Kyle-o Rossi

11 Oct

Saturday night I imbibed an ungodly amount of Carlo Rossi brand sangria. Terrible, unspeakable things were happening inside my body by 3am Sunday morning. Before that, though, things were pretty sweet. Here is the moment-by-moment account of a Saturday night with Kyle-o Rossi.

0 oz.

We leave Sam’s at about midnight or so. My hair is pulled up into a pony-tail. I’m trying to look like Tom Cruise from Magnolia, but I end up looking like Jesse Eisenberg with a thing on his head. No matter, as my girlfriend is in Spain and even if nobody likes my pony-tail, at worst it takes me from a nine to an seven or eight.

We’re going to a party at a friend’s house. We’re not sure how big it’s going to be, but I’m really excited for some reason. Coursing through my veins is not only blood but an almost tangible exuberance (scotch).

The house is beautiful. It’s an old two-story Victorian with a wraparound porch. It’s white-washed and ornate. It looks like the kind of house one of the bad guys from Roots would have lived in. Around the house is a completely treeless lawn that gives the house the appearance of an oasis or an island.

“Sweet refuge,” I whisper. “Should we bring the jug?” I ask Derek.

“Sweet refuge,” Derek whispers, clutching the jug of wine in his hands. “What did you say?”


We get out of the car and approach the house. I’m wearing my Eddie Vedder jacket and feeling strong. Before we go in, I take a couple swigs from the jug.

8 oz.

Mixing with the scotch, the wine goes straight to my belly and fills it with warmth. The reaction between wine and stomach is much like that of heaping coals into the furnace of an old ship–probably the Titanic since it hits an ice berg and ends up killing a lot of people.

...And those he leaves moaning on death's doorstep will all have his name on their lips. "Carlo..."

There are a few people sitting outside on the first-story porch. It’s cool outside, and the breeze that comes causes the temperature to flirt with cold. Inside I hear laughing and the boisterous commotion of youth.

“Oh! The boisterous commotion of youth!” Derek screams and runs inside. I follow.

We pass through the hall and greet everyone. They’re all surprised to see us. Mostly because I had spent much of the week prior trying to convince most of these people that Derek had died in a car accident.

Sometimes I do things just to get attention 😦

Am I bad?

I pause for a moment after I’ve sat down and wonder if I’m bad.

I never admit to my lie about Derek’s death–I only wink when asked and say that “Derek pulled a Jesus on everybody.”

I take a few more sips from the jug, then pour it into a cup and sip some more.

18 oz.

Feeling a little silly. We’re playing a drinking game. It’s called king’s cup. When my turn comes, I lean forward to draw a card from the pile in the center of the table. Everyone is smiling and laughing.

“Go ahead, Kyle!” one gentleman says, grinning from ear to ear. “Draw a good one!”

I reach over and turn a card over. It’s a ten of hearts.

“Categories!” a girl from across the table calls. “Pick a category–anything, and we’ll all say something from that category until we can’t!”

“Like foods?” I ask.

“Yea, but something more specific. We don’t want to be here all night.”

“Oh, okay.” I think for a moment. Then it dawns on me. “Times when it’s cool to say the n-word!” I sit down, smiling proudly. Parties are fun. Nobody’s talking now. Everyone looks to the girl at my left. She takes a drink then leans forward and turns her card over.

I take a drink too, and wait for my next turn.

33 oz.

Feelin’ silly. Silly Billy. A beautiful woman is seated to my right, laughing at all my jokes and I think at one point saying something nice about my pony tail.

Her Siren’s call.

I wander ignorantly, growing ever closer to the serpent's lair.

From within me, and within my jug, a voice tells me it’s all right.

An Italian voice. Or maybe a Spanish voice. Or it could have been from Brooklyn or something. Maybe it had some weird speech impediment–I don’t know.

I don’t travel.

I shake the voice away and get to my feet. Somebody calls and tells me it’s my turn. I don’t even turn around–because I know it’s a lie. My turn has been up for sometime. My game was over before it began.

On my way out, I raise my glass to Derek, who is grinding on some woman I’m sure he doesn’t know the name of.

Cheers to you, you beautiful soul.

41 oz.


Outside, my legs are feeling like jelly. That warmth in my belly has spread to every part of my frame. I’m like that guy from Heroes. Did y… you didn’t watch Heroes? Not even season 1? Huh.

*Rolls eyes

Music is starting. Dancing is starting. My jug of Carlo Rossi (peace be upon him) is being passed around like a groupie on  Savage Garden’s tour bus.

I begin to dance. The world is a blur of faces and sounds. I’m pretty sure I sneeze on someone and then blame it on them.

“Kyle!” I hear Derek call.

“Derek!” I call out. I can’t see him, but I can feel his presence.

“Your stuff is hanging out!”

“What?” I ask, but before I can look down, my jug is back in my hands, and like an infant feeding from his mother’s teet, I begin to drink.

52 oz.

My ability to speak is being hampered. Somebody asks me how my job is going. I tell them.

“Hey! It’s ginn. Fuck’. Kids/?” I’m not sure how, but I actually verbalize a forward slash.

Dancing continues. “Hey Ya” is playing. It reminds me of a happier time. A simpler time.

A woman with a weird face approaches me. She begins to either chastise me for my behavior or hit on me. I can’t tell. Feeling like an observer in my own life, I reach my hand up and tap her on the nose.

“Shuddup.” I say, then turn to walk away. I get about three feet away before I fall down and I think a little toot comes out.

I’m just glad I wasn’t carrying my jug.

“I’m okay,” I say. I pick my jug up from where I’d sat it down and take a drink. This time, a big one. The bottom fifth of the four liter jug is in my gut now. The fires of Hell swirl inside me–and Hell’s master, from the label of my jug–cracks a sinister smile.

Calamitous bane. Trickster. Devil.

66.6 oz

I am gone. I am helped to the car and placed in the passenger seat. The drive home is a blur. I’m no longer able to string together enough words to create a cohesive thought. I’m babbling like an infant.

I make it into the house under my own power, but once I enter–the Hell inside me demands penance. The scales have been tipped too far in my favor and now a price must be paid. I flew too close to the sun and now, my wings melted, I plummet to the Earth.

I puke my lungs out and fall asleep on the bathroom floor.

0 oz

That’s better.

The end.

4 Responses to “Kyle-o Rossi”

  1. Wade October 11, 2010 at 6:03 pm #

    Eloquently put my friend. Hahah

  2. jak December 15, 2010 at 5:22 am #

    Confidentially, your readers HATE YOU and after we tell you so we move on too — never to return

    • Kyle Irion December 20, 2010 at 4:25 pm #

      Dear reader,

      Hey. Thanks for reading my blog. Kyle-o Rossi was a big hit. I’m glad you could enjoy it. Also, it’s one of the longest posts I’ve ever written, so thanks for reading it all the way through in spite of how much you hate me. That shows a level of dedication that most people who hate me don’t have.

      Since you told me my readers hate me, should that statement really be prefaced with “confidentially”? I’m confused as to how you used that word (the exact wrong way).

      I also find it somewhat humorous (full of shit) that my *readers* hate me. The next time you guys get together to talk about how shitty my hilarious blog is, be sure to remind them that reading it is voluntary, and that they’re welcome to not read it any time they like.

      But I guess you won’t get to read this, since you’re never to return (full of shit). How sad.

      (not full of shit)

    • Patrick O. Strickland December 20, 2010 at 5:55 pm #

      Jak is right, though. Your readers do hate you. We will never read you again. Rest assured of that.

      And the next time we read you again, we’ll be sure to tell you how much we hate you, and that we’ll never read you again.

      At the last meeting of the Iron Kyle Loyal Readership Club, we bantered about the extent to which we hated you, and even had a small contest as to who could prove that they hated you the most. We all vowed to never read you again because, well, we hate you. Our pure hatred for you won’t allow us to read you again let alone take the time to read and comment on your older posts (which aren’t as easily accessible to people who don’t normally read you).

      Jak, dear comrade, your comment was unequivocally fatuous.

      With affection,


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