Dean and Dunkel shot some hoops on Bull’s halfcourt setup. I played too. We competed to see who was the most fit. Dean was off the fucking chain. He wanted to show us his vert, so we used a tiki torch as a bar and dude cleared like easy. Dude told us to hold it higher. We boosted it up so it was like five feet high and dude could still clear it like nothing. He had a long jump that was like twenty feet long, for real. Then we did a sprint. I can tear up the hundred like a fucking bullet, but dude still humiliated me. The way Dean ran with his sweaty polo, his calves jacked, yelling “Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah, let’s motor!” he looked like some sort of fast-as-shit god, running faster than like anybody. Bull busted out his paintball guns again and showed us where to shoot a dude to hurt him the worst.
At night, Old Bull would sit in front of this entertainment center, drinking beer and catching Pringles in his mouth. He had like fifty tubes of Pringles. “I love Pringles. They’re the best when you eat two flavors at once.” He insisted on making us try Blastin Buffalo Wing and Loaded Baked Potato together; he couldn’t find any Blastin Buffalo Wing. “Aight,” he was like, “we can’t try that shit now. Yo, my neighbors are the biggest douches.” The neighbors had some asshole kids who tossed rocks in his above-ground pool. Bull totally threatened them with a rifle and they totally shit their pants and never tried shit again.
We took the ferry to New Orleans. It was foggy as fuck and the water sorta reeked; we could see New Orleans glowing like a party beacon, beckoning with its bars and bands and hotties hanging from balconies in the crunked-out night. The iPhones of the ferry passengers shimmered in the darkness. My dude Big Slim Hazard had gotten arrested in New Orleans for indecent exposure; Mississippi Derek had gotten arrested up in here too; and as we crossed the river to the parties beyond I knew that awesome shit would happen and possibly one day it would be so awesome as to be The Shit. And what’s pretty ironic is that the day after we took the ferry, Brad Pitt also took it, and we saw some pictures in the paper the next day.
He opened his closet and showed us a shitton of wires. Then he opened another closet and showed us a huge pile of speakers. In Columbus he once crippled his ear for a week after watching Black Hawk Down. “I’ve got the most amazing kicker now—a Klipsch P-312W Subwoofer; look at this sick wood finish. I could blow the windows out of this place if I cranked it up and watched 2012. Only thing wrong, the wood finish is like one shade off my shelving unit.”
Old Bull pulled out a vaporizer and said to go at it, dinner would ready soon. “Smoking up before eating is pretty awesome. I once ate a rancid Arby’s sandwich after blazing and it tasted like the most delicious thing in the world. I just got back from Houston last week, went to see the Black Eyed Peas with Jane. We were crashing at my buddy’s and one morning I woke up like crazy. That dude had most incredible surround sound system I’d ever seen. Everybody else pays contractors like huge wads of cash to set up systems, but my dude just wired and tricked out the whole thing, saved a big pile of dough. I’d like to watch the Bastogne episode of Band of Brothers on that shit, would be loud as fuck. A dude can’t watch TV without a decent surround sound system.”
Old Bull Lee spent long hours watching Band of Brothers—“the most awesome shit ever,” he called it. Since he moved to the South, he spent a ton of time trying to get good a barbequing, and although he was always trying to grill shit, he never got much better. One time I was like, “Why the fuck would you ever want to eat something with a dry rub?” and he was like, “When you dry rub it brings out hickory flavors, dumbass.”
There’s this crazy up story about his time at Penn State that illustrates some shit about Old Bull Lee: he was having a pretty chill house party and playing beer pong one afternoon before a game when suddenly he took a shot and the ball missed the cup by like a mile and everybody made fun of him, laughing. Old Bull got pissed fuck and was like, “This table is bullshit!” and punched a hole straight through the table. In his minifridge was a shitton of white wine. His friends were like, “Why do you have that stupid shit in your fridge?” and Bull was like, “I like that shit cause you can drink a ton real fast.”
I could fill like a warehouse with the shit I know about Old Bull Lee; most importantly, dude taught people how to party, and he was totes qualified to teach that shit because he lived his whole life learning his “clutch-ass party essentials,” which were the total shit. He transferred his ass to like eight different colleges during undergrad, always trying to find which school had the sickest vibe; he hooked up with the Provost at Michigan State to keep from getting expelled; there are Facebook pictures of him hanging with the 2007 LSU BCS-champs—huge dudes slugging shots and laying babes; there are other Facebook pictures of him in a Florida State hat, winning at flipcup in Seminole country; he never hooked up with the Provost again. He was an intermural basketball champion at Illinois State, an equipment manager at UT-Austin, a beer pong master of Penn State. In Madison he sat on porches, hollering at freshman hotties walking by. In Athens, Ohio he never went to class but managed to stay enrolled for two semesters. At San Diego State he threaded his way through the quads, looking for a party. In the Ohio State dorms he did like five chicks at once. At Illinois State he planned the naked mile, let word get out too much about it, and wound up running ass-naked from the cops. He was like the grandmaster of partying. Now the final study was being all chill as fuck. He was now in New Orleans, taking it easy and getting mad high.
They saved a ton of money by not having cable; they cancelled it and just paid for internet. They had two TVs: a fifty-inch plasma with a PS3 connected; and a little forty-incher with a Roku box. He could still get live sports on them, which blew my fucking mind. Bull called his forty-incher “the Little Beast,” ‘cause it had a pretty vicious subwoofer.
Bull rolled up in the Rover and our crew was already all up in his crib; he was still pretty stoked to see me. He bought this crib in New Orleans after graduation with some crazy dough he pulled down from some real smart sports bets. Dude pulled down occasional cash from freelance sports blogging, which was good dough but he was always spending mad cash on beer and weed—and his lady was also pricey as fuck, buying like a ton of Gucci shades all the time.