Neither, actually. I thought that might be a witty sequence of titles, but then I couldn’t think of anything firearms-related to write about so that’s the end of that. Instead, here’s a half arsed St. Patrick’s Day entry.
If you’re like me, you generally forget about St. Pat’s until about nine at night, and then you’re watching your stories and you’re too lazy to do anything about it. Do I have any Irish in me? Well once, but everyone experiments in college. Actually, we assume that the family came to Newfoundland by way of Ireland but our genealogy gets a little hazy before 1972. I may share the blood of Dutch Albinos for all I know.
In the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day I’ll share some of my best and worst drinking stories. I might even make a short series of it. It’ll air on CBC. I’ll be played by Paul Gross, while the part of Sarah will be played by a digitally resurrected Bruno Gerussi.
Good story – O Snow Day!
I took two years off between high school and University. Why? Long story for another time. Suffice to say that, at least in that first year, my days were filled only with spotty employment and a zealous devotion to Major Dad. Sarah was still in high school then (and we were still just friends) so every time there was a snow day she would stop by for an impromptu shooter party. This happened maybe three or four times as I can remember, and there was no defining moment that made it great, it was just a riot in general. There’s a very narrow window of time in your life where it’s sort of okay to start mixing shots at nine in the morning and end up hammered before noon, and we hit it. (But we didn’t hit it, if you’re wondering—although I do remember an elicit mutual ass grab somewhere in there).
Bad Story 1 – Mmmm, midriff
Ah, my days of drinking abroad—in Waterloo. Jorge invited me down to a Halloween party on campus, which was an all-you-can-drink function. I wasn’t much past eighteen and I’d been a card carrying drinker for maybe five months. (What can I say, I’m a late bloomer. Even today, I’m still waiting for my menses.) Anyways, I was trying to get over the high school crush to end all high school crushes, and I remember having intentions of being… suave? sociable? less of a nerd? I don’t know—I was on the make, I thought. We arrived, drank a bit, and then the fucking dancing had to start. I’m frankly incapable of that act; if you’ve seen me you know. Jorge and everyone I knew jumped onto the dance floor and didn’t leave it for about four hours (it seemed). I was left to mingle. Huzzah. Chalk up dancing, mingling, and public nudity as the top three things that make me grow a big rubbery one. So I drank. And I watched this girl’s midriff. I don’t know her name, and I barely remember what she looked like, but I know that she closely resembled The Crush. She had a cut-off blouse and an amazing stomach. (This was 1994, people—before midriff baring was in vogue. It was like wearing bell bottoms in the fifties.) So while Jorge danced for four hours, I drank and stared at some girl’s stomach for four hours (who must have been perfectly content to let me do so because I don’t recall her doing much besides just stand there.) There’s more to the night that’s lost to me, but the next highlight came around two o’clock. The show is over, the lights come on, and I barf. Just a little, just down the front of my shirt, but you know, it’s still vomit. Luckily I have a jacket on, which I zip up as I run for the can, where the best I can do is turn the shirt around and hide my new plaid tie. Good enough to get me home with a minimum of open ridicule. Then I did some more barfing in Jorge’s bathroom. Stellar night, all in all.
If you’re like me, you generally forget about St. Pat’s until about nine at night, and then you’re watching your stories and you’re too lazy to do anything about it. Do I have any Irish in me? Well once, but everyone experiments in college. Actually, we assume that the family came to Newfoundland by way of Ireland but our genealogy gets a little hazy before 1972. I may share the blood of Dutch Albinos for all I know.
In the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day I’ll share some of my best and worst drinking stories. I might even make a short series of it. It’ll air on CBC. I’ll be played by Paul Gross, while the part of Sarah will be played by a digitally resurrected Bruno Gerussi.
Good story – O Snow Day!
I took two years off between high school and University. Why? Long story for another time. Suffice to say that, at least in that first year, my days were filled only with spotty employment and a zealous devotion to Major Dad. Sarah was still in high school then (and we were still just friends) so every time there was a snow day she would stop by for an impromptu shooter party. This happened maybe three or four times as I can remember, and there was no defining moment that made it great, it was just a riot in general. There’s a very narrow window of time in your life where it’s sort of okay to start mixing shots at nine in the morning and end up hammered before noon, and we hit it. (But we didn’t hit it, if you’re wondering—although I do remember an elicit mutual ass grab somewhere in there).
Bad Story 1 – Mmmm, midriff
Ah, my days of drinking abroad—in Waterloo. Jorge invited me down to a Halloween party on campus, which was an all-you-can-drink function. I wasn’t much past eighteen and I’d been a card carrying drinker for maybe five months. (What can I say, I’m a late bloomer. Even today, I’m still waiting for my menses.) Anyways, I was trying to get over the high school crush to end all high school crushes, and I remember having intentions of being… suave? sociable? less of a nerd? I don’t know—I was on the make, I thought. We arrived, drank a bit, and then the fucking dancing had to start. I’m frankly incapable of that act; if you’ve seen me you know. Jorge and everyone I knew jumped onto the dance floor and didn’t leave it for about four hours (it seemed). I was left to mingle. Huzzah. Chalk up dancing, mingling, and public nudity as the top three things that make me grow a big rubbery one. So I drank. And I watched this girl’s midriff. I don’t know her name, and I barely remember what she looked like, but I know that she closely resembled The Crush. She had a cut-off blouse and an amazing stomach. (This was 1994, people—before midriff baring was in vogue. It was like wearing bell bottoms in the fifties.) So while Jorge danced for four hours, I drank and stared at some girl’s stomach for four hours (who must have been perfectly content to let me do so because I don’t recall her doing much besides just stand there.) There’s more to the night that’s lost to me, but the next highlight came around two o’clock. The show is over, the lights come on, and I barf. Just a little, just down the front of my shirt, but you know, it’s still vomit. Luckily I have a jacket on, which I zip up as I run for the can, where the best I can do is turn the shirt around and hide my new plaid tie. Good enough to get me home with a minimum of open ridicule. Then I did some more barfing in Jorge’s bathroom. Stellar night, all in all.
Comments
That was a good night. That was the night that Andy peed on a church because he thought it would be fun.
I also remember when we got home that I fell asleep and dreamed that we were all cowboys.
Dave, of course, lagged behind (probably because he was staring at some whoor's abs at the Saloon) and we called back to him to catch up. He spurred his horse on with his heels and make the weirdest noise I ever heard:
"HOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRGHGHHH!"
Turns out that in real life at that moment Dave's barfing noises from the bathroom wafter into my subconscious.
Shit.
She was a bit of a snot, though, as I remember her as such from one of my calculus classes.
Yeah. She was baring abs before it was in vogue, but she was also a candidate for bitch of the year.
<*CHING!*>
Speaking of which, methinks you aren't big on public nudity because you're thinking of YOUR OWN, which I can dig. However, other peoples'? That's a whole different deal. I send you some video clips. We'll talk.
And for the record (why isn't that shorted yet, by the way? Every-fucking-body shortens for your information to FYI or too much information to TMI... what the hell? Is "for the record" not common enough a term? To hell with it... I'm gonna be a trailblazer and be the first... YOU SAW IT HERE, FOLKS!)... *AHEM*... FTR, Jorge's cowboy dream disturbs me. I'm just hoping it wasn't that he opted to not mention the assless chaps and that they just weren't in the dream at all.
Good couple of stories all in all, though. Hope there's more. And maybe I'll someday share my story of how I helped people not get in trouble by being out of my tree and throwing up on a park bench.
(Oh, you think I'm kidding?)
Later, all.
See also: Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Tie