Holiday Seasoned

The last week and a half of December is like a drinker’s March Madness. It ends a long and arduous year; you face seven or eight contests, the last of which is the grandest and most-hyped; then, once that’s over, you start preparing for the next year—recruiting, scouting reports, press junkets…

...Or maybe that’s just me.

I feel that some of my recent posts have been of the long-winded variety, so add, “Wrap that shit up, B!” to my list of New Year’s resolutions. I’ll try to focus on getting right into the meat of my tales and drunken rants this year. If you’ve been visiting this page specifically for those superfluous ramblings, I apologize. And you’re clearly drunk. …Which means you’re also now scratching your head at the word “superfluous”. Salud.


Friday, December 23rd

TK came into town for a day, so we joined him in the South Side for Christmas Eve Eve festivities. Tony, Pakistanimal, TJ, LRG, and I were among those who caught up with the Tampa resident at Mario’s. Most of us, of course, had pregamed in the hour(s) leading up to the get-together. I was enjoying a smooth little buzz myself, and looked forward to methodically building a solid drunk. I didn’t want to rush into things and risk ending up like I did last Christmas Eve Eve (throwing up in a bathroom sink just doesn’t make for as festive of a holiday tradition as you may think).

Shortly after arriving, though, Pak opened a tab with our waitress and asked for a round of shots. When she asked what kind he wanted, he replied, “Surprise us!” What a dick. The waitress came back to the table with Redheaded Sluts; I went from cursing Pak to praising this angel for choosing something so tame. For the next round, she came back with Crown Royal. She was accused of treason. For the third round, she brought out Buttery Nipples. Now I couldn’t tell if she was a traitor or a confidante. Or if she was hitting on us. Or if I was talking to the coat stand.

Our crew soon relocated to Finn McCool’s, where we continued our sloppy antics. We bumped into Hurley, who was up to his own holiday celebrations, and who was so drunk that he couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear. He looked like a drunk cartoon character. I was rapidly making up ground on him, though; as Pak’s handiwork kicked in, things were becoming fuzzier and fuzzier. Eventually, I was at Jimmy D’s circling the dance floor with Pak, LRG, and Tony, looking for potential baby mamas true love slores. Finding none to our liking (and being that we were each very wobbly), Pak, Tony, and I parted ways with LRG and headed off to our respective comas.


Saturday, December 24th

Hangovers hurt; lying on your couch hungover while watching your fantasy football team lose in the championship game—thanks in part to Tony Romo’s fragile right hand—is excruciating. That pain carried over into the night, as my cousin Jump (along with his family), TD, TJ, and I convened at my mom’s house for Christmas Eve dinner. While everyone else poured glasses of wine, I sipped at a glass of ginger ale, which led to some chastising from TD (who stared at me with a disappointment akin to that of someone watching Santa urinate on their Christmas tree). I would eventually down two cans of Miller Lite after dinner, but that was as close to the battlefield as my wounded body would drag me.


Sunday, December 25th

As per tradition, I drank spiked eggnog while opening gifts with my mother, and then later had a glass or two of wine with dinner. I stopped by Jay Swag’s afterwards to catch the second half of the Bears/Packers game with him and TJ, though his household was a dry one, as per court orders. Back at home later that night, I cracked open the bottle of 12 year old Glenfiddich that my mom gave me. But, on the whole, my drinking on Christmas day was purely light cardio; I barely broke a sweat. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all.

My final gift tally for the holiday, by the way: The bottle of Glenfiddich, an airplane bottle of Jameson, and a bottle of extra-strength aspirin from my dear ol’ mum; tumblers and a bottle of Ketel One from TD; a bottle of Crown Royal from Jump; and a huge cocktail recipe book from TJ. As I said to my mother that night, “I’ve got all of the tools and materials for a home bar, except for the bar itself.”


Monday, December 26th

Mofo was in town, and demanded that I join him, Hurley, T.C., and others in South Side that night. But after the previous several days of booze, food, holiday commotion, and fantasy football heartbreak, I needed a night of chilling at home. Besides, I knew what would be coming in the next few days, so I took a rain check.


Tuesday, December 27th

Since some of us haven’t really seen each other in some time (at least since Esq’s wedding in September, though much longer in some cases), Chief organized a get-together among some of our W&J family. Finn, Genoa, Tony, Dupa, Smashley, Chief, Kim, T-Bags, Armo, Sloku, our boy Milhous, and others caught up with each other while polishing off liter steins of Hofbrauhaus’ various biers. We would eventually move to The Claddagh to finish the night, and then, well…Then I browned out and came to once again while watching TV in my place. Apparently all of the German and Irish elixirs detonated my central nervous system right about the time I got to my car. I’m not proud of this, mind you. Damn those Europeans. [Note: Just this morning I took a look at the shirt I had been wearing that night; large beer stains ran from top to bottom across the front of it. It seems that, in addition to my memory of my drive home, the European Union owes me a Tommy Hilfiger polo, too.]


Wednesday, December 28th

I met up with Pak and our friend Ruby at Rivers around 8:30 that night. We bs’d over a few beers at the bar and then moved to a craps table. I watched them play for 15 minutes or so, trying in vain to figure out how the hell you play the game. Soon I decided, though, that my time and money would be better served in the poker room. I found Esq at a 1-3 table and joined him, playing for a few hours. For the record, I was fairly card-dead, and never really got anything going. My night ended when some donkey sucked out 6s-up against my wired Qs. Felted and sober, I headed home and poured myself a few Crown & Cokes to ease my pain.


Thursday, December 29th

I originally had dinner plans with Steph and others, but they were cancelled when the woman of honor had to scrap her travel plans and stayed in NYC. Thankfully, Armo reminded me via text that on Tuesday several of us had asked him to hold a bar night at his house. I joined Finn, T-Bags, and Dupa in Armo’s man cave to watch sports—college bowl games and the Pens/Flyers game—while eating pizza and drinking copious amounts of beer. A night of low-key, low-dough, highly-fattening, and highly-inebriated fun with my peoples. Basically, a snapshot of the holiday season.


Friday, December 30th

The day being Entertainer’s 25th birthday, Shannon planned a party for her boo at Picsi’s in Munhall. Pak, Tony, TJ, and I each made an appearance, and got twisted while delighting in the Munhallian exchange rate. My tab, which contained a round of shots and various rounds of drinks, came out to $25 (had we been in the South Side, for example, that same bill would have been nearly twice as much).

Pak, Tony, and I headed back to Shady Grove around midnight. As soon as I walked in, I had a Long Island Iced Tea in my hand; I sensed doom for me and my consciousness. We ran into my favorite Grove waitress, “Lil Mo”, who was off duty and off-her-ass drunk. When Pak made a joke to tease her, she slurred back, “Fuck you, motherfucker! I’ll fuckin…suck your dick! Wait…no…that’s not what I meant.” While the rest of us cracked up, she slowly caught up to what she had just said and began laughing as well. Though it was just a flub, and she obviously had no intention of following through on her “threat”, Pak still took it as an ego boost. Suffices to say, Lil Mo is now his favorite Grove waitress too.


Saturday, December 31st

The Championship Game—also known as New Year’s Eve—was played out at the house that TJ and TD rent. The place was filled with guests, many of who (such as yours truly) jumped on the beer pong table in the garage. The table was draped in a Captain Morgan shower curtain, and the beer being poured into the twelve cups on top of it was from the keg of Sam Adams Winter Ale on the back porch. Beer pong with Sam Adams…ohhhh, us. TD passed out Jell-O shots as well as Fluffed Vodka shots, and no one even considered the possibility that we all wouldn’t blackout. When the ball dropped, I popped the cork on my bottle of Moet and got my New Year’s kiss from Belle—not a bad way to start a year. I passed my bottle around, and tried some of TD’s, which was a special 2002 bottle of Moet. God I hope the rest of 2012 is as ballin’ as the first four hours of it was.

I awoke mummified in a sleeping bag on the living room floor the next morning. As I gathered my belongings, I surveyed my surroundings and typed the following into my Droid:

New Year's Eve is a microcosm of a drinker's year: everything you could ever want will come and leave you, all before your eyes.

And you don't want to look at anyone you were drinking with the night before. At all.

My 2012 is perfectly summarized by what sits before me: a molested bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. People were doing shots of it last night. It was like watching Miss America get raped on stage.

That passage, and the fact that I was still drunk until about 3 pm that day, is all I need to say about the quality of the party. And, for that matter, of the close of 2011. Now it’s on to 2012. Chiefapalooza, St. Patty’s Day, the Pirates’ Home Opener, and Brewski Fest loom large in the approaching months.

Time to start going through those scouting reports.