Monday, May 16, 2005
Blender Helmet Anthropology
There comes a time in life when one must make a decision. Try this: six people, four cases of beer, a modest pile of coke, loud music, and shish kebabs. End the revelry with the rising sun and you've got a lazy Saturday on the horizon. Am I right?
Not if you promise several people you'll hoist the regal banner of hedonism again the next day. Three sheets to the wind and damn the torpedoes! I went out Saturday afternoon to a barbecue keg party. Steaks, sausages, corn on the cob, and a delicious avacado brushetta tumbled in my concrete mixer stomach to create a healthy blend of hangover medicine. The keg was tapped at sundown.
I decided to refrain from drinking beer. Once upon a time it made me giggly, happy, fun, goofy, hungry, and finally, tired. Now it makes me bloated, morose, grouchy, angry, belligerent, clumsy, hungry, and finally, tired. People began to notice I wasn't drinking.
"Dude, whoa, are you drinking straight gin again?"
"This is water."
"Oh. Um, okay. Keg's tapped."
"I know, it's Bud Lite, which tastes like fermented racoon urine. I'll drink some hard liquor a bit later. Thanks for looking after my blood alcohol level."
"Sure man. We'll do some shots later."
For a while there I felt pretty grim. I wanted no part of the beer, I was drowsy from the heaping mounds of scorched animal carcasses I'd masticated so ravenously, the dance music was giving me vertigo, and I thought about giving up and going home.
I snuck down to the psychadelic blacklight basement and reclined myself in a collapsable vinyl folding chair. The music was extremely loud but I managed to zone it out.
Time passed, flying by, never leaving sight. I was awoken by beautiful girls dancing. Several of them on me, to my grinning approval. I lit their cigarettes and doled out smiles, laughs, and hoots for their raunchiest shakedowns. When they're competing for your attention, you're the audience, not a leering ogler.
Several hours later I tried to convince a horde of stumbling spilling drunks to play darts with their eyes closed. I'm not sure where I got the idea, but I think the following vision may have birthed fully realized into my lizard brain:
Darts arced beneath the kitchen ceiling, sticking into hamburgers, splashing into cocktails, rattling into the sink, scraping old paint from the walls, piercing shocked drunks square in the ass. People covered their eyes, hit the ground, and balled themselves up in fetal positions. "Stop stop stop!" they yelled. Bloody darts were plucked from wincing asses as the angry and injured tried to figure out who was to blame. Who would get a royal beatdown for tying the blindfolds? Who would be punished for the sobbing gutstabbed girl that accidentally spilled the pitcher of pulpy screwdrivers?
Nobody wanted to play. Shame. I tried it myself. The result was embarrassing, and I was mostly sober. A few wayward darts bounced harmlessly from the walls.
I nominated myself as toastmaster and was elected easily. A mudslide victory. I downed a few shots of Jameson whiskey and Rain vodka. I had people shout out different states, and we had a particularly spirited and enthusiastic toast for the state of Tennessee. I'm not sure why. I toasted "to anvils falling on cartoon character's heads" and "to the succesful repelling of the evil alien invasion of Illinois." I wanted to toast to "haberdasheries," mainly beacuase I don't know what they are. I never did, however.
I just looked it up. It's an establishment that sells notions or men's clothing. I thought notions were whimsical ideas. Clothing? Next time I'm wearing my favorite shirt I'll have to ask around to people "Do you like this notion?" I'll re-establish the term, firmly entrenching it among our modern parlance alongside words such as "fuckface," "retard," "cool," and "infectuous munonucelosis."
The host's property sported a huge back yard with giant maple trees, acorns strewn about, fire pits, grass and mud. I'm going to go back there soon and try to organize some sort of squirrel lasso competition. I can already see the drunks bouncing on trampolines, aiming their rope loops into the trees, puking on themselves from all the turbulence. I doubt we'll catch any squirrels, but it'll be worth a home video or two. 8:30 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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