Witt and Wisdom

The Thanksgiving Triple Challenge

No matter your circumstance this coming Thanksgiving, be it awkward dinner with in-laws, torturous turkey table talk with your own family or quiet reflection on that for which you are thankful, there is a sure-fire method for navigating the day relatively unscathed from lifelong emotional scarring.  I speak, of course, of the long-standing holiday tradition of getting shit faced.

You can try to follow my plan (for advanced readers only) or modify it to suit your own needs.  This works if you're preparing the meal or sitting back smelling grandma's SBDs.

9:00 am - Wake and fart, making room for the day's events.
9:30 - Eye the shower, laugh, give shower the finger.
9:31 - Go to kitchen, fill glass 3/4 with Champagne and 1/4 orange juice.  Toast to oral sex.
9:35 - Turn on TV, find a parade.  Make second Mimosa.
9:37 - Call Katie Couric a whore.  Tell her she's no Jane Pauley.  When someone tells you that she's the anchor for CBS news, just laugh and say, "They let women talk about news now?"
9:40 - Third Mimosa.  Scratch genitals.  Clear out any late arriving morning mucus.
9:45 - Cinnamon rolls.  What?  Nobody made cinnamon rolls?  WHAT ARE WE, BARBARIANS!?!? 
10:00 - Morning "movement".   If someone is reading the morning paper, grab it from his hands and take it with you to the bathroom.  Leave it there when you're done.
10:06 - Fourth Mimosa.  Make sure to tell everyone in shouting distance that you "just made room for more."
10:14 - Fifth Mimosa.  Ideally, you will not be able to feel the tips of your fingers anymore. 
10:20 - Ask the nearest relative when the goddamn bird is going to be ready.  If they point out that you're in charge of the turkey, say (under your breath), "Well isn't that convenient for you?"
10:32 - Whether preparing the turkey yourself or just observing, spend the next three hours hovering over the bird as if you know what you're doing.  Make several off-color jokes about "giblets".
10:47 - Sixth and final Mimosa.  This will be your "come down" drink for the morning.  You are cut off until 1:00.  When someone asks if you'd like another drink, just say, "No, I know when to quit, unlike your father."  It doesn't matter who the person's father is.
11:18 - Flip through every single television channel that you have, asking over and over, "What channel is the game on?  Isn't there a game on?  Which channel?" Continue this for the next half hour.
11:48 - Eat a snack.  What?  Nobody brought snacks? WHAT ARE WE, BARBARIANS!?!?   If no snack available, go to Subway and get a footlong.  If ANY motherfuckers say ANYTHING, shoot them a look like they rape sheep for a living.
12:02 - Ensure that the bird is at least in the goddamn oven/fryer, I mean WHO THE HELL IS IN CHARGE AROUND HERE?!?!  Get the table set, because sure as shit nobody else is going to do it.  Complain LOUDLY.
12:13 - Ask what channel the game is on.  WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE FUCKING PARADE IS STILL ON?!?
12:27 - Hold turkey baster up, make obscene joke to a hot cousin and/or Katie Couric.
12:30 - Tell everyone that if there's not a football game on yet, everyone needs to get the fuck out.
12:31 - Watch football.  Modify own rule and begin drinking Grey Goose and Orange Juice.  Fuck 1:00.
12:48 - Second GG and OJ.  When someone asks if you like Screwdrivers, ask if he's hitting on you.  If applicable, call him gay. 
1:00 - Toast yourself for waiting until 1:00 before having your next drink.  Switch to Ketel One and Sprite to mark your victory.
1:19 - Ask if anyone could go for some Papa John's.
1:27 - Switch to Jack and Coke.  Trust me, it's time.
1:44 - Ensure that dinner will be ready within the next 30 minutes.  If not, ask "Whose ass to I have to put my foot up to get a GODDAMN SLICE OF TURKEY AROUND HERE!??"  If anyone points out that you're technically in charge of the meal, try for the next six minutes to get your own foot up your ass.
2:03 - Jack and Coke again.  Put a cherry in it this time, because it's the holidays, after all.  If the game is at halftime, yell "PASS!!!!" at the TV.
2:30 - The food SURE AS SHIT better be ready.  If not, sit down and bang your plate on the table until there is turkey in your mouth.
2:35 - Say prayer thanking God for bringing everyone together and thank God for your/your wife's/your girlfriend's/Jessica Alba's breasts. 
2:36 - You get one drink with dinner.  You can also have water.  This is your last drink until 7:15.
2:37 - Eat.  If anyone gets near your plate, growl.  If there is a particular side dish that you like, hoard it.  Take at least half with your first helping and if someone reaches for the rest, sigh loudly or make piggy noises.
3:08 - Push back from the table and head for the couch.  If someone is there, you push them off.  The dishes are ALWAYS someone else's problem.  I cannot stress this enough.
3:09-5:56 - Pass the hell out.
6:03 - Afternoon "movement".  Review all of the Black Friday ads. 
6:17 - Ask what channel the game is on. 
6:45 - Yeah, it's time for beer.  7:15?  What am I, a monk?  LET'S GET DRUNK ALREADY!
7:02 - Ask who wants to watch Pulp Fiction.  Whoever raises their hand, say, "I don't care.  Get me a beer."  Put on Pulp Fiction.
7:22 - Get another beer.
7:48 - Beer.
8:02 - Three beers, fuck it, I'm not going to keep getting up.
9:15 - God, do I have to pee.  Grab another beer on the way back.
10:01 - The movie may be over.  Who knows?
10:06 - I could go for a beer, sure.
10:08 - WHO'S UP FOR SOME MOTHERFUCKING POKER!!  NO?  GET THE FUCK OUT!!!
10:18 - Flip over poker table, call everyone a bunch of cheating assholes.
10:24 - TURKEY SANDWICHES and PUMPKIN PIE!!  Use ENTIRE tub of Cool Whip on your slice of pie.
10:34 - Start reminiscing with people about memories in which they were not involved.  Shotgun a beer.
10:48 - Somehow, your pants are now off.
11:16 - Well, there goes your shirt.
10:24 am Friday - No memory of anything after the shirt came off, something smells like pee and there's a shopping cart IN YOUR BEDROOM.  You have achieved the Thanksgiving Triple Drunk Challenge.  The rest of the day is devoted to Guitar Hero.   

 

Liquid Courage/Explosives

A little over two weeks ago, terrorists attempted to disrupt my travel to a business meeting in Houston, Texas by plotting to blow up ten airplanes over the Atlantic ocean.  I have not yet determined why the terrorists hate me, but I assume it has something to do with how I prefer to fuck my virgins here on Earth so that I can brag to my friends about it later.

The following is the story of my journey that night, over two weeks ago...

~~~~~

I’m sitting slump-shouldered in the Crown Room at the Atlanta airport, Amarula coating the inside of the fifth or sixth glass of the evening. My flight was delayed a couple of hours and given the state of my life, the nation, and the world, I’m hesitant to believe that my mood is going to change any time this decade.

Not to say that "big picture" (air quoted) life is terrible. But you know what I want to do all the time? What I really want to do?  I want to write.

Nobody cares, of course.  Ooo...do you wanna write?  Are you a tortured artist?  Do you yearn to be understood? 

Who gives a fuck?  Surely not the over-served software saleswoman at the bar right now, who has decided to let loose another button on her blouse, hoping the bartender will show her why once you go black you never go back.

These are the ramblings of a drunken traveler. A scream in a sea of screams.

Oh Jesus.  How fucking emo have I become?

Okay, this is totally gay, but keep in mind that I'm drunk.  Or I’ve been drinking. Hold on, I’m gonna stand up right now.

Seriously.

Yeah, okay, so I’m tipsy. Not drunk. Shit, my plane is probably going to board soon. I’ll write from the plane. It’s a piece of shit commuter, so I may actually have to fly the thing. I’ll let you know.

~~~~~

Goddamn it. I just checked the departing flights screen quick before heading to the gate. My plane was delayed another 45+ minutes. The airlines are turning me into an alcoholic. I wouldn’t be drinking on Thursday night if I was at home.  Okay, that's a lie.  But you get my point.

So did I mention yet that I came to the airport three hours in advance with basically nothing but a hairbrush and socks?  I had deodorant, but they made me throw it out even though everyone knows that terrorists don't use deodorant.  So I came here three hours early only to discover that there was absolutely no line at security.  Walked up and breezed right through.  Never, ever happened to me before at Hartsfield-Jackson airport.  I assumed there was a law against it, in fact. 

So I had time to kill, coincidentally, given that that's exactly what the terrorists DON'T want me to have time for.  I went to the nearest airport bookstore to buy some emergency deodorant, in order to have a mild level of self-respect at the meeting tomorrow morning.  And I think we all know that airport bookstores are known for their wide variety of deodorant.  Would you like Speed Stick in green or pale green?  And we're out of green.  The pitiful look and tone of voice in which the clerk at the store addressed me suggested that someone had shit in my carry-on.

But, now, I’ve got time to kill and an open bar here.  Bartender made me his “specialty” drink about a half-hour ago that one of the other bar patrons eyed-balled and described as “kind of a white Russian”, to which the bartender said, “Yeah, it’s a white Russian on steroids”. So now I’ve got drug testing to deal with. I've made a mental note to blow out my lats later.

I've been in the airport for four and a half hours.

And I think I just saw lightning outside.  Or possibly there's about to be a Kiss concert on the tarmac.

Nope.  By the looks of the rain hitting the window now, someone better be figuring out exactly how big a cubit is.

Shit.

~~~~~

Ever since I wrote on this very site about my realization of the fact that I will likely be in the workforce for another 25+ years, I’ve become, um, obsessed with that idea. It is all I can do to keep it from crushing me.  I'm going nowhere with this thought, other than to let you know that I'm being crushed under the weight of that which is barely in my control.  This is why people turn to Jesus, because hey, why not?  Jesus is totally hot for lepers and shit, so he'll LOVE your fucked up psychoses.

Another five fucking minutes just got added to the “scheduled” departure time, by the way.  I've been around long enough to know that airlines don't work in five minute increments.  Something's up.

I'm heading down to the gate.  It's about ten til ten.

~~~~~

Okay, not that this is suspicious at all, but they've bumped our scheduled departure time to 10:15 and it's now 10:45.  So now we literally have to go back in time in order to take off, which you KNOW is going to add to the delay.  There are some pissed off people in the gate area right now.  I'm going to start walking around and spreading some rumors about the captain.  Oh wait, here comes the flight attendant to make a gate announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, due to mechanical problems with the plane, Flight Blahblahblah to Houston has been canceled, please go to the ticketing counter three gates to my left to re-ticket."

That's it.  Maybe spit on my ass before jamming it in next time, okay Delta?  Maybe give me a goodbye mix tape or something?  Cocksuckers.

~~~~~

At the ticket counter, I have weighed my options.  I have to be at a meeting at 9:00 am in Houston.  Which means my flight has to arrive no later than about 7:00, given distance from the airport and traffic.  Which means I'd have to try to make a 4:30/5:00 am flight tomorrow morning, if such a thing exists.  Which means I would have to get up at about 3:00.  Which is approximately 4 hours from right now.  And it would take an hour and half to get home from here.  I explain my math to the kind lady at the ticket counter.

"Well, there's another flight to Houston that leaves at midnight over in the next terminal.  You should be able to make that one."

I was really kind of hoping you'd tell me to go home and get some rest and there's just no way I'm getting to Houston, but okay, I'll play your little games.

Terminal B, here I come.

~~~~~

Well, the people here at the midnight flight to Houston do not look pleased.  This flight has been delayed as well.  And many of the harried freaks from my original flight are also here.  Some people are starting to soak rags on sticks in some oil.  That can't be a good sign.

My slight buzz is starting to wear off and the real world is creeping in at the edges.  Airport smells are starting to become intensely stale.  The fried foods have mixed with the leather store smell and pretzel odors have intermingled with dried sweat.  It is one o'clock in the morning.  I'm going to die here.  I can see that now.

The captain has just walked up the gangway from the plane and grabbed the intercom.

"Okay, I'm only going to say this once and then I don't want to hear about it again, am I clear?  It's just me and the guy from food service down there and we did our best to clear this plane for takeoff.  It's as clean as we can get it between the two of us, so things might not be nice as you're used to, but we're getting this plane to Houston tonight!"

The goddammit is implied.

The crowd has literally burst into cheers and applause.

~~~~~

The plane took off about a half hour or so later, a little after 1:30 in the morning.  I had arrived at the Houston airport around 3:00. 

When I arrived in Houston, I took a cab to my hotel.  My driver had a very rudimentary understanding of both the rules of driving and the laws of physics.  I don't believe we actually maintained a position in any particular lane for more than about .3 milliseconds during the nearly hour-long ride.  Also, based upon the temperature he was keeping his car, I'm pretty sure he was storing meat and/or a body in the trunk.

I arrived at my hotel around 4:00 and slipped into bed about 4:30.  I would get a full two and a half hours of sleep before waking to go to my meeting.

The terrorists don't understand that if they just keep inconveniencing us long enough, we'll just kill ourselves.  It's a much cleaner war that way, I assure you.

Remnants

Whenever I'm drinking, I can sense when a good drunk is settling in.  I can also sense when I'm about to take the step off of a very, very, very high cliff of drunkenness.  When one more beer, one more shot or one more sissy drink will send me careening downward, tumbling over rocks and glass shards and small ferns.

I call this place "The Line".

Here, then, is the conversation that my wife informed me that we had this past Sunday morning at about 3:30 am.  As I was laying across the bedroom and bathroom floor.  In my underwear.  Drooling.

Me: "Honey?"
Her: "What?"
Me: "HONEY!!?"
Her: "What's the matter?"
Me: "Honey.  Honey.  I...there's...there's a line."
Her: "What?"
Me: "There's...a line.  A line.  LINE!!!"
Her: "There's a line?"
Me: "There's a line.  And I...I crossed it.  The line."
Her: "A line."
Me: "But here's the...here's the thing.  I didn't even see it, dude."
Her: "The line."
(Me clawing at the carpet with my index finger.)
Me: "THE LINE!!"
Her: "You didn't even see it."
Me: "Didn't even know it was there.  Blew right past it.  Never knew it was coming.  Never saw it when I passed it."
Her: "You crossed the line.  You're drunk."
Me: "Well, YEAH!  But see...I never even saw it.  The line."
Her: "You mentioned that."
Me: "But usually I see it."
(Clawing again with the index finger.)
Her: "Yes.  The line.  I get it."
Me: "There's a line."
Her: "I know.  And you crossed it.  Honey, just rest now.  Stay near the toilet."
Me: "Man, I cannot believe that I didn't see the line.  I always see the line."
Her: "I know."
Me: "But I didn't even see it."
Her: "Time to shut up now."
Me: "Yeah.  Okay."
(Head slams to the floor)

I know that you've read how awesome this party was already.  But it was so much better than that.  For instance, the last thing I remember was judging a hair contest by running my fingers through the hair of every girl on the couch.  I was quite scientific.  I assume.  There were beakers involved.  Someone had a Bunsen burner.  I'm nearly positive of that.  Possibly it was a lighter.  Point is: So Awesome.  That's all I have to say about that.

Photos here: Flickr

you're not the boss of me. SHUT UP, YOU DON'T KNOW!

okay, so I'm ffrunk.  I just tried to type forunk DRUNK 5 times and failed.  Fuckeing Bill Gates bkkeyboard.  UP YOURS Bill!!

Ther ewas wine today.  There is wine this time evey year.  so much wine.  I AM LIVE-BLOGIGING BEING FRUNK! Like the kids.  I'M STILL RELEVENT!!

This is going noewhere.  But I'bve blogged drunk now ,so there'/s one more thing you can't say I've nbever don't bitches.!!

and now I'm going to go slpode.

Word./././

*** UPDATE!!  I juyst read that Katie "Holmes" Moss is on the coke.  DUH!!  She's got the metabolisnm of a fuckhign hummedbirrd.  Stupid git.  Slap a supermodel today.  I need a bumpersticker.

Rockin' Like Dokken

In order to provide you thankless hogsmokers a little entertainment value, I actually attempted to take a note here and there during my hiatus to remind me of some of the funnier and, well, noteworthy moments.  It seemed like a really good idea at the time.  The problem is that sleeping in the sun with SPF 4 Deep Tanning "Oil" also seemed like a good idea.  So you can see that my faculties may have been slightly impaired.

I am looking at the notes right now and I see some evidence of a negative effect from the eight beers, four vodka/7's and three shots that I imbibed.  From what I have been able to decipher, "Waahddun chakge ro shorke, caz bady I'n a mast" may translate to the Prince lyric, "Wouldn't change a stroke, cuz baby I'm the most."  You can't really see it now, but believe me, that shit is funny.  I do recall saying something like, "Prince is a goddamned genius.  You kids today have no fucking clue.  Music today sucks.  No innovators.  Who is innovative today? NO.  BODY.  NOW GET ME A FUCKING DRINK!"  Seriously, how can you argue with that kind of rock-solid platform?  Especially the "get me a fucking drink" part.  At one point, one of the twenty-somethings that was hanging out with us said, "What about Dave Mathews?"  I just shook my head and felt 80 years old.  Whippersnappers. 

Next in my notes are the words Get oFF -> 23 pestions in ove nigt stand.  I mean, really, this shit is GOLD.  Funny like a motherfucker.  Not sure why the Prince fixation.  Not even really a big fan.  I may have been drugged.

To cap the somewhat legible portion of the notes are two lines:

Mothy Crue - Live wire!
Def Lefend - Rocket

So yeah, you can see that it was non-stop laughter and shitty 80's music.  You young people are staring at the page right now thinking, "That poor, pathetic fuck.  I hope I die before I get like that."

I'm telling you right now, in ten years, you punk-ass bitches are gonna be sitting on a balcony overlooking a beach somewhere saying, "That goddamned R. Kelly was the shit.  Today's artists just can't compare."

The Wiz Kid

I was recently reminded of an event in my life that the folds of my brain had chosen to compartmentalize and file under the heading of “Repress”.  I tell this story merely as a cautionary tale to the youngsters out there that may be tempted by the sweet nectar of the Vodka tree.  Drink not of its delicious fruit, ye carefree young innocents!  Vodka is the demon bitch that will love you and cradle you when you are faithful to her and her alone; but should you attempt a sordid ménage-a-trois by introducing that filthy whore Madam Beer to your partnership, Lady Vodka will lash out at you with vicious and unexpected horror. 

My tale is gruesome.  Be warned.