An unfamiliar city is the last place you want to get caught with your pants down. I found this out the hard way. However, there is a notable difference between getting caught with your pants down, and getting “pantsed.” In the latter situation there is genital exposure, where as the previous situation is merely a figure of speech.
It all began with a Sunday afternoon liquor picnic on the outer edge of downtown Calgary. I was in town for a wedding the night before and had a day to kill before flying home. My host for the weekend and partner in crime, Mr. Nicholson, had just been informed that his presence would not be required a meeting early the following morning, so we took this as an open invitation to get Helen Keller drunk. After easily taking down a 24 pack of cheap, horse piss-like lager, we decided a night out was just what the doctor ordered. By night out I mean finding a dive bar with live music, plenty of women, and adequate urinals to puke in.
Not too long after our 4th or 5th round, I found myself chatting to a lovely young woman who seemed like she fancied a roll in the hay judging by our conversation. After chatting with her for an hour or so I noticed that Mr. Nicholson had left the establishment. Not only did I not know where we were, I also did not know how to get back to his place because I forgot the address, and my phone battery was getting real low. I tried calling Mr. Nicholson several times but no dice. I would later find out he passed out cold on his couch and didn’t hear the phone ringing. I was caught with my pants down. I figured there was really nothing I could do except search blindly for Mr. Nicholson’s place. Worst case Ontario I would end up wandering the streets until daylight. I quickly exchanged numbers with the young woman and was on my way.
By the time 3am rolled around I was getting rather frustrated. I decided to ask a couple of cops for some help, such as directions or a ride, however, that didn’t work due to the fact I had no address and they were in the middle of arresting some haggard dude. “Good luck” they oiked at me as I walked off into the darkness.
At this point I had become quite thirsty, so I decided to do myself a favor and went and bought myself a bottle of water at a 24hr Mac’s. A few minutes later I decided to use my last few minutes of cell phone battery to go on Google Maps and try to figure out where the hell I was and see if I could recognize the name of the street Mr. Nicholson resided on. While doing this I came up with the brilliant idea of throwing my half full bottle of water against a wall of the community centre I was outside of and catching it. Due to general inattention on my part, I accidentally threw the bottle straight through the only window on the wall and shattered it. Alarms started going off and I took off like a goddamn antelope. After running a few blocks I got a phone call from the girl at the bar wondering if I wanted to meet. I was able to tell her the intersection I was at right before my phone battery completely bit it.
She arrived shortly after to rescue me on a circa 1920’s bicycle, and we doubled to the nearest Tim Horton’s in search of an outlet to charge our phones with. I should mention that this was all taking place on the weekend that Calgary flooded and many people were displaced from their homes. Unfortunately, the lovely young woman was one of those people. Not only was her place evacuated, it also had its power shut off. Despite this situation, she still wanted to go back there for some fun. The stand up gentleman who was working the late night shift at Timmy’s was under the impression that he would lose his job if he allowed us to use the outlet behind the counter, so after a brief yelling match with that genius we ended up leaving with two still-dead cell phones.
We got into her apartment via an unlocked ground floor window and proceeded to have fun as previously planned. There is nothing better than the old no pants dance at the end of the night, obviously, but the fact that I had tackled the situation I faced a few hours earlier and secured a bed for the night made it that much sweeter. Too bad my problems were not over. My boarding pass for my flight the next day was on my dead cell phone, and we were left without an alarm clock due to the power outage.
My flight was scheduled to leave at noon from the airport, and I woke up at 10 with still no clue where I was or where Mr. Nicholson’s was (all my bags were still there). I was still up shit creek, and shit creek sucks. On top of all that I was so hung over that I probably would have drank from shit creek if given the opportunity. A mouthful of shit water seemed better than the desert my mouth had become. It was fucking gross. I thought I blew my chances of making my flight.
When I went outside, to my delight I recognized a major road and realized I was only a few blocks from Mr. Nicholson’s place. I hopped in a cab directly after grabbing my bags and got to the airport $70 poorer and within 15 minutes of my flight leaving. Luckily, there was no line at the check in counter, so I was able to get the woman at the desk to print me off a boarding pass before running to my gate and making my flight. I thought I was completely home free. Not the case. While we were taxiing down the runway I felt a sudden urge to shit and barf at the same time, but the freak-bitch flight attendant wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom during take off. Standard procedure I guess, but considering the alternative, she should have let me go. I ended up sitting there and holding it in while swearing under my breath until we reached an appropriate altitude for unleashing the fury within.
That’s it.
