After verbal threats of physical violence from bride-to-be Kathleen Gaudet, I now return to my blog, tail between my legs, finally ready to divulge the first night of that celebration.

Just kidding. They took my tail away at birth. (I say “took” because, yes, it was without my consent. That thing allowed me to express myself and was instrumental in providing balance. On the Stephanie Tanner/Full House “How Rude” scale, that would rate a solid eight.)

If you need a refresher before embarking on our magical journey, please refer to the previous post on “The Legend of Drew Drew.”

Before we officially begin, a look at our complete cast:

Man-love since 2004.

The Cast of Characters

Andrew Hiatt - The groom-to-be. This bright-eyed ginger fellow currently works for someone and devises strategies for some purpose in Toronto. I don’t usually pay attention to talk of work. Then again, maybe I know exactly what he does and I just like being irreverent. Either way, the thing you need to know about Andrew is his general hobbit-like sneakiness when inebriated (or “sneeness” as he calls it), and his yearning to feel “safe” at all times. He also possesses a conditioned aversion to monkey masks. For more information on Drew Drew, again, see this post.

Scott Nuckols – “Scottie Too Hottie”, or “Tommy Knuckles” if you go by his late 19th century fighter name, is a gentle beast of a man who benevolently allows the rest of us to co-exist with him simply because of the comedic value we bring to the table. A beer bonging champion, Scott is perhaps best known for perfecting the “I’ll do one!” technique, which inevitably leads him to performing a half dozen bongs and continuing to scream out “I’ll do one more!”, even when there is no longer anyone in the kitchen to hear him. He also makes up one part of a fearsome two-man beer pong tandem with fellow cast member William Green. Scott attended The University of North Carolina, being the champion that he is.

William Green – “Willy G” aka “Willy Genius” once dominated Craige Basketball Court as the kind of talented, tenacious Caucasian big-man that cast member Nation Hahn loves to hate. Known for waving street signs while blacked out in Ashley Forest as if he was auditioning in front of King Arthur’s Court, William never met a stranger’s back porch he didn’t like to sleep on. He’s also known for running through the rooms of your house like a member of the Scooby-Doo Gang.

Nation Hahn – “Nation Deruloooooo” (wait about 15 seconds in on that link) or simply “The Black Poodle” was a former member of the Ashley Forest UNC crew along with Green, Hiatt, and yours truly. Perhaps best known for frequenting sketchy undergrad frat parties and grotesquely making out with dubious-looking women in a manner that would make Jabba the Hutt proud (and simultaneously causing me to gouge my eyes out Oedipus Rex style), Hahn is now a married man that is often ridiculed for drinking water in-between his beers to “hydrate.” This was not to be allowed on Bachelor Weekend. ‘Cause that shit’s pussy, yo.

Jamie Pearce – Codenamed “Meez” by Nation during the weekend (although perhaps this was a nickname beforehand, I have no clue), Jamie is a member of the three-man Canadian contingent, along with Drew Drew and Michael. Jamie is a thoughtful man that proved nonetheless tenacious when it came to drinking and dancing. Seriously, those moves could entertain and soothe wild beasts and wailing babies.

Michael Kunz - The final member of our proud and brave Canadian contingent, Michael quickly garnered the nickname of “MIIIICCCHAEEELLL!! I SAID, I SAID, MIIIIICHAEEELLL!!” from Scott, in honor of the great Foghorn Leghorn. Michael would prove to have a penchant for showing up just when you least expected it…..

Alan Harper – A member of the old UNC crew, the water-sport loving Alan loves luring old women into his abode, as we would soon learn. Recently engaged himself to bride-to-be Rachel Coots, Alan is still fondly remembered for bringing two 24 oz. beers to a Edward Fortyhands Party.

Trevor Nace – The final member of the UNC fraternity, Trevor is also the last of our engaged fellows, earning the hand of our friend Haley Davis. Perhaps one of the most easygoing people you will ever meet, Trevor has an excellent knack for throwing eventful annual birthday parties at his parent’s home, complete with hot tub and beer pong action!

David – The mysterious David, whose last name I don’t possess, showed up to throw down with the rest of us on this fine beach weekend. Clearly a fan of liquor (as he bounced up into the house with like four vodka bottles), David is a fan of Andrew’s since before the monkey mask trials and tribulations he endured in college.

Billy Kirk – No introduction necessary. You wouldn’t want to read it, anyhow.

** Do note that only myself, Nation, Scott, Andrew, Jamie and Michael were available for Day One festivities.

THE FOLLOWING TOOK PLACE BETWEEN 5:00 PM AND 3:00 AM ON THURSDAY, MAY 12TH, 2011.

The six of us embarked from Nation’s place in Cary, NC and arrived in the Wilmington area around 5:00 PM, making a stop at the local Harry Teet for some supplies. It was there I made my first encounter with the alcoholic treat that is Genny Light.

Oh, Genny. You speak to me still.

Scott spotted this delicious beverage, this ambrosia of the Gods, as he walked in. It seems that Scott had consumed Genny Light once prior while in Wilmington, but he had not seen it since. The one standout quality of this liquid gold – outside of its crazy inexpensiveness despite its superior taste to the other “pauper drinks”, Busch and Milwaukee’s Best – is that it came in a curious yet 900% awesome 30-pack. Yes, a case of thirty. Having never seen such a sight, likely due to my continued youthful innocence, I ’bout pooped on the floor of the Teet in excitement. Better put up a cone for that one, Mr. Harry Teet Manager Man.

After filling our cart with a case of Genny Light, a case of High Life, a case of Coors Light and a 12-pack of a specialty beer to satiate Nation’s fancy-pants tastes, we dumped on some pizzas, buffalo chicken pieces and ranch, and some Solo cups, ping pong balls and cards. Oh, and did I mention we had already purchased four handles at the ABC store? It was a collection fit for a king–or, at least, fit for a motley crew of kids ready to get retarded drunk. (Is “retarded” PC? I think it is. Cool, I’ll continue.)

We got settled in at the fairly spacious house in Carolina beach around six-ish. It had a dee-liteful view of the ocean right from the rear windows. (Haha…I said “rear.”) We enjoyed many a greasy chicken piece doused in ranch, and a couple of pizzas. Scott and I started with a couple Genny Lights as dinner was prepared, and baby, now that I’ve got Genny’s number I won’t be giving her up any time soon. She knows how to treat a man right.

At the ripe ‘ole hour of 8:20 PM and prior to “pre-gaming proper,” a completely sober yet already excited Drew Drew walked in off the porch to exclaim, “Alright, it’s time to take off my pants!” He clapped his hands and walked off in glee, leaving us all in some consternation and, yes, distress. He returned in shorts, thankfully, proving that he was indeed still faithful to Kathleen.

That’s right–don’t worry, Kathleen. Apparently, not even a house full of five bros can tempt Andrew away from you.

Around this point we promptly set up the table for cards in order to teach the Canadians a few things about what it means to be American. Or what it means to party American, at least. At the beginning of our first rousing card game, Scott decided that it was best to only say Michael’s name with a Foghorn Leghorn inflection. This was swiftly picked up by just about everyone else (well, ok, all the Americans), and it was like we were in the middle of a faboo 1950′s Warner Bros. cartoon.

The Usual Suspects - not just a film, but also Nation and Andrew

Around this point I pointed out “The Usual Suspects,” or those I suspected would start to get all silly and lose their shit first. I identified Nation as Usual Suspect #1, and Andrew as #2. Sure enough, only a few minutes later Nation started to get all goofy and lazy-eyed and loud as he is apt to do when he gets a strong buzz, and only 15 minutes past this point Andrew began to get flushed in the face and giggle like a Japanese schoolgirl who just found a new episode of her favorite anime show. The prophecy I spoke of was fulfilled!

After some rousing beer pong competition–also a first for the Canadians, unless I’m mistaken–we decided to a take a walk and scout the local bars for some local talent. Fortunately, we were not to be disappointed.

Then again, I suppose that all depends on what kind of warped understanding of what it is to be “disappointed” or not you possess…

THE SEAWITCH

Seawitch. The name spoke to us in a throaty whisper from out of the Carolina night, not unlike an old, drunk, recently meth-reformed siren’s song luring in unsuspecting “sailors” and boys-who-formerly-had-tails. (Seriously, did I mention that my tail was prehensile? That shiz would have been bomb, yo.)

Needless to say though, we knew we were at the right place.

As we walked in, we noticed a tepid buzz. It was karaoke night and there was a sprinkling of slightly older people and a man who looked like beach-bum-Jesus, but there wasn’t much going on. But the thing was, we were going on. We knew we were about to change the entire complexion of The Seawitch. And I don’t mean in, like, a racist “we’re gonna turn this place white!” complexion kind of way, kids. Don’t be silly….I mean, the Canadians were already hip to the dubious past of many of our American ancestors, and weren’t going to allow it, anyway.

I meant the place was about to pop off.

All this helped ensure The Seawitch happened.

Sure enough, a crackle suddenly occurred in the air. The environment became charged. People started showing up. And I don’t mean your normal bar crowd.

I’m talkin’ cougars. These cougars were rich, too. Now, I don’t mean rich as in cash money, either. I mean rich in wisdom. They had a “wealth” of years. It was glorious. One woman had donned an almost alarmingly tight neon orange tank-top, displaying her rather knockout bangers/bazookas/warlocks in the most in-your-face way possible. And I mean in-your-face. Like, I think she poked me in the eye, and I couldn’t have hit her with a football from that distance.

The neon orange woman (her face was neon orange too, go figure) came with a posse of other cougars that all were in the 60 year old range. A veritable bevy of bitches. There was a young twenty-something girl with them to perhaps sate the appetite of some of the rest of us looking for a fruit that wasn’t quite so ripe, but the neon orange ringmaster and her circus of cougars were the big top’s main event.

Suddenly, a talented black vocalist took the karaoke stage to add a romantic touch to the proceedings.

This was all Jamie (“Meez”) needed.

Meez snapped into action, a freight train of undying Canadian passion, spinning around and simply–yet with a fleeting complexity–shimmying up ass-first to an undulating wave of grandmotherly ecstasy. He was delicate yet purposeful, considerate yet in the same beat uncaring as to whether he would derail himself heading at full speed the way he was.

The cougars loved it, though. Loved it. Scott and Nation began buying everyone drinks, without warning, passing around beers as freely as some of those women had surely passed around STDs in their many storied days. The dance floor became a wild blur of Canadian pride, neon orange lust, and vaguely inappropriate contact.

It was too much. I fainted.

Around the time I came to, the cougars were departing, probably planning a plan of attack for Friday night. It was time to leave. Meez and Michael had already headed home some time earlier, presumably with Andrew in tow at some point.

Nation, Scott and I left The Seawitch, pleased with the night’s events. Around half way back to the house, however, a jovial yet unstable man approached us from the other side of the road.

"Now, I say, I say, I say MIIICHAEEEELL?, MICHAEL, is that, is that you?"

Wait….it was MICCHAEEEEL! Hadn’t he left more than a half hour or so ago?

Delighted to see us, Michael jumped from the ditch and tottered over to us in glee, like he was Quasimodo just escaping from his bell tower and stumbling upon not one, not two, but three Esmeraldas!!

We quickly found out that Michael had found himself locked out of the house. Or something to that effect. Quasimodo probably doesn’t know how to use American doors, anyway, amirite?

We arrived back at the house after being heckled as “kids” by some drunkards along the roadway. It was at this point that we realized Andrew wasn’t there, and Michael didn’t recall where he was.

Upon a quick search and an attempted phone call, we still had not found or heard from Drew Drew. We were about to gather around in a circle, discuss our options. We should have known he’d do this to us. He was probably washed away by the tides. Kathleen would surely eat us for this. Well, she’d fatten me up like Hansel, then she’d eat me.

Dammit, Andrew. SERIOUSLY?

As we began to fret a bit, I secretly wondered whether his evil gypsy tribe hadn’t returned in the night to reclaim him, long after sending his unwanted ginger-ness away on a flaming wicker basket down a sewage drain years earlier, screaming “He shall return to the Hell fires from whence he came!”

Yikes, that was a tangent on my part. Anyway, moving on…

Around this time Nation discovered Andrew was in his room. The room he had already checked. It was a Doug from The Hangover kind of moment, where we found the guy almost exactly where he was supposed to be. Except not.

Andrew was curled up in the mini sleeper recliner in a far, deeply recessed back alcove of the room, like Harry Potter living in the cupboard under the stairs. He giggled when we came in, announcing that he was, yet again, “snee.” I wanted to hug him. No, I wanted to slap him.

Rosey-cheeked buffoon.

It was here that the first night ended. If I’m missing something important or have a detail wrong, feel free to mention this in the comments and I’ll take care of it.

Next time: Day 2 (Friday!)

It's been a "sad panda" time for me.

Just a quick check-in before I finally get around to revealing the magical occurrences that cropped up during Drew Drew’s Carolina Beach Bachelor Weekend Bash.

You may have remembered the mental anguish, psychological suffering and general, crippling distress I underwent after learning that a piece of my essence had been stolen and burdened with a price tag, that a bit of my soul had leaked away thanks to the unwarranted profiteering on my illustrious name. It was a “sad panda” sort of revelation.

Apparently, my howls of pain reached the presumably pampered, wealthy ears of Billykirk, Inc.’s Kirkland himself (at least it appears that way), as he tweeted after having the blessed serendipity to stumble upon my site following my original post.

My personal description on my Twitter account reads, “Writer. Insomniac. Pleasantly lazy.” The Billykirk, Inc. account tweeted the following in response to my post: “Writer, insomniac, pleasantly lazy, satirical wordsmith & in no way affilated with Billykirk, Inc.”

Satirical wordsmith?! Whoa, baby. They sure know how to make a girl blush over at Billykirk. They even had the decency to link to the post.

The above is property of Billykirk, Inc.

In all seriousness, it reflects well on Kirkland’s ability to take a joke. At least the folks over there aren’t stuffy, pretentious and boring. While I’m not sure I’m ready to officially relinquish the rights to my name, I suppose my good readers get the green light to purchase billykirk goods. Just, ugh, maybe not the $550 purses. That’s a wee bit much for me to stomach still.

Oh, and if Billykirk, Inc is interested in using the dashing, charismatic likeness of the real Billy Kirk, all will be completely forgiven. You know, with proper compensation in place, and all. Just sayin’.

If looks could kill....then Andrew wouldn't have to use his ginger fire-breath to, you know, kill you.

On a dark, unsettling night sometime in June of 1986, a wolf howled into the night, a brave, chilling call of the wild that few would ever think of challenging.

That wolf’s call was suddenly silenced by the latest member of the bloodthirsty ginger race.

Birthed under an evil star, some say Andrew Hiatt has in fact been born and re-born into the most desperate epochs throughout human history, a portent of wicked times to come, a veritable harbinger of doom for those far more human than him. In August of 2004 he cast his shadow over the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, throwing his sullen cloak of treachery over a hapless number of noble lads who were just looking for a college education, not an education in fear.

I was one of those lads. I am one of those survivors.

In 2007 the flame-headed beast mercifully left his UNC killing grounds to pursue the study of the German language in, well, Germany. (Read: He went to join the Hitler Youth.) It was here that he managed to ensnare an unsuspecting Canadian sweetheart in Kathleen Gaudet.

Just kidding, ya’ll. Drew Drew Hiatt, while indeed a ginger, is a swell and unassuming scholarly gentleman who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and his wife-to-be Kathleen is indeed a sweetheart and a lucky lady. (Well, you know, modestly lucky.) The two of them currently jam out in Toronto, where Andrew has recently applied for permanent residency – not to be confused with citizenship – and also where their open-bar wedding bash will be held in July.

Who looks more ridiculous in this photo? You decide!

This past weekend we joined Andrew in Carolina Beach, NC for bachelor party beach shenanigans, and boy, were there shenanigans! It was a clash of two worlds, Canada vs. America, a meeting of two true superpowers. Well, okay. One superpower. But they still have mounties.

With the introduction of the legendary Drew Drew now out of the way, tomorrow I will begin relaying the events of the past weekend in three glorious parts. Stay tuned, dear readers. And lock your doors. There are gingers out there!!

"billykirk leather goods are bulls***!!" - Eminem

Ever have someone get their meal ticket off the renown of YOUR OWN NAME?

If you think such a dastardly deed is the exclusive domain of clown people, poo poo heads, and general asshats….well, you’d be right.

No doubt sometime shortly after tales of my greatness and general legendary status reached their ears, the “handmade leathermakers” over at billykirk decided to capitalize off my name, charisma, essence, and general “X-factor.” Look, I wish I could explain it any other way, but my narrow-minded logic keeps me from reaching any other conclusion.

If you’re unfamiliar with the identify-theft experts (read: d-bags) over at “billykirk”, they have purportedly been making various, upper-cut leather accessories such as wallets and belts for both men and women since 1999. Yep, for the math majors and those of you paying attention out there, that’s 13 whole years after my illustrious birth and all the prophecies that came with it. From their dubious website which will surely cop the design I have here within the next couple weeks:

We formed the company in 1999. We always knew we would own a company together and it would be called, “Billykirk.” What that was going to encompass just hadn’t surfaced. In fact, in the mid 90’s I made some “Billykirk Designs” business cards for Kirk who was graduating from college with a clothing design degree.

So, apparently these originality-deprived goons knew they wanted my name before they even knew they had an actual business – or any other direction or inspiration, for that matter (although I’ll admit, my name alone is pretty inspirational). You may ask, however, “But surely ‘Lil Bill, one of their names must also be Billy Kirk, right?” I’d love to tell you that is the case. Again from their official site:

Our brand name came from our father who often calls me “Billykirk” because my full name is William Kirkland. This is also probably due to our Southern roots and the melding of the first and middle names.

BOOM, exposed. The guy’s name isn’t Kirk. He may not even really bear the nickname of “Billy.” He’s a Kirkland, which everyone knows is code for “wannabe Kirk.”

Now these clowns have stolen my domain name (hence the hyphen I have to put up with in my web address), and sell “leather weekend bags” for as much as $550. Could they sell these bags for so much if my name wasn’t attached to them? Duh. No way, José.

What a sad tale of treachery, amirite? Fortunately, I own the Twitter universe, having gobbled up the Twitter name of “billykirk” in Sept. of 2008, apparently before they could. The one upside to all this? Due to the company’s goods, I now get tons of hashtagged comments such as (literally): “I just love me some #billykirk!” I know you do, baby. It’s cool.

Also, speaking of Twitter, I noticed that I have more followers than people I follow. Conclusion? I’m at “celebrity” status. Super cool. I’d like to thank the Academy.

Anyway, I am off to prepare for a big beach bachelor party this weekend. For more on that, look forward (or don’t) to my next post, “The Legend of Drew Drew.”

Thanks for listening to my little rant. Have a good day!

(OK, that opener was a stretch even for me….look, I’m sorry, I’m tired. I’ll open better next time.)

Anyway, after speaking to a friend (you can find her site in the blogroll to the right….hi, Meagan!), I decided to start blogging again. Little did I know that a variety of issues would arise due to WordPress’ crappy handling of automatic updates in their 3.0 version, leading to some simple updates and changes that should have taken 5 min lasting 3 hrs – and that was before making the header image. As such, this first post is going to stink because at this point I’m tired of the process. Also, the theme I usually use refused to install (for no reason), so I’ll probably have to re-do the site layout as I’m not happy with it currently.

Speaking of the header image…yeah, maybe we should just not speak of it. Sorry for the bad dreams, readers. I was too lazy to do something better, and too cheeky not to make something that obnoxious. Then again, what image would headline a site called billy-kirk.com, if not that?

Speaking of headlining stuff, I think I’ll start with the whole tweeting thing again soon, too. Formerly reporting on my Twitter account, Twitter Magazine called it “Breathtaking in its scope; revolutionary” and All Tweets on Deck proclaimed, “Your children will be watching a documentary on it one day.” So, with that in mind I figured I should get back to it. Also, I didn’t make any of that up.

I’m afraid I have nothing to report about my day’s business, either because nothing happened or because my brain is worn down currently, as I mentioned. I feel like the guy to the left. Well, except he actually showers, apparently. (Why am I “zinging” myself on my own blog?)

In any case, I’m going to spruce up this blog a bit very shortly – if not redesign it altogether, as mentioned – and add more content soon, of course. Tonight I’m going to make one of those novelties the kids call “cash”, I think, and also browse Hulu and go to the Teet. I’m hongry.

Bye, readers! (All one of you…all zero of you? Who knows.) Next time get ready for a tale of true treachery and underhandedness against yours truly! Also, be sure to send your fan mail, love letters, and threats to bkirk@billy-kirk.com! That email isn’t a joke, by the way. It works.