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Animal House

            The title of this post is designed to waste the time of eager googlers seeking further information on Otter and Bluto, whose names I included to make the search more relevant. Since out little blog does not have the glitz and glamour to attract people in large numbers legitimately, from time to time we must resort to outright deception; a tactic I learned well from the other authors. All aside, today’s dissertation is a frank and truthful expose of these 4 dudes in my shop at Langley who paved the way for the antics we would continue once freed from the oppressive dorms.

            Kent, Dario, Jake, and Harley arrived at Langley about 8 to 12 months before my crew and were the first wave of young airmen to arrive en masse in some time. All of them still lived in the dorms when we arrived and served as guides for my group when we got there and I would like to advertise that our corruption could not have been begun by a finer group of mischievous tosspots. Kent was the undisputed leader; a Clay Aiken look alike with both the most vibrant personality and highest alcohol tolerance of anyone I have ever met. Dario seemed along for the ride and both the most temperamental and loyal of the group. Jake was a young father, had the driest wit and a proud misogynist, referring to all women, ex’s and relatives alike as “dirty little whores”. Last came Harley, actually Christened ‘Walter’ from the deepest backwoods Arkansas whose speech became increasingly hillbilly to the point of unintelligibility the further sloshed he got. They later folded Josh into their group; a strange red head who would sing your praises to the heavens when drunk, then despise your very presence on earth when momentarily sober once again.

            Independently, each on his own was a party animal and I can think of near countless experiences full of blurred and fuzzy details, so will only bother with those I can recall with some coherency. My first experience partying with Kent was in the early days when he still lived in the dorms. Kent like to switch things up to avoid tedium and we all awaited the call to arms each weekend, usually to be disappointed when he chose others and we would be stuck with the losers who lost the draw. On one of my first weekends I was in the right place at the right time and got the call forward along with my roommate Jim, another called Krusty (Kent liked to make cute little names for everyone) and some other idiot I can’t remember. Bryan, John and the rest looked on kicking the dirt with sour grapes as I was pulled, albeit temporarily, into the circle of greatness.

            The planned adventure that evening was a trip down to VA Beach, a thrilling place to go everyone’s first year on post until downgraded to too much of a nuisance after due to the 45 minute drive time. Beer in hand, Kent volunteered to drive and pulled into the first gas station outside the gate to get a 12 pack of road beers for the trip down. Though there were only 5 of us and some only had one beer, the pack was cashed by the time we hit the parking lot behind ocean avenue, Kent having consumed the lion’s share; his right as our driver for the evening. The suspicion was somewhat confirmed as we stood watch as he voided a good half gallon of processed suds from his bladder on to the side of a van.

            The time down there was your basic pub crawl with little to note that probably would have gone on indefinitely until the majority of us decided we were tired of paying tourist prices and insisted Kent take us back to Hampton. He agreed on the condition that we stop for another 12 pack for the ride back and that the evening was by no means over. Once again, the beer was gone by the time we hit Harpoon Larry’s, about 3 or 4 miles from the south gate. I don’t remember any of us in the back even so much as touching one, though Kent made a bee line to the men’s room the moment we got inside. I had decided well before then that I had enough and simply wanted to go back to the dorms, but Kent wouldn’t hear of it. I was forced to pull the first of one of my many famous disappearing acts; an inspirational feat that actually landed someone in jail, but that is a tale for another day.

            On the pretext of having to use the bathroom, I ducked out the door though an incoming crowd and slipped around the back of the place as not to be seen though a window. My area of greatest risk of discovery was to take Armistead, the main road back to base, so instead I cut down side streets to reach the much lesser used LaSalle gate, where I knew they would never look for me. It would be a significant blow to my self described prowess as a sneak to be discovered by the drunken posse. Once though the gate, I cut across a series of fields until I reached the dorms and finally collapsed on the couch after the 5 mile trek.

            The next day I found that my disappearance did indeed baffle them and a search was mounted up and down Armistead to no avail until it was assumed I was either dead or had gotten lucky. Jim told me that he and one of the others had also wanted to come back, but Kent refused to attempt the gate after having consumed some 20 odd beers and dropped them off at some disreputable friend’s of his where they crashed uncomfortably on an uncarpeted floor. Kent and Krusty had gotten the hotel address of some girls they met at the bar and decided to try to make good use of the information. The address was poorly written, however, and they were chased away by a security guard for making a ruckus. Rather than call it a night, they went to the store for eggs and tormented the man with well lobbed slime grenades until he finally called the real police. While he claimed not to hold my desertion against me, I never again received the tap, and truly, it was all right by me.

            Before the rise of the House of Shame, Kent also began a new mid-shift tradition by finding the one place in town that served beer at 7:00 AM. Understand that mid-shift, or ‘mids’ was the graveyard shift of 11:00 PM to 7:00 AM that I worked most of my time at Langley. It was eternally punishing on the body, but included the least amount of supervision, making it ideal for those of us not so enamored to the showier parts of military tradition. In any case, before Kent, those of us who might wish to sip a beer after a long shift on Friday were out of luck. Then he found Fertitta’s.

Fertitta’s was a little diner in a strip mall on Mercury that served greasy bacon and eggs to the good folks in town who liked a little hot breakfast on their way to work. Whether it was originally in the standard offerings or not, Kent persuaded Mercy behind the counter to draw fresh brew from the tap early in the morning and keep ‘em coming. We would occupy the far end of the counter, sucking down beer and cigarettes while playing the pin ball machine or trivia game, always in full uniform of course. The looks we received were priceless. Once she got to know us better, Mercy revealed a hidden talent that she could only be coaxed into on rare occasion and only for people who had been there at least 10 times. It was known as ‘what’s behind door number 3’.

I was not a frequent enough attendee to receive the show for quite some time and those who had seen it were sworn to secrecy, never breaking the vow, but marveling at the spectacle in guarded language. Finally I was trusted enough to be initiated in the club. Mercy would open the door to the third walk in cooler behind the counter (hence door number three), remove an enormous frozen sausage of length and girth to put Ron Jeremy to shame, and deep throat the thing right down to the tips of her fingers. It was a sight both nauseating and awe inspiring at the same time. I have a picture of her with the sausage in question that I will have to post in the near future. Toward the end of my tour I convinced Mercy to show my friend Tiffany who was so impressed that she tipped her $10 out of sheer wonderment.


The dorms could not contain Kent and the rest for very long and they were granted funding to move off base just a half year after I got there. Kent, Dario, Jake, Harley and Josh rented out a big old house about 10 miles from base that rapidly became known as ‘Party Central’, ‘Animal House’, the ‘House of Shame’ and most alluring, ‘House of Ill Repute’. It reminded me so much of Comstock that my blood boiled in jealousy while my more rational side was eternally grateful that I was to be trapped in the dorms until less outrageous living arrangements were available. They didn’t exactly have a Jason, but Harley filled in nicely to a point as he was certainly the messiest, but also the strongest, probably saving him from the types of torture his Buffalo counterpart received.

The House, like Comstock, was a fantastic place to go any time day or night to party, where you were guaranteed to become inebriated quickly, for the full duration, and meet all manner of interesting folks. Small gatherings were always the best. They had a living room/ bar area set up between the two wings of the house that looked out into the yard and offered full view of the shed where Harley brewed his homemade moonshine. There was absolutely nothing about the lad that wasn’t pure hillbilly and he once even disclosed that the Air Force made him take speech classes upon entering so that ordinary people could understand him. For some reason the house members took a particular shine to playing the collected works of the Steve Miller Band, the words and lyrics I became intimately familiar with after many a long night and long way home.

The best events were the annual Halloween parties they threw, two of which I was able to attend. The great part about these parties was the natural talent Kent had to recruit women into coming. Not just Air Force women but genuine civilian townies. He would bring Alex with him, the undisputed pretty boy of the group, and convince all manner of pretty lasses that coming to his rambling old house in costume was a goodme-and-tiffany-halloween-1999-at-animal-house idea and even managed to achieve an unprecedented ratio of women over men that had ever been achieved in a military party which were by rule sausage fests. Furthermore, he offered incentive for many of the attendees to come dressed as Catholic school girls which they took up, but unfortunately, so did some of the guys.

My own costume for these events was appropriately lewd to the point where even Dan might nod his head in agreement. Feeling spunky, I decided to go as a Private Dick, the slang term for a private detective that went out of favor in the last 20 years, so likely a term unknown to Aaron. I decided to make use of obvious pun and after donning a trench coat and fedora, I added to the ensemble a spent paper towel roll that I stuffed for firmness and strapped to my leg. I created a magnificent head with duct tape and Styrofoam and gave the appearance of a very well endowed man just super glad to see you. Most men at the party gave me a considerably wide berth and animal-house-halloween-guy-in-dress-josh-dario-fernandez-kent-lambrecht-will-the-thrill-front-some-womandespite all expectations to the contrary, I received the greatest amount of spontaneous female attention of any event I ever attended, up to and including my bachelor party. I recycled the idea twice more, such was the animal allure it held.

Attendance always included a nominal fee, but the refreshments were never short of spectacular. Aside from the expected kegs of swill, multiple brands of liquor were available, as were mixers, specialty drinks prepared by Kent himself, Jell-O shots carried about by random women they would press into service and even a fabled ice luge. The luge was a huge 200 lb block of ice they would have delivered, then carve channels into with hot water shortly before the party. The block would be set up on a table in the garage ramping downward. Interested drinkers would press their lips against one of the channel outflows at the bottom and receive a well chilled shot of Rumple Mintz poured from the top. The block lasted most of the night until someone came up with the notion of doing flaming shots, which led to both rapid deterioration of the luge and the idea man being cast from the gathering.

The boys ran a tight ship at the parties. If you knew them, you were usually pretty safe, although more than one was forcibly brought back the following day to repair some minor damage. If you were a relative stranger, best mind your manners. In the best cases, the offenders and their friends would be given the boot for causing a scene, starting trouble, or sassing one of the house members. Starting a fight was a much worse idea and I recall one poor fool starting with Dario, leading to the unfortunate slob being held down and repeatedly slammed in the face until nearly unconscious before being dumped on the front lawn. Ejected people often felt the need for revenge and would call the police on the party. Each time this happened, Kent would go out, talk to them and everything would be all right with the responding officers invited to swing on by after their shift.

What was also not a good idea, Halloween or any other party, was to fall asleep on the premises unguarded. The risk of having one’s eyebrows shaved off, nails painted or twirlly moustaches drawn on with permanent marker was just too great. Such acts were usually perpetrated by the Magnificent Seven; the seven last people standing after everyone had either left or passed out. I only once managed to achieve such distinction, and usually managed to find a ride on other occasions. Once, tired beyond belief, I sought out my ride only to find him passed out and decorated nicely in a corner. Fearing the worst, I found a large closet on the second floor, crawled in and managed to jam the door from being opened from the outside. Entry was attempted more than once, but I kept silent as the door jangled violently and my prospective attackers eventually went away.

If you survived there until the following morning, usually red eyed and exhausted even if sleep was obtained, Kent would always be up, chipper, and usually sipping a beer which he referred to as a ‘morning pop’. He would then pass around shots of apple schnapps to ease the hang over and begin suggesting activities for the day as if the previous evening had been spent playing Scrabble with some tea and biscuits. We simply never had the strength and he would head off to find someone who couldn’t attend the bash while the rest of us staggered home to recover with perhaps a stop for some nail polish remover or an eyebrow pencil on the way.

Aside from the normal hospitality and abuse of guests, female visitors, particularly those who chose to engage in a dalliance with one of the housemates, often had their picture taken on the way out the next morning. The Polaroid of the poor maiden who made the obvious mistake of sleeping with one of those swine was hung on the ‘wall of shame’, a cork board over which was installed a locking glass case to discourage take backs. Aside from these as there were not enough to fill all the space, were pictures of the rest of us caught in a moment of stupidity or simply looking foolish.

I myself made an appearance there from a New Year’s Eve party in which I imbibed much of John Tokarcik’s Smurf Piss – a blue alcoholic concoction with 18 alleged ingredients, none of which John would disclose. Though one glass would do ya, I had two or three that night, still a sight better than Bryan who spent the midnight hour spewing electric blue over a white picket fence. I somehow ended up dancing the evening away with a scantily dressed African-American woman of very generous proportions. Kent managed to get a perfect shot of her grinding herself into my thigh. It became known as the “Bonita Chiquita” picture and was passed around the shop, photocopied and otherwise distributed to anyone interested before ending up on the wall. Fortunately, the much more embarrassing antics of others surpassed this in days.

Eventually even I got tired of the big party scene and extricated myself to spend more time with smaller groups who generated considerably more drama but allowed me to play more of a starring role; at the House, the best I could get was minor character status like a Burns, or at best a Schultz. It would have been much more fitting if this tale ended with a big bust or some type of explosion, but like Comstock it really just faded away rather than go out in any type of spectacular fashion. Kent went back to Texas where rumor had it that he went into selling cars and managed to make a years salary in just 3 months, leaving him time to pursue a Pharmacy degree. Harley disappeared to Arkansas to take up residence in a double wide in his parent’s back yard. The rest just vanished off someplace never to be seen again, until of course I run for office and my wall of shame appearances emerge along with dozens of compromising Knaus pics.


9 Responses

  1. It is nice to hear countless stories of our military driving around sloshed. I am forced to declare Wolf the most with-it cat of the lot. Do not think that is high praise as I know of many of Wolf’s antics first hand. The bar is obviously low enough even Matt could easily go over.

    Jail! Do tell!

    I require a description of Mercy to determine how disgusted I am by “door number three”. Given Tiffany’s reaction of awe and envy to Mercy’s talent, did Tiffany’s image morph after her tipping?

    Private Dick? Is that one of those viewing rooms in the back of the Elmwood Books and News (I hope that grabs a few innocent Googlers)? Was the Dark Pistacio costume ever used?

    I KNEW IT! WOLF WAS IN THE CLOSET THIS WHOLE TIME! Your parade around the Triads freshman year was just a planned showcase!

    Smart move to leave while relatively unscathed, especially when in the position of Matt.

  2. Despite the guaranteed demotion if caught, driving around sloshed was almost mandatory in the military, though some took it to greater heights than others.

    Ah, the jail story will come in due time! And no, it wasn’t me – I was far too wiley to be caught doing anything untoward and left a model citizen.

    Oh, you should be disgusted! When I get a moment I’m going to scan in pics of all these people I’m mentioning. I have a pic of Mercy holding the sausage but she wouldn’t let me take one of her doing it. The sight will give you nightmares.

    Were it anyone else I would think you kid, but I am not at all surprised you are unfamiliar with the term. Unfortunately, the Dark Pistacio costume had long since vanished by that point. By then it had finally dawned on me that dressing as a drunken filthy clown was less of a chick magnet than I originally theorized.

    Fool! That was a laundry closet, not a homosexual one! If anything I was hiding from those who had designs on painting my fingernails. …. That probably doesn’t exactly help my case, but nevertheless. I recall no parade around the Triads, only living there with a roomate who slept in the closet. Again, not helping my case so I will leave it at that.

  3. well, well, well,
    no where near my proudest moments ( driving sloshed that is) however, as Wolf states, it is usual and customary for the young and enlisted. I have to tell you, reading about that part of my life after so many years is discombobulating. I have, since those times of endless parties and debotchery, graduated with a doctor of pharmacy degree and practice and live in Vail, colorado. I have carried forth many of the before mentioned antics with the exception of driving drunk.
    Darion has graduated as well and practices in Texas as a physical therapist.

    Harley was extremely happy to get his paper route back(quite a distinguishing job in his neck of the woods) and been married with a couple ok kids.

    For the blogger that would like to know about Mercy, I have a picture of the happenings behind door number three. If The Mighty Wolf would so choose, I may digitize and send it his way. We have a lot of catching up to do Wolf, Give me an e-mail and lets catch up. I’ve wondered what happened to you and Bray.

    Lots of fond memories of those times and, who knows, maybe more stories to tell in the future. Come on up and go Snow-boarding or Skiiing sometime.


  4. Many thanks to Donny for finding this blog and Josh for calling me. As you gentle readers can assertain we all had a great time while serving out or tour of duty in my least favorite state VA, because as we all know, “it is the state for lovers”.

    As Wolf put it, we all have Kent to thank, hope all is well in Vail bro, man I miss Colorado!

    If I could only remember more of what happened in those days. I see pictures now and again or friends who passed through 95C on vacation bring up stories that I would say to my dieing breath are complete lies but I am sure they actually happened I just don’t remember.

    My wall of shame picture which Josh pain stakingly assembled prior to our retirement from 95C has had a rough trip, one time being forgotten on the top shelf of my closet when I moved only to be mailed to me by the new inhabitants. The power of Fran’s boobs must have compeled them to realize that this was a prize possesson that needed to be returned to it’s rightful owner but only aparantly after they painted because there is a nice mist of khaki paint over the entire picture… Thanks for the blog and the memories Wolf.

    I wouldn’t change a thing though.

  5. Ahem… let me first say that anyone using this bag of malicious deceitful lies as a background check of any kind is both foolish and dull for believing the heresy contained herein…

    That said, wecome Jake and Kent! What an excellent surprise to hear from you! Those old days seem like a surreal lifetime ago in a far off land. The whole purpose of this blog has been for my college friends and I to entertain each other recounting the old stories from when we lived in a very similar situation to those of you in 95C. We finally ran out and I began entertaining them to some degree with my Air Force tales (completely exaggerated of course!).

    I’ll email you and update you on how thing went after you wisely departed VA since I decided some subjects are better left out of the public forum.

    Great to hear from you!

  6. I guess all of us from 95C are slowly finding this blog of the lies in our past, or so we claim because we can’t remember. Yes the hillbilly has a computer but don’t expect the spelling to be for shit.

    I have been married for 7 years and have two children a girl who is 5 and a boy who is 1 and i plan on lying to both of them about what i did for good old uncle sam.

    i also still have my wall of shame put up in mint condition. unfortunately my wife requests that it stay out of site so we do not have to explain it to the kids.

    Since my wonderful days in th air force i have also obtained my bachelor of science in nurseing and am practicing as a registered nurse in hope, arkansas.

    so my hillbilly status is not deminished at all everyone should know that bow season for deer starts oct. 1 and modern gun starts on nov. 14 and yes i use a 12 gauge shotgun. and the fishing is picking up. case in point my daughter caught a 4 lbs large mouth bass 3 weeks ago.

    thanks kent and dario for letting me know about this site. and Wolf send me an email sometime.

    ya’ll be safe

  7. Gentlemen,

    I remember those days well. How is everyone doing? Wolf, Kent, Jake, Dario, Harley its been a long time and I hope that everyone is doing well.


  8. Rocky! Good to hear from you! Been many years now and I am doing well since the old Langley days. By any chance are you still stationed down there?

  9. I added a pic of Mercy I found. Enjoy!

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