Your cocktail sir,





2005-03-08 - 10:52 p.m.

There comes a time in every online journalers life where they have to either shit or get off the diary entry about the con weekend pot.

That was a really stupid analogy and doesn't make any sense. Similar to my Saturday night.

It was a lost weekend, though I've regained much of it, if only through second hand accounts and some really truly frightening pictures on Sunday morning. I did that? I thought to myself every time Mr. Science Girl showed me a photo. It seems that enough Dr. and Boone Farm will make me do anything. I mean that. Literally. Friday night was fun. Saturday night was, well, what it was. AS previously mentioned, there were no statues to hump, despite the map. I did get topped by a Ms. Pacman machine (which actually brought up an interesting question, yes, it was Ms. Pacman, but there was a joystick. Perhaps I will bring it up with my therapist) and spent quite a lot of time getting rid of the Boon Farm. But, that's another story. And this is already fairly unlinear. Not to mention the spelling and grammatical errors. So, now for the regularly A then B then C.

Friday night I recieved a call enroute to the airport that my flight was cancelled. After a lengthy and frustrating call to Delta, and being routed from India to Re-Booking, I was set to go again, with a later flight and very tight connection. However, it worked out. And there were cheerleaders on the shuttle bus from Terminal B to Terminal C who where strange. When faced with the thought of taking a Fed Ex plane and parachuting to their end destination two of the male cheerleaders were rendered nearly speechless, relying on Sick and Dude to get them through. I'm sure they didn't have tight connections, because after all, it was a group of Cheerleaders. Although one girl was wearing a WWJD bracelet, but seriously, my guess is not build human pyramids while wearing a skort. Maybe that's in one of the new translations. Then it was on the tiny commuter jet to Green Bay (which thank god was not a prop plane) Barb, our stewardess, nearly got the plane to flip with her eyerolls and requests for verbal responses to her questions and landing in Green Bay I thanked her for the flight, recieving yet another eye roll. Seriously, Barb's neck is one serious muscle. The weight of it made her slouch. The lovely Lisa Marie happened to also be on my flight into Green Bay but thanks to that forementioned tight connection, we didn't really get to talk to until ensconced in the leather clad backseat of Wendy's M. Which, reads dirty. And then it was the drive to the hotel where the lobby was full of people like Mare, Jesse, Melinda, Kevin, and soon to be friends. Because once you've eaten booyah with people, well, it marks you. Like family. A lovely Wisconsinite drove us out to the Sleigh Ride farm, where many, many shenanigans were had. I became acquainted with the Good Dr., a peppermint schnapps that I tried unsuccesfully to find as it was passed around. So, I put glowsticks in it. And then decided that rather than pass it around, it should be mine. Then, I took a shit in the woods. Ah, good times.

At the end of the sleigh ride, I was feeling pretty good thanks to the Dr. The last swig I bravely poured out over the cold snowy ground in honor of my home girl Mo and then went inside to eat food that can not be adequatley described. I ate a lot of fluff. Which soaked up the drunk, or perhaps it was the beer/butter soaked Brats which I kept pronouncing like a slutty Barbie doll knock off instead of the traditional Brautt, which was remarkable shortly pronounced considering the local dialect. I chatted with Estebahn, rode in a bus that said printed on the back, and fogged up the windows.

Then we went and sang Karoake, which was fun. And I'm tired so I'm truncating. Which also reads dirty. But more like Saturday night dirty it seems. The singing was awesome, and everyone was amazing and sexy and cute and whatever they wanted to be. Which is nice. One of the nicest things about the weekend was that everyone was allowed to wallow in their hotness, in their uniqueness, in their whatever it is they wantedness. I liked that. After Karoake, I had Wendy drop me off at the Top Dog where I bought a hooker a chili dog and foolishly decided that I could walk the block and a half back to the inn. But man. Those cold wisconsin nights sneak up on one and I had to run to the door of the inn like it was The Day After Tomorrow. Which, I think must have been inspired by the post bar trip to the Hot Dog cart. And to pay for hookers.

Okay, so, that's Friday night. And is all I have in me on this Tuesday night. However, your Marry, Fuck, Kill, for today is: Jeff Probst, Phil Keoghan, and Joe Rogan.

previous - next

Zen and don't cry out loud - 2007-07-29

Zen and the stumbling rocks of fitness - 2007-07-19

- - 2007-07-11

Zen and fasting - 2007-06-20

Zen and hiccups - 2007-06-18

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