BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Part 6 of 12

Continued from: Mahwage: Goin’ To The Chapel…

So, in the previous installment we established that Tom Hanks wasn’t available for my bachelor party. Neither were Tawny Kitaen nor Adrian Zmed. I’ve never forgiven any of them for that, and it is largely why you will never see us together in public, or private, for that matter. Well, that and the fact that we don’t know one another, but that’s just one of those small details… On with being “mobile”…

As all men are born knowing, there is a certain code that must be followed with regard to bachelor parties… really… it’s built right into our genetic makeup. But, anyway, all men know if you are tapped to be your buddy’s best man when he takes the plunge you have been telling him not to take ever since you were old enough to understand the ramifications… (Whew… that was a mouthful… Deep breath…) You know, inherently and without any outside influence, it is a moral imperative that you take your buddy out and get him completely and totally f*cked up. Preferably, the night immediately before the wedding.

Now, women have caught on to this in recent years. No doubt because they are generally a whole lot smarter than men give them credit for… (yeah, I know, ending in a preposition… it’s a blog… cut me some slack)… To be honest, women are generally a damn sight more intelligent than men, period. But let us not digress into a discussion about my submissive side and E K’s collection of handcuffs, leather items, and stiletto he… Err… umm…

Just ignore that last part, okay?

So, anyway, since you ladies know what’s up with that crap, you have had a tendency to put the brakes on the time honored tradition, insisting instead that the bachelor party be held a week or so prior to the event so as to allow for recovery time.

Well, Kathy didn’t do that. It’s not that she was oblivious to anything. I mean, after all, she’s friggin’ brilliant and it’s virtually impossible to get anything over on her. It requires an entire government conspiracy, unmarked helicopters, tranquilizer darts, and James Bond to pull even a shred of wool over her eyes. (Although, if the 007 in question happened to be the Pierce Brosnan incarnation, E K would probably be going by some “Bond Girl” name like Kitten McSharpclaws, and I would most likely be finding myself suddenly single and crying in my beer… Yeah, E K is all about that guy. I have no idea what she sees in him… I mean, it’s not like he’s insanely handsome, intelligent, philanthropic, faithful to a fault…Oh wait… he is… never mind.)

So, anyway, E K didn’t put her foot down on anyone’s neck. Not right then anyway. She’s definitely stepped on her share since, but not without just cause, believe me. Even though she has nicknames that seem as though they belong to some kind of psycho woman, they are really and truly all in fun. She is one of the most even tempered people I know, and I’m not just saying that to score points with her. Trust me, scoring points with E K requires a hell of a lot more than a handful of pretty words…

And, speaking of points, (like how I did that?) the point here being, she allowed Scott to plan the bachelor party for the night immediately before the wedding. October 31 was falling on a Saturday that year, so Friday night was on for the festivities. Kat was going out with her Matron of Honor, (remember Erin?), and some other ladies for a nice dinner, and whatever women do at Bachelorette parties… yeah, I know, I’ve seen some home videos… But, as it turned out E K and her friends didn’t go that route. She was exhausted and after dinner and a couple of drinks she came home and went to bed. Or so she maintains…

Me however… well, that was a different story. Scott arrived in a rented 12 passenger van. He had already picked up a few of the guys, and we made the rounds to pick up the rest. In the back of this van was a cooler… In the cooler was beer… something on the order of 48,000 beers… No kidding. The damn thing never became empty and, at Scott’s direction, neither did my hand. What I mean is the moment I would finish a beer, someone would reload my hand. If I wasn’t drinking fast enough, they found a way to get me to slam whatever brew I was holding so they could… Yeah, you guessed it.  Reload.

Once everyone was on board, we made the rounds of several bars in the Saint Louis area. As would be expected, these bars all featured scantily clad, young, busty, leggy, flirtatious waitresses. And, at each stop the mantra became, B-52!

Nope, not the Love Shack,  Rock Lobster, Channel Z folks… I’m talking about the drink. A triple layered shot of Bailey’s, Grand Marnier and Kahlua… sometimes set on fire. AKA a Flaming B-52…

So, at each and every bar we would begin the stay with a round of B-52’s… Although, to be honest, I think it was less of a round and more of a pair… I was always presented with one, and whoever else in the group got tapped to drink with me that “round” to make me think everyone was getting trashed, and not just me.

Now, so you understand, Scott is a responsible guy. After all, a year later he officially became a cop and is probably one of the best cops around… So, he wasn’t drinking booze. He was staying sober so that he could drive, and watch out for everyone else, in particular me, as you will see later…

And so, the B-52 chant continued… with help from the outside. You see, these characters were not at all shy about telling everyone in the bar that I was a “dead man walking,” so to speak. Therefore, I became the object of much fawning by waitresses. (Believe me, I know they were well tipped. I saw the dollar bills flying.) And, there were extra drinks, courtesy of other patrons in the establishment: usually a B-52… Or 3… Or 4… Yeah. Go figure. Although, I must admit, I do vaguely remember something about Kamikaze’s and Purple Hooters. Thinking back, it’s a wonder I didn’t end up in a hospital detox ward…

By this time it was relatively late, and I had not yet had anything to eat for dinner. But, they had a plan there too… On the way to our next stop on the “get drunk in St. Lou” tour, we swung into the drive-thru of White Castle. Now, I know they don’t have White Castle everywhere, but they have equivalents I believe… For instance, in the south the closest you would find would be Krystal’s… However, if you have no equivalent, and no idea what I am talking about, White Castle, (and the equivalents,) serve these little, square, steam grilled with onions burgers. They have a unique taste, and are a staple for drunken binges. Since they are small, a grown man will generally eat around 4 to 6 of them. Sometimes more, if he’s really hungry. If he’s drunk, usually quite a few more. You have probably heard these burgers referred to as Sliders, or the ever popular Saint Louis moniker, Belly Bombers.

Well, they get the nicknames honestly… You see, they have a lingering effect on one’s digestive system. Especially if one has been drinking heavily. The thing is however, said effect usually doesn’t roll around for about 6 to 12 hours after consumption… See where I’m headed with this?

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many of those things I ate that night…

So, anyway… Eventually, as all Saint Louis based bachelor parties tend to do, we ended up across the river in Illinois, smack in the middle of what is called the “East Side”. This is where you find the bars where the waitresses are not scantily clad. Well, actually, the waitresses are scantily clad… but, the other women who work there are mostly naked and swinging around shiny poles… Or wiggling around on your lap… Or sticking your face in their cleavage… Or… Well, you get the picture.

Guess what? We didn’t go into one of those bars. No kidding. I remember it had to do with one of the guys in the group not wanting to go in, and I was so drunk at that point that I backed him up, slurring my way through, “If he ain’t goin’, I ain’t goin’…” He didn’t make any friends of the other guys that night, trust me… Fortunately, they didn’t hold it against me that I backed him up, because they knew I was so trashed that I had no clue what I was saying. Besides, they also knew that it was all their fault that I was out of my head drunk in the first place… Well, not all their fault I don’t guess, but that they had been the primary contributors, that’s for sure…

Instead, we grabbed a table at one of the big dance club type bars and sat  there drinking beer. At least, that’s what I think I was doing. Everything was kind of moving in slow motion, including the music and sound around me. It was much like that part in the original Terminator movie when Arnie comes into the techno dance club on a mission to off Sarah Connor…

I do remember that at one point I hauled myself off to the restroom to unload some of the drink my kidneys had finally managed to process, and while becoming acquainted with the urinal someone stuck something in my back and demanded my wallet. Being trashed I just replied, “Yeah right. Very funny.” (Although, I suspect it probably came out more like, “Nyabnigh, furrvffblee nubby.”) Still, in response to my slurred words, whatever it was in my back went away, and that was the end of it.  However, I later found out that some fool had watched me bob and weave to the restroom and decided I’d make a good target, and that unbeknownst to me I was actually being mugged. However, unbeknownst to my mugger, Scott,  (remember him, the 6 foot 6 cop?) had followed him. So, when the whatever in my back disappeared and life went on without incident for me, what had actually happened was that Scott yanked the idiot up and bounced him off a wall.  All without a word. Kind of like Chuin rescuing Remo at the statue of liberty… Yeah, more obscure movie references… I just can’t help myself…

But, see, I told you he was looking out for me…

By now, it was oh-dark-thirty… really… I have no friggin’ clue what time it  actually was. All I know is we left the bar, dropped off some of the guys, then went back to Scott’s place with the crew that was left, and had Pizza. Yeah… Pizza. Don’t ask me. It was there and I ate it. Oh, and there was more beer involved. Yeah… a lot more beer.

At some point in the wee hours of Saturday morning… well, I think they were actually beyond “wee,” because we weren’t all that far from sunrise… Scott drove me home.

Now, here is something I didn’t mention earlier: All I had in my pocket was my ID. No wallet, no keys, no cash, no nothing. Scott knew this.

He helped me out of the van, dragged me up to the front door of the house, propped me against the porch railing, then rang the doorbell and ran just like a kid who had just set fire to a sack of dog-poo.

However, he didn’t go far… He stood in the front yard to watch the show.

A few moments later a very sleepy E K pulled open the door and just stared at me with one eye. Without a word, she turned and headed back to the bedroom while I literally crawled into the house…

No matter how many years have passed… And I do mean to this very day… I can still hear Scott laughing his ass off out in the front yard…

At a later date, E K made it perfectly clear to Scott how she felt about my condition upon being returned, and moreover, the method by which I was deposited upon the doorstep. She takes a very dim view of her possessions being mistreated whenever someone borrows them. I think it hearkens back to her high school years… Something about her Drill Team Uniform never being returned by the girl who borrowed it… (And believe me, I’m not real excited with that girl either… I mean just imagine, E K in a drill team  / cheerleader uniform… But, I digress…)

It was after the evil one had delivered her cold and calculated admonition that Scott fessed up, and told her the original plan had been to wait until I passed out,  strip me down to my skivvies, tape a quarter to my forehead, write his number on the back of my hand, and put me on a Greyhound Bus bound for Chicago… Of course, part of his plan also involved driving to Chicago so he could be there to watch me get off the bus and wander about aimlessly, before he finally loaded me up and hightailed it back to Saint Louis, arriving just in time to deliver me to the wedding…

Good thing I never actually passed out, until arriving home that is, because there were some unforeseen events in our very near future, one of which was only a few points shy of being catastrophic in relation to the upcoming festivities.

Besides, 6 foot 6 or no, E K would have killed him and fed his carcass to her cats. Guaranteed…

More to come…

Murv

… NEXT: Mahwage: The Wedding Suit…

Yep, I know… Y’all weren’t expecting another blog entry until Wednesday morning when the next installment of Mahwage deploys from the queue.  However, I did warn you back when I extolled the virtues of the “post this in the future” function of WordPress, that I might occasionally drop a little something on you completely unannounced if the mood or circumstances struck.

Well, this is one of those times… I will admit, however,  that I considered just adding this missive to the queue for future posting as well, but since it somewhat involves that annual February event known as the “Salad Bowl”… Wait… “Cereal Bowl”… No… That ain’t it either… Well, all I know is that it has bowl in the title and people have parties while looking at Football on TV, so there…

Now, those of you who know me fairly well are certainly aware that “Football” isn’t my thing. Neither is Baseball, Basketball, or Soccer. Hockey, well that’s a different story, but since the “Rice Bowl” or whatever they call it has something or another to do with Football and not Hockey… Well, I guess we need to talk about Football.

Obviously, my personal perception of this activity isn’t quite the same as that of the overwhelming majority of the masses. In fact, when I set out to describe my view of this particular sport I have found it to be a waste of time to bother reinventing the wheel. What I mean by that is this: Andy Griffith explained it best in his old monologue, “What it was, was football…“

Yeah… The sheriff of Mayberry. Harry Broderick from Salvage One… Matlock… Uh-huh, that guy. For those of you who may be way too young to remember, before Mister Griffith became Barney Fife’s keeper, or appeared in movies, he was quite an accomplished stand up comedian of sorts. Yeah… No kidding. He didn’t have any cool puppets, nor did he insult the crowd for effect. He was a bardic sort of comedian. He simply told funny stories, and one of them happened to be all about an experience with seeing a “football” game, ostensibly for the first time. It became one of his most popular and beloved monologues, and is a classic.

Now, I’m certainly not about to plagiarize Mister Griffith’s routine, (I do, however, highly recommend it if you have a chance to hear it – much of his material is available on CD by the way), suffice it to say, my perception of football is much the same as his: A bunch of guys running around in a cow pasture fighting over a petrified pumpkin for no apparent reason.

But, of course, I didn’t come here to talk to you about “Football,” but you already knew that… I came here to talk to you about the “Soup Bowl” party… (You know, that actually sounds kinda close to what I remember hearing it called… Hmm…)

You see, every year some friends of ours host one of these massive shindigs. A bunch of folks show up, each toting a dish of food and a cooler. So, as always is the case with our gatherings, there is food for days and much malted beverage to be imbibed. I suppose, in most respects, that is what brings everyone together… But then, there is that whole pumpkin in the cow pasture thing on TV…

Of course, not everyone attending the party is that much of a “Football” fan… Granted, we do get caught up in the excitement near the end and we will all be plastered to the TV hooting and hollering, but that usually happens sometime around the last 5 minutes or so. Maybe even the entire last quarter if things are close and much violence is ensuing, if you know what I mean. But, I think that’s all just a matter of contagious excitement or something.

Still, for the most part, there are the “Football” fans and there are the Commercial fans. Generally the commercial fans consist of the wives. That isn’t intended as a sexist remark by any stretch of the imagination, it just happens to be how things are with our particular group. Still, some of the wives are Football fans too. Well, to some extent. In fact, I can actually remember coming down the stairs one Sunday to find E K lounged out on the sofa with a beer in her hand, watching a football game and explaining it to our daughter who was all of about 3 at the time. But, even taking that little event into account, E K isn’t what you’d call a rabid fan by any means…

Yes, just in case you are wondering, there really is a point to all this rambling…

So here’s the thing. Generally, what happens is that the wives will gather in one room and play cards or some manner of dice games or some such. I tend to mosey back and forth between the camps being a bit of a social butterfly, so to speak. But, that’s not really my point either…

Back to the “thing”…

Last night, the game being played by the ladies was some kind of semi – yahtzeeish – bone – throwing – what have you that involved rolling dice and passing tokens left, right, center, or even not passing them at all depending on your roll, until the last person with a token rolled a “dot” or some such, and won all the tokens in the center. Whereupon the game started all over again. Fairly simple, and it even looked like a bit of fun when things got rolling, (pun not intended, but I’ll definitely take it…)

Now, the folks hosting the party have a 21 year old son who was there along with a friend of his. Both of them are good kids.  I just thought I’d throw that out there… Well, actually, it does also play an integral part to my monologue here…

You see, the friend, we’ll call him what’s is name to protect the innocent, while interested in the “Football” game, was also familiar with, and interested in, playing the game with the dice. So, since the first half of the football game was kind of boring, he joined the ladies in the dining room.

In case you haven’t done the math just yet, that made him the sole male at a table full of mature, but nonetheless incredibly gorgeous women. And, you know, that whole mature thing has its perks as well, but we won’t go there…

Well, actually we will, but not just yet…

Anyway, damn smart kid, IMHO…

At any rate, long about halftime we husband types were standing around in the kitchen gnawing on some hot wings and popping open fresh beers. One of the husbands poked his head through the doorway to see what was up with the dice game, then started laughing and jokingly announced so that everyone could hear, “Hey, what’s is name is in there being a girl with all the rest of the women.”

It was a good-natured jibe and definitely drew a round of chuckles.  Still,  you know me… I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to explore the half-full, half-empty principle where it applied to this situation.

When the chuckling died down I replied, “Yeah, but look at it this way. He’s the only guy in a room full of good looking women. Seems like a smart move to me.”

One of the other husbands snorted and said, “Yeah, but they’re all old and married.”

I had pretty much expected a response in that vein, after all, I’ve known these guys for a long time. I’m not saying they are completely predictable, but I do know how they think, so I definitely wasn’t surprised by what he said. Of course, as we all know, when you expect something it is much easier to be prepared… And, I was.

I nodded in response to his rebuttal and said, “Well,  I guess it’s all in how you look at it, you know… I mean, if they’re old then so are we, right?”

“Well, yeah,” came a chorus of responses from the men, punctuated here and there by a “no sh*t” or two.

“Well then,” I continued. “So you have a whole room of mature, hot women who are married to the likes of us old bastards, which pretty much means they are probably all getting pretty desperate, know what I’m saying? And right now they’re sitting in there with a guy who is still young enough to get it up repeatedly without  the aid of pharmaceuticals.”

A chuckle ran through the room, but I wasn’t finished yet. I let things settle for a moment before pulling the pin on the punchline.

I looked around at the guys and shrugged, then gave them a nod. “But, you’re probably right,” I finally offered. “I mean, it’s not like guys ever have that whole older woman fantasy when they’re his age…”

Yeah, I know… Pretty evil, eh?  But I just couldn’t help myself.

More to come…

Murv