A Hot Night in Parochial Paradise

Last night I tasted a beer called Monkey Knife Fight. It was delicious.

I also got hit on by a 53-year-old man named Paul who used to be a rocket scientist but decided he wanted to go into work for himself and has now built some genius technology he hopes I will remember him for when it becomes all the rage. He did not tell me what this incredible breakthrough was. I’m not sure I’ll care when the time comes anyway. He was drunk as shit. He’s probably the school janitor.

Mom and cousin Allie stole a massive beer sign and then couldn’t find their way out of the school, so they walked it out into the middle of some back parking lot and left it on the windshield of someone’s SUV. The owners were probably too inebriated to notice.

The highlight of the evening was peeing in a high school bathroom. Man, if there’s ever an experience I don’t need to relive from my youth, it’s the joys of the perpetually-grungy school bathroom. I expected better from a private school. Obviously my expectations are way too high for an educational institution that costs more per year than most state colleges. But as I remarked to the girl standing next to me at the sink, at least there was toilet paper and hand soap.

The evening was hot as a bitch. I wore capris and a short-sleeve blouse, and I still sweated like a whore in church. Which technically makes sense since I WAS in the middle of a giant Christian school, complete with the three-story iron cross in the main courtyard under which I consumed a fat glass of really tasty tempranillo and ate a fistful of shrimp and Spanish tortilla. Allegedly there was some fantastic barbecued whatnots going on, but the heat kept me from getting close enough to find out. Too many bodies and too much grillin’. Mom told one of the alumni he was an ass. I was outwardly mortified but inwardly proud. He was definitely being an ass. We asked him if he was pouring any red other than merlot and he replied “No. Better move along then.” Fucker.

I think the beer tasting portion of the event was far more impressive than the wine tasting portion. I dug into some organic pomegranate hard cider, a delicious IPA from god-knows-where (seriously, by that time of the night, people were just handing me stuff and going “Taste this!” and I wasn’t asking any questions), and more heffies than I’ve ever encountered before.

Amusingly enough, as we were sitting at my aunt’s house afterwards, we passed around a portable breathalyzer to see who was still legal to drive. Almost everyone blew .08 or above. I blew .00 and got ruthlessly ridiculed for it. Thing is, I don’t go to tastings and get plotzed. I go to, you know, taste. So I kept my portions and number of tastings to a reasonable level. Though I have to admit I was still surprised by the results. I was definitely feeling the effects of the tasting. Oh well. That’s what you get for buying a $30 piece of crap from SharperImage, right?

They Call Me Han

You’ll be proud of me. This morning while grocery shopping at a big box store that shall remain nameless because although they provide me with the best prices for frozen foods, they are a giant pile of shit on the American economy, I managed to resist the urge to impulsively purchase a gargantuan Millennium Falcon. I don’t even know what the damn thing did except look cool. And the price was gobsmacking.

And then I thought “WTF am I going to do with a huge Millennium Falcon? Hang it from my eight-foot ceilings?”

So no. I have no Millennium Falcon. I shall have to live my dream of being a character in the Star Wars franchise another day.