Drunken Recollection… First Rule Of Bachelor Party – You Don’t Talk About Bachelor Party

For the last two weeks, not a smidge of alcohol has quenched my parched, getting-very-used-to-water, lips. 

One bachelor party changed the no-drinking-in-May plan (at least for that night).
Two beers in, I was feeling tipsy.
The third film in the X-Men series almost killed my burgeoning buzz when it was brought up before the bus bid farewell.
Four… ah, I’m at a loss on how to keep this list up.  Oh, wait!  Four bars is the amount we visited.
Five beers came in a bucket at our second stop.  Or should I say a fifth of Jack was passed around (of which I passed on).

Okay, yeah, now I give up.  Anyway, overall it was fairly trouble free, aside from my cousin slapping me in the face, punching me in the gut, and tucking his feet in my armpit as he curled up in a ball to sleep – all within six minutes (I told you I’m stopping the number thing).

I recall talking to a stripper dancer woman at one of the stops extensively about this:

Like our purloined dispenser, except ours had sunflower seeds, peanuts, and Reese's Pieces. I think.

Like our purloined dispenser, except ours had sunflower seeds, peanuts, and Reese's Pieces. I think.

Someone in the group who will go nameless, but was prone to slapping and punching despite being sleepy, stole lifted a candy dispenser and someone else in the group got really upset about it. 

The best man forbid a couple of women from joining the group on its road trip, which at the time, sounded like a bad idea to not let them, but hindsight being what it is, was simply a bad idea, so kudos to him.  I can’t get too upset then that he had the bus drop him off directly at home.

Back at our original point of departure, I was done.  Well, I was with it enough to eat a few Pizza Rolls. 

I guess some of the other guys put the candy dispenser on top of the guy’s car that was getting upset.  (Sure, he had a reason for being irritated, but it was meh at best.)  I guess that inflamed him further and he smashed it on the ground.  Someone else took it upon himself and completely busted it open.  Quarters flew everywhere, and those who were still awake scooped them up.

The next morning, the three of us that drove together walked out into the gloomy daybreak.  I spotted a crapload of quarters that went unclaimed.  My reply: “I would like to say that if I was a kid right now, seeing this would make me happy as hell.  But as an adult, I can’t say that I feel any different.  I’m not too proud to crouch long enough to pick up a few dollars.” 

My cousin and I gathered about ten bucks each.  My friend with us had already grabbed about ten bucks the night before…

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Being A Boob And Having A Ball

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one is about what happened after a bachelor party… and it’s not quite what you think…

I’ve been to more than a few bachelor parties in my time.  Some have occurred on buses that took us to magical places (two of the best adventures, I must admit).  Most times, the magic visits upon us.  One time, and only one time, the bachelor wanted nothing to do with any of the magic, so his uncle enjoyed the sanctioned magic instead.  Another time, we sought out all kinds of magic in a city where magic never sleeps.  But I digress…

On the day of this story, the magic was visiting us.  I had planned on calling it an early night, since I had something to do, early the next morn.  Five beers tops, I promised myself.  But unlike the other shindigs I had been to, this one had kegs rather than cans or bottles (this was early in my bachelor party years), and my plastic cup never ran empty, courtesy of the handled couriers that were passed around.

When the magicians finally arrived (some extras appeared unannounced), the festivities flared.  Cash flashed (amongst other things), and soon the booze was tapped dry.   Due to the inundation of said magic and the awkward payment situations that followed, the party abruptly came to an end.  Phase One, anyway.  My initial hope to cut-and-run was quickly forgotten when Phase Two was announced.

In probably not the safest collected cavalcade, we embarked on a journey to the oldest part of town, where the Big Three Kings once ruled.  We visited an establishment that specialized in, um, magic, and as the night and my buzz winded down, I recalled my plans:  “I have the GRE tomorrow!”

I bid my farewells and ferried off left.  The next morning was to clarity as glass was to stone.

As I say in the lobby of the testing facility, I glanced at the other patrons.  I was the best dressed, I decided, mostly because they were all still in their pajamas, and I wore what I… slept… in.

We had to sign a form beforehand that required us to write a paragraph in cursive.  I failed to recall any of the letters, namely the capital-I which began the paragraph “I agree… blah, blah, blah.”  Looking around the room for any clue, my eyes stumbled upon the heroine of the show.

(I should note that in situations like these, I always daydream that the surrounding players and I are the cast of a TV show.  I’m the hero, of course, and I have to pick my supporting cast.  This daydream involved the rest of the world disappearing outside of the clinic’s walls, and us survivors picking up the pieces of… whatever.)

Somehow, my heroine sensed my selection of her as my co-star, and she looked up from writing.  I asked, “How do you make a cursive capital-I?”

When I was called into the interview room, the nebbish gentleman verifying my identity asked if I had any questions.  I did.  “Do you have any aspirin?”

Without irony or any further prompting, he leaned back and shifted his gaze upon me.  “Do you work for… them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you work for… the company?”  (I swear this happened.  It wasn’t hangover induced or a daydream.)

“What are talking about?”

Finally, he relaxed and explained that the parent corporation that hosts the testing will send in dummy clients to test workers.  He told me they were not allowed to give out “medication.”  I reminded him it was only an aspirin that I wanted; he gave me the option of leaving to purchase some prior to hitting the questions.

“I’ll survive.”

The exam was equally grueling and a blur.  The first math section was Headache Incarnate, but it was the essay that I’ll never forget.  I had to write a piece on… well, that part I forget.  All I remember from the whole experience was that I ended up going on and on about Tiger Woods.  About how I feel his naturally talents could have possibly been squandered by being put into golf at such an early age.  On how his mind might have been built to tackle insane astrophysics or abstract geometry – not to hit a little ball in a hole far away.  I don’t believe I ever made my point in the essay, and I remember rushing to even finish a sentence before the clock ran out on the computer.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Drunken ramblings work better as vocal rants than as GRE essays.

Drunken Recollection… Palm Reading At Strip Clubs

Ah, the universal question… why do I get so philosophical when I get drunk?  (Okay, it may not be universal to you, but it certainly is to me.)  Is it that maybe I’m always so deeply lost in thought, that the suppression of ideas spill out when my tongue’s been freed by liquid courage?  Or do I talk out my ass and sell the shit out of my bullshit?

Whatever the answer, the fact that remains is this: why am I doing this when I’m at the strip club local ballet?

Now before you go getting all judgmentallyish on me, know that I’m going to blame it on my friends.  I’m always going to say they dragged me there.  It’s besides the point that they actually did have to drag me there the first time I went (I was still a very, very devout Catholic back then), but nowadays there’s a little less arm twisting (it’s usually bribery that gets me).  So anyhoohah, to my point – what was my point?

A couple of my friends recently happened upon a local ballerina establishment.  (Actually, it was the night of my Sober Recollection… that was the next stop I could not be bribed into.)  One of them later recounted to me that one of the ladies claimed to be a palm reader.  He swore she got his name, his occupation, and a few other things right, to which I decried “balogna” (would “baloney” have had more of a visual impact?)  I figured our other friend had to give her a heads-up because I don’t believe palm reading works that way (if at all).

This story he told me while at a different joint (oh yeah, this was where I was going).  It lead me to ponder (okay it’s not quite philosophizing, but I do that a lot as well) about what I would like to have happen if I ever got my palm read.  I would be so excited if the reader started looking over my lines, and then immediately stood up and backed away.  “Go!  You must leave!  Now!”  The reader’s voice would crack as they cowered into the corner, crying.  Man, that would give me the biggest smile.

Another scenario I always daydream about is more of a prank.  I need to find a good recording of screaming demons so that I could call my friends and when they answered, I’d just play the burning in fire and brimstone response.

I also pretend I’m Wolverine or John McClane when I’m in my hallways at work.  Man, this post went off rail… must be because of this beer I’m palm reading.

Palm reading is fundamental.

Palm reading is fundamental.

JusWondering… S#!% Misses the Fans, Number 2 (Ha! Get It?)

When we last left off, I was imagining, well, check the last post…

The wondering about how someone could pass out from trying to pass something parlayed into the training pants story: Apparently, somewhere not far from Lansing, there’s a strip club where guys can pay plenty to take a shower with two nude girls.  It could be one of those urban legends at MSU because no one had ever been there, but everyone knew someone that had.  The catch?  Guys had to wear adult size training pants over their drawers, for whatever this recollection’s worth.

The importance of this part is that it lead to what both of these posts was all about – how cool would it be to run over things with a steamroller?

Here’s a short list of things we wanted to flatten (in no particular order):

A watermelon – this worked for Letterman when he dropped things off his roof
A regular TV – picture tube and all
A flatscreen TV – why not?
A metal garbage can – because how else do you throw out a garbage can
An aluminum baseball bat – like a penny on the train track
A lava lamp – ooh, the colors…
The statue of Joe Lewis’s Fist – that would finally make it a piece of art

As MC Hammer says, You cant punch this...
As MC Hammer says, You cant punch this…

JusWondering… S#!% Misses The Fans (And The Drummer)

In the many, many random discussions I have with friends and family, there’s one I had awhile ago that I can’t quite shake.

Over the course of the ramblings (mind you, these topics flowed seamlessly into each other somehow), my cousin, Steve, and I touched upon Vh1’s “Freakiest Concert Moments,” wearing plastic training pants in a strip club, and how to go about renting a steamroller.

About the Vh1 special: Apparently, some band made a bet with their manager and he lost, or they won (I cannot find this story anywhere… plus I cannot watch Vh1 – except for “Surreal Life”).  Anythewho, the manager (or agent) had to hang upside down over the drummer nude during the show.  The band forgot about him and by the time they remembered, he had passed out.  I was expecting the tale to end with his eyes shooting out of his head, or to discover he suffered some serious brain damage (more than the drugs that caused the bet to go through ever could).  The true finale is even better.  He had passed out quite early during the show because he was trying to shit on the drummer to get his attention.  He tried so hard it made him pass out.

I tried to imagine how one might go about shitting while upside down.  You would obviously have to try to grab your ankles, right?  In order to aim down?  Because the last thing you’d want to experience while hanging upside down in the buff is to feel a trail of your own crap running up your back and into your hair.  I’m just saying.

(The rest of this exciting JusWondering to follow later… And if anyone has a clue which rock band this happened to, please comment below!)

Michigan Population, Now + 2

Holy crapola!  I was going to write a post about Daunte Culpepper getting signed to the Lions earlier, and I’m glad I waited…

The Answer is coming to the Pistons, too!  Allen Iverson wasn’t a big fan of our former coach, Larry Brown… or practice for that matter.

We have hadn’t this many marquee players in town since the 2003-4 Red Wings roster (even though hockey doesn’t really count, right rest of America?)

I mean, the 2006 Tigers had… I give up.  The last superstar we had is a gimme – Barry Sanders. 

(SIDENOTE: My buddy, Jay was a huge Barry fan.  He would have probably given anything to meet him.  One night, in a Canadian strip club, two of my other friends ran into him at the bar, and they exchanged words.  Barry left not soon after, and walked right past Jay as he was getting a $10 table dance.  I don’t know… I find it funny.)

Well, whether this is good news or not will play out in the future, but it may pay off for me much earlier.  You see, I have plans to get personalized sports jerseys for each of the teams.  I already have my #20 Seanders Lions Jersey.  I’m waiting to make sure Curtis Granderson is a Tigers’ franchise guy before I get a #28 Grandersean jersey, because I almost got a #14 Seanahan before Brendan Shanahan was traded to the Rangers (I hope he returns to retire with us, but I always have the option of #13 Datsean – #19 Yzersean seems to be pushing it).  Prior to Iverson, my best Piston pun would have been Taysean, but that’s Prince’s first name.  Could there be a Iversean jersey?

Anyhoopsandhuddles, welcome aboard, Daunte and Allen!  Hopefully, we don’t suck your souls.