Continued from last entry… (If you missed it and want to catch up on all past entries, you can Read all past blogs @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ )
2009 was a year up and down like a toilet seat, and like an ESPN employee illegally video peeping sexy reporter Erin Andrews, I had to constantly stay on my toes. The most significant event, other than finally discovering that Every Kiss, does not begin with Kay, it begins with a couple of Washington Apple shots, a dash of exposed nipple, and a hearty music diet of Barry Manilow, was turning thirty.
The good news, or bad news depending on how you look at it, was that the party seemed to last an entire week with each group of friends looking to cash in on my aging misery.
Luckily I chose a very mature way to spend my thirtieth birthday to really prove to myself I had grown up. My previous birthdays were spent ingesting large amounts of alcohol at various watering holes formally known as bars because that is what immature twenty-somethings do - pub crawls. For this birthday, however, I went wine tasting in the beautiful Napa Valley, focused on elegantly and daintily tasting various wine splendors, since I had matured so much in the past year and that is what grown ups do - they wine taste.
Unfortunately the idea of tasting the wine lasted about as long as one’s attention span to this blog, and it wasn’t long before it became a wine chugging trip instead. That is unless of course you compare a “taste” to the time at Costco when you politely “tasted,” Mildred’s brownie sample, then proceeded to tackle her, ransack her brownies and dropkick her into the condiment aisle. Who was I kidding - this wine tour was no more than an intoxicated wolf dressed in Winery clothing. It was another debaucherous pub crawl…
Everyone knows the ones I’m talking about. Your buddy yells down from the other end of the bar - Steve, how about a Flaming Car Bomb, Buttery nipple, Three Wise Men, Appletini shot?
Distracted, you simply just yell back, “Sure,“.
All of a sudden you hear a car explode outside, the side doors open up and a naked Eskimo in a King’s chair is carried in by Three Wise Men who proceed to blowtorch an apple tree (which they‘ve also carried in), while some obese dude in a Speedo is rubbing margarine on your nipples and an insatiable Ocelot is licking your genitalia.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barks…
“What the hell did I get myself into,” you perplexingly ask yourself, as the flaming shot is thrown your way by a guy in a clown outfit who is now riding the Ocelot. ** If this reminds you of your last drinking experience, please refer to ** below and lock all your doors.
At that point, you have no excuse but to take it down, which you do by pretending it is no big deal until an excruciating burning engulfs your mouth, throat and spleen, like troops storming Normandy on D- Day.
I’m also against any shot that requires me to prepare myself by pouring things on my person or preparing for in advance. If I have to pour salt on the small of my back, harvest a tree of lemons, and rub ointment on my privates all in an uniquely timed sequential process, then that shot is probably not for me.
I absolutely loathe taking shots, but even at thirty, I can still be convinced to take one, but it will be on my own schedule. I also don’t want any of the five food groups nearby to cushion the blow. While I’d like to think I don’t need a bunch of flare to help, it’s actually because I’ve probably tossed the shot over my shoulder and onto some unsuspecting poor chap behind me, thus creating the illusion I’ve actually taken it, while the other person is busy sprinkling fresh parsley on their upper thigh to prepare for their shot.
I figure I’d rather take my chances with the seven foot biker dude behind me with Fernet dripping down his brow than my throat on fire and a horrific headache the next morning.
Another thing that increases as you get older are the strange injuries that you wake up with the next day. In the past your younger self shook these off and maybe even repaired them before youwoke up in a drunken stupor the next morning, but now I wake up with all types of mysterious injuries; a bruise here, a twisted ankle there, all with no recollection of their origin or cause. The other morning I woke up and the entire left inside of my mouth was raw. It was either burned, beaten or attacked by a curling iron. No clue.
You can’t go to your Doctor for these types of injuries, because he or she is going to ask you a series of questions you simply don‘t know the answers to.
“Well when did you notice this, and how did it happen,“ your Doctor will quiz you.
Your response will be : “I don’t know, I uh, just don’t know.”
“Well when did it happen,” your Doctor will ask, mind boggled.
“I don’t know. I just don’t…
"…Well lets see, actually the last thing I remember was the Flaming Elephant shot, then there was a naked Eskimo who rubbed lotion on my nipples…”(your mind starts to drift off to the shocked look on the Eskimo’s face after you had mistaken his tanned skin for Melinda, the hot bartender, and had done a shot off his man boobs by accident. A chill of melancholy reminiscing awkwardness creeps down your spine. You then remember the Eskimo socking you in the face after you jokingly juggled his man boobs and you slowly reach for your mouth like the Detective in “Usual Suspects,” when he finds out who Kaizer Suze was. Your mouth blurts out before your brain can react).
“Now I rememb…Uh you know what Doc, actually nope, I, uh, I have no idea how it happened…“
**you may want to lay low for a while because you probably inhaled PCP by mistake, or illegally abducted a live, small game animal; ocelots are endangered you prick.
To be continued next week…
2009 was a year up and down like a toilet seat, and like an ESPN employee illegally video peeping sexy reporter Erin Andrews, I had to constantly stay on my toes. The most significant event, other than finally discovering that Every Kiss, does not begin with Kay, it begins with a couple of Washington Apple shots, a dash of exposed nipple, and a hearty music diet of Barry Manilow, was turning thirty.
The good news, or bad news depending on how you look at it, was that the party seemed to last an entire week with each group of friends looking to cash in on my aging misery.
Realizing you are halfway to retirement is one thing, but waking up face down on the bathroom floor with your eyelid stuck to the remnants of a Jager shot is another. In most cultures taking someone out, forcing him to drink poison, then leaving him for dead on the side of the toilet is done purely as means to torture convicted felons, but in our culture, it just says you like the person and want him to wake up the next morning looking like he is the decrepit, resulting offspring of all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse having sex with one another.
Luckily I chose a very mature way to spend my thirtieth birthday to really prove to myself I had grown up. My previous birthdays were spent ingesting large amounts of alcohol at various watering holes formally known as bars because that is what immature twenty-somethings do - pub crawls. For this birthday, however, I went wine tasting in the beautiful Napa Valley, focused on elegantly and daintily tasting various wine splendors, since I had matured so much in the past year and that is what grown ups do - they wine taste.
Unfortunately the idea of tasting the wine lasted about as long as one’s attention span to this blog, and it wasn’t long before it became a wine chugging trip instead. That is unless of course you compare a “taste” to the time at Costco when you politely “tasted,” Mildred’s brownie sample, then proceeded to tackle her, ransack her brownies and dropkick her into the condiment aisle. Who was I kidding - this wine tour was no more than an intoxicated wolf dressed in Winery clothing. It was another debaucherous pub crawl…
The good thing about being at a winery, however, is that it’s very difficult to find a revolting shot that your brainless buddies generally buy you on your birthday.
Everyone knows the ones I’m talking about. Your buddy yells down from the other end of the bar - Steve, how about a Flaming Car Bomb, Buttery nipple, Three Wise Men, Appletini shot?
Distracted, you simply just yell back, “Sure,“.
All of a sudden you hear a car explode outside, the side doors open up and a naked Eskimo in a King’s chair is carried in by Three Wise Men who proceed to blowtorch an apple tree (which they‘ve also carried in), while some obese dude in a Speedo is rubbing margarine on your nipples and an insatiable Ocelot is licking your genitalia.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barks…
“What the hell did I get myself into,” you perplexingly ask yourself, as the flaming shot is thrown your way by a guy in a clown outfit who is now riding the Ocelot. ** If this reminds you of your last drinking experience, please refer to ** below and lock all your doors.
At that point, you have no excuse but to take it down, which you do by pretending it is no big deal until an excruciating burning engulfs your mouth, throat and spleen, like troops storming Normandy on D- Day.
You attempt to maintain your stolid composure as liquid you had no idea existed in the human body starts to drain feverishly from your eyes, nose and throat as well as from places that never excreted liquid previously. If you’ve never had liquid come out of the dry pores in your elbow before, just try a Flaming Eskimo-Wise man-Double helix- Rose Thorn- Saber Tooth - Appletini and your body will rid itself of that poison by any means necessary…
I’m also against any shot that requires me to prepare myself by pouring things on my person or preparing for in advance. If I have to pour salt on the small of my back, harvest a tree of lemons, and rub ointment on my privates all in an uniquely timed sequential process, then that shot is probably not for me.
I absolutely loathe taking shots, but even at thirty, I can still be convinced to take one, but it will be on my own schedule. I also don’t want any of the five food groups nearby to cushion the blow. While I’d like to think I don’t need a bunch of flare to help, it’s actually because I’ve probably tossed the shot over my shoulder and onto some unsuspecting poor chap behind me, thus creating the illusion I’ve actually taken it, while the other person is busy sprinkling fresh parsley on their upper thigh to prepare for their shot.
I figure I’d rather take my chances with the seven foot biker dude behind me with Fernet dripping down his brow than my throat on fire and a horrific headache the next morning.
Another thing that increases as you get older are the strange injuries that you wake up with the next day. In the past your younger self shook these off and maybe even repaired them before youwoke up in a drunken stupor the next morning, but now I wake up with all types of mysterious injuries; a bruise here, a twisted ankle there, all with no recollection of their origin or cause. The other morning I woke up and the entire left inside of my mouth was raw. It was either burned, beaten or attacked by a curling iron. No clue.
You can’t go to your Doctor for these types of injuries, because he or she is going to ask you a series of questions you simply don‘t know the answers to.
“Well when did you notice this, and how did it happen,“ your Doctor will quiz you.
Your response will be : “I don’t know, I uh, just don’t know.”
“Well when did it happen,” your Doctor will ask, mind boggled.
“I don’t know. I just don’t…
"…Well lets see, actually the last thing I remember was the Flaming Elephant shot, then there was a naked Eskimo who rubbed lotion on my nipples…”(your mind starts to drift off to the shocked look on the Eskimo’s face after you had mistaken his tanned skin for Melinda, the hot bartender, and had done a shot off his man boobs by accident. A chill of melancholy reminiscing awkwardness creeps down your spine. You then remember the Eskimo socking you in the face after you jokingly juggled his man boobs and you slowly reach for your mouth like the Detective in “Usual Suspects,” when he finds out who Kaizer Suze was. Your mouth blurts out before your brain can react).
“Now I rememb…Uh you know what Doc, actually nope, I, uh, I have no idea how it happened…“
**you may want to lay low for a while because you probably inhaled PCP by mistake, or illegally abducted a live, small game animal; ocelots are endangered you prick.
To be continued next week…
No comments:
Post a Comment