Tag Archive: party


You drink like an asshole

This past weekend, I went to a large birthday party-slash-reunion party.  A ton of folks showed up, most were local, and quite a few from several states away.  It was big affair, and everyone showed up ready to party.

The fact that it was a big and well-attended affair didn’t mean that it was an overly fancy party.  Not in the least.  A modest buffet, a couple of kegs and a cash bar for mixed drinks.

That last part – the cash bar – is where it started to go pear-shaped.  Not because anyone got supremely blottoed (I fucking wish).  But because there were drinks ordered that NO ONE in this universe or the next should ever fucking order.

People have no fucking idea how to order mixed drinks at a bar.

It’s fucking deplorable that there are drinks that you’re allowed to order, and drinks no one should ever order, and no one knows this shit.  Maybe an easy way to determine between the two is to use a few rules.  These are my rules, I made them up.

  • If you order a drink that requires more than 3 ingredients, you’re an asshole.  In other words, fuck your Singapore Sling.
  • If your drink order takes more than 90 seconds to make, you’re an asshole.  You’re twice the asshole if it takes you more than 90 seconds to order your stupid drink.
  • If your drink has more than four syllables, you’re an asshole.  I hope you choke on your Long Island Iced Tea.
  • If your drink has some cute name, you’re an asshole.  You know what’s the best way to make a Fuzzy Navel?  You get a bottle of peach schnapps.  And you shove it up your ass.  Past your freshman year in college, there’s no fucking way you have any business ordering a Fuzzy Navel or a Sex On The Beach.  It’s your freshman year, you’re supposed to do stupid shit you know nothing about.  After that, if you order a Fuzzy Navel, you need to be stabbed.
  • If your drink order has to come from a “mixologist”, you’re an asshole.
  • If you call yourself a “mixologist”, you’re a huge asshole.  And a huge dickhead.

So, what does this mean?  This means no more fucking Mojitos.  The fucking things are so 10 years ago, at best.  I read this tweet the other week and it made my fucking week.  Enjoy your herpes in a glass, losers.

Nevermind how much trouble it is to make a mojito, the goddamn mojito is such a pretentious asshole drink to order.  “I want you to make me a rum drink that cloaks the rum taste with a mass floating bits of leaves.  It makes me feel sophistimacated.”  Fuck off.

And don’t you fucking dare order a Cosmo.  That drink violates the 4-syllable rule, and Sex And The City is pretty much one of the worst shows of all time.

Also off-limits are Whiskey Sours, Mudslides, Kamikazes, or anything with fucking Kahlua in it.  If your drink has part of a plant or, a flower in it, or it has different swirly colors, you’ve made a grave error, and you need to send that sumbitch back and order yourself a proper fucking drink.

Another thing you’re not allowed to order anymore: a martini.  You can’t be trusted to order a martini properly.  Because all of you fuck it up with vodka.  Fuck that.  Martinis are made with gin.  Only gin.  James Bond is a colossal douche for getting the martini wrong for 60 years.  Also, of course you fucking shake a martini – who the fuck stirs one.  Bottom line is if you’re not gonna get a gin martini, you’re not getting a martini at all.

Here’s the thing: a drink is a rite of passage.  It’s not a fucking toy.  It’s a several ounces of fulfillment you sip out of a glass to replenish yourself, physically and emotionally.  It’s something you should take some goddamn pride in.  How the fuck are you supposed to take some pride in yourself when you waddle up to some barkeep and order yourself an “orgasm”?

Stop being a douchebag to yourself.

But I don’t wanna come across as being some persistent naysayer, only harping on shit you can’t drink.  There’re a ton of drinks that are perfectly acceptable.  Again, these are my rules, I make them up.

  • You want something brown, get a Manhattan or a Sidecar.  These are classics that’ll never earn you a frown from your barkeep.  Too complicated?  You can NEVER go wrong with a single malt, neat.  Ever.  And don’t ever put your single malt on the rocks.  That’s like putting A1 sauce on a porterhouse.  Shitheads do that.  Don’t be a shithead.
  • You want something red, order a Negroni.  Done.
  • You want something green, fuck your Appletinis.  You get your hands on some absinthe or you can just fuck off.  You’re lucky I’m not putting brake fluid in your glass.
  • You want something blue, fuck you, you don’t ever fucking drink anything blue, dipshit.
  • You want something with tequila in it, try a tequila and tonic.  That’s right, tonic with fucking tequila in it.  Not gin, and not vodka, you unimaginative wank.  And stop being so scared of tequila.  Some of you treat tequila as if one whiff of it will send you into some PCP ragefest.  Calm the fuck down, it’s just tequila.  Tequila and tonic – with a slice of lemon – is one of the greatest summer drinks, so fucking get to it.

There you go.  Sort your shit out, and stop ordering dickhead drinks.  No one ever got in trouble ordering a beer (unless it’s got fruit in it, or needs to be served in stemware).  Or wine (although it may not yet be safe to order a Merlot).

So don’t say I never did anything for you.

 

 

This evening’s silly conversation:

TW:  “Dude, when was the last time you used a QR code?”

Me:  “Actually, the last time I used one was this weekend.”

TW:  “Really?  What for?”

Me:  “Well, I bought a new coat and it boasted some fucking snazzy heat-reflection technology bullshit.  And it came with a tag with a QR code on it.  So I clicked the code and a video played on my phone showing how this heat-reflection technology worked.”

MS:  “And that was the clincher?  The video?”

Me:  “No, the clincher was that the coat cost $25.  Where the hell are you gonna find some space age coat for $25?”

TW:  “I dunno, I hate QR codes.”

Me:  “No, don’t hate QR codes.  QR codes are great.  QR codes are fucking awesome.  Hate the douchebags who misuse QR codes, don’t hate the codes.  I love clicking on a code, and then it takes me to some cool content that probably can’t be accessed some other way.  That’s the whole point of QR codes.  That’s when QR codes are cool as fuck.  Instead, 99 times out of 100, what happens when you get when click on a QR code?  You’re taken to some stupid homepage.  Like I need your fucking code to take me to your homepage, especially when you put the code right next to your URL – assholes.  And half the time, it’s not even a mobile site, and everything’s fucking microscopic on your screen.  Die, you mobilephobic site, die.  Or you’re taken to something that takes a day and a half to load.  Or you see a QR code in a subway car – what fucking genius thought that one up?!  It’s just such a gross misuse of QR codes.

“I tell you what – QR codes are the Hoboken St. Patrick’s Day Parade of the digital world.  You have something that’s all nice and cool and properly organized for you – you get to drink in the streets for an entire day, for fuck’s sake! – and you have an opportunity to do lots fun and cool shit with it, make it somewhat exclusive or special… But instead, you act like a complete imbecile and you misuse and abuse the fucking thing, and you treat it like a little bitch, and you end up puking all over your girlfriend’s sister and her best friend, and wind up in the ER, and eventually, the mayor’s gonna come around and say, ‘Fuck you, this is why you can’t have nice things, you shitheads.’  And this is why QR codes need to die.”

 

Everyone:  “What is wrong with you.”

 

Day 28:  The final week.  Good, ‘cause I’m so tired of this shit.  I really am bored by the whole thing now.  No weigh-in today – we’re going to end the week with the final weigh-in and crown the winner.  One winner, while the rest of us can go on to feel completely dejected, and wallow in our self-loathing for having gone through hell for the last five weeks for fuck all.  Oh, and we’re totally allowed to hate the winner forever.  Because he or she will be skinny AND will have a pile of cash.

Day 29:  I fly out to lovely and balmy Scottsdale, AZ today.  As I’ve said, travel will be my undoing.  Traveling by yourself is one thing, traveling for work is completely different.  I’ve got colleagues who are not in this contest who will not be dragged down by my own constraints stemming from this contest, and why the hell should they.  Clients need to be entertained, fed, boozed up, and usually that’s quite delightful because I get to be entertained, fed, and boozed up along with them in the process.  The catch here is that I’m in the final stretch here, and everything I do – everything I consume, every minute I work out or don’t work out – will have some impact on me when I reach the end zone at the end of the week.

Why the fuck couldn’t this trip be to some place else?  I dunno, like DC or Atlanta or wherever.  No, it’s gotta be to Arizona.  What’s the fucking problem with Arizona?  Only the fact that in Arizona they have In-N-Out Burger out here.  This is so completely stupid, but I’m not at all lying when I say that I am completely powerless against In-N-Out.  I HAVE to have In-N-Out when I am within, say 20 miles of one.  I have done some stupid shit just to get my hands on In-N-Out.  I have, on more than one occasion, booked flights leaving at terribly inconvenient times when I’ve had to fly out to L.A. just so I could arrive with enough time to stop at the In-N-Out right by the airport before I needed to get to where I was going.  I once declined a lavish dinner at Nobu because it was my last night in L.A. and I hadn’t yet gone to In-N-Out, just so I could In-N-Out that night to get a Double Double Animal Style with a side of fries and a milkshake into my fat jiggly belly.  It is sad and pathetic how much of a slave I am to In-N-Out.  But then again, if you’ve had In-N-Out, you can probably understand why.  Maybe.

Going to Arizona today is going to be fucking disastrous.

Day 31: As a general rule, I loathe TV.  I used to watch the entire primetime line-up five days a week.  How the fuck I used to do that, I have no idea.  It’s all shite, and I lost all patience for shite a long, long time ago.  The only shows I don’t immediately turn off now are The Daily Show, Colbert, and Bourdain – that’s it (OK fine I’ll give Mad Men one more season, but I’m fast beginning tire of that shit, too).  This past month has been the WORST time in the world to watch any Bourdain show.  Here is this smug douche, going all over the world, doing all sorts of fun shit, and eating some of the most insane foods.  Needless to say, I’m usually starving when I’m watching No Reservations or The Layover.  And each time, Bourdain is indulging in glorious pork belly, wonderfully rich bone marrow, piles of shaved black truffle, the list goes on and fucking on.  The other day, there was some episode on Azorean food, and I just about licked my TV screen.

Day 32:  The finish line, thank God.  I damn near killed myself getting to this point.  I worked out at the crack of dawn in Phoenix yesterday, then hopped on a plane to fly home, and when I got home, I hit the gym one more time.  This morning, I cranked out another 45 minutes in the gym – I was going to burn off as much water weight as possible this time.  This is it, I’ve done all I can do.  So I get to the office and weigh in.  And…

WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER!!!

Holy fucking shit, I WON!!  No fucking way!  I never fucking win anything, and I fucking won this?!  Holy shit!  Net loss: 26.6lbs in 32 days.

And after 32 days, we all headed over to Hill Country BBQ, stuffed our faces with many, many pounds of meat, then went on an 8-hour bar hopping spree.

Thank God this whole thing is over.  This was by far the most ridiculous thing I’d done in a long time.  Now, on to pigging out during the Super Bowl.

Day 21:  Zero point zero.   That’s what I lost in this week’s weigh in.  Serves me right for forcing an Animal House reference last week.  Now I really have channeled the ghost of Blutarsky.  I lose the lead, natch, and fall back to second place.  A distant second place at that.  This is going every bit as terribly as I had imagined.  Last week’s careless binging cost me big.  Sonofabitch.

Day 22:  This isn’t really about the money anymore.  Sure, winning the pot would be sweet, but sweeter still is the gloating.  Bottom line is I’m a terrible, sore loser.

Day 23:  I may be slightly overdoing it in this final stretch.  Somehow I’ve cooked up (hah!) some demented regimen comprised of calculated starvation and doubling up on workouts.  Like I said last week, I think this may be part of this eating disorder I am unintentionally cultivating.  This exercise in desperation is causing me to be perpetually weary.  It’s like walking around in a hangover haze, but minus the awesome fun night before.  Picture for a moment, if you will, the complete and utter futility of that feeling.

Day 25:  I have lunch with a client today, which means I need to put up with about 5 minutes of ridicule over this stupid contest before our drinks even get to the table.  Fuck it, I’m gonna stick with it.  So I ask for the vegetarian menu (more ridicule erupts).  I go for a grilled vegetable sandwich, forgo the french fries that come with it, and replace it with a cucumber salad.  I am such a chick at this point.  The food arrives and the geniuses in the kitchen have completely SMOTHERED my grilled vegetables with a thick layer of cheese.  Dicks.  But I can’t send it back now ‘cause it’ll come back to me with no cheese but about a gallon of spit in it.  Fuck that.  I go ahead and eat the now-completely-pointless vegetarian sandwich.

Day 26:  It’s a birthday party for my younger kid!  YAY!!!  Pizza, cookies, icing, candy, and a delicious birthday cake the size of a small Mercedes.  He turns five and I turn fat – how great is that.

A sidebar about these fucking birthday parties – they all have to be themed now.  You can’t just let kids run around, have cake, and be done with it.  Everything’s gotta be wrapped around come central idea; nine times out of ten, it’s some goddamn cartoon or video game.  In this case, Kid Dos wanted a Tintin birthday party.  On the one hand, I am thrilled that he’s taken to Tintin the way I had when I was a kid.  Tintin fucking rules and I won’t take any argument about it.  On the other hand, because Yanks don’t give a shit about Tintin – Spielberg movie or not – there is no merchandising for Tintin.  Which in turn means that I can’t buy any Tintin shit for the party.  Which further means that I’m the one who had to design the Tintin-themed invitation, create Tintin artwork for all the partyware and giveaways, design a Tintin image so that the bakery could print it on some shitty waxy sheet (which will probably poison you if you eat a piece larger than a postage stamp) that they slap on top of a cake.  I had to design every goddamn thing for this party.  There’s gotta be an easier to do these things.  Kids parties drive me nuts.  Never have kids.