Gearing up for Friday…

Posted: October 6, 2011 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , , , ,

For my close friends and drinking buddies, there is a holiday looming– one on par with St. Patty’s Day, The Fourth of July, Cinco de Mayo, and Mardi Gras all rolled into one.  For we alumni, it is a tradition of debauchery that hearkens back to our undergrad days.  Oh yes, it’s the weekend we all pretend we’re in our early 20’s again.  I’m talking about f’ing Homecoming in all its excessive glory.

If you don't know where this is going...

Oh yes, we’re only talking about something just slightly less tragic than seeing that guy at a high school homecoming–  because that guy is actually everyone at a collegiate homecoming.  It’s not just expected, it’s hotly anticipated, especially down at my alma mater (because nothing else really goes on there).  Like many of these one-time icons akin to Frank the Tank, I have a storied reputation to uphold.  Are you noticing a pattern of references forming yet?  If not, slap yourself, go back to the beginning, and try again– in my square of the intarwebs, it’s survival of the wittiest.

I did Homecoming for many years as any undergrad on the Van Wilder plan should– like a complete boss.  That’s a lot of years too.  Getting a feel for what is happening to me?  Here’s a hint, it’s a feeling more powerful than salmon spawning.  That’s right, my body and mind are almost instinctively gearing up for the ludicrous libations to come.  Can I describe the anticipation?  No, but you should have already picked up the subtle changes in me by now.  A shit show be a-brewing on the horizon, lads and lassies.  A shit show, she’s a-brewing indeed– where only the clutch survive.

Let’s see, last year– I opened and closed the bar in the same day, with their extended hours (after partying all night the previous night).  I ended up making out with my little’s friend in a churchyard after the second night of partying.  All this in spite of fellow TKE Alumni warning me that my make-out bandit side was out like a stiff dick in workout shorts.  It was a running riot for that entire weekend.  The year before was every bit as wild, and I sure as Hell hope that this is DZ year again (yeah, I’ve got those letters too).  The year before that was another frenzied haze of Biblical proportions, and therein lies my floating point.  At Homecoming, my body remembers how to re-live the memories of days gone bye, and my liver steps up its game one more time.

However, this year, I’ve been off work for almost three months with naught to do but drink on painkillers.  Pause right there and consider the ramifications.  There was no effervescent cross-training for the past couple years.  I take no responsibility for anyone landing in the morgue for trying to get on my level.  Enter the mythical properties of my “aura of intoxication.”

Old people beware

There’s nothing more entertaining than getting alumni from the 1970’s and earlier to do keg stands. Best part? They put the undergrads to shame. Damn kids.

I have seen people drink until they puke (of their own volition!).  I’m counting those that weren’t me.  Actually, during this particular roving holiday, I don’t think I’ve actually tossed my cookies during marathon drinking.  Anyway, people tend to do things in my presence that often defy logic.  I’ve seen my grand-little curl up to sleep with a bottle of bleach, cuddling with it like a freaking teddy bear, after we took away his 151.  We had a girl talk so much shit, I ended up getting thrown through a refrigerator (well, my impact spun it around) to keep her from getting a beating.  See a refrigerator thing going here?  I should have seen my gimpifying injury coming.

Anyway, there have been pong tournaments that have had ridiculous results– and lasted the entire night.  Hell, I’ve even got a buddy who had a grenade jump on him.  The look on his face when he woke up next to “crater-face”– the next morning– with his zipper down, was even more priceless than the time I did a shot of mescal with the worm in it.  In retrospect, my poor decisions are far less scarring (unless you start looking at exes, and that’s a whole different rant entirely).

I'm so epic, I come with my own legendary weapon

Did I mention that I have a solid freaking steel paddle? Yeah, The Barbarian inevitably comes out to play during Homecoming. Yes, I will continue capitalizing this hallowed holiday, deal with it.

As if it needs to be said, my drinking altered-ego will be out all weekend.  I won’t be here to update, and (with any luck) he’ll evade incarceration another year.  Let’s hope the same can also be said for the running crew that tries to keep pace with him this weekend.

May Dionysus be with us– the alcohol plentiful, the defenestrations comical, and all libations laughable.

Unplug.

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Comments
  1. […] professionals, hardcore undergrads, and cops that clearly couldn’t give a shit?  You get Edinboro Homecoming, and no amount of words can convey the level of intoxicated shenanigans that occur– every […]

  2. […] hands; I think I deserve a proper noun.”  Right you are, honey, right you are.  So, like preparations for mass intake of alcohol, I put a good long thought to […]

  3. […] other news, this weekend’s Homecoming… and all I can do is go through the motions, because I can’t sacrifice two potential […]

  4. […] ok, story time.  A few Homecomings ago, long before I met Cortana, I was out with my little (we’ll call her Trixie).  This is, […]

  5. […] should be worth going utterly overboard. Whether it’s Tough Mudders, Halloween Costumes, Homecoming Alcoholism, or college (I was an undergrad for only a decade)– if I’m going to do it, I’m […]

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