Only a crazy little bastard will greet his oldest brother with, "You cocksucker motherfucker," but that's just a term of endearment my youngest sibling uses for me. (Un)fortunately, we quit beating the shit out of each other after I broke my neck.
My 21-year-old brother Lil Bot (I'm Big Bot) came to The Big Apple during his Spring Break so he could see me, party down, and get cultured—our mom wanted this to be more than a drunken fiasco like our usual meetings.
His plane arrived safely at LaGuardia and I greeted him an hour late because of bullshit with the subway and bus system. I can't wait to pay NYC even more for less frequent service! So I picked up my sib and we scurried down to Times Square, which is a lot better than it used to be. Times Square used to be a place where you picked up hookers, got mugged, or scored drugs. We went there to hang with one of my buddies who edits a popular puppet show. And pick up a bunch of weed.
From there we went to my humble abode in Williamsburg, the hipster capital of the world—or at least Brooklyn. He dropped off his stuff and we caught up a little bit with each other's lives and then hit a bar with one of my special lady friends. Then we snagged a shot and a beer at another place. Then more shots, beers, and different bars. After we were successfully drunk and bid adieu to the girl, we booked it to a place I wanted to try called Comic Burger—a fast food joint decorated with old comics and Star Wars toys. Since we're both nerds, the place called to us. And was kind of crappy. But we loaded up on mystery meat and continued our drinking binge.
When my wallet was fully emptied, we returned to my place and smoked a bunch of weed and I introduced my brother to very important cultural experiences that he couldn't find in Denver—Frisky Dingo and It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia. We giggled and then fell into pot comas.
We woke up at the crack of 11 a.m. and headed towards Manhattan and drank a few beers at McSorely's Old Ale house—it's been around since 1854 with only two choices: light and dark beer. Allegedly, our mom and aunt used to drink there. I did too. Then we walked to Little Italy (just like Real Italy, but with more Puerto Ricans) and Chinatown, whose fish marts disgusted Lil Bot—he shares my thoughts that frogs are friends, not food. Luckily, we ate at a wonderful little Vietnamese Bahn Mi sandwich place called Saigon (you can't go wrong with three types of pork).
The Daily Show became our biggest goal disappointment. I tried to get tickets, but we failed. Because Jon Stewart wasn't shooting that week. Damn vacations.
The sun was still at our backs so we checked out the West Village, Battery Park City, and Ground Zero (it's taken only eight years to build a hole in the ground!). We walked plenty of miles down the West Side Highway so he could see the Hudson River and the Statue of Liberty without me actually paying any money to take him there. Then we got thirsty and decided to get drinks at The Patriot, an awesome bar in a shitty location with cheap beer and zero women. Matty and Short-Haired Girl showed up to share pitchers and stories with us. Short Hair is actually only two months older than Lil Bot, but nearly a decade more mature than him. She knows hostile takeovers and business law while he knows Ultimate Fighting and how to break laws. Matty invited us back his ultimate bachelor pad (which he shares with his girlfriend) where we smoked cigars on the fire escape—which Lil Bot almost fell off.
The next day we watched more Frisky Dingo which gave us our mottoes for the week: "Boosh" and "Ka-Kow!" Finally we soldiered up to get our culture on and hit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We saw some real live mummies that are dead now, European paintings, as well as armor and stuff. Then we hit Central Park to smoke a fatty and publicly urinate but we didn't have a lighter or any privacy so we failed. Then we ate Thai food, he got high, and we boozed with more of my friends.
I taught the young buck the proper way to piss in a phone booth and drink a road beer in public—make sure you keep your boozin' hand as far away from the street as possible so Johnny Law doesn't see you.
We spent a lot of time on the subway going from here to there. First Lil Bot was surprised with the manners of NYC public school kids and gay dudes making out, then, as he put it brilliantly, "After two days in New York, I don't think I'll ever acknowledge the existence of homeless people ever again. If you don't look them in the eyes, they're not there."
NYC is known for shopping, so we did a little of that. He bought a sweet, fitted Quebec Nordiques cap, a Godzilla t-shirt, and we snagged some real Brooklyn bagels and Italian pepperoni for our mom. And that's about it.
I really wanted to see The Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art, but Lil Bot was "sick of fucking walking" so we just chilled our last day, which was going to be our longest. In a spout of brilliance, my brother bought his return ticket for 7 a.m. Instead of 7 p.m. So we needed a reserve of energy for an all-night binge. Again.
We sampled some of the fine suds at The Brooklyn Brewery and the Coors Lights served in 32-ounce Styrofoam cups at The Turkey's Nest. Lil Bot toked more ganja with The Brian as we crashed a party. My brother and friends ate all the food they could stuff in their mouth as I tried to make sure nobody booted us and Lil Bot didn't swallow his tongue from eating so fast.
From there we hit Barcade so I could school some fools in Q*Bert and he could blow shit up in 1943. And drink beers. Then we ate the shit out of free pizza at Alligator Lounge and performed our own Dance Dance Revolution with the last of my friends. I wondered how Lil Bot would feel being around one of my gay buddies, but he replied with more wisdom beyond his years, "Gay dudes know the hottest chicks, get the best weed, and find the coolest parties."
The bars closed and we needed to stay up for just three more hours in order for him to make it to the airport on time. So we climbed up the dangerous stairs to my roof to smoke more weed and slug whiskey straight out of the bottle.
The guy was a little trooper throughout all my sinister schemes. When I tried to teach my bitchass roommate a little lesson about doing his share of buying toilet paper, Lil Bot was all about using my secret stash of TP.
During his Spring Break we showed these big city fools how to drink. Sure we saw multiple neighborhoods, pubs, and landmarks. But the most fun I enjoyed with him were the times we just sat around hanging out talking about stuff. We didn't carry on the most important or intelligent conversations—those are tough with a liter of Irish whiskey cruising through your collective veins and brains—but we just bullshitted about, well, stuff. These are the long talks you cherish forever, even though you can't remember a single thing you said.
After the roof we watched more Frisky Dingo and smoked more weed. Then we both woke up after passing out. We hit the danger zone. He only had about 45 minutes to get to LaGuardia before getting cut off for not being "early enough." We scrambled down my stairs and hailed the first taxi we saw. We embraced as manly heterosexual brothers and he told me, "Thanks for everything Big Bot." I told him "You're the best, Lil Bot." The taxi took off and I waved until I couldn't see him. Then I realized my dumbass little brother swindled my favorite jacket off of me.
I muttered, "Fucking cocksucker motherfucker."
Post Script: Middle Bot might visit me soon. Hopefully I can borrow part of one of my brothers' livers before then.