HAPPY BIRTHDAY FLO

I have a handful of friends…somehow. I try not to think too hard about the how or why. If I were having a barbeque or a party, I could easily fill my house up with at least twenty or so people, and just because there’d be free booze at any rager I was hosting.

The best friend variety is a bit harder to come by. When I say best friend, I mean the kind of friend you can call because you need some help chopping up a body and getting rid of the various pieces of meat—no questions asked. At this point in my life, I’ve had friends come and go for all the little reasons people slip in out of our lives—distance, time, you get married and stop calling, but I’ve managed to keep a few true friends close.

Today my minions (you did know you’re all my minions . . . right? Sorry this is how you had to find out) I’d like to acknowledge one such friend on today, his birthday—a man I call Flo.

“A man named, Flo? That’s kind of weird!” You might be saying. Normally I retort by snarling something snide—but I’m way too drunk, so this time I’m just hurling an empty whiskey bottle at your back-talking face.

His real name is Erik, and the story of why he is nicknamed Flo isn’t that cool—basically it’s an evolved and shorted version of a name someone else was signing on a crude drawing someone drew in middle school art class.

And that’s the shitty thing about nicknames—you’re not allowed to pick your own.

We called him Flo all through high school, and the nickname had almost gone away much to his delight when he joined me at college. While showing him around and introducing him to the professors, I called him “Flo.”

One of the professors instantly liked it, and eventually the entire department, students and facality took to calling him Flo like crack in a ghetto.

In celebration of his birthday, I’d like to recount just a few of our adventures that won’t result in him getting a divorce.

PRANK CALLS

Generally speaking, prank calls are just funny.

Once, we called a local restaurant at 11pm and explained to the manager our friend who was due at the air port in an hour had snuck out on us. He loved their restaurant, and we suspected he was there. We told him our friend went by “Stinky.” We didn’t know what he was wearing or who he was with but we desperately needed to know if he was there.

After he went table to table asking “Is your name Stinky?” he told us no one was there going by that name.

We asked if there was one last thing he could do for us?

“What’s that?”

“Could I roger you in the bum?”

I don’t know why we thought that phrase was so funny—but we did, and that’s usually how ended the call. I’m chuckling now in fact.

In high school, I hated some kids. And through this hatred Flo and I bonded. Many a weekend were spent at his place passing time harassing them. And nothing passes the time like pushing *67 and prank calling your sworn enemies.

The guy we hated the most was in drama and his shit just did NOT stink. His mom was a doctor and he was that rich kid who had it all and really, he deserved to flaunt that fact. He’d say things like, “Well maybe your parents should have been doctors!”

His name was Jeremy and he had bit that gay twang in his voice. We’d call him and say “Who is this?”

“He’d say, “Jeremy, duh. You called me.”

I’d try and put the same twang in my voice and say, “You can’t be Jeremy! I’m Jeremy! Do you suck dick? No, I suck dick—so I’m Jeremy.”

Our crowning achievement in messing with that dude was calling all the video stores to cancel his accounts (with the same gayish voice the whole time).

DRUNK

He turned 25 (I think) in Phoenix whilst on a college related trip. Across from our Hotel was a styling little bar called The Metro.

The drink he was digging on the most at the time is known as an “Audios Mother Fucker,” one of those girly blue drinks with tons of alcohol that tastes no stronger than juice.

We walked around the Metro chugging those girly drinks like it were ladies night and we were ladies. When that drunken hunger took us, we got some directions to a Denny’s supposedly in walking distance.

Three blocks later with nothing but darkened streets surrounding us, we decided the Grand Slam Breakfast probably wasn’t worth getting stabbed over—so we headed back.

Just in time to discover a van full of ten or so of our fellow students driving off to get a midnight meal—so we jumped in. Now keep in mind we were the only ones drunk and the only ones not Mormon.

Our conversation at the shared dinner table went about like this:

“Did you see that chicks tits at the bar?”

“They were fucking huge!”

“Fuck! I fuckin’ know! Man, titty fucking is cool.”

“Hahaha—even Jesus would have jizzed his holy seed all over those!”

We’re lucky we didn’t end up walking back to hotel.

FLOGGING MOLLY

Flo’s favorite band is Flogging Molly. We go to Vegas to see them play now and then. One such trip we met the drummer, George, wandering around the casino. Flo introduced himself and told him how he had flown out to Dublin, Ohio last summer to see them play.

During the concert the lead singer Dave King paused between songs and said, “Where are those two bastards who flew in from Ohio!”

Of course, the whole crowd was going crazy so he couldn’t see us jumping up and down, waving our arms and George must have been drunk or stoned as he confused the details—but it’s a moot point. We got a song dedicated to us by one of the best current day punk bands in the fuckin’ world! And that will for ever kick ass.

So today’s the day! Happy birthday Flo. I’m privileged to count you as one my best friends. And thanks for helping me get rid of that body. That was the last time and this time I mean it.