LOL, these are funny commercials:
Or, if that's not quite your style, try Brawndo!
Awesome!
Friday, July 11, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Excerpts of my (partially) drunken weekend festivities
First off, I'd like to apologize about not post a new blog entry for a while. It's been a little hectic here with work, trying to find a new car, registering for tech school, and getting ready for last weekend.
As you may or may not, and most likely don't, know was that last weekend was possibly the most righteous of all weekend celebrations in these parts. It is Toqua Tenneial Days, a weekend long drunken party to celebrate my proclaimed home town's founding. In the past, I've always looked forward to this event, but not so much this time. That is because, this weekend I had to work at the bar co-hosting this wickedly good time (which pretty much means feeding my friends drinks while not being able to indulge myself).
Luckily, Friday night didn't turn out as bad as I thought it would be, partly due to the fact that we had people set up outside. Inside the bar, it remained about as dead as it would have been on a Monday night. That is, until sundown. Right around ten o clock people began seeping in and it was a little busy for the next two hours. At that point my shift ended and I schmoozed with a few friends before heading to my apartment to sip a drink and play a little guitar. An hour later I decided to check out an after party a friend had mentioned. After a short walk, I discovered that the party had never kicked off, and proceeded for home, taking my time to admire the star filled sky.
To be have it, an old friend named George was sitting on the apartment steps. After some small talk and a splurge of my private stock of whiskey, we crashed a get-together down the hall. It didn't take long before the owner kicked out everyone who wasn't sleeping or dead out of there. During this time I figured I'd call a friend and see what he was up to. After a few minutes of trying to talk him out of crashing his truck into a tree (I'm glad he didn't), I got restless and headed out again. Stepping outside, I heard the winds whisper my name, and followed them down the road. Down the road, I head some load music and shouting, so I checked it out, thinking it was a roaring party. But, upon entering the trailer house, I discovered just a couple of dudes hell-bent on destroying the place and left.
So, I headed westward, recalling another friend talking about a party out at the gun club. Let me tell you, that was a bit of a jaunt. But even with the sky's filling with clouds heavy with rain that had been crystal clear an hour before, I reached my destination. There was a handful of people dancing to some tunes produced by a professional D.J., which seemed a bit over the top for an after party. But again, it didn't take long before a half dozen of us came to the conclusion to check out a party rumored to be cranking out at the campgrounds on the other side of the lake.
Now, granted, Toqua Lake is quite small, being roughly 1.5 miles across and 3 around, but that is a long trek on hoof. For some moronic reason unbeknown to me, we decided to travel the longer stretch around to the other shore (the gun club is about 3/4 mile around the western edge). Before we even made it a 100 yards, we spotted a set of flashing lights coming from town. Fearing that it may be the cops (some of us weren't on legal drinking age), we hid in some brush next to the lake shore, were we acquired a new traveling companion, a turtle named Snapper(though I'm quite sure it was a painted turtle). The lights turned out to be from a fire truck, so we pressed on. Somehow, I got elected to haul the cooler and we made it less than a hundred feet before we dashed for the shelter of the shoreline from flashing lights. In my haste, I promptly spilled the cooler's contents and we spent a few minutes pulling bottles, cans, and cash from the rocks.
Luckily, we got hold of one of my fellow traveler's parents and hitched a ride, making short work of our trip. Once there, we found the park as quiet as a grave, and hoped into a camper. After some time laughing at some male-on-male sexual innuendo and my first direct encounter with a PS3, the winds called my name once more. My wandering spirit set north and walked back into town in the pre-dawn hours. Back at my bungalow, I promptly scarfed down some food(mmmm, beef strogenof) and went to bed at quarter to six.
Saturday, I had planned to do some welding on my old Ford since I had finally got hold of a welder(I would later find out it never got delivered), but due to the fact that I stayed up til dang near sunrise and the heavy rain and winds that pummeled the town all day, I postponed that activity. I had hoped, thanks to the weather, that people would stay away from the bar and that it be a relatively easy night. Wrong! What really happened was that we didn't have anyone outside working, thus making it more busy inside. And busy it was. Luckily, the weather tamed down around 8ish, allowing us to set up outside just as the bar really began to fill. If war was a bar, Saturday night would be not unlike the Battle of Little Bighorn. There were half a dozen bartenders up against the likes of hundreds, if not thousands, of thirsty party goers. The situation seemed hopeless.
Drink after drink after drink was served, but the crowd was unrelentless and roared for more. The owner's daughter was shouting out orders, "We need more Morgan!", "the kegs dry, replace it quick!", "Someone prop those doors open, we need more airflow, stat!", "Dammit, we're out of cups, get some from the back!" It seemed to be on the edge of a riot. The towel dispenser in the bathroom was ripped off the wall. It was utter chaos. Roughly around quarter after eleven, I couldn't take it anymore and fled to the back room. I began to clean up the kitchen and haul out trash. While doing dishes, I caught a whiff of something foul. I soon realized that the stench was coming from me! I had become completely drenched from sweat and beer and overpowered any deodorant I had been wearing.
At one point while hauling out the last of the garbage, I bumped into a friend. "Done with work, Marc?" he asked in a slur. "Almost. Maybe. I think so. I hope so," I replied, my voice thick with despair and insanity. Once back inside, I asked a fellow bartender if they might still need my help. She mumbled something that sounded like having only one hour to go and that it was OK for me to leave. I think that's what she said, anyway. I punched out, walked home, took a quick shower, and collapsed in my recliner. The images of that night shall forever scar my memory, as well as those of my fellow coworkers, and I'll say one last thing.
I never wish to do that again. To make matters worse, the whole weekend only fetched me less than $40 in tips. To put that in perspective, I make over $60 back in March during St. Patricks Day. I got screwed!
As you may or may not, and most likely don't, know was that last weekend was possibly the most righteous of all weekend celebrations in these parts. It is Toqua Tenneial Days, a weekend long drunken party to celebrate my proclaimed home town's founding. In the past, I've always looked forward to this event, but not so much this time. That is because, this weekend I had to work at the bar co-hosting this wickedly good time (which pretty much means feeding my friends drinks while not being able to indulge myself).
Luckily, Friday night didn't turn out as bad as I thought it would be, partly due to the fact that we had people set up outside. Inside the bar, it remained about as dead as it would have been on a Monday night. That is, until sundown. Right around ten o clock people began seeping in and it was a little busy for the next two hours. At that point my shift ended and I schmoozed with a few friends before heading to my apartment to sip a drink and play a little guitar. An hour later I decided to check out an after party a friend had mentioned. After a short walk, I discovered that the party had never kicked off, and proceeded for home, taking my time to admire the star filled sky.
To be have it, an old friend named George was sitting on the apartment steps. After some small talk and a splurge of my private stock of whiskey, we crashed a get-together down the hall. It didn't take long before the owner kicked out everyone who wasn't sleeping or dead out of there. During this time I figured I'd call a friend and see what he was up to. After a few minutes of trying to talk him out of crashing his truck into a tree (I'm glad he didn't), I got restless and headed out again. Stepping outside, I heard the winds whisper my name, and followed them down the road. Down the road, I head some load music and shouting, so I checked it out, thinking it was a roaring party. But, upon entering the trailer house, I discovered just a couple of dudes hell-bent on destroying the place and left.
So, I headed westward, recalling another friend talking about a party out at the gun club. Let me tell you, that was a bit of a jaunt. But even with the sky's filling with clouds heavy with rain that had been crystal clear an hour before, I reached my destination. There was a handful of people dancing to some tunes produced by a professional D.J., which seemed a bit over the top for an after party. But again, it didn't take long before a half dozen of us came to the conclusion to check out a party rumored to be cranking out at the campgrounds on the other side of the lake.
Now, granted, Toqua Lake is quite small, being roughly 1.5 miles across and 3 around, but that is a long trek on hoof. For some moronic reason unbeknown to me, we decided to travel the longer stretch around to the other shore (the gun club is about 3/4 mile around the western edge). Before we even made it a 100 yards, we spotted a set of flashing lights coming from town. Fearing that it may be the cops (some of us weren't on legal drinking age), we hid in some brush next to the lake shore, were we acquired a new traveling companion, a turtle named Snapper(though I'm quite sure it was a painted turtle). The lights turned out to be from a fire truck, so we pressed on. Somehow, I got elected to haul the cooler and we made it less than a hundred feet before we dashed for the shelter of the shoreline from flashing lights. In my haste, I promptly spilled the cooler's contents and we spent a few minutes pulling bottles, cans, and cash from the rocks.
Luckily, we got hold of one of my fellow traveler's parents and hitched a ride, making short work of our trip. Once there, we found the park as quiet as a grave, and hoped into a camper. After some time laughing at some male-on-male sexual innuendo and my first direct encounter with a PS3, the winds called my name once more. My wandering spirit set north and walked back into town in the pre-dawn hours. Back at my bungalow, I promptly scarfed down some food(mmmm, beef strogenof) and went to bed at quarter to six.
Saturday, I had planned to do some welding on my old Ford since I had finally got hold of a welder(I would later find out it never got delivered), but due to the fact that I stayed up til dang near sunrise and the heavy rain and winds that pummeled the town all day, I postponed that activity. I had hoped, thanks to the weather, that people would stay away from the bar and that it be a relatively easy night. Wrong! What really happened was that we didn't have anyone outside working, thus making it more busy inside. And busy it was. Luckily, the weather tamed down around 8ish, allowing us to set up outside just as the bar really began to fill. If war was a bar, Saturday night would be not unlike the Battle of Little Bighorn. There were half a dozen bartenders up against the likes of hundreds, if not thousands, of thirsty party goers. The situation seemed hopeless.
Drink after drink after drink was served, but the crowd was unrelentless and roared for more. The owner's daughter was shouting out orders, "We need more Morgan!", "the kegs dry, replace it quick!", "Someone prop those doors open, we need more airflow, stat!", "Dammit, we're out of cups, get some from the back!" It seemed to be on the edge of a riot. The towel dispenser in the bathroom was ripped off the wall. It was utter chaos. Roughly around quarter after eleven, I couldn't take it anymore and fled to the back room. I began to clean up the kitchen and haul out trash. While doing dishes, I caught a whiff of something foul. I soon realized that the stench was coming from me! I had become completely drenched from sweat and beer and overpowered any deodorant I had been wearing.
At one point while hauling out the last of the garbage, I bumped into a friend. "Done with work, Marc?" he asked in a slur. "Almost. Maybe. I think so. I hope so," I replied, my voice thick with despair and insanity. Once back inside, I asked a fellow bartender if they might still need my help. She mumbled something that sounded like having only one hour to go and that it was OK for me to leave. I think that's what she said, anyway. I punched out, walked home, took a quick shower, and collapsed in my recliner. The images of that night shall forever scar my memory, as well as those of my fellow coworkers, and I'll say one last thing.
I never wish to do that again. To make matters worse, the whole weekend only fetched me less than $40 in tips. To put that in perspective, I make over $60 back in March during St. Patricks Day. I got screwed!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)