It's been a great week, though my thighs, like, positively hate me.
For my birthday, the gang took me out to the brass ring and then the essen haus, purchasing me drinks aplenty all evening. I apparently had eight shots of Goldschlager (and every time I'd turn around Veronica was there with more... and a smile would creep upon my face). Got to hang out with PZ and his attractive entourage, and prior to the Great Imbibition, Special B let me tag along with him to the Badgers bball game. Good times. Fittingly, the night concluded with me double-fisting shots of whiskey delivered unto me, according to Jim, by a "mystery man," which turned out not to be quite so sage (I feel shocked) , as I spent a good portion of the hours betwixt 2-4 AM staring at so many chunks of brown on my condo floor (special thanks and shoutout to Slippy J for making sure I didn't drown in my own vomit!)
As states the old adage: beer before liquor, everything's gonna be all right, right?
I think that's how it goes...
Sufficed to say, I have no recollection of those two shots of whiskey. Sadly, I am no longer the champion drinker I used to be. Which I suppose is a good thing. But drinking prowess isn't a talent one can shine on; nay, as with any art it boils down to practice makes perfect.
Which brings me to Saturday and my cousin's bachelor party. It had been a while since I'd spent an entire day drinking, but, thanks in large part to my preparation earlier in the week--my birthday celebration on Wednesday served as solid practice for the weekend's debauchery--I managed to do just that and end the night relatively sober.
Now this was a bachelor party!
Bart was in town from Minneapolis. It was great to see him and headbang to his most excellent renditions of Jesus Christ Superstar, which, by the way, was the biggest hit on the Party Bus' karaoke machine.
Yes, this might have been the gayest non-gay bachelor celebration ever. Speaking of gay... I've been watching DVDs of this sketch comedy called Stella, which has one of the guys from the Kids in the Hall. Good comedy, that. The big negative is now I'm constantly tempted to start humping anything that moves for its comedic value. Actually, strike the "moving" caveat; earlier this evening, I humped a pool table. The corner pocket, precisely.
Also on the gay front... toward the end of the night on Saturday, one shrimp of a girlyman failed to realize how close he was to spending an evening in the hospital when he bitch-slapped one of my brother's friends and began to fire off rounds of bigoted remarks. I've never thrown a serious punch, but man, if this guy decided to take his slaps to the next level, the runt would've felt the brunt of BT's manpower. To be honest, at one point I nudged my way between the man and my friend, sort of goading on the chump to pick on someone, well, much, much larger than himself, hoping the drunk douche would mess with me--i.e., the wrong man--but seeing himself outnumbered, the man of slight stature tucked his tail between his bumcheeks and flounced off, flailing bigoted insults our way even as the brave Sir Robin ran away.
(You know a guy is a real winner when he calls someone a "fag" and proceeds to slap another man in the face.)
I then spat on the concrete, ripped off my shirt, kissed my biceps, and said, "Welcome to the gun show, ladies," to some nearby spectators who'd gathered to witness the scuffle. We then proceeded, the eight ladies and I, to make love upon a plush carpet of squished squash before a blazing bonfire. Here's to staving off scurvy! Cheers!
It was around this point in the evening I realized the flamboyantly gay giraffe only I could see--the one with the nosy neck and a startling knack for bad touch--was in fact not a real imaginary friend after all, because real imaginary friends don't totally laugh at you when you share your innermost insecurities, and that is EXACTLY what Corey did to me, that bastard of a flamboyantly gay giraffe! Now I hate him!
Oh Corey, if you're reading this, I can't stay mad at you. I wuv you again. Mwa!
That wraps up this blog entry. I left out some yada yada's, unimportant details like strip clubs, private lap dances, and irrefutable evidence of paranormal activity in my pants, but I don't even know what that means and that's neither here nor there, so let us say adieu.
Adieu.
