So, how was your weekend?Me?
Well, I'm batting a thousand so far, thanks for asking.
Sure, I could be all Sabermetric and admit that it's a pretty small sample size. Two visits are certainly not an indicator of my entire potential. But right now I am 2 for 2 in getting tanked in the state of Wisconsin.1
It's actually surprising how little I've seen of WI. I live in Chicago, no more than an hour away. But, hell...it's an achievement to get me north of Lawrence these days, and I'm right by the 4400 block.2 In all honesty, it's an achievement for me to walk my damn dog some days. Especially if it's raining. Or below 50 degrees out. Or above 60.
And the drunken sample size is skewed even further when you realize that one of the two trips to America's Dairyland was for Germanfest3--an occasion where I managed through sheer willpower to be, quite possibly, the drunkest member of my family in attendance (no mean feat when the twin specters of copious beer and the societal acceptance of lederhosen are combined). The very notion of Germanfest may seem a tad...unsettling for some, given the poor track record the Teutonic folk have about going, well, a little "overboard" celebrating their culture. Thankfully, German Americans are far less likely to join a Bund these days, and Germanfest is--like any other gathering of tubby caucasians in America--largely an excuse to drink keg beer and Jäger bombs. Oh, and there's a far greater likelihood of spätzle. And oompah music.
Adding to the statistical anomaly, my second visit was for Ali and my friend Lisa's surprise birthday party. I think it would be incredibly rude if I ever failed to get embarassingly schloshed4 at a friend's celebration. It'd be like Radiohead refusing to play "Creep" live...oh, wait...
Anywhoo, believe it or not, I didn't actually make altogether that much of an ass of myself that night (as I acquiesced to being cut off after an indeterminate number of drinks5). I mean, at one point I insulted the Brewers a little bit (but I wisely steered clear of Farve) - but it was done in a good natured way. In fact, by the end of the night, Lisa's brother and I (as well as Dr. Scotch's assistants, Nurse Bourbon and Intern Lager) were contemplating the Cubs and Brewers melding their team into one super-team6 that would whip hell on the rest of the NL. Booze heals.
A couple of waters later, and Ali and I were ready to drive home (Ali didn't have very much at all, and was clearly stone-cold sober before we even hit the Taco Bell7).
Well, one spilled Mountain Dew later,8 we were flying down the highway towards The City Vienna Beef Built. I kinda had to pee a little, but I was okay. I could hold it. We were making good time. Really good. I mean, it was nearly 2am. Traffic was nonex--
Okay. Suddenly it's bumper-to-bumper for as far up as I can see. And it's not creeping forward. It's stopped. Moments later, we saw and heard the sirens.
Creeping through northern Illinois' newest parking lot was a huge fire truck, an ambulance, police cars, and a tow truck. Oy.
Did I mention I had to pee a little?
It was becoming, "I have to piss. A lot." Technically, it was becoming "I have to motherfucking piss. A lot." But this is a family blog, and I didn't want to offend anyone with my italicized stress.
I turned to Ali and said, "Man, it's a good thing I've sobered up, or I'd probably just stroll out onto the highway and whizz all over the median." We chuckled.
Time passed, slowly. Inexorably.
The median was calling me. I tried not to answer. By this point I was at least 97% sober. Not a good percentage for public urination. Especially with a built in audience of other cars.
I did what I always do in these situations. I complained. Ali said, "I think you should just do it. That way I don't have to hear you complain about this any more." Given that oh-so-supportive declaration, I decided to go ahead and do it.
I hopped out of the car and went to hop the concrete barrier. Hey, that's not a median. It's a closed off lane. I crossed the barrier, and went to the other side, where I decided to urinate across the second concrete barrier (to the lane with sporadic traffic going the other way. Screw 'em. They weren't stuck). This barrier was about 3 inches below my crotch, by the way, so I had to aim out a bit. But the alternative was stand out in the open with my junk flapping in the breeze, and as one can tell from this blog, I am an intensely private person.
So I start to go.
And go.
And go.
And a spate of cars came around the bend in that lane.
I moved instinctively to hide myself from view, which caused a bit of blowback. Grr. One they were gone, I resumed my position and kept going. This was getting comical. Well, not to me. As I was sitting there, wondering when I might, oh I don't know, RUN OUT OF LIQUID WASTE, I heard a roaring noise to my left.
It was a car zooming by me from behind.
The lane wasn't closed.
Which meant I was basically standing in the middle of a highway lane in pitch darkness, pissing on another highway lane in pitch darkness.
Eventually, the laws of physics asserted themselves, and I ran out of ammo. But not before three more cars, probably filled with nuns, or orphans, or every girl I had a crush on in high school, whipped behind me.
I should mention each passing car was another occasion for blowback.
I finally skulked back the car, fully expecting a round of applause from the inordinate amount of immobile cars. Thankfully, that was not to be. We eventually started moving, got past the wreck, 9 and made it home. I slept like a stone for many, many hours.
Oh, I also did some naked plumbing this weekend.
- I know. As of right now, I'm no better than when Tuffy Rhodes hit those three dingers on opening day for the Cubs, only to suck himself right out of American baseball. Although, old Tuffy still holds two homerun records: Most homeruns by a foreign player in Japan, and most homeruns by a guy named Tuffy anywhere.
- Chicago geographical reference placed by the Gideons.
- "Anschluss Free Since 1946!"
- Not to be confused with "Anschlussed."
- More than 5, but less than 10.
- Not really sure who would play first on the team, in hindsight. Derrekles is my personal choice, but where do we put Prince Spaghetti Night (sorry...Fielder)? I'd probably trade him for like 2-3 pitchers, as both teams seem to have a rotation composed largely of spun sugar. Oh, and we both agreed that the Cubs essentially ending Turnbow's career was a favor to our Sausage Racing Friends to the North. Like putting down a particularly untalented rabid dog.
- Did I mention we hit the Taco Bell? Not literally. But I needed sub-par pseudo-Mexican food to complete my transformation into Guy Who Is Actually Sober, Not Just Thinking He's Sober. Also, I needed a Mountain Dew. I always order a Mountain Dew at Taco Bell. This is because I hate myself.
- That did wonders towards putting me firmly in the Guy Who is Actually Sober category.
- On a down note, that looked like a really horrible accident. Hopefully no one was sitting in the passenger seat, as there really wasn't one left.10
- Here is a painting of Yoda with Bob Marley to help you get past that last, downer footnote:
