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Patricio Insano.
And so our story begins…
Wild Flower is a triathlon that’s held every year at Lake Lopez, near Paso Robles.
It’s a big time event for Cal Poly students, and you have to be part of a school
sponsored club to get in. The race is on Sunday, but the students get there either
on Friday or Saturday morning. The park sets up a camp area and all the students
that stay there are volunteers with an obligation to help the race organizers on
Sunday. The Saturday before the race, everyone starts drinking at 8 or 9 in the
morning and don’t stop until 9 or 10 at night, or until someone dies.
About 25 guys from the rugby team went, and it was the perfect collection of trash
balls and scuz buckets that money could buy. It was like the U.S. Olympic Dream
Team of Assholes, and Wild Flower was our version of Barcelona in ’92.
It’s the closest thing we had to Woodstock. You can’t leave the area to get ice or
go home unless you call an ambulance or drive drunk in front of the cops that hang
out at the parking lot all weekend. People usually set up camp Friday night, so by
3pm on Saturday, everyone’s either stealing ice from the Ski-Club dweebs, or
anyone that’s passed out. The cops only walk by 2 times a day, so this little area
of the lake turns into a self-governed colony pretty quick. Which means that a Lord
of the Flies situation develops as soon as the drunks who packed nothing but beer
and condoms run out of food and ice. But food isn’t as precious a commodity as
ice at Wild Flower, because hard booze isn’t allowed, so once that ice melts,
people have to start beer-bonging or shot-gunning the Natural Ice tall cans that go
on sale that weekend.
Perhaps you’re saying to yourself… “why don’t these cheese dicks just put their
beers in the cold lake?”
Well you’re half right sir. The lake is indeed cold. But there are only 8 porta-pee
pees, and everyone floats in the inlet of water all Saturday with inter-tubes, or in our
case, inflatable Killer Whales. So you can probably imagine just how much beer
wizz accumulates in a motionless body of water when 60 to 70 drunken people
float in it for 7 beautiful hours. On top of that, once the ice has melted and people
start for the warm Nati-Ice, the inhibition for shitting while submerged in a very
public watering hole tends to take flight. I myself engaged in a torpedo battle on
the high seas that day, and as I recall, the founder of this very website acted like a
German U-Boat taking out unarmed cargo liners in WWII. But instead of cargo
boats, it was $9 blow-up rafts, and instead of a German U-Boat torpedo, it was
caca.
As you can see, ice was at a premium. The lake option died after the first German
U-Boat swam away from his own shit.
No cops, no ice, poo in the lake, all day drink. Add that all together and I don’t
think I need to detail much more on finished product: Girls crying, rampant pants-
ings, cooler bandits, public fingering and HJs, lawn chair destruction, tent body-
slams and much more delight. A perfect environment for Crazy Pat it would seem.
For some reason though, Crazy Pat was unimpressed. It wasn’t far from what his
average Wednesday consisted of, so a very disheartened Crazy Pat just got
drunk, listened to some tunes, forced himself into the first tent he saw, and fell fast
asleep. Or blacked out and collapsed on top of a stranger’s tent that had just been
pitched. It depends on your frame of reference.
Moving on…
The most amazing thing about this Wild Flower event is that everyone wakes up
and actually follows through on their volunteer responsibilities for Sunday!
I woke up from the wonderful night I had, glad to know that I made it into, rather than
on top of, a tent. I was still so residually drunk that I could have cared less about
being the center piece of a three-man-spoon that included a 260 pound Samoan
man, and a white guy with corn rows. I wished them both well, and walked to the
rugby camp site.
We were all still drunk. But Pat was drunker now than he had been all weekend. It
didn’t take more than two words out of his mouth for us to see that he had turned
into Patricio Insano. Most of him was still normal. He still had a Pete Rose haircut,
and the same body. It’s just that he was speaking Cambodian, and had an
erection that wouldn’t go to sleep for the next 2 or 3 hours. We pointed that out to
him every 10 minutes, but he would just look down, look back up, call whoever
pointed the boner out a “Madonna queer” and change the subject. The fact that he
was wearing nothing but yellow basketball shorts didn’t help either.
In addition to the Cambodian and the boner, one of the rugby players being the
creative masterminds that they are, had at some point in the night written “Dude
Where’s My Car” on Crazy’s back. That movie was just coming out, and instead of
writing “Dude” or “Sweet,” on his back, they skipped the middleman and left
nothing to chance. We aren’t exactly an attractive group, and Pat was apparently
the closest thing to Ashton Cusher we had. Despite the uncreative charm of the
chief job, it was surprisingly funny.
A few minutes after we all woke up and got situated, we hopped on the volunteer
boat to get across the lake, and went to the organizers’ booth to find out what our
responsibilities were going to be. Crazy Pat refused to put a shirt on for the event,
and before getting on the boat, we picked from his Cambodian dialect that
someone stole his shoes under the cover of darkness. So Stretch Armstrong let
him wear some size 16, black and neon green, water-socks. They were the rubber
one’s that little kids and old people wear when they go to water parks in Missouri.
Crazy was still wearing the yellow basketball shorts.
He was also still pretty erect too. It lost a lot of it’s militancy by this point, but a half
boner in mesh shorts is hard to miss. Everyone could see helmet from a good 40
yards away.
It was a long line, and we all wanted to start a huge fight that would get us thrown in
jail so we could avoid being in the sun all day and hanging around triathlon types.
Instead, we just stood in line and told lies about who we fed it to the night before.
This went on for around 30 minutes, until our Pork Stories were interrupted by the
huge commotion at the front of the volunteer line. We moved to the side to see if a
fight broke out that we could join so the cops would come to rescue us…
No fight. More of a one man show. The people in the front of the line had cleared
away from the organizers’ booth, and the two women working the table had front
row tickets to a concert of Patricio Insano dancing like an Indian Medicine Man
before battle. We didn’t even realize he’d wandered away from the group until we
saw what everyone else was watching in amazement and horror: Patricio Insano
flailing his arms in every direction, at some points jumping, at other points doing
what looked like the Chubby Checker Twist, his Pete Rose hair cut flapping in all
directions, no shirt, same yellow basketball shorts, “Dude Where’s My Car” written
surprisingly legible across his back, Stretch Armstrong’s gigantic neon green and
black water socks, and a still noticeable semi-erection!
The dance lasted for at least 30 seconds, a long time for such a hysteric
performance.
Then he stopped, threw up on the pavement, then took full advantage of his
barrowed size 16 water socks and calmly walked through the barf puddle.
The monsters had finally been evacuated from his body. The cops never came,
one of us calmed down the organizers, and Patricio Insano turned back into
regular old, Crazy Pat. It was over.
Our volunteer assignment was bike patrol; helping women and weenies carry their
bikes up some concrete stairs while they prepped for the final leg of the race.
For the rest of that magnificent Sunday at Lake Lopez, nobody ran bikes up those
20 concrete steps quicker than the shirtless man in yellow shorts who stole our
hearts with his boner-barf-two step…
Our beloved Crazy Pat.
The End.
----------------------------------------Story by John Fever, MD------------------------------------