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The One in Which There is Argyle

September 24, 2009

As demanded (cough::bob::cough) I’m back. I didn’t think this really qualifies as TMI Thursday but don’t worry there’s plenty of cringe-inducing ridiculousness and I promise the last month has produced plenty of TMIs for next week. But for now, this bad boy is so ridiculous awesome I’ve had to break it into two parts. Welcome to part one. It’s a bit of a doozy, but really that’s what happens when things begin like this…

You know it’s a good sign when your Saturday “night” starts in the day and it’s about 95 degrees and you’re putting on an argyle sweater.

Dubs, SS, Creamsicle and I headed off to play Pub Golf for 007’s birthday. Across the Bay we went and arrived just in time to tee off on the second hole. A sake bomb, a car bomb, a tequila shot and several other drinks, some food and some shit-talking to a guy in an Iowa hat later, the 15 of us are making the turn and on our way to the train golf carts to head to the last hole.

It is approximately 9:45.

We have already reached the point where a few are pit-stopping to pick up tall boys across the street and I am begging demanding asking them to buy me a Chelada…

Bud Light + Clamato = Match made in heaven?

Bud Light + Clamato = Match made in heaven?

…just so I can “try it.” Yes, I said it. No, I’m not Mexican ashamed.

Unfortunately, those people hate me and only got me a regular Bud Light tall boy. Which SS and I nearly finished before the train had arrived. Win. Off we went to the last stop. Picture a large drunken group wandering from the train station to another bar, decked out in argyle, golf gloves and cabbie caps and you’ve got an idea of the spectacle that was us.

Like this. But with beer.

Like this. But with beer.

Just for good measure, SS and I made sure to complete our round of Pub Golf, including our shot penalty for missing the first hole. Because we needed more alcohol.

Round about 11:30 we had made it back to 007’s where the entire crew was about ready to pass out. Meanwhile, SS is getting texts from Baggage (her ex/best friend…long story) to come to the City and meet up with him.

We decided it would be a good idea. For some reason everyone at the house agreed and merrily sent their fellow drunks off to play near the train tracks hop on the train to the City. And by “the train” I mean the last train going North for the night. And by “hop on” I mean sprint towards the train and jump on after the conductor has held it to let us on without paying.

Supposedly the train ride to the City happened although I contend we actually ran towards some sort of rip in the space-time continuum since I don’t remember this “train ride.”

Cut to our arrival in the City. SS needs to pee, but the bathrooms at the train station are closed. What’s a pair of girls in argyle sweaters and shorts to do? Oh, one can pop a squat on the sidewalk in plain view of traffic and passersby while the other keeps look out, you say? Done and done.

Look us up in the dictionary, we’re under “classy.”

One unpaid MUNI ride later, we’re in the Sunset and partying it up at a bar with a tiny dance floor where Baggage is rubbing his very nice ass on us, instead of The Nurse, who he’s “talking” to. Because (boys take note) rubbing your ass on other girls is definitely the way to a girl’s heart.

You know when people tell drinking stories and they say, “And that’s how you knew we were drunk”? For some people it might have been when SS and I were forced to make a Baggage sandwich on the dance floor, or for others it might have been when the DJ started playing “Jumper” by Third Eye Blind as the last song and, despite commenting that this was the crappiest last song ever, we all sang along. However, for me, I’d say you knew we were drunk when Baggage stole a 10-spot off the bar, stuck it in my bra and I decided it was less conspicuous to just steal it than to put it back on the bar.

Not that the money didn’t come in handy later. At least I’ve already come to terms with the fact that I’m going to hell. Which, for me, will likely be a place full of socially awkward people and hundreds of TVs playing Criss Angel: Mindfreak on repeat. But I digress.

Now most people would say, wow, that was a great story. What a crazy night. Let’s eat some pizza and pass out. But, as we’ve previously established, I’m not most people. Especially when teamed with SS and Baggage. We go big or go home? Or we do both.

Stay tuned for part two. It might make your Friday. Or it might drive you away forever. Either way, I didn’t get my Chelada.

to-be-continued

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6 Comments
  1. September 24, 2009 3:04 pm

    Wow! I’m afraid that there’s more!

  2. September 24, 2009 7:38 pm

    OK, now we’re talkin’! Are these stories recent?

  3. September 25, 2009 9:15 am

    Dude. I have been wanting to try a Chelada, too. It’s been taunting me at the 7Eleven by my house.

  4. Cheddar permalink*
    September 25, 2009 12:32 pm

    @Lucy: You should be afraid. That was the tame part?
    @BobSanchez: Yes. I’ve apparently reverted to college Cheddar. My social life is happy, my liver maybe not so much. This one happened about a month ago.
    @Colby: I knew I couldn’t be the only one! I’m pretty sure it’s Mexico’s favorite drink, how could it be bad? I’m considering serving only Chelada at my birthday bash. Thoughts?

Trackbacks

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