Drunks Say the Darndest Things 7

Do you really need the intro? Can’t we just skip the foreplay, like adults? Okay, not like, you know, adults who still care about things. I mean: like married people.

Look, you’re smart people. You know what this is all about. It’s the end of January—the truly savvy amongst you have probably been wondering how much longer they’d have to wait for this to be posted.

Each year I record the best drunken quotes—that I can remember—that my friends and I have slurred, and package up the crème de la blotto crème for the readers. And I usually throw in one or two that are from years past, that I hadn’t written about—or hadn’t remembered—before that posting. Because there’s nothing better than someone thinking the dumb shit they said is dead and buried, only to have it brought back up several years later and enjoyed by all.

• The Saturday dedicated to Swag’s birthday celebration in ’13 had gone pretty much how everyone had expected: Everyone got drunk, except for the man of honor, who got really drunk, and had to be taken home by his girlfriend before midnight. He had piled on multiple gin & tonics and shots at the bar, after multiple beers and shots while we all pregamed at his place. “Slow and steady” was not in his skill set that weekend. He was out to sprint the marathon.
  
  The next morning, the few of us who had crashed at his place sat around his living room, trying to steady ourselves. Swag leapt up from the couch and casually announced, “I’m getting a shot of Fireball.” JL, being the best friend that his hungover state would allow him to be in that moment, called out behind him, “Swag! Water is acceptable, too.”
  
  
• As I’ve stated before, the wild Raleigh weekend that I took part in last March involved five guys in very different places in their social lives. And the one married guy on hand wasn’t making his place look like a place the rest of us really wanted to be in. We were driving back to Raleigh from Chapel Hill, when Trip admitted that his fiancée’s sexual appetite was more than he could handle at times. T.C.’s jealousy boiled over. “Hey,” he cut in from the backseat, “I had to buy a pair of Uggs to get sex the last time!”
  
  
• Later that night, after we’d gotten rid of the two random chicks who tried trolling for out-of-town dick, we all settled in for the night. With five grown men and only two beds, MoFo was the odd man out, and forced to set up camp on the floor. Feeling bad for him, Hurley pulled the comforter off the bed he and Trip were splitting, and tossed it down to MoFo. When Trip protested because he didn’t want to be cold, Hurley countered with impassioned logic. “Trip, we have the sheet!”
  
  
• Christmas Eve, as has become our tradition, saw TD, Boy Toy, and TJ join my cousin, her husband, and I at my mom’s house for dinner, gifts, and lots of wine. While we warmed up with hors d'oeuvres—and lots of wine—in the kitchen, we somehow got onto the topic of pain meds. My mom mentioned that, after all of the cleaning and cooking that she’d done that day, she took a Vicodin to help with her back pain. TD couldn’t hold back her stream of consciousness. “You’re drinking wine and taking Vicodin? You’re a hardass bitch!”
  
  
• In case you were questioning my pedigree, my dear mother got hers later in the night. TD said she was too full to eat dessert, and with a twinkle in her eye Mom replied, “Yeah, ‘cause you’re a skinny little bitch.”
  
  
• Last week, Armo, TJ, one of TJ’s buddies from work, and I were at the Penguins/Blackhawks game, having a drink between periods. A stunning blonde standing at the bar quickly became the subject of our conversation, as she talked to her girlfriend and scrolled through her iPhone. When Armo offered, “She looks healthy,” I countered, “She looks…like she takes dicks to the face.”
  
  
• I missed the first night of Trip’s bachelor party, but from all accounts it was a night of drunken stupidity befitting a party thrown in Trip’s honor. At dinner that night, some of the bridegroom’s closest friends took turns standing in front of the room to tell a few stories about him and sing his praises. Then his old man stood up. “I went out one Saturday, got drunk while playing 36 holes, and then went home. Nine months later, this little bastard was born. The moral of the story: Play 54.”
  
  
• My Lil Sis, TD, has more game than an Xbox. One night, during a recent trip to New York City, she fell in lust with a cute brunette bartender. While telling me about it over text messages the next day, she reported, “I just texted her and said I have Molly in my tits to motorboat.”
  
  
• Under The Porch (UTP) and Four-Foot-D’s (FFDs) hit it off swimmingly at the Fourth of July party, and were all over each other at the end of the night. I was standing on the porch, doing keg stands with some guys, when we looked over and saw the lovebirds making out in a chair. “Haha,” one of the guys—who was one of FFDs’ friends—blurted at UTP, “You’ve got Chlamydia on your face now!”
  
  
• One night during my oft-referenced beach trip to OCMD in 2003, we watched as one girl’s bad decision-making imploded her vacation.
  
  A group of us had gone to Brass Balls Saloon for their beer pong night. After Armo and I finally got knocked off a table, we sat down at the bar and watched a pretty redhead flirt with our buddy as he played on his table. She was in her early 20s, like us, and she was pleasantly hammered. And she was making it very clear she wanted there to be further hammering.
  
  After 20 minutes or so of her shameless sloring, a guy in his mid-30s appeared in front of her. Without saying a word, he yanked her purse out of her hand, rifled through it, pulled out a room key, and then threw the purse back at her. Muttering, “Have fun,” he stormed off.
  
  Our friend and Little Red Riding Slore left the bar together. When the rest of us got back to the house we’d all rented, one of the bedroom doors was shut and familiar noises were coming from the other side. Uncle Paulie had been at another bar that night, and when he got back we filled him in on the story. Giggling like a schoolboy, he ripped his shirt off, flung open the bedroom door, and ran in announcing, “I’m here for the gangbang!”
  

[A bonus postscript: A couple of nights later, a few of us were in line for calzones at the pizza place around the corner from the house. We soon noticed a familiar face behind us in line, a few people back: Little Red Riding Slore. And she was with the older guy from Brass Balls. Seeing us, and the shit-eating grins on our faces that made it obvious we recognized them, they left the line and the pizza place without placing an order. I can only imagine the rest of their trip went just as well.]

Merry New Beer!

I’ve hated Christmas since I was old enough to know why to hate Christmas (about 23, for those of you still not quite there yet). This time around, it was New Year’s Eve before I realized how little hating of the holidays I’d done.

Don’t misunderstand—I wasn’t happy about it being Christmas; I just didn’t pay attention to the same raw nerves that typically get exposed this time of year. Work has sought to absolutely destroy me over the last few months, and as a result I’ve been largely numb to all that was going on around me. [I legitimately thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown one day, but that’s for a blog I’ll inevitably write and recite as part of a group therapy session.] The obvious negatives of such a situation aside, the positive is that Christmas was blandly tolerable. One might say mildly enjoyable, even, if for no other reason than it forced my company to let me stay at home for a few days. Yay work misery!

I certainly didn’t get to relax as much at the end of December as I used to, back when I worked for a company that gave us paid holidays from Christmas Eve through New Years. But old friends being in town and a few nights where you don’t have to set the alarm clock mean booze is going to be poured. And if booze is going to be poured, well then…something, something, me waking up in weird places.


Monday, December 23rd
Once upon a time, I tried to bring rise to a new tradition called Christmas Eve Eve. It went strong for about four years before fading in ‘12. But it’s not dead yet.

Dupa, home from Houston for Christmas, gathered several of us that night for dinner at Church Brew Works. Six young professionals ate, drank, and became increasingly louder and more profane, to the point that I could feel the families seated near us cringe each time one of our voices built towards its crescendo. After dinner most of us went to our respective homes to decompress—including me. I honestly thought Christmas Eve Eve’s tradition had entered oblivion. Turns out, I just wasn’t believing in it hard enough.

TD and Canada believed, though. An hour after I had come home, I began receiving picture texts from the two of them. Awesome, drunken images of Lil Sis and various people with their eyes narrowed paper thin, chucking peace signs and grabbing breasts at Sloppy Joe’s. I’ve never been prouder of family who aren’t really family but are really family.

A week later, Canada gave all of us his postscript to that night: TD and Boy Toy dropped him off in front of his house around midnight (he’d managed to spend $80 at a dive bar where a mixed drink costs about $4, so you can go ahead and calibrate your expectations to how this ends). They watched him open his front door and walk into the crib before they left. Nevertheless, around 4 a.m. Canada awoke…lying in the bushes in front of the house.


Tuesday, December 24th
TD, Boy Toy, and TJ joined my cousin, her husband and I for dinner at my mother’s house. Bottles of wine and Heineken marched in full and rolled out empty. The guests marched in empty and rolled out full. Mom has never been one to half-ass it in the kitchen, and we feasted on a delicious home cooked ham dinner (TD ate fish) with all the fixins’. Also, a giant cake shaped like the Grinch’s head that TJ brought (it’s tradition; the last couple of years have seen cakes shaped like Santa and Rudolph).

When I got back to Shadyside that night, I stopped at William Penn Tavern to catch up with Mo-Fo and Jed. It was the first time in over two years that I’d seen Mo-Fo, who lives in North Carolina. As we caught up over draughts, a steady stream of familiar faces from around the neighborhood rolled in for drinks and holiday cheer beer. It wasn’t a night of loose women and drunken episodes, but instead a chance to catch up on each other’s tales of loose women and drunken episodes. You need those nights. When stress melts away and all that’s left is laughter and community.


Wednesday, December 25th
Christmas Day. Spiked eggnog with my mom while opening gifts. Wine with dinner. Sometimes things don’t change simply because they ain’t broke.

For those wondering (and since I’ve catalogued my alcohol-related gifts in the past): A bottle of Bulleit 10 Year Bourbon from my Lil Sis, a bottle of Glenfiddich Nadurra from my manager, an On the Rock Glass and bottle of Makers from Armo, and a bottle of Chivas Regal 12 from my mom. The quantity of booze gifts may be going down, but the rising quality is more than making up for it.


Thursday, December 26th
I fought the system by calling in sick instead of going into the office. Never mind that I legitimately needed it because I was too exhausted to function when I awoke that morning, or that I still put in about four or five hours of work from my dining room table…Viva La Revolucion!

That night T.C., Hurley, Mo-Fo, and Jed convinced me to venture over to Grove for the second half of Pitt’s bowl game. I began drinking Manhattans, and then…well, the next-to-last entry in this post happened. The most irreversibly shlammered I’d been in some time, I barely remember being at Cain’s. I do recall sitting down and ordering a beer. Then I awoke on Hurley’s couch.


Friday, December 27th
If you’ve gotta spend half of a day at work drunk, and the other half viciously hungover, I recommend doing it on a Friday when none of the executives are in the building. Thank god I have the kind of cool-as-hell manager who found my ever-deteriorating state hilarious and not wage-garnering-ous. I spent my Friday night at home, thank you very much.


Saturday, December 28th
Esq and Shock hosted the annual holiday reunion of some of our closest friends at my homie’s big, beautiful “lawyer’s house” (think it was my mom who coined that term) in the far northern suburbs of the city. Chief, Tank, Mrs. Tank (Katie), Finn, Genoa, BBB, Tony, and others gathered to drink the booze, catch up, and reminisce on the good ol’ days. All of the college stories about the girls we did or didn’t bag, the fights, the Federales, the masturbating roommates—all of it played like a classic movie marathon, one after the other.

Some in the crowd, like the ladies and the suddenly urbane Chief, drank wine. I, on the other hand, eased into the night by drinking bottles of Miller Lite. By around midnight we’d killed off two cases, and it was time for some beer pong in the three-car garage (once Esq had backed out one of the “his-and-hers” Escalades). That’s when the Beast Light came out—W&J waters run deep. By 4:30 a.m. I was passed out in one of the guest rooms.


Sunday, December 29th
I awoke the next morning to Chief passed out on the floor of the room. “I was so mad when I got up there and found out you’d beaten me to it,” he told me before we each headed home that day, “that I decided to sleep on the floor out of spite, even though I knew there were 50 open couches in this house.”


Monday, December 30th
…What am I, an animal? I laid low and stayed dry. Bitches.


Tuesday, December 31st
The main event. The Academy Awards of Drinking. The Blotto Super Bowl. I prepped like any professional does: by shoving a McDonald’s Extra Value Meal down my throat and showing up on TD and Boy Toy’s doorstep around 8 p.m. with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in my hand.

There was beer pong in the garage, of which I took part in for a while, Armo and I hardly making a dent in the night’s competition. There was lively, drunken conversation in the kitchen, of which I took a LOT of parts in. There was a game of Spades in the dining room with Joel, TJ, and Affliction, of which I cheated in (…was totally playing “Asshole” in my mind for the first hand or two). There was the ball drop, punctuated by about 10 different bottles of champagne being popped in a living room filled with 20 people and zero cups—straight chuggin’, homie.

Shannon provided my New Year’s kiss; Mo Paddle provided my New Year’s style via comically-oversized sunglasses; Lil Sis provided my New Year’s ego by pointing out that we were the only two drinking real champagne (she had her own bottle of Clicquot); and one of Boy Toy’s best friends provided my New Year’s comedy by passing out on the toilet with his pants around his ankles. And the host himself provided the New Year’s drama, getting into a fight with Under The Porch (UTP) that spilled out into the front yard, and resulted in me shoving Toy and TD back into their house and others shoving UTP into the backseat of a car headed away from the scene. (By the way…we’re all adults.) Toy found out a couple of days later that he had broken a couple of his ribs in the commotion. And, for some reason, the people who removed UTP were mad at TD the next morning for him being at their place. (…Adults.)


Wednesday, January 1st

Tradition is tradition. pic.twitter.com/bT6pc7GmDD
— The D.E.F.I. (@CS_Defi) January 1, 2014

Of the two couches in TD’s living room, I awoke on the smaller one. Of course. “Toilet Napper” had taken the larger couch the night before. But when I awoke, it was unoccupied. I moved over, stretched out, and began drifting back to sleep in the growing 8 a.m. sunshine. I soon felt someone shake my leg. It was Napper.

Him: “Ah, dude, I was sleeping there. I just got up to go to the bathroom.”
Me: “Yeah…that sucks.” *rolls over and goes back to sleep*

A couple of hours later I finally headed home, with a quick stop at Shannon’s along the way to help her with her Irish family’s tradition (a dark-haired man must come into her home and receive a shot of whiskey and one dollar at the start of each year, before she’s allowed to cross her threshold). The whiskey provided cover fire against hangover laying siege to my head, giving me the chance to retreat to the safety of my couch and five more glorious hours of slumber.

Sometimes you need a holiday from the holidays.

The Grinch is a Teetotaller

I’ve been spoiled over the last 10 years: I worked at a company where Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day was a blissful seven-business-day stretch of paid holidays. Every year I left the office on December 23rd—or sooner, depending on where the weekend fell—knowing I wouldn’t be back until January 2nd—at the earliest.

As you might imagine (or might have read, somewhere…), that kind of winter break can give a man ample opportunity to suitably numb himself up. And you would be right. Oh, so right.

I now work for the typically sterile, overly-cautious kind of corporate organization that wants employees to drive through a winter storm to be at work the day after Christmas—just because. Don’t get me wrong; there are, of cour$e, benefit$ to making that kind of tran$ition (especially when you’re not married to a beautiful European duchess—damn you, life goals!). But after 10 years of drinking single malt scotch well past 4 a.m. on Christmas night to wash away any headaches my family had caused in the prior 48 hours, drinking ginger ale and going to bed before midnight is roughly akin to that first Christmas when every gift you unwrapped was some item of clothing.

Long-winded intro short, I didn’t get to drink as much as I wanted to last month. And I have a newfound respect for the words of Joni Mitchell.

But I did drink, of course. I mean, it’s not like my failings as a human being stopped being a topic of family discussion.


Saturday, December 22nd

While I have my atheistic leanings, here’s why there’s a small part of me that believes in not only intelligent design, but intelligent design by a deity who’s a total dick: Esq, soon to move into a big new house, chose this night to be his final “Let’s all black out and fall down” night at the swanky apartment where he’s resided for the past eight years. That Saturday was also the opening night of the NFL’s Week 16, better known as championship week in fantasy football. I had managed to make it into the title game in my most cherished league. My opponent, you ask? Why, Esq, of course. And this meant that I got to hear his shit talk live and in person as Tony Gonzalez scored one solitary point for me, and got the ball rolling towards my second straight year as league runner-up. *sigh*

Fake football aside, the night was a welcomed reward after a long week of work. Chief was in town; and along with Tank, Breitling, Tony, BAL, and “The Greek”, we helped send off Esq’s once bumping bachelor pad in grand fashion. Before we had even finished pregaming, there was gambling, wrestling matches, slices of bread being scattered about the apartment and hallway as people beat each other with loaves, Esq strumming a guitar in a neighbor’s pad, and a warning from the building manager that the police had been called because of the ruckus. We had clearly devolved.

That seemed like as good a time as any to make our way to the bar, so we grabbed roadies and headed out. As we strolled out through the building’s parking lot, a police car rolled in. While the cops went inside to respond to the call, we discreetly dropped our half-full cans of beer into the bushes like eight drunken Keyser Sözes and calmly continued on across the street.

Cabs took us to Barroom, and alcohol took us over the edge. Breitling got a table in VIP, and I played Entourage for the first time in a few years. At some point several of us headed down to the dance floor, where I managed to slip and fall flat on my back while trying to pull off some dance move that I’m 15 years too old to do. I laughed my ass off, grabbed another drink and kept on partying. One of the few joys of being in your 30s: The simple fact that you don’t care anymore.


Sunday, December 23rd

…Well, until it comes time to clean up the messes you’ve made. Pre-treating the stains on my shirt that morning was delightful. And I felt like I’d damaged at least two of the three major ligaments in my left knee. My hangover was of secondary concern.

My friends and their respective hangovers, however, were not on so casual of terms. The doldrums of married life has softened some of them, and as a result their day was especially excruciating. Esq, for one, texted me updates throughout the day.

“Woke up at 1:30. What the hell happened last night?! Too old for this shit!”

“It’s 5 pm and I still feel like hot garbage.”

“8pm, still feeling terrible. How the fuck did we used to do this twice a week EVERY week?!”

By that point I was at Armo’s, putting back drinks with TJ and others. It’s so sad to see people fall off their game.


Monday, December 24th

Christmas Eve, as is tradition, saw TJ joining some of my clan for dinner and drinks at my mother’s house. Wine bottles, beer cans, ham, and weapons-grade-passive-aggressive-vitriol found their customary places at the dinner table. TJ gave me a bottle of 12 year old Glenlivet, which I’m confident will get put to good use. Maybe not quite as early as it would have in years past, but…


Tuesday, December 25th

Before the aforementioned ginger ale and self pity, the day resembled just about every other Christmas of the last 10 or so years. Late morning my mother and I had breakfast, and then opened gifts while sipping spiked eggnog. I got a bottle of something nice among my gifts (this year Jameson; there’s a running debate between that bottle and I over whether or not it’s going to live to see St. Patty’s Day). And we had a few drinks during a quiet dinner, while wistfully remembering Christmases past. Later, I briefly considered stopping by Shady Grove on my way home, before remembering…*sigh*


Wednesday, December 26th

Work, snow, and shitty roads. The City of Pittsburgh gives about the same amount of effort to clearing snow from its streets that Rolando McClain gives to self-awareness. (The answer, for those of you playing along at home, is “zero”.)


Thursday, December 27th

Dupa was back in town, and gathered several of us to join him at Fathead’s. [It occurs to me that even the most loyal and regular “On the Rocks” reader might be confused by Dupa being “back in town”, seeing as how I failed to inform you that early in December he moved to Houston, TX. Seems that would be a fairly obvious blog topic, right? One that would have been discussed at some point in the past month? What can I tell you—I suck.] I downed some He'Brew Jewbelation and doubled my body fat percentage with TD, TJ, Mitch Canada, and Dupa. Then I went home and fell into a beer-and-grease-induced coma.


Friday, December 28th

For all of my bitching about not having more days off, when Friday night rolled around I chose to stay at home (I would argue, though, that this had more to do with the exhaustion brought about by working that day; had I been home and rested, things may likely have gone differently). Instead of foraging for boobs and drinks out at the bars, I ordered food and did some home bartending while watching Goldfinger on DVD. Don’t judge me.


Saturday, December 29th

TD has recently moved in with Boy Toy in Mt. Washington, and had told us at Fatheads earlier in the week that she wanted to have some people over for a small party. Nothing too crazy, just some drinks, games, and laughter; a low key night. As I went about my Saturday afternoon, she sent a text at 1:57 p.m: “Come on over whenever!” That was followed just a few seconds later by another text reading, “[Swag] said he has Four Lokos.”

“I…but…One fifty-sev…I…”

Thankfully, my schedule (and more shitty weather) meant I didn’t get to their place until after 7:30. TD, Boy Toy, Swag, Mitch Canada, Finger Bang, and Boy Toy’s buddy “Friction” were playing Catch Phrase, wherein each round the members of the losing team had to take down Crown Royal Maple minis (there are thousands stored in TD’s place—a perk of her job). “This is healthy,” I thought. I popped open a bottle of Sam Adams Cream Stout, and was one sip in before being admonished by a slurring Bang, all because I wasn’t drinking Four Loko (mind you, the Loko can she was waving around as she talked was bigger than her face). TJ eventually joined us, and I soon had a can of Loko in my own hand. By 9:30 I couldn’t spell blotto—though I’m sure I could’ve written a 30-page blog/thesis about being it.

Canada and Bang found their way to the South Side, while TD and I walked to Redbeard’s. I don’t remember much of our time there (aside from a convo that was more familial than those that I’ve had with my actual family, and TD asking our cute waitress if she could make out with her). We stumbled back to TD’s, and at 2:30 a.m. I snapped out of a mini-blackout to find her facedown on the living room floor. Friction and I, like any good friends would do, snapped pictures of our fallen amiga like paparazzi seeing a Lindsey Lohan/Amanda Bynes head-on collision.


Sunday, December 30th

When I opened my eyes late the next morning, I was the only one in the living room. The scene was no less damning, though. As I jotted on my phone:

TD’s kitchen looks like something out of Mad Max. Half-empty bottles of Ciroc. Fully-empty airplane bottles of Captain Black and Crown Maple. Miller Lite cans. Sam Adams bottles. A frozen pizza box. A jar of pickles. Four Loko cans. Bottles of water—as though there was innocence amongst the carnage.

I gathered up myself and the bottle of Ketel One that TD had given me for Christmas, and shuffled up her snowy street. New Year’s Eve was only two nights away. But before that, unlike in years past, I had to be at work—no carousing the night of the 30th.

My head throbbed anger at itself for thinking too hard. Maybe I could get used to this more restricted way of life after all.

Is it March Yet?

When you reach a certain age, Christmas is about the past more than the present. Or presents. Maybe it’s just me, but anymore I find myself staring off into my Technicolor memories while sipping from my spiked eggnog. I’d swear my mother’s house used to be a damn castle. Each room was cavernous, and yet full of relatives, chatter, and amusement. My mother’s family was a lot more Rockwellian than we ever would have admitted. Maybe they were just the third-generation-Czechoslovakian version of Rockwellian.

It’s a strange paradox to look back fondly upon the days when Christmas music actually meant something to you, while simultaneously wishing you could hear any one of Springsteen’s darker chords instead of Burl Ives’ jolliest.

No history book seems to support me, but I’m convinced scotch was invented by some poor bastard who yearned for aid in facing yet another relative asking why he hadn’t “made his life complete” by tying himself to the wrong person for a lifetime, or why he hadn’t “given his life meaning” by living with the consequences of not pulling out.

A toast, to anyone who has had to choke down a “go fuck yourself” at a dinner table, humor a stupid question about their meandering career path, or pretend to care about an in-law over the last several days.

Don’t worry, the pain is temporary. This is why the Floating Spaghetti Monster gave us New Year’s Eve: so we can drink away any lingering facial tick brought about by spending time with family during the final ten days of the year. Salud.

The Holiday Drinking Game

Not that you need any help numbing yourself during the nuisance that is the month of December...

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.

Deck the Halls

I don’t know when the “Ugly Christmas Sweater” party became the mandatory holiday tradition that now permeates December’s existence within the borders of Christianity’s conquered empire.

*pauses* I’ve been reading some of Christopher Hitchens’ (R.I.P.) work today; if the first sentence feels too highbrow for this page, please bear with me. I’m sure it’ll wear off as this goes along.

But back to the sweater party. The idea was certainly novel when I first learned of it a few years ago. I was at Shadyside Saloon on a random Saturday night when a large group of sloshed people walked in wearing their grandmothers’ finest holiday threads. I asked one of the girls in the group what was going on, and the tipsy lass explained the party and its premise. By the following year, everyone I knew was either going to an ugly sweater party, or was posting pictures on Facebook of the one they had just been to. Maybe I just discovered the phenomenon late; but it seemed to go from being a random, one-of-a-kind occurrence to a holiday cliché in less time than it takes Kim Kardashian to dive in front of a flashing camera.

But, despite this sudden growth in popularity, I had yet to attend an ugly sweater party. It remained just below “Foam Party” and just above “Garden Party” on this drinker’s specialty-party bucket list. That all changed two weeks ago; thanks to Dupa and Smashley, I can now cross it off the list. [Next up: “Key Party”…]

The challenge that immediately faces you once you’ve been invited to an ugly Christmas sweater party is, of course, finding an ugly Christmas sweater. My family loves me too much to have ever given me one, which meant I would have to buy one. But where do you go to find an ugly Christmas sweater? Personally, I always assumed they just came into being, like candy corn and old Chevy Cavaliers. No one buys these things; they just sort of…show up.

I was saved, as usual, by the internet. I happened to see the perfect holiday “sweater” [I use apostrophes because, as it was pointed out to me by several people, the item of clothing in question was more sweatshirt than sweater.] while reading a random FHM.com newsletter. Across the chest was a festive winter display that included snowflakes, Christmas trees, and reindeer having sex. I hummed “Jingle Bells” as I placed my order.

Smashley’s townhouse was perfectly appointed for the party, with food, people, and booze everywhere you turned. I arrived roughly two hours after the party had begun, and found our hosts to be sailing blissfully down Shit Creek by that point. Smashley, in particular, was wobbly; her eyes were glossed over, and Dupa noted to me that she had exceeded her seven beer threshold. He was standing a little more firm than she was, but that’s like saying ice is slightly colder than snow on an August afternoon. As he stalked the party wearing a knitted Christmas vest and dangling Christmas elf earrings, everyone at the party knew that his time was limited.

With card games starting and the party buzzing along, Tony and I decided to make a run to the bar down the street for six packs. We grabbed Miller Lite pounders from the hot-but-really-young-looking bartender to fortify the party supply. Tony then added, “I’ve got to get something good for myself, I can’t drink that stuff,” and ordered a sixer of Sam Adams. This is the same guy who I once watched put Coke in a glass of good scotch. I feel like I don’t know him anymore.

The next couple of hours went by in somewhat predictable fashion: TJ took a picture of Dupa suggestively shoving a beer bottle into Smashley’s mouth, rounds of shots were passed out by TD, Smashley performed a standing lap dance on a too-embarrassed-to-dance-back Tony, TJ cut the green-sequined sleeves off of our friend Dave’s sweater, people took turns wearing said green-sequined sleeves, rounds of shots were passed out by Tony, Dupa pulled out his balls in front of unsuspecting party guests…you know, the standard fare. Then, just before 1 a.m., Smashley went upstairs and didn’t come back. After about ten minutes, Dupa went upstairs too, presumably to check on her. Another ten minutes passed without his return, and the twelve of us still hanging out suddenly felt abandoned. I walked upstairs and listened at the bedroom door; I heard utter silence. Nothing. It was still relatively early, but our hosts had both inexplicably turned in for the night, without so much as a “Goodnight” or “Fuck you, I’m out!”

When I rejoined my fellow orphaned partygoers, we began strategizing our next move. TD and TJ had recently rented a house only five minutes away, and they offered to continue the party over there. As everyone began gathering coats and other belongings, a thought was casually voiced by someone in the crowd: “I can’t believe they just passed out on us like that. We should do something to fuck with them.” This stopped several of us in our tracks, as we considered the possibilities. And that pause gave the opportunity for a suggestion to be made. “We should move around all of the furniture.”

Now, dear reader, it may seem that I’m purposely being vague about the authors of these two sentences. But I say with all honesty that I have no idea who was responsible for either. I was one of the more sober people at the party at that point, but I truly do not remember just who said what; what I do remember, however, was that each of us grinned from ear-to-ear once the idea was in our heads. And not a single person raised protest; Affliction, TJ, Tony, Dave, Dave’s wife Melissa, TD, her “friend” “Boy Toy”, Shannon, Entertainer, Prince of Ligonier, Mrs. Prince, and I just chuckled and got down to it.


Our original thought was to go all out—TV in the kitchen, dining room table on the back porch, etc. But logical heads prevailed, and we settled for only shifting around

the living room. The entertainment center was moved from the wall, it’s TV, cable box, and DVD player carefully disconnected from the outlets and cable line. In its place went the couch, which had occupied the opposite wall. The chaise lounge and accompanying ottoman were moved to the far corner, and the coffee table was placed in front of the couch. The room was essentially flipped. Giggling like schoolchildren, we gathered up the sixers that Tony and I had bought, and tiptoed off to our cars.

As we piled into TD and TJ’s living room and started cracking open beers, a common sentiment was repeatedly shared by each of us—ironically, the very people to blame for the sudden lack of trust. “I am NEVER leaving any of you assholes alone at my place.”

Christmas, On the Rocks Style

This might be the most accurate Christmas special I've ever seen. From the folks at Funny or Die.

Drunk History Christmas with Ryan Gosling, Jim Carrey and Eva Mendes from Ryan Gosling

Armo with the assist.

In the Mix

Still looking for a gift for that hard-to-buy-for boozehound? If he or she is a whisky drinker, then you need look no further:

From uncrate:

Unless you sip on single malts exclusively, odds are you've run into a blended whiskey somewhere along the way. Whisky Blender (£35 and up; roughly $55+) lets you create your own specialized blend from a selection of seven different whiskys, each available for adding in amounts as small as 10ml. Once you're done, you can give the blend its own name, which will be handwritten on the label that adorns the 70cl corked decanter bottle, and save the mixture for future refills should the mixture be to your liking. While the wisdom of ordering booze you've never tasted before is always questionable, there's no doubt that it'll be far more interesting than your average bottle of Old Crow.

While any new blend or brew that finds its way onto liqour store shelves (especially the top ones) is sure to interest a veteran booze enthusiast such as myself, this idea provides a wow factor that you just won't find with a mass-produced bottle. I love Crown Royal, but if you give me an opportunity to create my own signature blend? Well, that's a gift your beloved booze fan won't soon forget.

My boy Chappy with the assist.

'Tis the Seasoning

Here's another one on the ol' Xmas List. Tequila shot glasses made of salt. Yup.

From Salt Therapy at Home's product page:

This beautiful and functional set will be the perfect conversation starter for your party or decorative accent for your home. The set of six tequila shot glasses and tray are an elegant work of art that will grace any sideboard or tabletop. Carved from naturally beautiful Himalayan pink crystal salt, the lovely striated pattern perfectly complements any decor. The naturally anti-bacterial surface requires minimal maintenance, and your long-lasting carved salt glasses will add elegance and fun to many a friendly shot or business deal! You'll be amazed how the rich taste of Himalayan crystal salt enhances the flavor of your favorite tequila like table salt never did!

This is a great idea, but one with a couple of drawbacks. First, these shot glasses have a limited use. If you're not drinking tequila, then I doubt you want salt interfering with the drinking experience. And, second, I would imagine they have an expiration point. They say long-lasting, but that's vague; and, certainly, they won't last as long as their glass and plastic counterparts.

But, in the end, if you're someone who takes pride in his or her personal bar, and who enjoys tequila, this is a must-own. Just don't leave it where your pet moose can get to it.

The "Morning After" Tablet

This qualifies as an "On the Rocks" post, but definitely goes on my Xmas List; therefore, it's getting posted on both Crooked Straight pages.

The latest miracle drug to hit the market is Blowfish, and it's sure to pique the interests of my fellow fans of "the booze". From NYDailyNews.com:

The over-the-counter drug cocktail combines 1,000 milligrams of aspirin, 120 milligrams of caffeine and a stomach-soothing agent into two effervescent tablets taken the morning after a night of heavy drinking.

Once dissolved in water, the remedy claims to knock out multiple hangover symptoms in just 15 to 30 minutes.

“The magic of the effervescent tablet is that it hits your system much faster than getting a cup of coffee, taking an antacid and taking some aspirin separately,” she said.

...Blowfish runs $2.99 for a single dose, or $11.99 for a six-pack. It is currently available in Ricky’s NYC stores or online at ForHangovers.com, which offers free shipping and 24-hour courier service in Manhattan. The tablets will hit Duane Reade shelves in January.

The "she" in the quote above is the product's creator, Brenna Haysom. And it would appear Ms. Haysom is a gal out to steal my heart:

“So many people see hangovers as a shameful or embarrassing thing. I think of them as just a fact of life,” said Brenna

Hmmm, maybe this should've been a "wifey material" post...