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Monday, 27 August
Saturday! Was! Another! Day! In! Our! Lives!
Only this Saturday we had a party to go to. Our friends C. and L. decided to throw a party, and so we traveled up to Shoreline--you may remember me writing about this neighborhood before, but if not, all you need to know is that there are lots of cars and boats sitting on dead lawns--to partake of PORK! As C.'s invitation indicated.
Now, I like to rag on C.--it's what guys do--but he and his wife-to-be really do have a perfectly fine house, and C. does make a damn fine pulled pork shoulder sandwich. (This phrase always makes me think of some anthropomorphic pig athlete yelling, "Oh, fuck, I pulled my shoulder on that play!" and then Darkseid shows up and is all like, "I enjoy strained pig muscle!" and he tears off the pig's shoulder and shreds it with the Omega effect and puts it on bread, and everyone says "Darkseid makes one hell of a sandwich, boy." I'm sure you've heard this before. Anyway: thanks, dead pig! Granny Goodness and I really enjoyed eating you.)
When we arrived at Chez C., there was a lively round of Drunk Croquet being played, but it was really too early for anyone to be drunk yet, so they were just playing croquet. Croquet, of course, is a deeply stupid game when played properly but somehow manages to be ridiculous fun when played by ticcy beer-swillers on a lunar-inspired grass-scape. C. naturally recognized that his terrible lawn--tilty and pitted and ravaged (he pointed out some footstep-shaped dead grass spots where his fiancee had trod on the lawn after accidentally soaking her feet with herbicide)--was perfect for this sort of thing, and then did the smart thing and placed the bent, dented wickets thirty feet away from each other, causing the players to take monstrous, Andruw Jonesish wild swings at the balls, and occasionally sending the mallets flying through the aether to maybe cave in someone's windshield. I kept hoping.
Then we ate, and it was pork, and it was good. C., who happily also hates other mammals, also made some jerk chicken drumsticks and some beef chili and some deep-fried turkey heads and a batch of candied bat eyes and a plate of undifferentiated scalded ears. I think I ate Macaulay Culkin's!
Then we got down to what actors and sketch comedians do best: chaotic drinking, look-at-me preposterousness and relentless dismantling of whoever happens to be close enough to you to focus on. We got started with drunk badminton.
There's not much to say about drunk badminton, except maybe to point out that we got sort of fanatical about it to the degree that one of the participants left the party to go to some fucking place to get more shuttlecocks after we destroyed the two that we had. "Where is S. with those fucking shuttlecocks?" we screamed while duct-taping up the wretched shuttlecorpses. Then we would spend ten minutes making cock jokes. "That cock was totally in your face!" Some of my friends work at banks; others at hospitals. I work in cancer research. The next time you wonder why commerce is failing us and science is a stagnant force in our society, you can go ahead and blame us.
During all this, C. would occasionally appear, chewing on a cigar, and would yell incomprehensible things at us. We would typically respond by hurling terrible imprecations at C., because that's how we treat our good friend who fed us free mammals and let us ruin his house; it's just the way we are. Actually, it's easy to explain: we're assholes.
(My favorite was when C. or T. or someone would appear in the second-story window of the garage--the game room, actually--to yell shit at us, because it made me feel like I was on Laugh-In. Then someone would throw a shuttlecorpse or a soccer ball into the window.)
Eventually we all went inside to the upstairs-from-the-garage game room, because it got cold outside and there was a pool table and a poker table in there and also the whiskey. (We had since received and destroyed the new shuttlecocks and made ten thousand more cock jokes, and one guy fell asleep in the hammock, and then on the lawn, but you know: I'm condensing here.)
I got dragooned into playing a doubles pool game; I kicked ass. (Really!) This is because I was drunk. I'm a horrible pool player, but when I've been drinking, I can kill. It also helped when I conked out the other team by smashing in their teeth with my cue; then I herded the balls into the pockets with my hands. Suck on that, gummers! (No, seriously, I did kick ass, because I was sort of drunk.)
Then C. opened up the CASINO TABLE. Which is this little half-sized blackjack foldout table that he has. I promptly tripled up my fake chips (C. has real casino chips) before instantly losing them all on one bet, and so I offered to deal. Emulating C., I would wish the recipient of a leading ace "Good luck!" but then varied my patter by telling people who got nightmare hands like queen-four things like "Say, you're fucked!" or "Nice one, dog's ass!" I was a very popular dealer, as far as I know. It should be mentioned that I was within reaching distance of a giant bottle of Jack Daniels, so I'm sort of assuming here.
I love these assholes. I can only hope that they feel the same way.
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I hate it when I miss one of C's drunken orgies. I always feel like the odd man out, which, really, is the essence of any good artist's existence. Not that, you know, I'm a good artist or anything. Just saying.
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