But you're not wearing shoes...

Okay, so Vincent's antics increased my blog readership by 1200% and that's awesome.  That's also a completely accurate statistic because I googled "percentage increase" to figure that out.  I majored in English.  We don't know how to do math.  So there's that.  In light of that particular bit of awesomeness, I've decided to write another post about wedding stupidity.  I'm also taking advantage of Mandy being out of town, so writing this now gives me a few days to hide before she comes back to kill me for telling this story to all 1200% of my readers.  

So yeah, once upon a time, Caitlin and Mack got married, and because they're delightful people who love their alcoholic friends, they had an open bar at their wedding.  Naturally, we imbibed.  A lot.  Now, I know I said that English people don't do math, but that's not really true.  Our math just doesn't make much sense.  I'm telling you this because I've developed some completely bullshit mathematical theories involving Mandy and drinking.  

Yes, I've put a great deal of thought into Mandy Math.  Like, possibly two entire minutes went into that.  You're welcome.  These are certainly important things to know if you're going to be drinking with Mandy, but there's one more rule, and it's the most important of them all.  Mandy+Drinking=Fall.  This is an absolute certainty.  Furthermore, the more she drinks, the more epic the fall will be.  If there were a drinking curve to Mandy Math, at the time of this story, Mandy was about here.

Anyway, some song came on, and Mandy looks to Bobby and goes, "IT'S OUR SONG!  LET'S GO DANCE!"  Note that I don't know what song it was.  This is because when Mandy+3 Drinks kicks in, whatever song is playing is officially "OUR SONG" between Mandy and whomever she's currently looking at.  It's kind of like Spin the Bottle, but with her retinas.  She was looking at Bobby, so woot, he was going dancing.  Mandy jumps up from the table, prepared to run for the dance floor, and the next thing we all know...

Yeah, only Mandy manages to face plant in the tornado drill position.  Matt comes running over to help her, and in his utter horror at what had just transpired, all he can say is, "Oh my GOD.  YOUR FACE."  This sends Mandy into a complete panic, and I'm pretty sure she was convinced that she was permanently disfigured, doomed to forever look like the love child of Sloth from the Goonies and um...I don't know, someone blonde and big-boobed.  

Her face was fine, as Matt quickly clarified.  "No, but your face.  YOU LANDED ALL UP ON YOUR FACE!  You got bitch slapped by the FLOOR!"  Matt's such a helpful guy.  Matt helps Mandy to her feet, she turns to me, and since I'm not generally one to be sympathetic, I just go, "Mandy...what the fuck was that?"  "My shoes!" This is where I officially think she needs to be cut off.  "Mandy...you're not wearing shoes."

That was a good question.  A sizable group of us looked around for a WHILE for the other stupid shoe.  Somehow, Mandy had turned Caitlin and Mack's wedding into a fucked up, drunken Easter egg hunt, except instead of getting cool plastic eggs filled with candy or money or something, the winner would receive a stinky ass used shoe.  FUN.  Anyway, we finally located the other shoe.  In the midst of her epic fall, the other shoe had flown off her foot, across the wedding reception, over the top of several tables, and landed, luckily without stilettoing someone in the ear because that would be awkward and painful.    

See?  Told you.  Awkward.  Anyway, Mandy's story is that somehow the heel of one shoe got caught in the ribbon detail of her other shoe, thus sending her catapulting into the ether.  Personally?  I think she got so caught up in Baby Got Back or whatever was playing that she threw herself on the floor in a seizure of delight.  Anyway, at this point, it dawns on her that she just looked like an idiot.  Okay, wait, just to verify,

BAHAHA!  Yup.  Still funny.  What was I saying?  Oh, yeah, so I kind of felt bad for her and suggested we walk outside for a minute.  This was so I could laugh at her unabashedly without further embarrassing her and so she could hide.  We grabbed drinks on the way because, OBVIOUSLY, Mandy needed another one.  We sit our drinks on the ground beside our chairs, I smoke a cigarette, and Mandy attempts to recover some dignity.  When we get ready to go back in, Mandy picks up her drink, looks in it, goes, "Aw man!  There's ash in my drink!  ...oh well."  She chugged the whole nasty ass thing.  So much for dignity.  I mean, wouldn't you drink a lot, too, if you had done this?

BAHAHA.  Yup.  Still funny.

"I'M LOOKIN' FOR CHANGE, TOO!"

The thing about practically living in the bar scene is that it's entirely possible to be friends with people for five or more years and to have never seen them in daylight ever.  Or sober.  Ever.  Rachel and Matt's wedding destroyed this.  Now don't get me wrong--their wedding was beautiful and was a TON of fun.  But it started out WEIRD.  When the ceremony was over, we all stood around outside just looking at each other awkwardly.  This is because most of us didn't recognize each other in the harsh light of day.

We needed booze.  All of us together, fully clothed, able to walk and speak correctly--WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON???!!!  We raced to the reception venue and promptly attacked the bar.  

Those poor bartenders probably thought they were being accosted by a pack of rabid alcoholic zombies or something.  Perhaps they didn't understand that most of us don't function past 7 pm without liquor.  At any rate, fifteen minutes or so later, we were all good, the bride and groom had arrived, and things were back to normal.  Well, if you define "normal" as a room full of people who slur, stumble, swear a lot, and smoke like chimneys.  The smokers congregated outside to destroy their lung tissue and take goofy pictures.  This is where things get interesting even for our less than well-behaved entourage.  Vincent was DRUUUUUNK.  No, that's certainly not the unusual part.  Vincent had a metal detector.  At a wedding.  

Not exactly a common sight, but if anyone were going to bring a metal detector to a wedding, it made perfectly logical sense to all of us that it would be Vincent.  Things were fine for a while.  Vincent happily showed off his new toy, and he even let a few others try it out.  Then all hell broke loose.

Note: do not feel sorry for this woman.  Usually, she's evil.

Anyway, everyone else went in to repeat this story to anyone who would listen.  I stayed outside because Vincent was still conscious, so this meant there was potential for more entertainment.  He sits there for a while, still fuming that some beggar would have the nerve to ask him for spare change.  Who did she think she was?  OBVIOUSLY his metal detector was there with him to help him find change!  If you can't collect money from drunkards dropping it at a wedding reception, HOW ELSE DO YOU BUY YOUR GRAND MARNIER!?!?  She was obviously stupid.  Obviously.  Then Vincent does the most out of character thing I've ever seen him do ever.

The moment didn't last long, however...

He grinned proudly.  Noting that he'd put the emPHAsis on the wrong syLABble, I asked him how much Spanish he spoke.  "That's about all I got," he grinned.  Then he face planted onto the sidewalk.  At this point, Ric had come back outside, ostensibly to laugh at Vincent some more, and fortunately, just in time to help him get back in his chair.  Completely unfazed by the whole thing, Vincent looks at Ric for a moment, realizes that his metal detector has a feature he has yet to flaunt, and makes a public service announcement that I personally believe was audible in Bangladesh.

"Vincent..."  I was afraid he was going to attempt to yell at me like he did the homeless lady and wind up face planting on the sidewalk again, so I proceeded with caution.  "We're on concrete."

"I KNOW THAT, YA KOOKABURRA!  ...I'm gonna go find cool shit."  And with that, Vincent and his metal detector disappeared into the moonlight.  

Why Smoke Detectors Are Dangerous.

NOT how I wanted to wake up.  I tried for a while to tune it out.  I tried to invent some interesting story to go along with all the infernal bleeping and blooping in the hope that perhaps I'd fall back asleep and the noise would just work itself into my dream.  It wasn't happenin'.  No, the beeping of a smoke detector is a special kind of beeping.  It seeps into your very bone marrow and crawls up your spine.  It rattles your teeth.  It  eats your soul.  There was only one thing to do.  I had to destroy the smoke detector.

I stumbled into the hallway to destroy the smoke detector.  Then it occurred to me that I could just remove the battery and go back to bed.  Seemed reasonable.

In my not yet awake haze, I actually stood there for a minute trying to figure out how the hell the damned thing was beeping with no battery.  Then there it was again.  The fucking beeping.

I literally looked everywhere I could think of, but to no avail.  My failure to pay attention when our landlord told us we had two smoke detectors had turned into Marco Fucking Polo, and FYI, that's a cruel game when you have hearing issues and can't ever determine where a sound is coming from.  After, no joke, half an hour of looking for the second smoke detector, I decided to try a new tactic.  So I headed to the kitchen to start drinking large quantities of rum with the intention of getting so drunk that I could no longer hear.  And there it was.

Fuck.  I had located the enemy, but I was at least a foot too short to reach the bastard.  I would have to get creative.

Fail.

Fail.

Fail.  And a headache.

This wasn't working out so well.  I needed equipment.  I decided to build a highly advanced, technologically brilliant piece of machinery to assist me in reaching the smoke detector.

Unfortunately, my highly advanced, technologically brilliant piece of machinery didn't have opposable thumbs, so while I got the smoke detector open, I couldn't pluck the battery from the casing.  I proceeded to do what any logical builder of a highly advanced, technologically brilliant piece of machinery would do.

Exhausted and defeated, I slumped into a chair at the kitchen table.  Wait.  Chair.  Standing on a chair would make me taller.  WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT?!  Actually self, you just did.  Oh.  Yes, the smoke detector had driven me to arguing with myself.  But back to the chair.  When we bought our dining set, I wanted chairs tall enough that we could also use them to sit at the kitchen counter.  Even though we never do that.  Ever.  Now I was faced with a new problem--how to get my short shit self standing on the chair.

Fail.

Fail.  And I broke a fingernail.

Once again, I would need to build a highly advanced, technologically brilliant piece of machinery.

WIN!!!!!!!  I grabbed that battery, snatched it out of the smoke detector, and threw my arms in the air and cheered my victory.  Probably should've gotten down first, though.

Next time, I'll gloat on the ground.

How I Got Free Waffle House On New Year's Day

You may have noticed the absence of a post about my birthday.  Or you may not have a clue when my birthday even is.  At any rate, I had one, and it was EPIC.  I won't be blogging it, however, because it ended with poo, and as it turns out, I can't draw poo.  Seriously.  It either looks like a pile of meatballs or like soft-serve ice cream, and I really don't want to ruin my good feelings toward either, so there you have it.  But you can't have a birthday without cake, so BAM!

Moving right along...I started the New Year off right.  Waffle House right.  I firmly believe that one must always begin a new year with WaHo.  This is partially to absorb all the booze and partially just because it's awesome.  The only thing that makes WaHo MORE awesome is when it's free and with great friends.  And mine was.  How did I accomplish such an amazing feat?!?  Well, there's a story...

As any good drinker knows, and as is customary in my social circle, we started off the New Year in the required fashion for all major high BAC holidays (and for those of you wondering, that would be New Year's Eve, St. Patrick's Day, Mardi Gras, and whenever I feel like it).

So yeah, car bombs it was.  Pre-gaming thus accomplished, Ric, Katie, and I  went downtown, which involved sitting in the car on Broadway for-stinking-ever waiting on traffic to move.  It also involved Ric locking the windows to contain our shenanigans to the interior of the vehicle.

Did I say "OUR" shenanigans?  I meant Katie.  So after for-stinking-ever, we make it to Picasso to hang out with Mork and Mindy.  And Ethan.  What, did I forget to mention he's officially home for good?  Yes, he's back.  He spent most of the night trying to pick up chicks.  Some things never change.  Clay and Steph came in a bit later, and Katie gave all of us a lesson in why it's bad to wear clothes with zippers around drunk people.

Steph didn't seem to mind, though, and I guess all good evenings must start with a flashing, so we were off to a proper start.  Oh, and no, her tattoos aren't actually "TATTOOS" AND "MO' TATTOOS."  I just respect the art of a tattoo artist enough to not butcher it on my blog.  But back to NYE.  I *think* Slacker was there, too.  I say *think* because sometimes I wonder if I hallucinated the Slacker.  He has the Waldo gift.  What the fuck is that?  Well, he comes in, he greets everyone, grabs a drink, then...

And nobody ever knows.  He just vanishes into thin air.  I think he's a secret spy or something.  He's a nice guy though, so he's kind enough to not take all the Guinness with him.  Or he could just be perpetually drunk enough that he forgets to take it with him.  Either way, we continued drinking.  After a while, we decided to head next door to ring in the New Year at the Tap.  Twice, might I add, because the DJ wasn't on the same time as the TV, so rather than wait on the TV to count down the official year, we just decided to cheer, kiss, and imbibe twice.  Heather the Silly String Satan managed to douse me in enough Silly String that my drink tasted like aerosol.

Naturally, I drank the rest of it anyway.  There's sober children in Africa.  It was the right thing to do.  Then back to Picasso because my heels were starting to fight back, so the need to sit was getting crucial.  For me, anyway.  I sat.  Katie took advantage of the pole that holds up the patio ceiling.

This is how we made the vital discovery that the only way I know how to get my camera to stop video-recording is to turn the power off.  Katie having sufficiently amused us for the time, we decided to go to 85 to find Clay and Steph, which required that Katie and I trade shoes in the road.  Luckily for us, we stumbled upon Clay and Steph (again, in the road) before walking all the way to 85, so we went back to the Tap.  Clay pulled Ric to the side to tell him some Jerry Maguire, I love you man, you're the wind beneath my wings kind of stuff, and Steph and I talked about marzipan until a good gust of wind came along.

Perhaps it was such a fun night because there were multiple flashings of assorted parts that night.  I think Ric managed to be the only one of us to not flash anything.  I might be onto something...so yeah, after the bromance returned, they danced, we laughed because they're both morons...

I told you.  Sometimes, a real picture is just worth a lot more than a badly drawn cartoon, ya know?  Anyway, we came to the conclusion that it was time to take it to the house for the free booze.  This involved trading shoes with someone again, but by this point, Katie had wised up enough to know that she really didn't want to wear my pink heels again, cute though they were, so Steph traded with me instead.  You know your heels are killing you when you'll put on someone's earlier-vomited-in boot just to get out of your heels!  Well worth it, though, as Steph couldn't stand up in them.  At all.

She just wobbled and matrixed in place.  I, on the other hand, was in comfy shoe heaven.  My new mission is to buy a pair of those boots because they're friggin' awesome.  Anyway, while we were waiting, Katie also decided that the ladies had flashed enough on this particular occasion, so she took the opportunity to find out whether Clay was wearing anything under his kilt, and that marks the final flashing of the evening.  Ric pulled up the car, honked at all of us to get in, and then...a miracle occurred.

Yes, that's right.  The previously unable to stand in my heels Stephanie takes off in a full sprint into the road.  Forget that she was going in the complete WRONG direction.  Or that the woman can somehow run without the top part of her body moving at all.  She was hauling ass in four inch heels, and she was unstoppable.  Well, at least until we got in the car.  So we make it back to the house uneventfully (unless you count Katie talking to a box on the way home as must-know info).  If we had brains, we would've decided that all of us were good for the night and no more drinking needed to take place.  But if we had brains, I wouldn't ever have anything to blog about, so be glad that we're all idiots because we all had another car bomb as soon as we got in.  Naturally, the only thing that can possibly complete the wonder and magic of a night of car bombs is spaghetti.  Have I ever mentioned how much I love drunk people who will cook for drunk people?  Utter contentment.  It was like a happy little plastered dysfunctional family, the five of us.

We all inhaled our spaghetti, completely oblivious to our glazed over eyes and disheveled appearances.  I thought things had mellowed after that.  Clay and Steph went to bed, Ric went upstairs to tinker with the computer, and Katie and I hung out for a bit before I decided to crash, too.  As soon as I walked into the bedroom and saw Ric's face, I knew something was amiss.  Rickety was NOT happy.  I just raised a brow at him quizzically.  "Clay's throwing up."  "Okay...."  I wasn't really sure yet why this was particularly detrimental to my plan to go to bed.  ""Right there."  Ric points into our master bathroom.

Sure enough, my darling idiot friend had stumbled out of bed, out of the bedroom we put him in which had a perfectly good bathroom attached to it, into our room, and was throwing up spaghetti.  Not rainbows.  In the sink.  Without a colander.  Thanks to this episode, I have decided to outfit all our sinks with colanders for future drunk nights.  This is to prevent having to scoop noodles out of the drain with my hands as they WILL NOT go down on their own.  Needless to say, even demon seed Clay knows to feel bad when someone is elbows deep in recycled pasta.  This is how I coerced him into buying breakfast for everyone the next morning.  I heart you, Waffle House, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!