02/02/2005 - 4:24 p.m. | misplaced entry

See, I never actually "forget" to write these things. I just lose track of them now and then (Yes, one can lose a weekend, five days, a month here or there), but then all of a sudden, I find it! And give it to you. America. So enjoy it already!

1/13/05 and so on...

This is when Missy visited. What can we piece together? There was many a drunken night. She came, and I danced about for her, for I had already been drinking. Actually, much drinking indeed. I recall we were trying to sleep that night, and there was much screaming and crashing downstairs as the world (mostly Kyle) tried to figure out where Spritz was. He was insanely worried and ran around illogically. Meanwhile, the upstairs and wiser knew that he had left by automobile and was returning shortly, girlthing in tow. Would we reveal this secret, however? Never. Smacko was in town, only for the evening, only to get drunk and stoned out of his mind. He brought another Kevin with him who was absolutely gone and pretty much threw up everywhere. Well, we always need one of those around!! We played our EyeToy and contemplated going to the Rose Bowl Country Western Dance Bar, but it was running like a motherfucker. Like a motherfucker. Then the rain turned to snow. Did I already relate this anecdote to you? If so, I'm sorry, but I'm doing it again because it is a good one.

My standard solution for fixing my car when it freezes shut (and it always does), is to pour a vodka bottle filled with hot water on it. Then, you dry off the door as best you can and pray for the best. Well, as always, Satan overrides the Lord Jesus in my case, so we were driving to cross the guard, having opened my door in the aforementioned manner, but alas, when we had arrived, it appeared the door had refrozen, that we were stuck inside, and that we were going to die. At least that was Missy's impression. I knew we wouldn't die, but it could not do well for my job prospects as I sat there in my car listening to Mancow as the children I was supposed to be protecting darted through traffic. Eventually, I did pop the sucker open (right as the second bell rang), and we headed home for hot cocoa.

Old Man returned to us twice more. Once, on the day of hellish snow I just mentioned. I lost the "not it" [god damn stupid bullshit childish game i never ever win at fuck fuck fuck] and was eventually forced to speak at him. Yes, you can shovel our sidewalk as long as you don't hit me with your shovel. I will give you some money but slightly less than last time, so maybe you'll get the idea. He didn't. Or maybe he did, because he next plan was brilliant in its simplicity. Shovel the sidewalks first (ineptly, of course), then ask for money since the job was already done. But then, he didn't count on having to deal with Spritz then either, did he? The rest of us would have caved, but not Schlomo Feingold (as I now refer to him). Old Man left with a threatening "I'LL BE BACK," but luckily, he has not since.

Thursday night, Missy and I drove home to Sheridan to meet my parents. I pointed out sights along the way ("There is Foosland. They invented foosball there.") We didn't do much besides eat, to my recollection, but that's fine because we are both as skinny as fuck. Played some board games, sat around doing not much, trying to decide what to do (Walshes + Missy = Indecisive Jubilee 2005!!), went out to see Steve Sharp. Got sort of soused on wine hehehe. I feel like I'm probably so boring to Missy, but I dunno, what do I really do with my time anyway? I could hardly begin to tell you. I read or watch TV or movies. Sometimes I write, sometimes I drink. Class and work. That's it. What good am I?

We drove home, eating sunflower seeds and listening to shit radio at my discretion, meeting up with everyone (including Ducky and Smacko!) at Legends for football!! Shelly threw egg chunks at me, the bitch. I bought about a dozen double rum and whatevers for the people at my table, sometimes dropping off one order to go and get another seconds later. Somehow the bartenders remain unsuspicious. God bless college towns. To home we came (by way of Schnucks for yet more drinkery) so as to play Smacko's completely awesome Sandlot drinking game. I trust you remember the movie and, like everyone, you sort of love it and watch it pretty much any time it's on TV. Well, now you can fuel your alcoholism with it! It's pretty much the perfect game, too. It starts slow and builds to the point where practically everyone is too smashed to finish. And remember, camera changes do count! So, if they show The Beast from one angle and then switch to a long shot, that's two drinks, chief. Good luck!

Drink when:
-they show or mention Babe Ruth (or any of his nicknames)
-they show or mention The Beast
-Yeah-Yeah says "Yeah, yeah"
-they show or mention Wendy Peffercorn
-Ham says, "You're killin' me, Smalls!"

Doesn't sound so bad, does it? Well, tell that to all the violently ill people sitting around that Sunday evening.

The plan was maybe to go to bed then, but that quickly ended when Smacko threw a bucket of pennies at my door. Apparently, they had decided to go stealin', and Smacko had made a sweet score of $21 in rolls of pennies in a big plastic jar. He wanted me to find them, so he stealthily tried to place them through my door. By pitching them. We got up at that point. Other scores of the evening included a couple blankets, numerous pairs of pants and jackets, a backpack filled with hundreds upon hundreds of Chinese food menus, and half of a mysterious frozen pizza that Ducky devoured and breathed on me. Ducky (or as we now call him, Drunky) was in quite a state that evening, somewhere between "catatonic" and "undead." Apparently he had made it his goal for the evening to finish an entire 18 pack of Icehouse cans, and he very nearly did so. It's so good to have goals. Lesser men would have been dead, but Ducky was only in something of a walking coma. His mental defenses remained intact, however. "Ducky, are you feeling all right, man?" "Yeah, I'm fine. Where's the beer?" "Are you sure, dude? You seem pretty gone." "I'm great, man. Just show me where the beer is at." There is no doubt in mind that this autopilot system of his has gotten him through many an adventure over at UMR. "Sir, I'm sad to report that you're legally dead." "That's fine, just another beer." He sat playing stupid Mario Kart ripoff "Crash Team Racing" with Shelly, who sadly has to resort to cretins and drunks to quench her competitive urges. I'm surprised Drunky's heart was beating on its own by this point, let alone that he would have the ability to guide Tiny Tiger to the NITRO crate. Stupid game. Somehow, however, Ducky retained the knowledge from weeks earlier of how specifically to access the Magic Bullet informerical on demand. Then, upon learning that, yes, in fact, I would be watching the whole thing, he started pawing at me like a zombie, grunting occasionally for beer. When I tried to leave him later, he wrapped me in a headlock and breathed more pizza fumes on me, probably falling over a few times in the process. What a lovable oaf!

Did I mention that a drunk, angry Shanks possibly shat himself on our couch? Oh wait - that was the next weekend. We had a few smell tests, however, and it was most foul.