When we last left Tammer the Hammer, he had made his digital mark on the Chicago scene with his MySpace page. Can he live up to the hype . . .
Muscle Milk and Billy Blanks present:
TAMMER THE HAMMER!
Part 2: THE PARRY
April 14th, 2006. Patrick Tamisiea’s birthday. As far as Pat knows, we’re going to get some din-din and a little boozy at a local bar. Nothing big, you know. I mean, it’s Patrick Tamisiea – he doesn’t need flashy lights and buzzers for his birthday . . . just a little playground called Chicago where he can strip down to his undies and chase down bicycle deliverymen . . . (Yet again, another post.).
While at dinner, Stephen Saff calls. He has a present for Pat and wants him to stop by his apartment. Mind you, this is the same Stephen Saff who throws the famous Parrys, so you know something is up. (See Engagement Story) When we arrive, Stephen has a huge alcohol spread in his kitchen; party cups, vodka, whiskey, gin, mixers, AA pamphlets – the WORKS. It looks really suspicious.
Pat asks, “What’s going on?” Crap. Shit. Uhhhh, how’s Stephen going to cover this . . . It’s not my job to cover his blatant mistake of preparing for a party early. Reminder, Stephen’s a spaz . . . “Oh, oh, oh – I’m just going to be drinking all by myself. Ha ha! Nah, seriously, I’m having a Parry tomorrow. You guys should come! Sorry, it was a spur of the moment decision.” Pat’s buys it. Or least he’s in denial because who wants to spoil their own surprise party – yeah, I ruined it for you. It’s a surprise party. If you hadn’t caught on by now then I can’t help you . . . you’re hopeless and should probably enter the priesthood . . .
I take Patrick outside to the huge back balcony. I want to show him something. Something sexy. Something sexy and crazy . . . Patrick steps outside. BOOM! Twenty of Patrick’s closest friends greet him with a “surprise!” Everyone is there; Pat’s roommates, Pat’s college buddies, Pat’s improv buddies, our brother Chris. Yet, I was not lying about there being something sexy and crazy there . . . all the way from Omaha, Nebraska – it’s TAMMER THE HAMMER! Yes, glistening like a golden god in baby oil and torn head bands.
He wasn’t really covered in oil, but this is the feeling you get when you see that muscle bound jock. And soon enough, the party starts to fill up with dozens upon dozens of guests. Many of them to celebrate Patrick exit from our mom’s body. Some to just to party. Yet, many are there to witness Tammer the Hammer. Will this be just like a bad first date on Match.com where the girl lied with her profile pics and she’s really a mac truck? Or will this be all that god intended when he said, “Let there be Jack Daniels and a short, strong man to consume it all his days on Earth!”
I can assure you, Tammer lived up to his hype. He was guzzling the Jack, dancing like a NFL football player who just made the winning touchdown and chatting up the ladies. But there’s one incident that cemented his status as Tammer the Hammer for the rest of his life. An incident that will go down in history as one of the all time greatest unintentional smack downs at a Chicago house party. It’s probably #2 right after the time Al Capone shot Muggs McHenry in the knee for taking his seat when he called “No Take-sies.”
Picture the party in full swing. People dancing. People drinking. It’s already being named one of the greatest (birthday) parries ever. It’s almost perfect except for the presence of one man. No one knows his name. No one knows where he came from. He’s just this douchebag going around an being extremely rude and annoying. He’s been to some of Stephen’s parries before and been kicked out for trying to steal things. One of those things was a vacuum. Yea, try and stick one of those under your shirt. Do that and you’re instantly the moron of the week.
This guy is abrasively hitting on every girl, including Megan. That made me angry and yet amused. Megan, again, held her own. Also, our friend John Durbin did a great job of boxing the guy out. This guy was a real piece of work. I think he even threw up in Stephen’s protein powder jar. He’s just being disruptive and thinking nothing of it.
Towards the peak of the Parry, Douchbag (that’s what we will call him from now on) decides to take his shirt off and dance. Mind you, he’s a pretty scrawny guy. Still, the way he was cock-walking the dance floor was evidence that the delusions of grader run rampant in his head. At one point, he’s flexing for pictures. I’m not sure why people were taking pictures of him, but I’m guessing it’s was for their sexual assault cases. At that point, Patrick and I convince a very, very intoxicated Tammer the Hammer to take his shirt off and stand next to Douchebag. Tammer is so drunk, he just smiles a goofy smile and instantly takes off his shirt.
What happened next was legendary and assured Tammer’s entrance into the Parry hall of fame. Douchebag gets very angry that Sean is taking the spotlight. Tammer absentmindedly puts his arm around douchebag. Douchebag gets more agitated. Tammer, with the ease of a summer breeze, twists his arm down and flips doucebag over and onto the floor. Tammer smiles and sits back on the couch. EVERYONE laughs. This guy had been asking for it all night.
Meanwhile, myself and this weirdo named Matt Bible – not his real name. No one knew what his name really was. He was trying really hard to project some persona on the improv community. Anyway, Bible and I are trying to convince Douchebag he should just leave. Douchebag wants nothing more than to fight Tammer. That is until I look him straight in the eye and say, “Dude. That’s not happening. Look at him . . . you’re not fighting him. You need to leave.” Fight Tammer? Maybe later you can go pick up the Sears Tower because that’s not happening.
Tammer, on the other hand, is so damn strong, the incident doesn’t even register on his radar. Sean is just sitting next to our friend Dustin Levell who looks strangely like “The Critic.” Dustin looks at Sean and says, “Please don’t beat me up.” Tammer drunkenly laughs and puts his arm around Dustin as if they were old war buddies. After that, I think Tammer got up and drank some more Jack. By the end of the night, Tammer was spread out on Stephen’s bathroom floor while Chris, Pat and I took turns taking care of him. Wittle Tammer had too much dwinky.
When we went back to my Logan Square studio, Tammer fell asleep under some bushes by the front sidewalk while Chris went to slobber down Mexican food proclaiming it to be the “best fucking ever.” I left my keys at the Parry effectively locking us out. 30 minutes later, Megan arrives in a cab with the keys and we have a little slumber party.
Tammer the Hammer had effectively established himself as a legend in Chicago.
BUT, could he maintain the legendary status . . . .