Thursday, February 18, 2010

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part IV - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of yup, you guessed it- 1,2 & 3 which you can read at

http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/.

In addition to hangover severity tripling, lasting three days instead of three hours, when you hit thirty, wedding invitations, bachelor party invites, kid’s birthday parties and bar mitzvah solicitations start showing up at your door like a Jehovah Witness, trying to meet his end of the month quota. All of a sudden the next twenty years of weekends has just unveiled itself right in front of my very eyes and none of them include keg stands or Flabongos.

However, nothing stresses me out more than a commitment for a future event.

Case and point?

Save the Date cards. Pure misery in my book.

A wedding invite is one thing, but these magnets, balloons, and singing wedding telegrams performed by half-naked clowns at my door has got to stop. Everyone has seen these - they are the ones of the happy looking couple magnetically secured to fridges across America with a seemingly innocent request to clear your schedule, yet basically demanding you to make a firm commitment a full year before the day even occurs. In the past you’d receive something by regular mail that a loved one is getting married, but now for 400 days you have to look at this ecstatic couple and hate them more and more that they’ve locked down a day in your future, every time you grab a glass of milk. I mean, sure, I’ll probably be free October 16th, 2018, and since I barely make plans three hours in advance let alone three years in advance, what excuse can I give? Like clockwork, the date comes around and sure enough the Giants are playing game seven of the World Series, “The Hills, the scenes too hot for TV,” marathon is on, or Megan Fox shows up at your door wanting you to handcuff her and massage her body with coconut oil.

“Sure Megan, I’d be happy to; oh fuck me - This day was already planned for me back in 1972 by this prick wearing an Izod shirt his fiancĂ© made him wear. “See Megan? I tattooed it to my ass thanks to the iron on, save the date tattoo they made me use so I wouldn’t forget…”

And I’m not against bachelor parties, by any means, but maybe more so, what they are supposed to symbolize; the last great night of freedom. Haven’t we all been partying like it is our last night of freedom for the past twelve years? Is it really necessary to give it one last go, just in case the sixty-eight Jell-O shots, ninety games of beer pong and twenty-two trips to strip clubs in the past year weren’t enough to get it out of your system? Furthermore, do these strippers understand we are in a recession? Gas prices are going down, GDP is down, more importantly, my fantasy football entrance fee decreased, but yet these ladies still feel that they are impervious to market conditions? How is a lap dance recession proof? Ok, we get it, you can dance and spray whip cream down my friend’s pants who is halfway to the altar, but for his sake and for the sake of my bank statement, do we really need one last night of drunken debauchery? Lets just call the game now due to darkness, or perhaps a ten run rule like back in Little League, while I still have some funds in my bank account…

Til next time and the final edition…

Cheers…

Part 5 coming soon…

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part III - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of part 2 which you can read at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/.

I think I speak for all of us here at Shenanigans, when I say we hope you enjoy your stay on the blog site, and should you not, may you be attacked by a roaming gang of angry of Rosie O’Donnells.


With that said, I give you Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part III, chalked full of fabricated tarradiddles…


Now that I’m thirty, reluctantly, it may be time for me to overcome a condition I’ve had for years commonly known as PFS (Post Fraternity Syndrome). After a college career of frequent exchanges, parties and gatherings that were always set up with some sort of theme in mind, I am forever scarred for any rendezvous in the real world, and even seven years later, I find myself in utter disarray. Symptoms of this condition include being unable to casually invite people over for a beer without a specific reason such as Eighty’s night, a Wild West theme or a Dress like your favorite Boy Band member event. (I generally choose Lance Bass obviously). Every drinking juncture basically has to have some sort of theme or purpose, otherwise you are unable to enjoy the evening and end up becoming an inhospitable outcast pouting in the corner. If you too are noticing any of the aforementioned symptoms, you may also be suffering from PFS, or perhaps you may also just be a loser, ignoramus who truly believes they are still in college. I’d like to blissfully exclaim that there is a splendiferous elixir for this horrific condition, giving way to a gloriously jovial ending to this blog post, but, alas, even with the greatest of scientists working around the clock, there is unfortunately no cure, other than of course, just coming to the realization that you are that ignoramus loser Ghost of Fraternity Past. Recently it got worse when my buddy invited me over for a barbeque…


“What’s the occasion? New Year’s isn’t for another week, so what are we talking here…?” I asked sheepishly.


“No occasion,” he responded. “Just a couple of burgers, chicken breasts, beers, you know, watch the game.”


“Great,” I replied. “I’ll wear my disco outfit, the same one I wore back in ’02 to winter formal. You have an ice luge right?”


“No, just come over, and why would I have an ice luge?” he responded completely bewildered (clearly not suffering from PFS and has actually grown up)


“No reason…no problem,” I calmly replied, though inside I was frantically screaming… ok Steve, don’t panic, don’t panic, ok, got it – “I’ll just wear my toga instead then, no worries, see you in twenty…


Another sign I was getting older was I no longer had to covertly hide my alcohol when attending house parties. In the past, I’d get to a party and individually unwrap my twelve pack of Pabst and hide each one behind a perishable item in the refrigerator, worried that some bootlegging, plundering alcoholic would discover my precious beers from behind the leftover meatloaf. Maybe one would be placed behind the milk carton, another in the vegetable drawer, and another in a box of popsicles in the freezer which likely was forgotten about and exploded during the night. In each case I’d make them just visible enough so I‘d remember, but hidden enough so if you weren‘t looking for them, unless you were fishing through beef stew from the night previous, you‘d never find them. But then things started to change…

“Hi Steve, welcome to the party, I’ll take those beers for you, the friendly host would greet me.

“These are Sierra Nevadas, missy,” I would respond. “Nice try, but you’ll have to alligator wrestle me to the ground before you can pry these from my catlike grasps. You can take my freedom but you can never take my Sierr-.”

“Whatever…that’s fine, why don’t you just put them over there with the seventy other beers,” she’d scornfully respond.

Glancing over to the kitchen I’d notice that some moron had left an entire twelve pack of Stella out in open, ripe for the taking.

Oh, they’re like for everyone? The bewildered thought passed through my head. Wait a second…who left the guacamole dip out, and who didn’t finish eating their pizza rolls, and why isn’t everyone attacking them? My head was racing…


Cheers…