G-String In Jail

different camera, different angle:


On the night of November 5, at Harder Stadium, UCSB, I was arrested and hauled to the Santa Barbara County Jail for public intoxication while wearing nothing more than a tuxedo g-string and handcuffs.
I started drinking at 2:00pm that day in honor of UCSB’s big soccer game against Cal Poly later that evening. By the time I finished class around 6:00pm I was trashed and psyched for the game. My friends convinced me to streak during the second half. However the California State Penal Code for exposing one’s genitals in public requires that the person convicted register as a sex offender. In light of that, I decided not to streak in the traditional sense of 100% nakedness. So I dug through my closet and came upon a tuxedo g-string and cufflinks, a party boy Halloween costume I had worn previously. It was perfect: essentially nude without exposing any genitals.
To conceal my identity I painted a handlebar mustache and chop sideburns on my face. I also blacked out my eyes like a raccoon. Painted on my back were the words “FUCK POLY”. And, of course, no tuxedo is complete without a bowtie and cufflinks.
After stripping both the clothes from my body and the ball from Poly’s keeper, I scored a goal of my own- the only goal of the game, I might add. The roar of the crowd made me feel like a pro athlete again. To my surprise, another streaker simultaneously jumped on the field with me. He was wearing a pair Italian themed underwear with a printed penis on the front, as if he were purposely hiding his own genitals. We must have read the same penal code.
Anyway, by now I had my eyes on the planned escape route. But in the chaos of the moment, my intoxicated legs just sort of tripped over themselves. The next thing I knew my face was in the grass and some security guard was mounted on top of my backside. I remember him saying, “Got you good fucker! Got you”! LOL. Man, whoever you are, you didn’t get shit, okay? I fell down. Then you just sort of laid on top of me. And at least I’m not the one chasing a naked dude across a field in front of 10,000 people. By the way all you security guards are slow as shit.
I slid with such force that, when I fell down, the front part of my g-string had slipped down to about mid-thigh. I thought for sure when I got up that my junk would be flopping for all to see, which would have completely defeated the purpose of me trying to cover up in the first place. In that split second, I pictured myself walking door to door through IV having to explain to all my neighbors why I’m a sex offender. But luckily the back part of the g-string was still fit firmly around the top of my buns and waist. The elasticity of the string snapped the sac package back into position when I stood up, like a slingshot.
What I remember most about the arrest was how damn itchy my bod was: I was covered in grass from the fall, except I couldn’t do anything about it because I was cuffed. It was the most uncomfortable, hopeless feeling of my life. The cop wouldn’t itch my tummy when I asked him.
I had never been to jail before., but I think the combination of intoxication and exhilaration distracted me from any fearful expectations. Inmates gathered around the tiny windows of the holding cells and stared and laughed as I was being escorted through the complex in just my g-string and handlebar mustache with chops. Too bad their printer was broken. I coulnd’t receive a copy of my mug shot. All the guards called all their guard buddies to come check out “this crazy dude in a g-string”. They searched me, haha. They actually made me put my hands on the wall and spread ‘em. When I was ordered by one of the guards to remove my shoe laces I asked, “How come? So I can’t hang myself?” He chucked and looked towards my waist, referring to what I was wearing and said, “That should be the least of your worries at this point.” However he was nice enough to lend me an official county jail jumpsuit for the night.
I didn’t sleep a wink. The drunk tank sucks. It was like being crammed in a public restroom with fifteen of the most disgusting, dirty, grungy men anyone could imagine. The concrete floor was cold and wet. But the worst part of the whole night was the damn cotton mouth. Holy crap. I would have done anything for some Chap Stick and water.
I was released at 5:00am. They were kind enough to lend me some pants, a t-shirt, and an official pair of “county jail” boxers. But with no money and no phone I couldn’t call any of my friends to come pick me up. So I figured, “meh, I still have my running shoes on and IV can’t be any further than like three miles”, then I ditched the jeans in order to run faster. Picture a guy charging it down the 217 at 5:30am in white boxers that have “county jail” printed on the side, haha. It ended up being about a six mile run home, but a nice one. The sun was coming up and I was getting my day’s workout in. It was a fitting end to a night of the unexpected.

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2 Misdemeanors and 5 empty Jager bottles.

This about sums up my entire weekend. Looking back at it now, I probably should have just went to Russell's party. Judging by the pictures it looked pretty fun, but it looks like there were a bunch of random mother fuckers there. Anyways, My friend Wes and I, were about 30 minutes away from our destination, we were heading to the land of environmentally friendly hippie stoners (Santa Cruz) to party with some friends. We are on a two lane highway and are right behind the highway patrolman, he pulls over to the side and lets us pass him. We pass him and he then proceeds to do a U-turn in the opposite direction, this is an immediate sign for Wes to decide to go faster. Well about 45 seconds later, we hear the sirens, see the lights, and are pulling over to the side of the road. Now at this point I am not really panicking, I know that there is about 100 dollars worth of Jagermeister in the back, but I figure the officer is just going to give us a speeding ticket and let us go on our way. "License and registration please," he says. Wes proceeds to give him his registration but he cant seem to find his license, he then starts searching the back of the car for it. The officer decides he wants to help Wes find his license in the back of our car. All the while I am shitting my pants because there is a lot of alcohol back there and my fake ID. The Officer opens the door and starts to rummage through all our stuff, all I hear is *clank* clank.* We are fucked. He then proceeds to grill us about where and how we got it, and we both are just lying are asses off, but making sure to say "sir" at the end of each of our useless lies. "I swear to god none of us have a fake ID, sir." "I don't know how that got there, sir." He then searches through all our shit claiming to look for "Crystal Weed." Now I am not a huge pot smoker, but I have no idea what "Crystal Weed" is. Weed laced with crystal meth? Or this guy didn't know his ass from his face. I think the latter of the two. He forages through my bags with his dirty paws and finds my fake ID and run the numbers through the database. It turns out that the drivers lisence number is actually legit, and is someone girl named Ellis or something, and she lives in Arizona? I am now sitting in the passenger seat watching Officer Dickhead make Wes pour out all of Jager on the side of the road. He calls me out just to tell me that he should be taking me to jail and let Wes go on his way, but he is being nice. I thought to myself, "What was the point of that? Does this guy want me to thank him for handing me 2 misdemeanors and 5 empty bottles of Jager? As far as I am concerned this piggy can go fuck himself." We finally get to Santa Cruz (after a 7 and half hour drive), but I am sorry to say no amount of beer pong games will make me feel better, or drown out the sorrow of what just happened.


It is now official, I am a criminal. Just add it to my record, the first petty theft charge (which later turned into a burglary charge, police don't like me) wasn't that big of deal. Add two more misdemeanors to the mix and I am starting look more like Ted Bundy, well maybe not that severe, I haven't murdered anyone. But shit, the cops sure treat me like I have. I have had long conversations with my brother about this, and the fact is we are sleazeballs. We can't work normal jobs, we can't be fireman or policeman, we just have to do shisty things to make money. I'm thinking Frank and Jesse James, lets rob some banks or some shit. My brother on the hand is constantly referring to himself as Danny Ocean. Well shit, if he is Danny Ocean then I am Rusty Ryan (Brad Pitt, obviously I am the better looking one) and lets hit Vegas baby. Realistically, I am going to have to get a real job and pay off these tickets, and bum rides off my bro because my license is most likely going to get suspended for a year. I blame him fully, it is his Karma because I had to drive his ass around for a year, and now its his turn to chauffeur me around.