The night before Thanksgiving is traditionally referred to as “The Biggest Party Night of the Year.” I found this especially to be true returning home during my first semester in college.

I had gone to a party with a few guys I met at school. One of their high school friends threw a bash every Thanksgiving Eve. At some point during the evening, I was introduced to an out-of-the-closet lesbian. She wasn’t a bull dyke type like Rosie either. No, this girl was hot. And my new college buddies dared me to hit on her.

After many beers and shots, I made my move. Two minutes later, I returned with my heterosexual tail between my legs. I tried again after more liquid courage, but was shot down in flames.

The excessive liquor intake started to hit me hard. I asked the guy who drove for his keys, and headed outside to the Caddy for a nap. And by Caddy, I mean Chevy Impala. I was asleep for a little over an hour. Once I woke up, I thought the third time might be a charm with the lovely rug muncher, so I headed back to the party.

At least I thought it was the party. The front door was closed, the porch light was on, and it seemed eerily quiet for the biggest party night of the year. I rang the doorbell, but when no one answered, I walked around to the back. I began to bang on the screen door when, all of a sudden, a woman opened the door and pointed a loaded .45-caliber handgun at my head.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” she yelled.

“I’m not moving,” I screamed back, trying not to piss myself.

The sound of cop sirens in the distance were becoming increasingly closer. About a dozen of the city’s finest surrounded me, told me to get down on the ground, and place my hands behind my head. The lady had put down her weapon, but they all had theirs drawn.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, another cop came running around to the back of the house, and wrapped his arms around the woman. “Are you alright, honey?” he asked.

Yep, that’s right. Not only had I gone to the wrong house, I had gone to a cop’s house. Sweet. 

I was handcuffed, read my Miranda rights, and escorted to an awaiting paddy wagon. A crowd had gathered in the yard across the street, and I thought to myself, “Sh-t, there’s the party.”

Some of the party-goers tried to talk the cops out of arresting me, but to no avail. I was heading to the pokey.

I was thrown face first into the back of the wagon. The cop husband said that he was going to kill me when I got out of jail. So, I had that going for me.

It was 2:30 AM when I was finally allowed to call my parents. They had to wait until I sobered up before the cops agreed to release me. This ended up being around Noon. I had ruined Thanksgiving.

This story has a happy ending though. I wrote an apology letter to the lady explaining that I was intoxicated and simply went to the wrong house. She read the letter to the judge asking for the charges of breaking and entering to be dropped. He agreed, and let me off with a stern warning about the dangers of drinking.

I said baby what’s the goin’ price. She told me to go to hell.


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