I woke up with an impressive hangover—and let’s be honest: if you wake up the day after partying with furries, and you don’t have a massive hangover, then you’ve made a major mistake somewhere along the way. Girlfriend insisted that she hadn’t been that drunk the previous night, and that all of her silliness had been a direct result of hanging with TD. I reminded her that TD wasn’t around when she did the Thriller dance. The subject was quickly dropped.
Though all of us laid low that night, I did have the following text exchange with TJ:
TJ: Anything going down?
Me: Not sure. [Dupa] wants to go to the South Side and hunt furries.
TJ: Oh Christ.
If you’re a loyal “On the Rocks” reader—or if you’ve ever walked past one of us on a Saturday or Sunday morning as booze leaked from our pores—you know that we are enthusiastic about alcohol and the game of “drink”. But TJ and I look like devout Mormons compared to the blessed souls behind the 4th of July cookout that we attended on Saturday afternoon. My friend Jed and his family played host, and the text messaged invite that he sent a couple of days prior read as follows:
“Big things my place the 4th; 5 barrels, 30 cases, 5 malt cases, Jager fountain, ice luge, and 2k worth of booze. No charge, just be in it to win it. Right on the T line.”
If your lip just quivered as you read that, don’t worry. Mine did too, as the words leapt from the little LCD screen of my cell phone, through my eyes, and into my heart on that Thursday afternoon. In addition to those wonders listed in the invite, the party was equipped with:
- a large cooler filled with punch that was affectionately referred to as “rape juice”. It was mixed with grain alcohol, and was so perfectly blended that it tasted like pure punch.
- a jar of maraschino cherries that had soaked in vodka for about a week. These cherries came with a rule, though: Whoever ate the very last cherry had to then drink the entire jar of vodka juice left behind. I had a couple of cherries early on, but I wasn’t going near them later in the day. I’m not sure who eventually ate the last cherry, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he or she were still in a coma today.
- lots and lots of food. I made two trips to the buffet line, but that was only in the interest of being polite. I could easily have feasted all day long.
Jed, or one of his family members hosting the party, struck upon a brilliant idea in the form of a piñata. Now, the Fourth of July doesn’t exactly scream piñatas; nor does a party composed almost entirely of people over the age of 12. But piñatas are always a good source of audience participation, and the comedy of arming a blindfolded drunk with a wiffle ball bat and a “seek and destroy” mission is too good to pass up. To make it all more adult-relevant, therefore, the piñata was filled with:
- scratch-off lotto tickets;
- cans of Skoal;
- Mardi Gras beads;
- airplane bottles of various liquors; and
My boy (“Sales Machine”) and his wife hosted a cookout at their house, and Girlfriend and I made the trek out to Freedom, PA to check it out. It was another relaxed day, with lots of food and drink. BlahBlahBlah was on hand—sans wife, which meant we got the regular BBB, not BBB Light. He was already playing beer pong when we walked into the backyard, giggling and tossing cups of beer down his throat. He and I would win a cornhole tournament that night, scoring $30 a piece—to the delight of Girlfriend, who had earmarked the loot for a mani-pedi before the first toss of the tourney had even been made.
The highlight of the evening, however, came as Sales Machine was playing cornhole earlier in the day. His brother, “Ad Sales”, was drunker than anyone, and made an innocent mistake in reaching out to hug a departing friend. As Mrs. Machine reported to Sales Machine, “Your brother was trying to hug [sic], and accidentally grabbed my boob!”
Machine wasn’t truly upset—after all, it was a simple mistake. But if you know brothers, then you know what was about to happen. Ad was standing over by the beer pong table, a good 40 ft away, with a guilty but cocky smile on his face. Machine fired one of the cornhole beanbags at the table, nailing the six cups filled with beer that were sitting in front of his little brother. Red Dixie Cups erupted into the air like bowling pins, soaking Ad with beer. I nearly fell out of my chair in laughter.
If you have to waste beer, then at least do it in style.