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This weekend past was a mixed bag of blessings and curses. Let’s start with the blessings. Somehow I found myself taking a train out to the old stomping grounds of suburban Chicago for Friday night of backgammon and fruit punch. Unfotunately it turned out no one knew how to play backgammon and in biblical fashion the fruit punch was magically turned into cheap disgusting beer. This lead to a general fogginess of conscious but I those memories I have retained point to smashing good time.

The evening began just like any Friday/Tuesday collegiate evening circa 2003. An associate and I arrived at what was to be our first stop to discover a fiftieth birthday party already in progress. We enjoyed complimentary peach jello shots and the smokey the glances of many, many old women. This boded well for the evening.

After the initial awkwardness of realizing we had little in common on which to pontificate, we decided to purchase some draft beers on tap and await the arrival of what turned out to be two other associates. Upon their arrival the festivities truly began as the stories of sexual conquest, fiscal foresight and general “not sweating it” were exchanged with great gusto and various gesticulations. One particular hightlight from the evenings early throws was a particularly well time and delivered joke by one of the poorly groomed in attedance.

Gentleman 1: This alchohol is like having sexual congress in a canoe.
Gentleman 2: How’s that possibly the case?
Gentleman 1: It’s fucking close to water.
All laugh as do various bearded individuals sitting near them.

True life altering events most likely occurred after this point as all parties were tipsy, not blind drunk, and heartfelt sentiments of undying chummery where no doubt exchanged willy-nilly. Unfortunately, I have no recollection of this period and can only remember leaving the birthday part in search of rumored 1 dollar pitchers courtesy of a recently acquired VFW membership.

Unfortunately that particular mecca turned out to be closed and we were forced to drown our sorrows in 6 dollar pictures of canoe intercourse while engaging in the charming banter of the blue collar masses and the occasional game of darts. At this point various phone calls to An Doof Ass were committed with varying degrees of success and coherence. All signs pointed to an evening of undying delight until it became evident that my designated driver was drinking more than the rest combined. This did not inspire confidence and I took it upon myself to begin drinking his beers as well as my own whenever he left to throw darts. This caused him much confusion and consternation the eventually lead to his desire to call it an evening.

I awoke the next morning to a collegiate style hangover and spent all of Saturday in bed drinking Tom Collins and smoking Dunhills in an attempt to somehow salvage the day.