New Years eve is a transcendent time where people universally celebrate the dawn of a new year. A chance to start over, be somebody completely different. One night you can be the biggest piece of shit, yet, January 1st hits and you wake up mother Teressa. In the wake of late December 2014, I had a similar vision for myself. Maybe stop boozing so much, stop getting into conformations with my landlord. Shit, maybe even eat a few salads and not so much Taco Viva.
Lofty goals but heck, someone got to do it. Anyways, lets tie this saga together.
Still being engulfed in the household of the Titz Carlton, we though we’d kick the new year off the right way, by destroying our home. Nothing says new beginnings like a little shin dig at the local watering hole. What better way to cap off a year of regret than to end it where all your sorrow began, the Titz.
Despite my ambitious goals for my 2015 self, the night of new years put a damper on any glimmer of hope. To be honest, my ideal New Year’s Eve party would have been to have a few drinks, a few laughs, maybe even a phone call from dad to say he was proud of me. A nice easy and quiet night. Just like my new year’s kiss, all those items above eluded me.
Instead, the Jack Daniels that consumed my soul played the advocate of destruction that night as I set my entire front lawn on fire.
Before we dive into that, let’s preface on how we got to this point. Being it was December 31st in the brisk winters of Fort Myers, the party complained they were cold. Evidently, the florida native body begins to go into shock if the atmosphere reaches below 75 degrees. Now, we had no firewood, so I could not entertain my guest with some nice roasted oak.
“Clark, don’t you have a few couches in the backyard?”
Those words were doomsday.
“Yeah, but we don’t have a firepit man.”
“Oh no, my brother does this all the time, you don’t need a firepit.”
“Yeah, if you say so.”
The first couch began to burn oh so bright on the front lawn.
Eyes lit up like we were witnessing Orion’s belt burst into a million stars.
“The flame is dying, we need more couches.”
Trout- “Clark no, no.”
Me: “We must entertain our guests!”
Another couch tumbled on top of the flames.
For the next few hours, the yard burned bright with the cloth of our home and the air became polluted with the urine stains that were released. This was San Carlos Park’s version of Chernobyl.
“Hey man, sorry, we thought your house was on fire.”
” Mind your own damn business!”
The flames were so robust, you would have thought we were the Jones town cult offering a sacrifice.
In total, we burned 6 couches. No furniture survived. In our drunken state of mind, we also deemed it would be a good idea to burn the stock pile of trash we had marinating in our garage. Upwards of 15 bags filled with god knows what.
The next day was like walking the ruins of a natural disaster.
The front yard was desecrated. Where the once tall and green illustrious weeds stood, were now mirrored by a rubbish and black tar from the fire. An enormous crater stood in the yard decorated by the broken glass, wires from the couching and anything else that dared survived this great fire.
I spent my new years day buying shovels to clean this mess up. During the cleanup, one of our more decorated neighbors passed by and offered his advice.
“Man, you guys really do some stupid shit but this, this is bad.”
Happy f****ng new year’s.
Stay tuned next week where our landlord learns of the great fire and his vast punishment which follows.
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