Friday. I attend the Great American Beer Festival at the Denver Convention Center. The Great American Beer Festival works as such: assorted beer brewers from all over the United States set up keg stations in a large convention hall. Attendees are given an empty one-ounce glass upon entry. Assorted brewers pour beer into the one-ounce glasses. Attendees shoot glasses of beer. This process is repeated for four hours. Our group becomes intoxicated quickly. I run into two sisters I went to high school with who are both wearing cowboy hats and have the following exchange:
“Courtney, how is everything going?”
“How is your sister doing?”
“Ask her. She is standing right next to me.”
The evening degenerates into immature drunkenness. A member of our group throws a road cone into a public parking lot for no apparent reason and hits a car. A large man in a jumpsuit passing by proclaims, “Hey man, that ain’t cool” to which the cone thrower replies, “Keep on walking, Devo.” The cone thrower later orders a $20 sampler platter at Old Chicagos, eats most of it and then smears the remainder of it onto the gentleman next to him. The evening concludes with our heavily intoxicated group standing outside of Old Chicagos waiting for our ride where a Ford Explorer with twenty two inch rims is urinated on, a foreign cab driver is yelled at for not using his mirrors and a biker riding down the sidewalk is kicked and told to buy a handlebar bell to alert pedestrians that he is coming through. The biker proceeds to ring his handlebar bell when he reaches the end of the block.
Saturday. Jake‘s bachelor party starts off at a Westminster dive bar called On The Rox. A meth addict shooting pool gives Jake marital advice. We consume $5 pitchers of beer and watered down whiskey. Our group becomes intoxicated quickly. Unbeknownst to us it is Karaoke night. Jake attempts to sing “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye, but ends up talking through most of the song as our group heckles him unmerciful. We proceed to the Brunswick Zone where we bowl three games, smoke cheap cigars and drink numerous buckets of Coronas. After our games, we retire to the bowling alley lounge where unbeknownst to us it is Karaoke night. The evening concludes with a drunk hairbag singing Karaoke to Slayer’s “Seasons in the Abyss,” Jake’s fiance cleaning puke out of her car, drinking a nightcap poured by a fat bartender in a sports bra with a large tattoo on her breast and me calling an Asian coworker “Spanish” while I dominate him in air hockey.