One of the best Sundays...ever.
first off, i dont like lj cuts, take that friend pages
No one would have thought that we'd be trashed on a sunday night, but then again, it WAS super bowl sunday, and we ARE OA, so really, it meant anything could happen. It all began in the basement of the Rugged Bear, where I was getting paid ridiculous sums of money to make big piles of flattened boxes. I got a call from Max, asking about my plans for the night, so I called Billy, 5:45, his house, alright I had plans that night. Having played with my AWWWWW cute lil' puppy for the rest of the afternoon, it was soon time to go pick up Maxeroni and Saxamo Wimbs. Now, when your friends want you to give them a ride somewhere, that's because:
a) they don't have a car
b) they don't want to waste gas and would rather carpool
c) they don't want to drive later on when they're krunked
Putting all three into consideration, I was leaning towards more C as the reason I was driving them. Here were the attendents that evening: me, wimbs, max, billy, trezza, and al cal, who was off somewhere in Lincoln or Bedford or Concord picking up our Guiness, the beer of beers. It tastes like a strange combination of moss, coffee, and chocolate, but in tasty beer form. Then there was Mike's whisky, which upon hitting one's stomach, fills one up with an energetic warmth. So Al showed up and the fun started happening. Food was eaten, and the usual ripping on eachother, like a scene out of "Barbershop", only we were drunk as skunks and high as kites watching football. At one point, I was itching my nether-regions when I accidentally took my hand out of my pants and touched Al's hand. That was it. Sitting there laughing, Al stared at me with a piercing glance. Immediately he challenged me to a left-handed russian finger fight. Ah! My weak arm! It was a close fight, but Al IS jacked, so he was bound to win. Then, for unknown reasons, Wimbs had his pants around his ankles. I stood up and reminded everyone, "Well guys, if Wimbs has his pants off, we all have to take our pants off", and so we dropped our pants down to our ankles. Anyone who put their pants back up would be severely beaten. Said scene looked a little something like this:
I hobbled over to the other room where I encountered Riley, Billz for Bill's little bastard devil dog which that summer had jumped up and bit onto my shorts and refused to let go. But here I was, with just my boxers standing between the little beast and my junk. I decided I would tame the monster while I still had the chance. I grabbed a guitar and started serenading the little menace. Long behold, he quieted down and became calm. Riley's favorite song is "Holes to Heaven". We're friends now.
Max was the official chef that evening, but when Max cooks, it is truly an art.
"Max! Where's the pizza?!!"
"QUIET. The pizza is crisping."
Then Wimbs began punching himself square in the face, to the point where he was beginning to get a black eye. Why he was doing this, no one knew for sure. Then I told Wimbs to eat an entire row of uh ho oreos. It looked like this:
So the night went on, and less and less football was watched, and soon enough, it was time to go home. Max, Wimbs, and I were on empties disposal, and Wimbs tried to walk home from my house (a distance of about four miles) at midnight, but being the guy I am, I wouldn't let him. A great night, considering, the next morning, I would have school AND a hangover.
No one would have thought that we'd be trashed on a sunday night, but then again, it WAS super bowl sunday, and we ARE OA, so really, it meant anything could happen. It all began in the basement of the Rugged Bear, where I was getting paid ridiculous sums of money to make big piles of flattened boxes. I got a call from Max, asking about my plans for the night, so I called Billy, 5:45, his house, alright I had plans that night. Having played with my AWWWWW cute lil' puppy for the rest of the afternoon, it was soon time to go pick up Maxeroni and Saxamo Wimbs. Now, when your friends want you to give them a ride somewhere, that's because:
a) they don't have a car
b) they don't want to waste gas and would rather carpool
c) they don't want to drive later on when they're krunked
Putting all three into consideration, I was leaning towards more C as the reason I was driving them. Here were the attendents that evening: me, wimbs, max, billy, trezza, and al cal, who was off somewhere in Lincoln or Bedford or Concord picking up our Guiness, the beer of beers. It tastes like a strange combination of moss, coffee, and chocolate, but in tasty beer form. Then there was Mike's whisky, which upon hitting one's stomach, fills one up with an energetic warmth. So Al showed up and the fun started happening. Food was eaten, and the usual ripping on eachother, like a scene out of "Barbershop", only we were drunk as skunks and high as kites watching football. At one point, I was itching my nether-regions when I accidentally took my hand out of my pants and touched Al's hand. That was it. Sitting there laughing, Al stared at me with a piercing glance. Immediately he challenged me to a left-handed russian finger fight. Ah! My weak arm! It was a close fight, but Al IS jacked, so he was bound to win. Then, for unknown reasons, Wimbs had his pants around his ankles. I stood up and reminded everyone, "Well guys, if Wimbs has his pants off, we all have to take our pants off", and so we dropped our pants down to our ankles. Anyone who put their pants back up would be severely beaten. Said scene looked a little something like this:
I hobbled over to the other room where I encountered Riley, Billz for Bill's little bastard devil dog which that summer had jumped up and bit onto my shorts and refused to let go. But here I was, with just my boxers standing between the little beast and my junk. I decided I would tame the monster while I still had the chance. I grabbed a guitar and started serenading the little menace. Long behold, he quieted down and became calm. Riley's favorite song is "Holes to Heaven". We're friends now.
Max was the official chef that evening, but when Max cooks, it is truly an art.
"Max! Where's the pizza?!!"
"QUIET. The pizza is crisping."
Then Wimbs began punching himself square in the face, to the point where he was beginning to get a black eye. Why he was doing this, no one knew for sure. Then I told Wimbs to eat an entire row of uh ho oreos. It looked like this:
So the night went on, and less and less football was watched, and soon enough, it was time to go home. Max, Wimbs, and I were on empties disposal, and Wimbs tried to walk home from my house (a distance of about four miles) at midnight, but being the guy I am, I wouldn't let him. A great night, considering, the next morning, I would have school AND a hangover.