get addicted to the attention/praise and start trying to dominate the conversation. Since I've never been in a real 'storytelling' position and am always in conversations, that can be a liability.

It also matters that these are stories I have told a lot, so they've been refined.

8/22/2013 5:42:12 AM

The DNL story is here:

message_topic.aspx?topic=511057

I'm going to link to it rather than retelling because, since I wasn't present at the incident and can't give a much more eloquent account. The original source/dog owners are two of my closest friends, though, and I trust their account (which I faithfully reproduced).

As to other TWW stories, I've got a few -- but unfortunately I don't have much time left at this internet cafe. Making talktolizzy cry and quit the internet was way up there, but of course the glorious crusade that destroyed John Chichwak's student government career was a crowning achievement of my near-decade of wolfwebbing. Both will have to wait until I'm at the workstation in a while.

8/22/2013 5:56:21 AM

So I’ve never been particularly concerned with student government as such, because as best I can tell it is a powerless rubber stamp filled mostly with self-important asshats. But I am very concerned with destroying my enemies, and pursuing this goal brought me into student government elections a few times as an agent for whoever was running against my enemy. Often my nemesis represented a fraternity. I didn’t like them then, and though I’ve mellowed in later years, I still have a pretty strong knee-jerk reaction against Greek organizations. Anyway, an early one of these campaigns – I don’t even remember which one – got me the joke title of “propaganda minister” and a reputation that caused me to be called upon from time to time to reprise the role.

Well, it’s 2007 and my senior year. I’m in retirement from student politics and everything else that didn’t involve unhealthy relationship with whiskey and an even unhealthier relationship with my girlfriend at the time. But then along came TGD, wanting to pull me back in for one big score.

The details leading up to my involvement are hazy. A girl who was running for student senate president got kicked out of the race by the administration on some pretense, leaving her opponent – a guy named Jon Chichwak – to run unopposed. TGD was an ally of the girl and signed up to run in her place. I’m not sure if the reason was protest or opportunism or what, but TGD was a friend of mine and he was in a jam. He had gotten on the ballot late – only a few days to go -- and he had no money or organization. NCSU student government elections ain’t Super Tuesday, I’ll grant, but sandwich boards aren’t free and people can’t vote for a guy they’ve never heard of.

So he didn’t have money and he didn’t have advertising, but he did have two very intriguing screenshots of Mr. Chichwak’s facebook page. One showed his profile picture – him wearing a UNC hat. Another showed that the day before he filed to run, the guy left a group called “I only went to NCSU because I didn’t get into UNC.”

Well, TGD knew his audience. He instantly convinced me that Jon Chichwak was a bastard who needed to be destroyed. He also knew that I would take the info and make use of it in a way that kept his hands clean. It’s years later and this is the first time I’ve admitted what everyone involved probably knew, which was that TGD was the source that I later refused to identify when some would-be Woodward or Bernstein from TheTechnician called to interview me about what ensued.

What ensued was that I went to the Wolfweb, a place where you can never expect unanimous agreement. But this time I did expect it, and I got it. I started a thread with the pictures and explained the basic situation. That set into motion the terrifying machinery that has brought news stations and rival websites to their knees. All I had to do was guide it in the right direction, and I did so through a series of declarations that would have made Joseph Goebbels ejaculate with envy at my ability to shape empty rhetoric and direct group hate.

Evan set to work improving the amateurish poster/leaflet I had thrown together in hopes that wolfwebbers would put them around campus. His version was much better looking and emphasized that we were not necessarily for TGD (though we were) but rather against this wannabe tarhole. Then my roommate and I met chembob for a nighttime papering of every message board and staple-able surface on campus. We COVERED the school with these fliers, helpfully provided by people with access to school printers. I stayed up all night doing this. The next day, Chichwak’s supporters tore most of them down. But by then, Evan’s poster had been turned into a sandwich board that was proudly displayed in the Brickyard.

Proudly displayed, that is, but surreptitiously guarded, by the late ambrosia and her camera most of all. Our posters had been torn down so clearly the enemy was capable of vandalism. And sure enough, some girl – I can’t even remember the bitch’s name, but she posted on here for a while and a lot of the guys fawned all over her because she was maybe a 7 – came right up and stole the fucking thing. Unfortunately for her, ambrosia took pictures of every step of the operation. The thief subsequently lost her job at The Technician, and although she later got it back I counted this as a major, tangible victory. Two other guys were caught the same way. Ambrosia with a camera was like Vasile Zaitsev with a sniper rifle.

That night I made sure to do my papering campaign just before dawn so the enemy would have less time to attack it. I didn’t sleep at all during this period. Nor did I attend class. At night I stapled posters. During the day I handed out leaflets and shouted aspersions on Jon Chichcock’s (not every insult we came up with was clever) loyalty and sexual practices. And I posted constantly on TWW to keep the masses mobilized.

Somewhere in here there the Tech called me for an article about the sharply negative turn the campaign had taken. I stupidly let them link my real name to the GrumpyGOP (making this website a landmine in any employment-related google search), but in the flush of actually being interviewed for something I got sloppy. Not least when I claimed I found the pictures “just floating around somewhere on the internet.”

For the first and only time in my six years at NCSU I followed the returns live and posted when victory was declared, and what a victory it was. We had come in late against an entrenched, unopposed candidate and won, I think, with more than 70% of the vote. Jon Chichwak didn’t just lose. He got pulverized. I always link his loss with that of his beloved Tarheels in football that year that they not only lost, they lost with a safety at the end of the game.

Someone posted a thread that was just, “Remind me never to piss GrumpyGOP off.” And It was one of the proudest days of my life.

---

You'll notice that these posts are long and kinda frequent, that's because I've been typing stories up at post and saving them up for internet access.

[Edited on August 27, 2013 at 8:17 AM. Reason : a]

8/27/2013 8:16:07 AM

There’s a couple of minor wolfweb related incidents I guess I’ll list to round things out.

I used to be a pretty regular nemesis of nutsmackr in the Soap Box and elsewhere, but we never met in person until he came to witness me fight a guy over something on TWW. I have no memory whatsoever of who I was supposed to fight or what they said that made me angry enough to agree to it. I don’t even remember whose idea the fight was. But we agreed to meet in the Brickyard and find an appropriate place to have it out, and nutsmackr said he was coming to watch. He showed. My opponent didn’t, which was honestly something of a relief. But he’ll verify that I showed up, because after we got tired of waiting he took me to Mitch’s and introduced me to the royal flush shooter.

**

TWW got me two jobs. The first was at the Pet Pad over in Cary. Probably kiwi, who also worked there, posted the want ad for a salesperson. The interview started off well – I’m good with animals and had worked with a lot of the stores’ species before – and I was feeling pretty good when we sat down in the boss’s office.
He says, “Now, before we wrap things up, you heard about this on the wolfweb, didn’t you?”
I was surprised he knew about it. The guy didn’t go to State. “Uh, yeah, I did.”
“You’re grumpygop, aren’t you?”
Gulp. “Maaaaybe…”
“Well then maybe I’m XXXXXXXX.”
“Oh.”
“Allow me to read….’XXXXXXXX, you should eat a dick and read a book.’”
“Yeah…sorry about that.”
And I got the job.
Unfortunately I am bad at selling things, as evidenced by the first story I told in this thread. I am particularly bad at selling purebred dogs, which was what my job was 95% about. I don’t have anything against them per se, but it was hard for me not to grab customers by the lapels and shout,”YOU FOOLS! THIS DOG COSTS TWELVE HUNDRED GODDAMN DOLLARS! IF YOU GO TO THE ANIMAL SHELTER THEY’LL JUST GIVE YOU ONE OF THESE THINGS FOR FREE!” The only reason my sales career lasted as long as it did was because I would talk TWW with the boss and listen to him rant about libertarian politics.
After I quit this job TWW got me another one. Unfortunately this was also the worst fucking job I ever had, calling people from NCSU Office of Annual Giving and begging them to send us free money. Here’s a hint, guys: if you’re bad at getting people to give you money for drugs, you’re going to be terrible at getting them to give you money for no drugs and nothing else besides.
It didn’t help that I have a morbid fear of calling people on the phone. My heart starts racing, my chest gets tight, I see stars and have trouble breathing. But I was broke and the pay was decent and the hours were convenient for students, as well they might be since only students could work there. So I went. Drunk. I would get smashed on rumpleminze, which tastes like death but smells like mouthwash, and my buddy would drive me to the call center three times a week.
It’s not that my body craved alcohol. Normally gainful employment causes a sharp decrease in my intake. But we were calling people who graduated in the 19-fucking-30s, tired old men who would say such heartbreaking things as, “Sir, it’s been 75 years, when will you leave me alone?” or “She died last summer.” Younger people would say they were refusing to donate because NCSU had become “so full of gays.” It got to the point where hangups were a blessing. You trying doing that shit sober. If you can, then you are a scary individual.
Needless to say, the job didn’t last. Not because I got fired. I just couldn’t bring myself to go anymore. And besides, Katmandu needed bouncers.

8/27/2013 8:21:32 AM

jessiejepp

8/27/2013 8:32:54 AM