It may be Wednesday but I just now recovered from this past weekend. After treating my liver to a host of pollutants for three straight days, my body was pleased to remind me that it is not 21 years old anymore. On Friday, I went to the Great American Beer Festival with the usual cast of characters, minus one future brother-in-law who came down with sore ovaries stayed home. On Saturday, I went bar hopping with a large group of rowdy and intoxicated family members to celebrate my cousin’s impending nuptials. On Sunday, I attended the System of a Down concert at Pepsi Center with my future brother-in-law (who miraculously recovered from his sore ovaries) and friends, where two cases of beer and a can of Skoal Bandits were killed and an annoying fat guy in glasses who quoted Plato was almost killed.
One morning after a hard night of drinking, the wife and I had the misfortune of being sucked into Drumline on the digital cable. The film is about a band director who recruits an inner-city drummer from the mean streets of Harlem to play skins at a fabricated, big name southern university called U of the South or Big South University or something. After spending half of the movie being “benched” (does anyone know the proper term for being pulled from the starting lineup of a marching band?) for a poor attitude, our protagonist Devon helps Big Southern University of the South win the coveted national band championship during the climatic drum-off. I longed for the movie to end with senseless violence; like Devon’s boys from Harlem clashing with a local street gang in the stadium and a gun battle ensues whereby Old Big University of the South‘s band is wiped out in the crossfire and Devon sits on the field clutching his bloody entrails falling from a mortal wound in his stomach screaming “WHY? WHY?” Alas, the film did not even end with a good old fashioned rumble and everybody lived.
I just played a game of catch with a large hotel security guard with a Nerf football I won at the Boise Paper booth. He said the football’s colors reminded him of the of the local arena football team the San Diego Riptide. Being as the football is green and orange and the Riptide colors are blue and gray, I think he was probably stoned or, like me, had too many drinks at the hotel lounge on the 40th floor last night.
At the zenith of my barhopping years, I made some bad decisions. Decisions like exchanging phone numbers with seemingly attractive females before the harsh lighting of last call came on to reveal that they had eye patches and an Adam’s apple. I think the worst decisions I made were purchasing and eating the $2 burritos from the vendors on the street corners of LoDo. The end result was always me passing those intestinal claymores through my whiskey soaked GI tract hours later in a sweaty, hungover heap atop the toilet, questioning the ingredients of said burritos and praying to every deity I could remember from my religious studies class during my sophomore year of college. I never would have guessed those gut bombs had
people in them.
On a related burrito note: Taco Bell has just introduced its new shrapnel burrito.