At the request of a certain scraggly-sideburned Stag of Honor, however, I will neither post [m]any pictures nor relate any of the more tawdry goings on from last weekend's Coors-soaked mountain high jinx, though I maintain that nobody of import is likely to Google "professor + kamikazes + boob-shot + terrifying." Now that I write that, however, that may well be a Funkadelic album, and certainly describes my dream episode of The Wonder Years.
That said, I'll here highlight the few PG-13 moments from our magical 48 hours of self-discovery and/or hangover recovery.
1. In an alarming development, I've [quite literally] stumbled upon a new, previously-undiscovered level of drunkenness; specifically, the "Bruce Springsteen is a douche" level. While I can not recall even once thinking about disliking The Boss, much less denouncing his entire life's purpose, I apparently spent much of late Friday night chastising everything from his songwriting acumen to his role in popularizing the bandanna. No doubt I was another highball away from shitting upon an American flag and insisting John Wayne preferred men.
2. Speaking of shitting (there's a segue I had hoped to avoid), Denver International Airport should consider handing out a free roll of toilet paper to arriving passengers. Only the most peripatetic of poopers know how altitude can adversely affect one's regularity, as I was woe to discover during six glorious trips to our well-appointed commode Saturday, tying Streiter's single-day record.
3. We sent Gerrit away from Casa du Sheflin with instructions to pick up enough 5 Hour Energy Drink to send Amy Winehouse into cardiac arrest. Upon his expeditious return, we were soon to discover that not all amphetamines are made alike. Given my staunch support of the energy drink genre, I was both unprepared for and embarrassed by Amp, which is all he could legally find.
Do not under any circumstances drink, smell, look directly at, nor mention in my presence Amp. While the label touts its JACKFRUIT CITRUS flavor, I found it more closely resembled HEMORRHOID CILANTRO. To recreate the experience, get a pineapple, cut it into 1 inch squares and marinate for 6-8 hours in balsamic vinegar. Now, turn around and bite the penis off the llama that somehow snuck up behind you.
The effects? Negligible, though my projectile vomi-spitting was admittedly youthful and extreme in its neon green coloration.
4. I am presently authoring an amendment to the Constitution that will require background checks prior to iPhone ownership. Alternatively, if Eric Streiter is permitted to continue his usage of his "Sounds Of Space Chipmunks Fingerblasting" application, I should be permitted to shoot him in the throat.
5. Pride precludes mentioning my performance at the batting cages. John John can rake, however. In an unrelated story, I'm learning to use my left thumb when hitting the space bar.
6. Nothing else happened, though we at long last resolved the question of who makes the best sundaes in the industry.
John's tire was the only flat surprise of the weekend.Fortunately, I can take this entire weekend to recover, as the only event I'll be attending is tomorrow morning's Bay to Breakers, which is the San Francisco version of a marathon, which is to say that it's less than a third of the distance, has a lax dress code, and requires everyone to be naked and drunk. I smell another blog post and urine.
Or that could be Jackfruit.
Posts
