I’m No Longer Allowed To Rent Cabins In Tennessee

Karl Karlson9 years ago

Junior year is that wonderful time between being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and a complete sociopath who just wants to watch pledges walrus fight (shoutout Boosh) for the last piece of mayo bread. I was fresh off my first year of vice presidency and riding high on the feeling that only a genuinely useless title and the promise of weekly debauchery can bring, and my chapter was planning a mountain weekend in Gatlinburg, Tenn.

For anyone who hasn’t been to Gatlinburg, it’s the Myrtle Beach of the mountains. Between countless distilleries, gas station bars, and locals who have a comfortable mix of southern charm and tourist trap sneakthievery, the place is damn near heaven. We found the perfect spot a couple miles from the main drag. Plenty of space for brotherly shenanigans, hot tubs for fondling Sally, and a Golden Tee machine (shoutout Dorn). Unfortunately, someone had to sign the papers. Since I was the chapter “nice guy,” I decided to step up and be Mr. Big Shot.

Disclaimer: This was a couple weeks after my 21st birthday and I was in full delusions of grandeur mode. I would have signed off on us getting an ostrich farm or a battalion of tanks.

When we got there, shit immediately took a turn for the real. Aside from the boxes of liquor, not to be confused with binders of women, and enough narcotics to fell a herd of wildebeests, we brought a healthy appetite for destruction. While trying to reconfigure the abode for premium dance floor bone-age, I managed to damage a chandelier with my giant bowling ball shaped head. Everyone, aside from the social chair and I, found it hilarious. It was only the beginning. A few cups of punch later, things were in a serious fog. I do not recall these events and will willingly plead the Fifth if asked.

The scene that greeted me upon waking was straight out of Apocalypse Now. Aside from the chandelier, someone had managed to butcher a table, a bathroom, and part of a deck. Needless to say, I felt like a raging asshole and it was only night one.

We spent the following day in town, sampling shine and seeing the sights only the Smoky Mountains can offer. I managed to get lost for an hour while hunting for cigarettes and met a couple of nice old ladies from Emerald Isle (call me Lorraine). After taking The Pledge Bitch Express back to the cabin, things were well on their way to Shit City. Games were played, punches were thrown, and women were wooed. It was a blast. We went to bed that night satisfied that this weekend was a complete success.

The thing about rental properties is that people want them to stay “pristine.” The trusting folks who opened their doors to us were beyond pissed off the following week. Unfortunately, I was the asshole who signed on the line that is dotted. The email I received following these events was a couple swear words away from being a Lewis Black routine. Aside from losing the safety deposit and having to pay for damages, I was informed by the homeowner’s association that my signature would no longer be accepted on future rentals.

Flash forward a year later and we decide to give Mountain Weekend another go. Since we aren’t total dumbasses, we looked beyond the cluster we’d previously defaced. Testing my limits, I once again put my name down thinking the ban was local. Apparently, people talk, and I received a letter telling me to politely fuck off. The previous year’s events had ruined being the nice guy, and luckily the poor sap who replaced me wasn’t on any list these shit balls had ever heard of. Brotherhood.

Sometimes, you have to put yourself on the line. Maybe someday when I’m married and boring, I’ll be able to rent another property so the little Karls can play Hover Board Ball or whatever the fuck kids will be doing by then. If not, I can keep in mind that the weekend I was blacklisted was one of the best I’ve ever had..