Road Rage Dallas: Stories Of Love And “Is This Loss?”

To my regular readers, if there are any of you left: one of the reasons I’ve been so absent in my writing lately is that I’ve focused most of my anger toward trolling the shit out of the people in The Dick Show Facebook Group, and there isn’t much ire left over to also bang out articles about things that piss me off after I’ve already unloaded elsewhere. Speaking of which, say hi to your mother for me.

Pictures coming soon, as soon as I’ve organized and uploaded them.

My very first thought upon landing in Dallas was “I don’t want to pay $40 for a fucking Uber to the AirBnB.” For the last several weeks, the Dallas Road Rage chat group has been abuzz with activity, plans, and bants. Surely one of the autists in that group has a flight landing around the same time, maybe we can split the cost. Luckily enough, a local, using the alt “Furi Road” offered to pick me up on his way to get beer for the pregame. Since doxing is for Armenian chumps, I won’t give out his real name. Everyone else I met that weekend is about to get incriminated however.

Furi and I make a grocery stop to load up on beer and liquor and then head to the AirBnB where several Dickheads await us. I was greeted at the apartment gate by Kick Nollingwood, who flew all the way from New Zealand to be here. Light brown and long, his curly hair cascaded down his too-small-of-a-face like a beautiful waterfall, I can see why he’s the object of many Dickette’s affections. Kick is already drunk. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was to be a recurring theme throughout the weekend. I don’t think I ever saw him sober, not even when he first woke up. As I enter the small 1 bedroom apartment, I’m able to immediately pick out a few more well-known Dickheads. Maxwell Kimball, Myke Atkinson, and George Hogberg, joined by Derek Barnes, James Layton, and a few others whose names currently elude me. Kick has just made sliders for the whole group. I am handed a Corona and a burger, and immediately dive into the bants with my fellow countrymen.

Hogberg and I immediately hit it off, probably because he is batshit insane and I’m a terrific enabler. He informs us of our plan to buy cocaine this weekend, to which I respond by offering to help him cook it into crack so we can smoke it during the show, because the meme would be legendary. We pregame for two hours before deciding to head to the Anvil in Deep Ellum for the Dickhead meetup. Some Dickheads drive themselves there, the rest of us call an Uber XL. During the ride, George asks our driver what he thought about Israel. I don’t remember the driver’s answer, but it wasn’t a very memorable one anyway.

As we arrive in Deep Ellum, the first thing that becomes apparent is that this neighborhood has got CHARACTER! Old and obviously renovated brick buildings line both sides of the road, scrawled with intentional graffiti, fliers for upcoming events, and rustic signage all vie for your attention as you walk down the street. Bars upon bars upon bars greet us, doors open invitingly as we walk the quarter mile to The Anvil. I made a mental note to check a few of these other bars out while I was here, some of them seemed to ooze character that cannot be manufactured. As we walk, we see more Dick shirts, and accrue a small group by the time we’ve made to the door of The Anvil. Once inside, we are greeted by even more Dick shirts as we sit at the long booth spanning the length of the bar. Though we are all strangers, we have so much in common, and we all fall easily into conversation with each other. Some people recognize me from the Facebook group, or from me sending in my naked picture on a playmat to Dick. Though I’m not used to the public recognition, as a narcissist I did enjoy it.

It’s around 8:30 PM, there are already 40 Dickheads clogging this bar yelling, laughing, roughhousing. The wait staff is largely perturbed by us, however there was one waitress who didn’t seem to mind. Slightly thicc, certainly not an eyesore. I made it a point to order all my drinks from her instead of the other, pink-shirted bitch that was making rounds. The bartenders were all douchebags too, but we outnumbered them so whatcha gonna do about it?

If they thought we were rowdy beforehand, they were in for a shock when Dick and company arrived. The front door opens, and Dick barely gets inside before someone notices and points him out. All hell breaks loose. Following Dick is T’Chwaqun, 80s Girl, Asterios, Sriracha, Jamie, and Madcucks. Every Dickhead in the room stands up and surges to the door to meet their hero. Dick’s been looking at my naked body every game of Magic for the last six months, and he picks me out of the crowd immediately. He shouts out my name, gives me a huge bear hug, and carries me around the bar. This, in front of everyone. I’d never felt so electric in my entire life. In short order, I introduce myself to 80s Girl, who told me she adores my playmat, and Jamie. I then meet Xwian, who vaguely recognized me from Road Rage LA, Madcucks, who remembered me from the handful of times I called into his podcast, and Asterios. Asterios remembers me because I was present when he singlehandedly destroyed Fuckery Radio. Not that I hold it against him, sneaky Greeks gotta sneak.

As hands are shaken and more drinks or ordered, we all settle back into a routine of being loud and obnoxious and pissing off the entire wait staff. At that point it dawned on me that all I had to eat so far that day was a bowl of oatmeal and a few handfuls of Goldfish in Furi’s car, and that one tiny burger that Kick cooked up… I needed to get food in me immediately or I was headed for disaster. I tracked down the thicc waitress and ordered myself a big ass plate of Mac and Cheese. While waiting for my food, George walks past me and says “Ima go find some blow,” and wanders out of the bar. The man isn’t a local. He doesn’t know anyone. How the hell is he gonna find coke? These thoughts are chased away as my food arrives and I refill for the second leg of the drunken marathon that the night was shaping up to be.

Predictably, as the night went on the crowd got worse. Maxwell Kimball, who is only 19, leaves the bar to have a smoke and when he tries to re-enter, he is blocked by a doorman who was not on shift when we arrived. With no fake ID and no recourse, he is turned away. Upon hearing this, Dick and a few others immediately begin to seek out a new venue. It was clear we had overstayed our welcome if the attitude of the wait staff was any indication, but for all we cared they could fucking deal with it. Having an actually valid reason to go somewhere else, people began to filter out towards our next intended victim: Buzzbrews.

As the crowd dispersed, many lingered behind to smoke or chit chat. I remember shooting the shit with Asterios and Sriracha, when George saunters by our group, headed in the direction of Buzzbrews, his left hand gingerly safeguarding a hot dog. I shout out “Hi helo!” to get his attention, and ask him where he got the hot dog. Without breaking stride he replies, “I got it from the same guy who sold me coke!” I didn’t know it at the time, but that would be the last time I saw George that night. We spent all of that night and the entire next day, up until about 3 PM, without hearing from him. The prevalent assumption was that he did something stupid and got busted with the coke. We were planning on calling around the police stations to see if he was there, but after a trip to his hotel room, Myke discovered that George was just bumming around his hotel with a dead phone and a slowly dwindling supply of cocaine for the last 12 hours. This revelation surprised precisely nobody.

Buzzbrews. This place tried to be both a hipster bar and a coffee shop. It excelled at neither. The only thing Buzzbrews was good at was smelling like something died inside of it. If standards were a living being, and that being was shot and drowned in fermented urine, the noxious odor of its violent final moments must have permanently permeated the furniture of this establishment. In layman’s terms, this place was a fucking shithole. But they didn’t card at the door, so everyone’s favorite Jewish pugilist could slip in undetected to join in on the “fun.” Amidst the usual bar activities, I wedge myself unceremoniously between Asterios, Sriracha and Kimball, and begin to indulge in this group’s most coveted pastime: Getting wasted. I mean shitting on Maddox. Asterious, rosy and tipsy, excitedly explains his two-pronged plan to destroy what’s left of Maddox’s career. At some point, I called Kimball a “fucking kyke,” which elicits an immediate reprimand from Sriracha. Shit, she’s a New York comedian, of course she’s Jewish. How could I have been so careless? I utter a drunken non-apology (vote it up) and then am mercifully interrupted by a rucka-rucka-ruckus a few feet away.

Kick, through whatever provocation, began very publicly chugging a bottle of tobacco sauce. The whole place is cheering him on. Everyone except for the bouncer, who waddles over in his uniform and latex gloves, and yanks the mostly-empty bottle out of Kicks’s hands, moments before he finishes it off. He weakly, and drunkenly, attempts to negotiate with the bouncer by saying “It’s already almost empty, just let me finish it off.” The bouncer is immune to such gypsy tactics however and walks away. Assumedly to keep up the momentum, Kick kisses a hipster-esque man on the other side of the table right on the mouth, I’m told his name is Steve. I legitimately don’t remember who it was but I remember meeting them at some point. If it was you, just own it. I won’t think you are any gayer than I probably already do.

Eventually, word gets out again that Kimball is not 21, and he is forced out. It may have been for the best though, as being Jewish, his enormous nose was hit twice as hard by the mildew that lingered about the venue. The bouncer berates a Dickhead for having a smoke right outside of the venue door. Fifteen minutes later, the bouncer is having a smoke right outside of the venue door. For a reason I don’t recall, Asterios got kicked out of Buzzbrews. On his way out the door, Dick runs outside to catch him and gives him one of the most sincere hugs a straight man has ever given another straight man. It was touching to see that they were truly as close friends as the show suggests. Soon enough it comes time for me to leave as well. Many of is Dickheads planned to go shooting the next day and I didn’t want to push my luck with drinking too much and being too hung over to shoot. Sitting right outside the door is Jamie and 80s Girl. Standing behind his chair, clutching it with both hands, is Dick. I approach him and ask if he wants to join us for shooting the next day, and he says to email him and remind him cuz he’s probably too drunk to remember now. I go to shake his hand, and when his right hand leaves the chair to meet mine, he loses his balance and tips over. My God, how drunk is he?

I split an Uber with Furi and Derek. Our driver, clearly a Dallas native given his pigmental alignment, rolls up blasting Notorious B.I.G. as loud as his system can handle. We get in, he practically peels out and takes off down the road, way faster than expected. He does a rolling stop at an intersection and whips, practically drifts, his car into a hard left turn, DIRECTLY INTO A CROSSWALK FULL OF PEDESTRIANS. Our driver screeches on the brake, and avoids vehicular manslaughter by less than a foot. He shouts obscenities at the pedestrians, right-of-way be damned, and floors it away.

The three passengers are far more amused at this behavior than scared.

Along the drive, we try to strike up idle chatter with the man.

“Do you like driving for Uber?”


We rate him 5 stars and tip him.

You may think this was the most eventful Uber ride of the weekend. I was naïve once too.

Before going to bed, Furi and I get a game of Magic in. I crushed him. He may make up lame excuses like “I got mana screwed,” and “I was really drunk,” and “I haven’t played in five years,” but the truth is I’m an incredible player and can take any of you losers on at any time.

Shortly after, we all collapse in bed and fall quickly asleep.

Saturday. The day of the show. The reason we’re all here. But first, breakfast. At the advice of Furi, our local in-the-know, we agree to mob a quaint breakfast place called Café Brazil, just across the way from the bars we trashed the night before. All in all, about 10 of us show. Poor Kick was very clearly hung over. He poked at his breakfast steak a little bit, went out to have a cigarette, and never came back. Turns out he decided the only way out was through, and went down the block to find an open bar to serve a little hair of the dog. While Kick was on his mission, I order a bowl of oatmeal. It was billed as a side, on the same menu section where you can also order an egg, or 2 strips of bacon, or a piece of toast. I’m not a big breakfast eater, so I figure a small bowl of oatmeal should square me away until lunch. I was not delivered a small bowl of oatmeal, I was delivered a half gallon bucket of oatmeal. This bowl was fucking huge. I should have taken a picture of it, it was fucking massive. IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SIDE! Naturally, I took this as a challenge, and to flex on the café, I ate the entire bowl. Later that night, I took the biggest, most compact and painfully solid shit in my life. Gotta love that dietary fiber.

Breakfast behind us, we agree to meet at the shooting range and split off. Half of us go in search of Kick, who had made himself at home at a nifty little dive bar called The Armory. They had thirty different kinds of whiskey in supply. I wanted to try them all, but alas if I’m responsible about anything, it is with guns. Kick was already 3 or 4 drinks deep, his health visibly improved. He was drinking some shit with whiskey and a raw egg in it. Whatever such voodoo it entailed, I wanted no part in it, but the results did speak for themselves. A few people stayed behind to drink rather than shoot, and the rest of us left for the range. It was around this time of day that we finally heard back from George, by the way.

Mercifully, the range was indoors, which offered a good reprieve from the 100 degree Dallas heat. We rent three lanes and two guns, a Glock 17 and a Desert Eagle. Rich Buehrer, the crazy bastard, drove all the way from the west coast to be here and brought his guns with him, amongst them a S&W .500 revolver. If you’ve never seen one, imagine the biggest, blackest dick possible, then double the size of it and cover it in chrome, and make it shoot AA batteries. It was both intimidating and invigorating, getting to shoot this gun.

Two of the people with us, Myke and Alexander, have never shot a gun before, and I just so happen to be licensed to teach CCW classes, so this is my moment to shine. We took the Glock and one of the lanes and I ran them through the basics. In no time they were punching solid groups in their targets, wearing impossible smiles. You see, Myke is from England so he had probably never even seen a gun in person before. Alexander is a self-professed Commie, so this secret dabble to the dark side surely sent a tingle up his leg. After they were brought up to speed, we focused on the real reason we had come: to shoot up an old Maddox shirt I found in my garage. The Desert Eagle was perfect for putting half-inch holes in the fabric, and Rich’s 12 gauge punctuated the event a mighty roar. It was to be a perfect offering for our host, Dick. After we had all got our rocks off, we cleaned up and began to plan a pre-show dinner closer to the venue.

Dick Masterson Maddox Shirt

At Furi’s recommendation, we settled on The Pecan Lodge, which was allegedly the best BBQ in Dallas. We never got a chance to substantiate that claim sadly, as the line to get a table wrapped around the building. We chose another bar and grill next door called The Independent, and soon 30 Dickheads filled the tables and booths inside. It was there I was reunited with George, clad in the most preposterous button up shirt I’ll probably ever see. It looked like he let an entire kindergarten class fingerpaint on his chest. It was as ostentatious as his personality. There, I was reintroduced to Matt and Melissa Young, (whom I had met in a drunken stupor at Road Rage LA) Angela Anderson, Jager Mitchell, and so many others.

What can be said about the Independent is that the food was good, the waitress was pleasant, but the service was fucking slow. An unexpected 30 mouths all arriving at the same time may have had something to do with that, but at least it gave me time to pregame before the show. The doors to The Door opened at 7, it was 6:30 when I finally got my food. I inhaled it as fast as I could and paid my tab, and departed with Kick, Derek, Furi, George and a few others to go back to the AirBnB to get ready and drink a bit more.

We get back to the AirBnB at 7, and have no idea when Dick plans to take the stage. We reason we probably have until 8 PM, but can’t risk missing the show. I change into my attire for the evening: the Maddox shirt that we just shot and an ironic MAGA hat. We fast and furious pound down a few drinks and call an Uber XL to get us to the venue. The virility in the air was palpable. Five dudes, piss wasted, about to meet destiny manifest as a small-faced provocateur. Our driver never stood a chance. George gets the front seat since he is freakishly tall. No sooner do we close the van doors and start moving does George turn to our driver, a middle aged, heavyset Indian man with great passenger reviews, and barrage him with the most insane line of questioning imaginable.

“So what do you think about Israel?”

“Do you have any advice on how to fuck a chick in the ass?”

“Can you stop at a gas station? I need to pick up baking soda so we can cook up some crack.”

Goodbye 5 star Uber rating, it was nice while it lasted. I’ll always remember our time together fondly.

On a side note, we did stop at a gas station, George did try to find baking soda, and if he did I absolutely would have cooked up some crack to smoke before the show. You only get to overdose on drugs cooked in a back alley in a foreign city while waiting to meet your idol once, you know. Alas, George turned up empty handed, and due to time constraints, we didn’t have a chance to stop elsewhere to continue searching. Fortunately, our driver was plenty good at throwing shit right back at us, and we ended up getting along so well that we offered him Melissa’s extra ticket if he wanted to come to the show with us, cuz we’re nice guys like that. The driver declined, and we make our way into the venue.

The Door is aptly titled, because the only discernable fixture the venue had was a front door. It opened into an expansive and barren room, haphazardly set up with hundreds of folding chairs all pointed at a stage that sat about three feet higher than the floor. The bar looked like some day laborer tried to stack a bunch of wooden boards across one side of the “venue,” but halfway through the job the boards fell over and the laborer just said “fuck it” and left. The beer however, was cold, and the well whiskey was passable. Nothing else matters you’re already seven deep at 8 PM. We find our seats, nestled amidst a sea of ears and lips, each being strenuously taxed, and the show begins.

And what a show it was. I won’t cover the whole thing here, don’t be a cheapass and become a Patreoni to see the whole thing for yourself. I do, however, predictably selfishly, want to touch on the few moments I was the focus of attention. About 10 or 15 minutes into the show, Dick calls out “Where’s Erik Wong sitting?” I stand up and cheer. He talks about how 80s Girl loves using my playmat when he and her play Magic, and that he thought it was a hilarious trinket. He calls me to come up on stage, but I was so drunk that I didn’t even realize, something in hindsight I will ever regret. Instead, I shout “I made you something,” take off the Maddox shirt, and hurl it at him, backed by the cheers of the crowd. He holds up the shirt, shows it to the crowd, laughs his ass off, and continues with the show.

A little bit later, I get up to punish my liver, and rather than walk all the way around the venue, I just say “fuck it” and cut across the front, walking in front of the stage. Shirtless, wearing a MAGA hat and double fisting drinks, Madcucks points to me and says “Hey buddy, no shirt no shoes no service!” to which I reply “Fuck you, I already gave you my shirt! Here, have my shoes too!” I take off both my shoes and toss them ad Madcucks, who quips back “What am I, George W Bush?” Shirtless, shoeless, wasted, I immediately step in a puddle of beer. Welp, nothing I can do about that now, I may not ever get my shoes back at this point. I sit down next to Matt Young and get drink drank drunk.

After the show ends, I really got tired of walking around in wet socks, so I climb up on stage to get my shoes back. While there I also collect the Maddox shirt, which had picked up mustard stains from the chugging contest minutes before. Though at that point I had already bought a Road Rage shirt, I had to go for the meme and wear the bullet-riddled, mustard-tainted Maddox shirt for the rest of the night. Ever not give a fuck about how you look?

The venue staff are hurriedly shooing us out of the way, picking up the folding chairs and throwing them at us (not an exaggeration) in a mad dash to prepare for a rap show that was happening next. In a moment of providence, I run into Dick, 80s Girl, Jamie, and Madcucks on my way out the venue. I ask him where the post-party is and he shrugs, saying “I donno, pick a place,” a responsibility I then delegate to Google Maps, which dutifully selects a fairly large bar right across the street. Two hundred or more riled up autismos descend upon this unsuspecting establishment with a vigor only before witnessed when /b/ used to troll the everliving fuck out of Chrischan.

Save for a handful of normies who were already there, the Dickheads filled up the entire inside of the bar and the entire expansive patio outside. What follows next happened to and was told by several different people, stories passed to me for publication.

Asterios really wanted to get stoned, so he runs around the bar shouting if anybody has weed. Some Dickheads out on the patio do, and are already smoking it. Asterios catches a whiff and shouts something else about weed, which catches the attention of a bartender who tells them to “put that shit out or I’m calling the cops.” Asterios continues to shout about weed and eventually gets kicked out.

I try to order a whiskey but the bar only has beer and wine. I stare at a complicated beer menu for several minutes before saying “fuck it” and ordering something random that was fortunately palatable.

Some really drunk chick who looked like a female skinhead from a BBC documentary hits on Dick, gets promptly and forcibly shut down. She then attempts the machine gun method and hits on everyone she sees. The thirst is real.

Madcucks and Kimball come *this close* to getting into a fist fight, which is the first time that has happened since an hour ago on stage.

I met two Mexican brothers named Gold and Indian, and they swore to me those were their real names. I would see them again the next morning at Waffle House, oddly enough.

Oh yeah, and there was a shooting at The Door.

Apparently after we left, while the rap show was going on, some guy just opened fire and shot someone else, then ran out. They never caught him. After the concert was shut down, its attendees were loosed in the streets, and walked en masse down the block in search of something else to do. It was at that moment that George decided he wanted to bang a black girl, so he hangs over the patio fence and hollers at every single one who walked by, whether she was with a man or not. Apparently Texans are sensitive to the idea of getting cucked, because one guy even went so far as to pull a knife on George and threaten to kill him.
Humbled by this experience, George decides to handle his urges more delicately and convinces a few other Dickheads to go to a strip club so he can find a black hooker. The following are those exploits, as told by Derek (as I wasn’t part of this excursion):

So my memory is pretty spotty and I’m drunk as shit but we should be fine. Sometime after you left the brewery I found George and Furi. George was hitting on black girls walking by on the street, Furi and I were talking to Jamie Lynn Hughes, asking her if she knew where to find escorts in Dallas. Furi told me that was offensive, I was too drunk to give a shit so I kept asking. She told us no and bid us good luck. I honestly don’t know who got the Uber but me, Kick, Jager, Myke, and George got a ride to the AirBnB, and Kick immediately passed out in his room. My personal phone was dead, and all I had left was my work phone. George and I started calling escorts that we found on Google on my fucking work phone. 99% didn’t answer because it was 3 AM. One girl answered, an ironically Vietnamese/Korean lady answered the phone so George went to work. He started bargaining prices. She wanted $350, he offered $250, and she hung up.

We called back and talked some more. She asked for an address, George gave the AirBnB address to her. She thought it was fake. We assured her it was real, and then the price negotiation started back up. I don’t remember if we agreed or if she hung up, but all I know is as soon as we have her an address we walked outside to call an Uber to a strip club. I found the closest one open until 4 AM which happened to be a black strip club, which also happened to be the best possible scenario. The Uber cost me 30 fucking dollars.

On the way to the club, George took it upon himself to torment the Uber driver again. He led with his now-familiar line, “What do you think about Israel?” to which the driver responded “I don’t know. I’m Italian.” Without missing a beat, George retorts with “What are you, a faggot?” The driver mutters something under his breath keeps driving. A moment later, George continues. “Do you think the Holocaust actually happened? I don’t think it happened. I think maybe like 200,000 Jews died max. What do you think?” The poor bastard.

I yelled “take us to the blackest strip club you know!” We pulled up to the fucking WalMart of strip clubs, the place was massive, full of people looking to pop bottles and sell drugs. We all get out of the Uber, and Myke fucking falls over in the grass on the side of the expressway and says he can’t do it, he’s done. We rally him into the “second wind” phase. So there we are, standing in line as 4 incredibly drunk retarded white guys, asking black gentlemen if I look like a cop. The cover to the club is $25. Fuck it, let’s go. It is the best strip club I’ve ever seen. BYOB, naked women everywhere! Bitches climbing 30 feet into the air. BUT the place had about 300 more people than could fit. So we were stuck walking around in a circle looking for chairs. George asked a guy and offered cash to sit with him, he told us to fuck off, and George almost started a fight. The bouncers would walk up and shine flashlights in your face if you stopped walking at any point, so we left about 45 seconds after paying $25 to get in. Jager calls an Uber, and some red faggot car shows up and the dude literally blows a fucking gasket right there, and just starts screaming “This place got me fucked up! Have a good night I’m done!”

Jager orders another Uber and gets us home. My memory stops there, think we drove home in silence and I passed out immediately. Apparently Furi and George sat on the couch to watch TV and George passed out on top of Furi. When I woke up, I had a bunch of missed texts from the escorts I called the night before. So I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about and ignored her. She texted me later while we were at Waffle House telling me I was blacklisted in the Dallas area for wasting her time. I replied in TDS fashion with “K.”

The following is from Myke, and details his experiences after the live event Saturday night.

Holy shit! So that was The Dick Show, live. That was amazing! I need a beer. As I’m heading over to the bar I catch two low key Dickheads named Lolly and Jim, neither associated with Facebook or Reddit but they’ve been erring on our rowdy degenerate side. “Do you guys want a beer?” They do! And they follow me to the bar, whereupon we down those beautiful bastard brews (Lone Star, aka Texas’s finest shitty beer)

The venue is starting to fill up with non-Dickheads and looking at them makes me check my privilege. George swings his great arms around me and is like “Bro! There’s another show coming on. We’re staying here. Do you like black people? We’re gonna get some Molly.” I do like black people, and Molly but the rest of the crew is about to bounce elsewhere. Do I stick with the man I came to see, George, or do I defect and follow the other Dickheads to the next bar.

My mind was made for me by Lolly’s shorts, or what existed of them, with very little agency of my own I followed her, her awesome feller Jim, and dem fine legs on to the next bar.

Some time later after stealing many people’s beers and being bought many the excitement is palpable and there’s the vibe that the evening is going to shift gear. Jager steals Madcuck’s crowns (why the fuck is he still wearing them now?), people start talking about escorts, I spy Jamie-Lynn Hughes (my thinspo) and I point at her. We shoot the shit for a bit. I call her a midget and ask her if she wants to come get an escort. She kindly declines!

I get a tap on my shoulder and the hot chick next to Jamie introduces herself as “The Duchess of Weed” – I’m starstruck and begin asking her about living in UAE, she wants my Ray-Bans, but I’m too much of a bitch to give them to her. I think it was then Dick’s Man Steve jumped in to separate us. I bump into Jager and we begin bonding over our almost identical experiences with her.

Suddenly word gets ‘round that the venue I left George in has been shot up. Now considering the first time I’d ever been around a gun and/or fired one was today (I’m a British cuck) and now I was a stone’s throw away from where someone had had a cap bust in their ass, I was hyped. The lights and sirens from the helicopters, ambulances and police cars only added to the party vibe. George had got out alive! We ended up in an Uber where George was his usual self, and landed at Kick’s.

At Kick’s, after 3AM, the boys were trying to arrange some adult entertainment. When this proved fruitless they ordered an Uber. They want to take me to a strip club but jet lag, two days worth of drinking and very little sleep says otherwise. I just want to pass out. Furi Road is already winding down. I want to puss out, but George, Derek and Jager are having none of it.

I build myself up in front of the group “Fuck it! Let’s do it! Let’s GO!” Before I know it, we’re in the back of the Uber and all I want to do is sleep. But the usual Uber shenanigans are ongoing “Take us to the blackest Strip Club!” demands Derek. After a fucking looooooong journey we get there. Some venue called XTC absolutely heaving with folk but I’m tired. I’m ready to slip unconscious and fall to the grass to cry. Truth be told, my mind was swimming with the sound of live ammo going BLAM BLAM BLAM! The club getting shot up! I was tired and wondering “Is this my time? Am I gonna die?” But my boys, they rowse me from my terrible despair. WE GONN’ SEE SOME BLACK TIDDIES!


So after queuing for a while and showing the bouncers my shitty UK ID we get charged $25 each to get in (no idea what that is in real money…) and HOLY FUCKING SHIT! The club is amazing, the first thing that catches my eye is some chick in fishnets, only in fishnets, everything else is hanging out and I stop to take a good look. Lolly’s shorts be damned!

BUT before I know it some mofo jumps out with a flashlight strobing it in our eyes “Keep moving guys or find a seat…” So we start moving again…

We spy a free table… a free table-ish. The old dude sat there is on his own, George swoops in to work his unique brand of magic. My eyes scan the club, I see a raised platform with a very undressed lady twerking on her knees. Dollar bills are cascading from above, clinging to that wobbly fat ass, I’m transfixed. As currency flutters down from the heavens, my mind’s eye sees snapshots of the half assed work days that earnt them, but reality juxtaposes this mental image as this skilled bitch works those dudes with her God given talents.

AND THEN THE MOFO MOVES US ON! AGAIN! WITH HIS STUPID FUCKING FLASHLIGHT! AND GEORGE IS PISSED. The nerd wouldn’t give us a seat. Fuck. The lot of us keep moving around till we reach the middle of the club. I’m guessing this is the main stage! It has a huge pole, one that reaches to them heavens. and shimmying up it is this buff beast and once again we’re at a standstill.

The spectacle is amazing. This woman, clad in nothing is scaling this pole, naturally, sexily. My mouth is agape, the time and effort she had to put in. She’s reached the fucking ceiling! It brought new meaning to the term High Yellow. I was about to applaud, cheer, throw all my weird American funny money at her…

Alas, the mofo was back. The dudes were sick of it… We decided to leave

The night draws to a close, and several of us return to Kick’s AirBnB to drink even more because we all hate ourselves. Jager and I attempt the one-armed backslap bro hug, and our bumbling causes him to elbow my phone out of my hand, which hits the concrete and cracks. A souvenir to remember the evening by. Those who didn’t hit the strip club drink until 5 AM, I collapse in bed next to Kick and immediately black out. After removing George from Furi’s lap, Jager and George go back to Jager’s AirBnB to keep drinking, a location that according to Jaeger: “I spent so little time in my AirBnB that I got a great rating despite me and George yelling about faggots and niggers (lovingly) at 4 am”

Some people go through their entire lives without ever feeling the presence of God, or knowing His mercy. I pity these people, for I have felt the forgiving touch of our Lord, and it is beautiful. It is through His grace alone that I woke up the next morning with only a very minor hangover, the kind of hangover usually reserved for drinking a few shots by yourself and playing video games until you fall asleep. This was by no means the Wrath I deserved after 36 hours of continuous boozing. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I took a shower, got dressed, and waited for the other denizens to stir so we could make our way to the Waffle House for the pre-planned Hangover Breakfast. Kick was initially so hung over that he declined to get out of bed, but at the last moment he rallied and went with us.

The Waffle House was small, designed to fit maybe around 20 or 25 people. We had 40 Dickheads, we were standing in the aisles eating our waffles and bacon. No one was in any shape to care either way. Dick himself was there, along with 80s Girl, Coach, Madcucks, Dick’s Man, and Jamie. Zon was regrettably absent. In the booth next to Dick, Alexander had popped the cork on a bottle of mead and was passing out cups full of it to everybody who wanted one. This predictably awoke something primal in Kick, who left to go back to The Armory to keep drinking. As he departs, he tells us that he met a bartender there who he fell in love with and wants to marry. She was bald and had a big pentagram tattoo on her thigh, and we took to calling her “Satan.”

Later that day we found out that Kick finally got to fuck her. She was such a giving person that she returned the favor too: by pegging him. He complained of ass pains for several hours afterwards.

Hung over, full of waffles, and brought back to life via mead, I drifted off briefly in the booth at the Waffle House. The other Dickheads found this so amusing that they took the liberty to take selfies with me while I was out. I suppose it could have been worse.

The morning meal crawled to a close, and our dessert was the bittersweet knowledge that the weekend was closing behind us as well. Most of us had flights to catch, so we all shook hands, hugged, whatever, and went our separate ways. I wound up with Alexander, Furi, Ryan Der, and Jager, all of whom had late flights along with me (except Furi who lived here anyway). Furi offers to take us to an enormous card shop so we can get our nerd on and waste time before the flight. I won’t bore you with the details, but Madness Games in Plano is ENORMOUS. I taught Ryan and Jager how to play Magic, and we all sat around jamming games until it was time to head to the airport, then Ryan and I game a bit more in the terminal waiting for the red eye flights to arrive.

It has now been a week since Road Rage weekend happened, and the group chat is still just as HIGH ENERGY as it was the weeks before the show too. We shared stories, filled in the blanks on each other’s evenings, and spent much effort calling each other retards. All in all, so much of us as such a good time, and Deep Ellum is such a cool place, that we plan on having an Annual Dickhead meet up there next year, with or without the Road Rage. You should come to, because the real Road Rage is the friends we make along the way.