I can't drunk. It's not that I'm bragging. I used to be able to get wasted with the best of them. I used to take pride in how fast I could be drunk. When I drink now people will say I get drunk, but that's just me being in the spirit of debauchery. It's the final thing that the US does better than any other country; we should be proud. But ever since Oct. 23, 1999, I can't even get buzzed. Looking back, though, it's probably all for the best.

So what happened that fateful day to cause my inadvertent sobriety? One of my best friends, Bob, got married. He never should have done it. I remember calling him every week and saying, "Is this still on? Because I'm booking my airplane ticket right now." Every week he would respond with a faint, "yes," and some small cry for help. But every week the wedding was still on. It will end poorly. I should know, I had to destroy part of the wedding tape because two groomsmen where talking about why he cheated on his then soon-to-be wife at the bachelor party. Doomed. No other explanation. And that's the night I polished off a bottle of vodka and a slew of other drinks. Nothing has scared me more than that night; that's why I gave it up. Think about it: after a bottle of vodka and you're still sober? There has to be something inherently wrong with you. That's why, when my friend Tony made a proposition to me one Friday night, I was skeptical.

First of all, you have to know that Tony is a technical wizard. Unstoppable. I desperately needed his help early the next morning to set up a computer for a client. I would do it myself but I don't have the skills, and I needed this client and the money it would bring me.

"I'm not getting up at 8:00 am. Saturday is my only day to sleep in. It's Saturday for fuckssakes," Tony says.

He always ended with "... for fuckssakes," no matter what the occasion. "The Pope is coming to town for fuckssakes." If I didn't have Tony's help the next day, then I was going to be as doomed as Bob's marriage. The only thing I had to look forward to was the fact that mine wouldn't end in a bitter divorce.

When 11:30 rolls around, I'm ready to split. Why stay when you're the only sober man in the bar? It's very depressing. Besides, without the help I needed, I had a lot of work to do the next day. So I say my good-byes and I'm half way out the door when Tony grabs me with his bent paw. Tony had been drinking all day. He's loaded. I'm jealous. I remember those days of having a few hours of no responsibility -- free living. No job. No rent. No goddamn taxes (God, why do you torment me?).

"Bill, I'll make you a deal," Tony slurs. He has to repeat himself because the words barely escape the first time. "I'll make a deal. You sit here and drink with me until closing. I mean really drink. 'Match me drink for drink' drinking, then I will help you bright and early tomorrow." Without a moment's hesitation I'm in.

We are drinking whiskey. It is agreed that I have to do two shots of tequila to catch up. I do. Then pound my glass of whiskey, not because I am testing my curse, but because I want to switch glasses with Tony. Why? Because Tony is piss drunk and if he is hungover he is going to be of no use to me tomorrow. So I continue to switch glasses with Tony. He's so drunk he doesn't care. "Look at her, Tony," I say as I deftly exchange his full glass with my empty one. This game continues until it's time to take Tony and Amy home.

Amy is Tony's girlfriend. She's drunk and is known for getting extremely rowdy and destructive when she's drunk. Tony is known for not wanting to go home when he's drunk. They are rarely drunk at the same time, but they are a bad mix when they are. Amy gets more and more rowdy and Tony just wants to stay out. Any excuse. This time Tony picks hunger. We head to a diner where Amy has a nonsexual crush on one of the waiters. It's odd. It's also kind of cute. She doesn't want to sleep with him, she just wants him to dance on the table. Every time we go there she demands a table dance. Every time she is denied. Amy is so vehement about the table dance that it has become her holy grail. For her, it would simply be orgasmic. And tonight is going to be no different. Except that Amy is drunk. Amy is rowdy. Amy is destructive.

"Dance on the table," she screams as she pounds her dainty fists against said table. "Dance!" she squeals out, and the squeal slowly turns into a beg, "I want someone to dance on the table," she belts out into the night air as she knocks everything off the table. Mustard and ketchup shatter against the ground. Out of the blue a man from one both over gets out of his chair. He's tall. Roughly six foot six, and without any warning he picks up Tony and tosses him out of his seat. I immediately stand to meet this towering attacker and I realize it's Vince Vaughn. You know, the guy from "Swingers?"

"Are you going to dance on the table?" he flings at me.

"Fuck yeah, I'm going to dance on the table," I respond as I climb up. And I dance. I'm not the best dancer, but I will tell you this, I'm one hot piece of ass. And oh yes, that ass was shaking in all of its glory that night. That's when Vince grabs me and throws me over his shoulder. Like a lifeless sack of potatoes he's going to toss down and peel, he carries me out into the middle of Vermont Avenue.

"Who's the man?" I bellow. "Who's the man?" I shout again. "Cream always rises to the top. Wooo!"

Why I yelled? I don't know. But next time some six foot six man carries you on his shoulder, you call me and tell me what you think to say. That's when Vince throws me to the ground. Cars pass. What I thought was a joke has ended.

Vince is angry, "Who'd you want to dance on the table?"

"What?"

"Who'd you want to dance on the table? I like your shirt but don't try to be clever. Who'd you want to dance on the table?"

And the conversation continues like this until finally I figure it out. Vince thought we were mocking "Swingers." Specifically, a scene toward the end where he dances on a table at a diner. It took me a while to figure it out.

"The waiter. We wanted a waiter to dance on the table."

"Oh. Okay," he mutters as he slips back into the diner and into his chair. I return as well just as the diner's management appears.

"Do you know how rude it is dance on someone's table? Would you do that at your mother's house? Now someone is going to have to clean up that mess. Breaking condiments is just not cool."

"I am sorry for dancing on the table. That was wrong. But ..."

"No shit dancing on the table is wrong. Don't forget breaking the mustard ..."

"I didn't break the mustard or the ketchup."

"It just magically broke?"

"No, but ..."

"I broke it," Amy chimed in. "I'm so sorry, I will clean it up."

"I'm not talking to you. Now, Mr. Dancing Shoes, do you want to apologize for the breakage or what?"

"I broke it. It's all my fault. I'll pay for it," Amy begs.

"Don't defend him."

That's how it continues. I'm not even sure if I apologized for the broken condiments or not. All I know is that the next day Tony woke up early on a Saturday to help me out. A man of his word.

"Pretty weird night."

"Not really," Tony said as he quickly hooked up cables and interfaces. That's all we ever said about the incident. A few hours later we finished our work and went our separate ways.

The next day I get a phone call. My friend John is in Las Vegas pleading for me to come visit him. I don't have anything to do that day or the next. I am unemployed. It's a four hour drive from Los Angeles. No brainer. Four hours later I'm in Las Vegas. Four and half hours later I have already lost 100 dollars. That's when John convinces me it would be good to hit the town.

House of Blues is the only place happening at 12:00 am. A little after 1:00 we are inside and I'm listening to John's stories about work. He lives in Costa Rica and saves sea turtles.

"So there I am with my hand up this turtle's ass trying to pull eggs out of its butt," he rambles. "If I don't pull these eggs out then the turtle's going to die. Then this small group of Costa Rican kids walks by. Of course they stop to see what I'm doing. I continue to work when I feel two hands on my ass. I turn around and it's one of the kids trying to get a closer look. Except that he's moving back and forth as I move back and forth. He doesn't mean to but he's rubbing my ass as I have my hand up this turtle's ass. I try to tell him to take his hands off my ass but my Spanish is horrible. I mutter something and all the kids start laughing. The turtle is dying in my hands. One kid's rubbing my ass. The other kids are laughing at me."

Engrossed as I am in the story, the truth of the matter is that I am not paying attention because we are strolling by Vince Vaughn. The guy who picked me up and threw me down like I was a toy. I extend my hand to him as I shout, "Hey," over the loud music.

"Pleasure to meet you."

"No. No. No. No. No. No. We've met. You flung me over your shoulder two nights ago."

Vince laughs then says, "Merry Christmas."

I walk away. "So what happened with the turtle?"

"It died," John says as he peers in the direction of Vince Vaughn.

"That's sad."

"Hey, I think Vince Vaughn is stalking you."

"What?"

"You're in Vegas. He's in Vegas. What did you say to him?"

"Very little. Nothing."

"He's coming this way."

"Stop that." Vince passes me. I don't actually see it. The only reason I know is because John has shifted his view around my head.

"Dude, he's staring right at you. He looks like he is going to kill you."

"Let it go."

"Just turn around. Look for yourself. He looks like he's going to come over here and kick your ass. He's gonna to Pearl Harbor you."

So I turn around. Not to where Vince is, but to where he isn't. Then I walk away. If a six foot six actor is stalking me, I don't want to know. I travel to the other side of the club.

"He's stalking you. He's coming this way. Just look."

Is Vince Vaughn stalking me? I don't know, because I won't turn around. And all I have to say is it's a damn good thing I'm sober.

--William Pope