So here’s a good story. Full disclosure below, and it isn’t really for the faint of heart or those who have judgmental tendencies.
Yesterday (a Saturday), my husband and a few of his friends participated in a charity chili cook-off. They got into the spirit of it and decided it wasn’t enough to just have the best chili, but they needed to have the best costumes. The end result?
It had to be this big so you could really appreciate the fine details- the crawfish on the apron, the camo shorts, the mullet (that my aunt, after a few beers, thought was real), the short jorts. Definitely the best costumes, since this was a non-costumed cook-off and no one else had costumes at all. However, their chili was delicious, and their antics helped win them People’s Favorite, which included some nifty prize money. After the prizes were awarded this point, I left to go to the John Mayer concert. I called my husband right before the concert started to remind him to feed the dog, and one of the lovely boys above answered. He said my husband was passed out. I was confused; I had left the bar at 5:30 or so and no one was drunk, and it was only 8:00. The concert started before I could ask any questions, so I hung up and enjoyed every single second of the JM concert- 5th and favorite so far.
And then I came home.
I get home with my friend, and we’re deadbolted out. So after banging on the door like cops at an after-prom party, the chili cooking friend who I’d talked on the phone with earlier answers the door with bleary eyes. I walk into the apartment with EVERY light on, including closets, and my dog greets me with the closest thing she can give to a hug without having elbows, and refuses to leave my side. So I’m looking for my husband, dog in tow. I find him in bed, dead asleep, and there is puke on the floor. Seriously, people, how old are we? How old are we that we can’t vomit into a receptacle that has a rinsing function? As I’m muttering something to this effect while Resolve-ing the stain issue, he stirs and asks me what time it is- this is the first of 3 times he’ll ask this in the next 3 minutes. Meanwhile, Chili Cookoff Friend (CCF) is stumbling around because I forced him out of the guest room to make room for my out of town friend who’d booked that bed months in advance, and he’s asking when the dog was let out (she is kenneled when no one is home, and he’d said on the phone she was kenneled). I said I didn’t know… didn’t he do that, since she was out when I got home? No, he did not; obviously neither did my husband the coma patient. At some point in this conversation, the dog jumps on the husband, who stumbles out of bed- stumbles out of bed and into a wall. I ask them CCF and husband just what the hell happened- and I get blank stares. Over the next 10 minutes, we determine the following:
- they are still drunk
- the husband was coherent enough to puke into a toilet at one point- as evidenced by the towel “bed” I found on the floor
- they have no idea how the dog got out of the kennel, and suggested she might have opposable thumbs
- they don’t know how they got home
- they don’t know where the other chili cook off friends are, but they’re pretty sure they left one at the bar by himself
- they may or may not have thrown up in a bar, which may or may not have occurred in the bar’s bathroom
- no, they cannot guarantee that they did not steal Mike Tyson’s tiger, because at this point it would make sense if they had
Ladies and gentlemen, it was live action The Hangover. It was ridiculous enough that I wasn’t even mad, just confused- swear on my life I was expecting to find Carlos pleasuring himself in a closet at any minute. Within 30 minutes time, we’re no closer to answers, but all stains are up, the worst of the trauma has worn off the poor dog and everyone was in bed. By morning, I had confirmation that everyone was alive (one was left at the bar, but with his girlfriend and other friends, which my husband does not remember seeing although there is photographic evidence), they had gotten home thanks to a non-drinking friend driving them because the motor functions weren’t good enough to walk the ONE BLOCK home from the bar, and a big part of the problem here was guys who bought my husband and friends neon green shots called Slimers, known from now on as liquid amnesia- oh, and the Jaeger shots. No permanent damage, except possibly to the bars they patroned- and to my precious Samoas/Caramel Delights, whose empty box I found hidden in a closet this morning.
Who needs Vegas when you have daytime chili cookoffs?
“Why don’t we remember a goddamn thing from last night?
Obviously because we had a great fucking time.”