One of the aspects of Supercross that I have always wanted to cover is what goes on away from the stadium. People can go anywhere to get race coverage and even pit coverage, but no one has the balls or the general irresponsibility to report what happens in the veiled world of partying that happens each and every weekend, leaving the average BROs unaware of the best part of attending a Supercross. Well, this may not be a report, but it is a true story of an insane night that transpired the night before ATL. I always have tried to live my life by the mantra “Get busy living, or get busy dying.” On this night, the two were almost one in the same.
It all started at the DMXS party at a bar called Tongue and Groove, just down the road from our hotel. Being a DMXS event, it was filled with moto BROs and, more importantly, moto hoes. The BRO crew was delighted to be greeted by such a target rich environment, especially after journeying through the South and gaining an unneeded perspective on the fuglier side of America. Drinks were in order, obviously; I am about a thousand times more charming when I have trouble pronouncing my own name. After several beers, a few vodka sodas, and a shot or two of Jack, we found ourselves surrounded by chicks from the races and even some chick from MTV. That’s when the champagne started flowing, and after a few toasts, it was time to take stock in the situation. I was pleased with where we had ended up, as pretty much every one of these girls was a 1/2 on a bad day, and considering the copious amount of social lubrication that had made its way into my blood stream, I was totally Dungey status in anticipation of what was potentially to come.
As we exited the club, I probably would have had an extra spring in my step if I was not busy pinballing from wall to wall. I hopped in a cab with several girls and a couple of racers. The BRO crew was no longer at my side, which would come as a huge inconvenience later in the night. We wound up at the W Hotel, and as I strode through the lobby, I caught an envious glare from the BRO at the front desk. Oh, you ain’t heard? I’m the man. We took the elevator up to one of the girls’ rooms, and the night decided to take a turn for the worse.
You all know that my sense of logic and reason is impeccable, but even I have no fucking idea why I did what I did next. I found myself in the elevator by myself, returning to the lobby. I was making my way to the door when I had an incredibly brief moment of clarity and decided to return back to the room upstairs. Only one problem: I could not remember what floor, let alone what room they were on. No worries, a simple text would solve my problems. Unfortunately, and much to my chagrin, my phone had called it quits for the night. I stood there in the lobby contemplating my options; basically, the way I saw it, I could either walk back to my hotel, or die. That’s right, die. I do not want to die. Could I have simply looked to my left and asked the asshole at the front desk what room they were in? Absolutely not, as that would have been way too convenient and unexciting. As my man Robert Frost said, I took the road less traveled; less traveled because it was in a bad neighborhood.
I remembered that the bar had been only a mile away from my hotel, and felt that it was beyond obvious that the W Hotel had to sit in the exact same place in the city, even though we had taken a cab there. I took off down the road, confident that just around the corner awaited the red and white sign of the Fairfield Inn and my warm bed, more than likely containing all of the girls that I had just left like a retard in the other hotel. After about two miles, however, I realized that none of the landmarks around me looked in any way familiar, probably because they consisted of a highway off-ramp and about a billion pieces of garbage. Unless my hotel had a cloaking device that disguised it as several old Chick-Fil-A bags, then I was a bit off course.
I was beginning to sober up at this point, and felt myself growing closer and closer to a state of panic. I decided to break out into a run, as nothing could be more natural and organic than a white kid running through the hood in Atlanta, right? Unfortunately, the brutal cocktail that is alcohol and gravity decided to hit me right then and there. I ate shit, and I mean ATE SHIT. It was the type of fall where you can actually hear your head hit the ground. I rose to my feet in a bit of a daze, but unfazed in my efforts to not be sleeping on the street that night. As I continued down the road (walking this time), I felt above my eye and discovered a fresh stream of blood. Rad, chicks dig scars. I’ll just tell everyone that I got into a fight, and pull the “You should see the other guy” card, a fail-safe when it comes to closing on pussy.
Now I am in the middle of I-Don’t-Want-To-Be-Here Atlanta with a fresh gash in the head, alone, and with no form of communication. Every single time I saw a set of headlights, I threw up my hand in hopes that it was a cab. Of course, that would have done me no good since I had about $5 in cash on me. It was also about 4 in the morning and the cab drivers were definitely steering clear of this area. But, much to my amazement, a car pulled to a stop. I was ecstatic to find a taxi and ran over to the vehicle. I quickly realized, however, that it was not a cab. I was greeted by two ethnically-diverse BROs, probably about my age. They told me to get in the car. Now, I generally consider myself to be a pretty smart BRO; like, I kill it when I watch Jeopardy. But, I got in that car. Who is a retard, Alex?
Immediately upon entering, the black kid in the passenger seat turned and asked if I got jumped. I replied swiftly with a “yes”, hoping to gain some sympathy or hoping that these guys would not even bother being second to the game. He asked me if I had any money, which I took out without hesitation to give to him. His next question was why the dudes who jumped me did not take my money. Holy fuck, this dude should work for the FBI. I decided to talk to these guys. Have you ever seen show Criminal Minds? They always say that in a kidnapping case, it is important to humanize the victim to the perpetrator. I wanted to remind these BROs that I am a human and not a carrying case for whatever they wanted to shove into every orifice in my body.
We drove for a while, during which time the driver asked me for cigarettes, and for some reason did not murder me when I responded in the negative. Things got weird again when the driver, a Middle Eastern BRO, suggested we just go crash at his place. In my best effort to keep a tone that did not reveal how much I figured he had a gimp outfit with my name on it, I said “I really need to get back to my hotel.” After about a half an hour, we finally found it. I can honestly say the pure ecstasy that I felt at that moment was the best I have ever experienced at 5 in the morning, way better than sex. Even though my new friends did not ask for anything else, I felt I owed them the only piece of almost-currency left on my person: a Verizon Wireless giftcard. Enjoy some minutes on me, BROs. Unfortunately, neither of them owned a cell phone, but I realized that when I was mid-sprint through the lobby. Oh well. As sketchy as it all was, I would have been cooked had it not been for the Southern hospitality of the two thug mofos in the hood of ATL. Thanks for the ride, BROs.
I made it back to the room for a few hours of sleep before it was time to hit the stadium. Obviously, I still had a fresh gash above my eye, so I spent the better part of the day telling this story, and every time I ended it with the same three words: Like a boss. End.