Message-ID: <13096317.1075852225578.JavaMail.evans@thyme> Date: Mon, 22 Oct 2001 07:08:14 -0700 (PDT) From: scott_crowell@hotmail.com To: c..giron@enron.com Subject: Fwd: FW: Are you ready for some football? Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-From: "scott crowell" @ENRON X-To: Giron, Darron C. X-cc: X-bcc: X-Folder: \DGIRON (Non-Privileged)\Giron, Darron C.\Deleted Items X-Origin: GIRON-D X-FileName: DGIRON (Non-Privileged).pst >From: "Laurence, Andrea" >To: "Adam Devine (E-mail)" , "Alex Stopka >(E-mail)" , "Alice Hurley (E-mail)" >, "Andrea Weimeyer (E-mail)" >, "Andreas Neuffer (E-mail)" >, "Grossi, Anthony L" , > "Bob Helbing (E-mail 2)" , > "Diana, Christopher J" , "Cory Hartquist >(E-mail)" , "Dana Schroeder (E-mail)" >, "Gerard Devine (E-mail)" >, "Graham Johnston (E-mail)" >, "Woodson, Granville M" >, "Frates, Gretchen" , >"Hugh Brown (E-mail)" , "Jean McHugh (E-mail)" >, "Jeff Ottenbreit (E-mail)" >, "Myles, Joanne D" , > "McGlothlin, Julia J" , "Krista Pearl >(E-mail)" , "Marc Laurence (E-mail)" >, "Michael Laurence (E-mail)" >, "Michael McCall (E-mail)" >, "Kelleher, Michael P" >, "Weisfeld, Michael" , > "Michele Farley (E-mail)" , "Mike Ibay >(E-mail)" , "Patty McKenna (E-mail)" >, "Paul Rude (E-mail)" >, "Rashida Mitchell (E-mail)" >, "Russell Sole (E-mail)" >, "Scott Crowell (E-mail)" >, "Rodiger, Stephan" >, "Sue Tafrate (E-mail)" , > "Stoltz, Suzanne" , "Arcona, Teresa" >, "Morley, Thomas" , >"Todd Edwards (E-mail)" , "Todd Lantor (E-mail)" >, "Tom Stolpman (E-mail)" >Subject: FW: Are you ready for some football? >Date: Fri, 19 Oct 2001 11:29:04 -0400 > > >-----Original Message----- >From: KurtHelwig@aol.com [mailto:KurtHelwig@aol.com] >Sent: Friday, October 19 , 2001 9:52 AM >To: alaurence@kpmg.com >Subject: Fwd: Are you ready for some football? > > >this might be guy humor, but it is one of the funniest damn things i have >ever read > > >-----Original Message----- >From: JimmyLynn1@aol.com [mailto:JimmyLynn1@aol.com] >Sent: Friday, August 31, 2001 12:36 PM >To: t.butler@rane.net; KurtHelwig@aol.com; Wiedis@aol.com >Subject: Fwd: Are you ready for some football? > > > >this one should remind you guys of our sojourn to new orleans last fall ... >it takes a while to read, but it's worth it. j -- > > > > >Fan on Game Day--- (apologies if you've seen this before...worth another > >look) > >This is pretty long, but it's HYSTERICAL! If you've ever been drunk at a > >sporting event, or been with someone who has, you can relate. > >++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ > >+++ > >This is an e-mail from some guy named J.D. Horne, who, according to the > >messages that were attached to this, is not a 21 year-old frat boy, but an > >attorney of indeterminate age. He sent it to his friend Brian Brice and it > >got forwarded around the country. You have to give the guy some props for > >being self-deprecating...but I hope I never meet him on game day. > >A chronology of events for Saturday, December 4, 1999, and the early >morning > >hours of Sunday, December 5, 1999: > > >6:00 Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and Texas Fight at full-freaking blast > >6:20 Get in car, drive to New Braunfels > >7:30 Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time of the morning) > >8:50 Turn 9 (crack open first beer) > >8:53 Crack open second beer > >8:58 Crack open...(you get the idea) > >10:30 Finish 18 (holes, as well as beers), sign scorecard for smoooooth 95. > >10:35 Headed for San Antonio (Alamodome - Nebraska vs Texas) > >10:50 Buy three 18-packs for pre- and post-game festivities > >11:10 We decide we don't have enough booze, so we double-back to a liquor > >store and buy the good ol' 750 ml plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam > >11:50 Arrive at the tailgate spot. Awesome day. Not a single cloud in the > >sky. About 70 degrees. > >11:55 I decide that we're going to kick the shit out of Nebraska. > >11:56 I tell my first Nebraska fan to go fuck himself. > >12:15 The UT band walks by on the way to the Alamodome. We're on the second > >floor of a two-story parking garage on the corner (a couple hundred of us). > >We're hooting and hollering like wildmen. The band doubles back to the > >street right below us and serenades us with Texas Fight and The Eyes of > >Texas. AWESOME MOMENT. > >12:25 In the post-serenade serendipity, 50-100 grown men are bumping chests > >with one another, each and every one of them now secure and certain of the > >fact that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska. > >1:00 The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the Alamodome. Again, we hoot > >and holler like wildmen. Again, the band doubles back and stops right below > >us to serenade us, this time, however, with the Nebraska fight songs. > >Although somewhat impressed by their spirit and verve, we remain convinced > >that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska. > >1:30 I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow managing to stuff the > >"Traveler" and 11 cans of beer into my pants. > >1:47 I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans. They are taunting me. I am > >taunting back, still certain that we are going to kick the shit out of > >Nebraska. I decide to challenge a particularly vocal Nebraska fan to play > >what I now call and will forever be remembered as Cell-Phone Flop Out." > >Remember flop out for a dollar? The rules are similar. I tell this > >Nebraska jackass that if he's so confident in his team, he should "flop >out" > >his cell phone RIGHT NOW and make plane reservations to Phoenix for the > >Fiesta Bowl. And then I spoke these memorable words: "And not those damn > >refundable tickets, either! You request those non-refundable, > >non-transferrable sons-of-bitches!" He backs down. He is unworthy. > >I call Southwest Airlines and buy two tickets to Phoenix, non-refundable >and > >non-transferrable. Price: $712. He is humbled. He lowers his head in > >shame. I raise my cell phone in triumph to the cheers of hundreds of Texas > >fans. I am KING and these are my subjects. I distribute the 11 beers in my > >pants to the cheering masses. I RULE the pre-game kingdom. > >2:34 Kickoff. Brimming with confidence, I open the Traveler and pour my > >first stiffy. > >2:45 I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big. Nebraska is fast. > >Nebraska is very pissed off at Texas. > >3:01 The first quarter mercifully ends. 9 yards total offense for Texas. > >Zero first downs for Texas. I'm still talking shit. I pour another stiffy > >from the Traveler. > >3:36 Four minutes to go in the first half: the Traveler is a dead soldier. > >I buy my first $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants. While I am standing in > >line, a center snap nearly decapitates Major Applewhite and rolls out of >the > >end zone. Safety. > >3:56 Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas 0. I wish I had another Traveler. > >4:11 While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the bathroom at halftime, I > >attempt to revive the classic Brice-ism from the South Bend bathroom: > >"Hey, buddy, niiiiiiiiice cock." He is unamused. > >4:21 I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants. I share my > >beer with two high school girls sitting behind me. Surprisingly, they are > >equipped with a flask full of vodka. I send them off to purchase Sprites, > >so that we may consume their vodka. I have not lost faith. > >Nebraska is a bunch of pussies. > >4:51 No more vodka. The girls sitting behind me have fled for their lives. > >I purchase two more $5 beers from the Alamodome merchants. > >5:18 Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0. I am beginning to lose faith. This > >normally would trouble me, but I am too drunk to see the football field. > >5:27 I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir. Those tickets have been > >confirmed and are non-refundable and non-transferrable." > >5:37 I try to start a fight with every person behind the concession >counter. > >As it turns out, the Alamodome has a policy that no beer can be sold when > >there is less than 10 minutes on the game clock. I am enraged by this > >policy. I ask loudly: "Why the fuck didn't you announce last call over the > >fucking PA system??!!" > >5:49 Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in defeat. All of a sudden, > >the Texas crowd goes absolutely nuts. > >"Whazzis?," I mutter, awaking from my coma, "Iz we winnig? Did wez scort?" > >Alas, the answer is no, we were not winning and we did not score. The > >largest (by far) cheer of the day from the Texas faithful occurred when the > >handlers were walking back to the tunnel and Bevo (the Texas mascot) >stopped > >to take a gargantuan shit all over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in the > >"Nebraska" spelled out in their end zone. I cheer wildly. I pick up the > >empty Traveler bottle and stick my tongue in it. I am thirsty. > >6:16 Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back to the truck. I would > >taunt them with some off-color remarks about their parentage, but I am too > >drunk to form complete sentences. With my last cognitive thought of the > >evening, I take solace in the fact that if we had not beaten them in > >October, they would be playing Florida State for the national championship. > >6:30 Back in the car. On the way back to Austin for the basketball game. > >8:00 Texas-Arizona tip off. We can still salvage the day! I crack open a > >beer. It is warm. I don't care. > >7:12 We have stopped for gas. I am hungry. I go inside the store. I walk > >past the beer frig. I notice a Zima. I've never had a Zima. I wonder if > >it's any good. I pull a Zima from the frig. I twist the top off and drink > >the Zima in three swallows. Zima sucks. I replace the empty bottle in the > >frig. > >7:17 There is a Blimpie Subs in the store. I walk to where the ingredients > >are, where the person usually makes the sub. There is no one there. I lean > >over the counter and scoop out half a bucket of black olives. I eat them. > >I am still hungry. I lean further over the counter and grab approximately > >two pounds of Pastrami. I walk out of the store grunting and eating > >Pastrami. The patrons in the store fear me. I don't care. > >8:01 We are in South Austin. I have been drinking warm beer and singing > >Brooks and Dunn tunes for over an hour. My truck-mate is tired of my > >singing. He suggests that perhaps Brooks and Dunn have written other good > >songs besides "You're Going to Miss Me When I'm Gone" > >and "Neon Moon" and that maybe listening to only those two songs, ten times > >each was a bit excessive. Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the CD > >play on its own. I tell him to fuck off and restart "Neon Moon." > >8:30 We arrive at the Erwin Center. My truckmate, against my loud and > >profane protestations, parks on the top floor of a nearby parking garage. I > >tell him he's an idiot. I tell him we will never get out. I tell him we > >may as well pitch a fucking tent here. He ignores me. > >I think he's still pissed about the Brooks and Dunn tunes. I whistle "Neon > >Moon" loudly. > >8:47 I am rallying. I have 4 warm beers stuffed in my pants. We're going > >to kick the shit out of Arizona. > >9:11 Halftime score: Texas 31, Arizona 29. I am pleased. I go to the > >bathroom to pee for the 67th time today. I giggle to myself because of the > >new opportunity to do "the bathroom Brice." There are no Arizona fans in > >the bathroom. I am disappointed. I tell myself (out loud) that I have a > >"Niiiiiice cock." No one is amused but me. > >9:41 I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light out of a can. Needless > >to say, they do not sell beer at the Erwin Center,much less Bud Light out >of > >a can. I am stopped by an usher: "Where did you get that, sir?" I tell him > >(no shit): "Oh, the cheerleaders were throwing them up with those little > >plastic footballs. Would you mind throwing this away for me?" I take the > >last swig and hand it to him. He is confused. I pretend I'm going to the > >bathroom, but I run away giggling instead. I duck into some entrance to > >avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me. I sneak into a large group of > >people and sit down. The usher walks by harmlessly. I am giggling like a > >little girl. I crack open another can of Bud Light. > >9:52 I am lost. In my haste to avoid the usher, I have lost my bearings. I > >have no ticket stub. I cannot find my seats. Texas is losing. > >10:09 Texas is being screwed by the refs. I am enraged. I have cleared out > >the seats around me because I keep removing my hat and beating the > >surrounding chairs with it. A concerned fan asks if I'm OK and perhaps I > >shouldn't take it so seriously. I tell him to fuck off. > >10:15 After the fourth consecutive "worst fucking call I have EVER seen," I > >attempt to remove my hat again to begin beating inanimate objects. > >However, on this occasion I miscalculate and I thumbnail myself in my left > >eyelid, leaving a one-quarter inch gash over my eye. I am now bleeding into > >my left eye and all over my shirt. "Perhaps," I think to myself, I'm > >taking this a bit seriously." > >10:22 I am standing in the bathroom peeing. I'm so drunk I am swaying and > >grunting. I have a bloody napkin pressed on my left eye. My pants are > >bloody. I have my (formerly) white shirt wrapped around my waist. I look > >like I should be in an episode of Cops. > >10:43 Texas has lost. I put my bloody white shirt back on my body and make > >my way for the exits. I am stopped every 20 seconds by a good > >samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me why I am covered in blood, but I > >merely grunt incoherently and keep moving. > >10:59 With my one good eye, I have located the parking garage. I walk up > >six flights of stairs, promise that when I see my friend I will punch him >in > >the face for making me walk up six flights of stairs, find the truck, and > >collapse in a heap in the bed of the truck. I look around and notice that > >traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and >no > >one is moving. I take a nap. > >11:17 I awake from my nap. I see my friend in the driver's seat. I lift my > >head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up > >all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I > >am too tired to punch my friend. I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker." > >11:31 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that > >traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and >no > >one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker." > >11:38 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that > >traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and >no > >one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker." > >11:47 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that > >traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and >no > >one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker." > >11:58 I am jostled. The truck is moving. I lift my head to look out the > >bed of the truck and notice that traffic is beginning to move on the second > >floor. I jump out of the truck, walk to the edge of the parking facility, > >and pee off the sixth floor onto the street below. > >My friend looks at me like I just anally violated his minor sister. I turn > >around pee on the front of his truck while singing the lyrics to "Neon > >Moon." > >12:11 We are moving. We are out of beer. I jump from the truck and go from > >vehicle to vehicle until someone gives me two beers. I am happy. I return > >to my vehicle > >12:26 We have emerged from the parking facility. We make our way to my > >apartment and find Ed sitting on the couch with a freshly opened bottle of > >Glenlivet on the coffee table in front of him. We are all going to die > >tonight. > >12:59 We have finished three-quarters of the bottle of Glenlivet. We decide > >it would be a wonderful idea to go dancing at PollyEsther's. Ed has to pee. > >He walks down the hall to our apartment and directly into the full length > >mirror at the end of the hall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces. We > >giggle uncontrollably and leave for PollyEsther's. > >1:17 The PollyEsther's doorman laughs uncontrollably at our efforts to >enter > >his club. "Fellas," he says in between his fits of spastic laughter, "I've > >been working this door for almost a year. I've been working doors in this > >town for almost 5 years. And I can honestly say that I ain't never seen > >three drunker mother fuckers than you three. Sorry, can't let you in." We > >attempt to reason with him. He laughs harder. > >1:44 We find a bar that lets us in. We take two steps in the door and hear > >"Last call for alcohol!" I turn to the group and mutter: "See, dat wasn't > >that fuckin' hard. Day don't fuckin' do that at the Awamo...the awaom...the > >alab...fuck it, that stadium we was at today..." We order 6 shots of > >tequila and three beers. > >2:15 Back on the street. We need food. We hail a cab to take us the two > >and one half blocks to Katz's. The cab fare is $1.60. We give him $10 and > >tell him to keep it. > >2:17 There is a 20 minute wait. We give the hostess $50. We are seated > >immediately. > >2:25 We order two orders of fried pickles, a Cobb salad, a bowl of soup, >two > >orders of Blueberry blintzes, two Reuben sandwiches, a hamburger, two >cheese > >stuffed potatoes, an order of fries, and an order of onion rings. > >2:39 The food arrives. We are all asleep with our heads on the table. The > >waiter wakes us up. We eat every fucking bit of our food. Most of the > >restaurant patrons around us are disgusted. We don't give a fuck. The tab > >is $112 with tip. > >2:46 I'm sleepy. > >9:12 I wake up next to a strange woman. She is the bartender at Katz's. > >She is not pretty. > > > >***************************************************************************** >The information in this email is confidential and may be legally >privileged. >It is intended solely for the addressee. Access to this email by anyone >else >is unauthorized. > >If you are not the intended recipient, any disclosure, copying, >distribution >or any action taken or omitted to be taken in reliance on it, is prohibited >and may be unlawful. When addressed to our clients any opinions or advice >contained in this email are subject to the terms and conditions expressed >in >the governing KPMG client engagement letter. >***************************************************************************** _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp