It happens all the time. Some Sunday night you're down in South Beach pestering LeBron James into 21 points and 6 turnovers and you go out to have a cocktail in celebration with a few of your mates then fast forward 2 days, 11 $500-plus bar tabs, 84 new friends, 16 new enemies, 29 forgotten or physically/ biologically impossible promises and a half-dozen costume changes--all of which you only learned about hours after having actually occurred--and you're arrested in a suburban Dallas apartment complex thirteen hundred miles West from where you took that first Grey Goose shot.
Of course, DBSF doesn't pass judgment as this is as common an occurrence as say the waning gibbous, but such
unfortunate circumstances befell DeShawn Stevenson earlier this week. Two days of intense Marty McFly-time-traveling likely left DeShawn with minimal recollection (i.e., he knows he took off his shoes at one point to see if his credit card had fallen through his pocket into them but he doesn't know if it was day or night or if that was before or after he shook hands and bet a stranger $6,000 that the XFL would replace the NFL as the premier football league in the coming season). As such, DBSF will use his intuitive and investigative skills--the latter of which he earned compliments of TESST College of Technology via a 3-week mail order certificate degree in Private Investigating (in fact, DBSF was so pleased with the scholastic experience that he double-downed for a double certificate-er-major in LockSmithing)--to piece together how DeShawn's Sunday to Tuesday night transpired.
Sunday night from midnight to 5am was probably standard NBA Championship partying. You and your teammates get a roped off section of the nicest club in town, someone buys a
$90K bottle of champagne and tips an additional $20K, groupies are poking holes in condoms in the bathroom and praying to God that the baby-sitter will fall asleep and not call like 50 times seeing why they're still not home yet, etc.
Around 5-6am the club is closing and all the rational or uber-horny teammates are heading back to the hotel seeing as having just finished a basketball game and a 100+ game season sleep is becoming increasingly seductive. But, not DeShawn. No. He had that fire in his heart and wasn't ready to wave the surrender flag to the party demons just yet.
After 5 or so hours of extreme power drinking in combination with the exhaustion associated with a three hour basketball game DeShawn is, well DeShawn is at a sketchy (e.g., illegal) after-hours club or party where all patrons and employees are under the influence of enough stimulants to eliminate a triceratop's appetite. Here is also where social cues should lead DeShawn to recognize that the night has reached its twilight (despite it being dawn) and he should shut down shop.
But, how can he tell DBSF? He's caught up in the excitement and the energy of the party. Easy, examine conversation. After ingesting myriads stimulants since getting off a double shift at the Hyatt, DeShawn's late-night colleagues are deep in the throes of a conversation on no other than their "brilliant" movie script, which inevitably deserves critical acclaim and instant blockbuster recognition--Lost in Translation meets Forrest Gump meets ET times the entire Fast and the Furious franchise.
Anyone with even minimal experience with abusers of stimulants knows that to carry on a 6am-8am conversation with said abuser(s), DeShawn would have had to been participating because otherwise one is trapped in the most asinine conversation where the stimulatee pontificates on the blockbuster script idea, which in fact is simply a combination of the plots of Short Circuit 2, Mighty Ducks and Cop and a Half closing with a scene for scene rip off of the last 8 minutes of Jurassic Park 2 (The Lost World).
Let's fast forward an hour or three. We can assume DeShawn is now hitting a grey zone. He is considering an IHop session but as all power-partiers know that ends the evening and this dude just won an NBA Finals against his arch nemesis, whom had Jay Z write a song lambasting him (DeShawn) when stuff got hot in Washington so what would you do?
As any marathon partier knows, for the truly epic 40+ hour party to persist sans-stimulants (cheating in DBSF's book; basically steroids for partiers), one must encounter the rare case of blind luck. At this point a teammate--likely Brian Cardinal--was driving to the airport to take the team plane back to Dallas when turning onto the interstate who does Brian see arm around the shoulder of a homeless man and sharing a bottle of Popov? DeShawn.
Brian scoops DeShawn, they catch the team plane where DeShawn proceeds to pass out the entire flight but not before ordering a shot of something "red spicy and tastes like bananas but not too much like bananas what time is it" and crashes out before the flight attendant can finish saying "pardon me".
By the time the plane lands and DeShawn wastes 2 hours and the Monday night of the entire flight staff looking for his hat (which he didn't bring on the flight) DeShawn refuses Jason Kidd's ride home because DeShawn claims--without any reason or information meriting his claim--to already have a ride. When said ride inevitablely never shows up as it never existed with the exception of a brief 8 minute window in his intoxicated brain DeShawn must decide on the next step as it is now entering 10 pmish on Monday night.
Obviously, the only logical step is airport bar. This is where the faintest memory of the bender remains for DeShawn because of the recovery that occurred during the plane ride (he spent 8 minutes trying to take pictures of children with his cell phone, which was actually the calculator he traded his cell phone for straight-up with the homeless man at the interstate ramp). DeShawn spends the next 6 hours making frenemies by A) buying everyone at the bar drinks (friends), and B) accusing patrons indiscriminately of stealing his wallet/ challenging the integrity of Tom Brokaw (enemies).
From about 2am to noon on Tuesday DeShawn has consumed such massive amounts of frozen Margaritas (with chasers of Grand Marnier) that even DBSF's exceptional telekentic/ detective powers are muted. Only thing DBSF can really pull from that ten hour window is that DeShaw spent between 4 and 6 hours taping episodes of Family Matters on a VHS he traded in for at a pawn shop for his $50K Cartier watch and then using the same tape and the same thirty minutes of film to rerecord each ensuing episode so the quality of the film was so poor by the 9th or 10th recording that Eddie Winslow sounded and looked exactly like Tom Selleck in Mr. Baseball.
From noon to about 9 or 10pm when the police were called DeShawn was essentially in a comatic state. He probably drank 2 or 3 Heineken cans and a strawberry daiquiri (which the bartender at Olive Garden didn't put alcohol in), and things got messy (i.e., peeing with pants secure around the waist made its arrival) and flagrant incoherent cussing emerged (DBSF feels that the term "shittlecock" achieved Lady Gaga top 40 rotation in DeShawn's vernacular). After that the police came, which meant it was bed time in Irving Central lock-up. Best thing is that after 48 straight hours of boozing, DeShawn slept through the entire 20 hours of holding and processing imposed on all misdemeanor offenders PLUS the additional 8 hours they make all young men wait in jail if they're black.
