The topic of whiskey came up tonight, and that reminded us of this great story from November 2007. Enjoy:
Apparently I should not be allowed out in public after sharing 3/4 of a bottle of whiskey with Stacey.
We spent most of Black Friday trying to figure out what to do with ourselves. The world was our oyster, but it was a cold oyster, and most of the fun stuff we could think of required a lot of outdoor walking around. We REALLY wanted to go shopping, but not along with the crazed hordes of sleep-deprived soccer moms who'd been at the mall since 4 am. I am in dire need of warm clothing and boots, but I knew that it would only take about five minutes at the mall before I went postal and started shooting bolas de fuego from my eyes.
So shopping was out. I asked Stacey if she wanted to go bowling. I figured we could have a few beers, maybe some snacks, roll a few balls, and it would kill an hour or two. She agreed and we went down the street to the bowling alley, prepaid for two games and our shoes and got all set up at lane 25. I found my trusty 6-pound ball, typed our names into the computer and then headed right to the bar. We discussed drink options while we waited for someone to come take our order. After a few minutes, the crusty old hag behind the counter yelled over to us from the snack bar section. "The bar isn't open yet!"
WHAT? The bar is not open yet?? I couldn't believe my ears. "When will it be open?" I asked her, trying to remain positive.
"Not until 5:30."
It was only a little after 2. We were fucked. We walked back to lane 25, sober and dejected. "This is bullshit!" I yelled. "How can the bar be closed? This is a bowling alley! I can't have a beer while I'm bowling?? Isn't this AMERICA?!?!"
But, we tried to make the best of the situation. Especially since I had already paid for us to bowl two games. We figured we would just get those two games out of the way as quickly and painlessly as possible (easier said than done with NO BEER!), and then head to Nipper's. In my very first frame, I threw a strike. The screen above our lane flashed with the big red X and then a little animated scene began. It showed a mug of beer sliding down a lane and smashing into all of the pins. Then the screen mocked me and proclaimed this was a "BEER FRAME!"
That started my rant all over again. "How can it be a beer frame when the bar is closed? That's fucking false advertising!"
I managed to bowl a 115 in that first game, which is a pretty decent score for me. Especially when you consider my technique. My Uncle Paul and his college buddies were the ones that taught it to me. They called it Ogre Bowling. First, you find the smallest ball you can. I like the six-pound ones they keep in the back for the little kids. Then you get a good running start and launch the ball as hard as you can down the lane. Even if you don't get it right up the middle, the sheer force behind it will usually mean that a lot of pins go down. Usually because they knock into each other after flying through the air. It's great fun.
Stacey's bowling technique is much different. First of all, she likes to cross the foul line and make the buzzer go off. Then the little referee animation comes on and yells at her. So then she takes the ball (She usually goes for the basic eleven-pounder, but this place is prejudiced against odd numbers so she switched off between a ten and a twelve) and walks all the way up to the beginning of the lane, turns around backwards, and tosses it between her legs. This usually gets her a strike. It's amazing to watch.
Shit. I got all caught up in the bowling story and now I'm losing steam. I'll never get around to explaining that opening line if I don't get on with it. Right.
Like I said, after the bowling alley we went to Nipper's. They also managed to disappoint us in various ways before our time there was up. I wanted to get some lunch since I hadn't eaten anything yet that day. Stacey had already eaten, but she got a crock of french onion soup anyway. I ordered a salad with chicken on it, and ranch dressing on the side. When the bartender delivered it, I took the lid off the little sauce cup of ranch dressing and noticed something strange right away. It looked really thick and seemed the wrong color. I sniffed it and thought it smelled a little bit like mayonnaise. But it didn't look EXACTLY like mayonnaise, and I did sort of smell ranch dressing too, so I asked Stacey for her opinion. She agreed that it seemed strange so we tasted it. It did have that little tang to it like ranch dressing normally does, so I figured it must be okay and dumped it all over my salad.
About three bites in, I realize that I taste mayonnaise. But I can't figure it out exactly, because I also taste ranch dressing. What the fuck? Stacey suggested that maybe they were running low on dressing & mixed it with mayo to make it last longer. I don't know. But whatever it was, it was starting to make me feel sick to my stomach so I stopped eating it.
Meanwhile, we still don't know what the fuck to do with ourselves for the rest of the day. It was still pretty early in the afternoon at this point and my ideas were running out just as fast as the disappointments were mounting up. Then I remembered that Nipper's has The Society Page by the door so I ran and grabbed one. We leafed through it, promising each other that if some asshole with a camera ever walked up to us in a bar and asked us to pose with The Society Page, we would promptly tell him to fuck off because we so don't want to be these girls. Towards the back I spotted an ad for O'Malley's that said Don't Call Me Francis was playing there that night. Stacey decided she needed a new memory there, so it was decided. We finally had a plan.
Unfortunately, our plan hit a speed bump right away. The band probably wouldn't hit the stage until at least nine, maybe later. That gave us something like five or six hours left to fill. What the FUCK were we going to do?
Somehow or other we came to the conclusion that the only thing left to do was go back home and crack open the bottle of whiskey that my Aunt Kathy gave me at Thanksgiving the day before. She is moving and cleaning out her house, and apparently they had a treasure trove of unopened liquor bottles that people had given to them as gifts over the years. They were just collecting dust and she didn't want to move them to the new house, considering they were obviously never going to drink the stuff. So I got a big basket of booze to take home.
I poured myself a glass and put on Eddie Murphy Delirious. We drank whiskey and giggled and said some of the lines right along with him. When Delirious was over, I put Raw in and we continued drinking and giggling. The sky grew darker, the whiskey bottle grew emptier, and before I knew it the credits were rolling and it was time to freshen up and head out.
I would like to point out at this juncture that the next morning I woke up and went into the bathroom to discover a half-drunk glass of whiskey sitting on the counter next to the curling iron, which was STILL TURNED ON. Yay whiskey!
Considering the state I left the bathroom in, I wonder what I looked like when we left the house. Did I even curl my hair? Did I reapply my makeup? I have no idea. I was probably nothing short of a hot mess.
Stacey drove, and when we got there we were delightfully surprised to find out that there was free valet parking. The valet parking guys were delighted by us as well. First, we made a big scene getting out of the car and yelling about putting things in the trunk. Then we walked into the bar, realized we still had our coats on, and turned around to go harass the valet guy some more. He walked us over to the heated garage in the back and we threw our coats in the car. Then, the real trouble began.
A bouncer sat at the door taking money and handing out bracelets. Don't Call Me Francis apparently rates a $10 cover. I thought nothing of this at the time because I had a wad of twenties in my hand, but the guy in front of us in line was very distressed. He was arguing with the bouncer about the outrageous cover charge, and trying to convince him that he knew "Frank." The bouncer was not impressed.
"I don't know any Frank," the bouncer told the cheap man ahead of us in line. "I know Francis."
I got bored of this scene very quickly and shoved a twenty dollar bill at the bouncer. "You won't have any problems from us!" I told him, pushing the cheap man and his girlfriend aside. The bouncer looked relieved for the intervention and handed us bracelets. We left the cheap couple there to fend for themselves.
Now, from here on in I have no real recollection of anything I was saying. Stacey could probably tell you better than I can. What I do know is that I was a ranting, whiskey-drunk asshole and that no one was safe from my scathing judgments. I was screaming at top volume all night long about this fat girl and her shiny shirt, and some dude with a watch. I made fun of the singer, the band members, and basically anyone that entered my field of vision. Stacey did not know what to do with me at all. She alternated between telling me to "Rein it in, Dana! Rein it in!" and falling on the floor convulsing with laughter.
She told me in the morning some of the things I was saying about these poor people, and I'm honestly surprised that I didn't get either kicked out of the bar or beaten up by that fat girl in the shiny shirt. Then again, Stacey kept telling me to knock it off and I would scream at her, "NO! I'll fucking fight that bitch if she has a problem with it! I'm not going to be quiet! Fuck her!" So I guess anyone in their right mind would've known better than to provoke me any further. It's not like the entire bar couldn't hear every word I was saying.
The fat girl in the shiny shirt was ridiculed for not only her weight and her clothing, but also because she was drinking a glass of wine. The guy she was there with got ridiculed just for being there with her. I believe Stacey told me I acted out a conversation between the two of them which had her laughing so hard she couldn't breathe, and then one of the fat girl's friends showed up and I yelled out, "Oh my God! Look at her FUCKING FRIEND!!"
The friend heard this and looked at me curiously. I turned back to Stacey and said, "Oh, shit. I think she heard me!" It was at this point that I finally let her drag me away from there, but it didn't take long for me to find someone new to yell about. "Look at those fat girls next to us! They should be in the corner or something!" I yelled, much to Stacey's dismay. Then, the fat girls decided to take a seat in a corner booth and I was overjoyed. "Oh look! They know they belong in the corner! Look at them go!" Beyond the Fat Girl Corner, I spotted a private party in the back room and said, "They look like they're all from West Virginia. Or Gloucester City. One of those." (O'Malley's is in Gloucester City, FYI)
I got dragged away again, and we went to go stand by the juke box. This was where Watch Boy and his friend Pink Shirt came into the picture. They asked us to scoot over a little so they could pick some songs on the jukebox. I told them it would be no problem for us to get out of their way, but that we were going to stand right next to them and ridicule all of their song choices. And we so did. I also decided that they must be dating each other, because who else would want them? And then I threw out an Eddie Murphy line from earlier. "I'm gonna bend over, and when I do, START FUCKING!"
Finally the band came on and I was distracted, at least temporarily, by the music. We danced for a bit, and I remained quiet until I noticed the girl dancing in front of me. "What is with her and those leggings?" I asked Stacey. "Is she serious?"
I really wish I could remember more of what I said. And it's not really like I have blank spots in my memory other than the actual words that were coming out of my mouth. I remember all of the images vividly. I remember the party of West Virginians, the shiny shirt girl with her glass of wine, the boys by the juke box. I remember every moment, I just have no idea what I was saying the entire time. This was a night when I REALLY could have used the tape recorder. It's a shame I didn't bring it with me.
Maybe if you're lucky, Stacey will rehash some of the finer points for you in the comments section.
Apparently I should not be allowed out in public after sharing 3/4 of a bottle of whiskey with Stacey.
We spent most of Black Friday trying to figure out what to do with ourselves. The world was our oyster, but it was a cold oyster, and most of the fun stuff we could think of required a lot of outdoor walking around. We REALLY wanted to go shopping, but not along with the crazed hordes of sleep-deprived soccer moms who'd been at the mall since 4 am. I am in dire need of warm clothing and boots, but I knew that it would only take about five minutes at the mall before I went postal and started shooting bolas de fuego from my eyes.
So shopping was out. I asked Stacey if she wanted to go bowling. I figured we could have a few beers, maybe some snacks, roll a few balls, and it would kill an hour or two. She agreed and we went down the street to the bowling alley, prepaid for two games and our shoes and got all set up at lane 25. I found my trusty 6-pound ball, typed our names into the computer and then headed right to the bar. We discussed drink options while we waited for someone to come take our order. After a few minutes, the crusty old hag behind the counter yelled over to us from the snack bar section. "The bar isn't open yet!"
WHAT? The bar is not open yet?? I couldn't believe my ears. "When will it be open?" I asked her, trying to remain positive.
"Not until 5:30."
It was only a little after 2. We were fucked. We walked back to lane 25, sober and dejected. "This is bullshit!" I yelled. "How can the bar be closed? This is a bowling alley! I can't have a beer while I'm bowling?? Isn't this AMERICA?!?!"
But, we tried to make the best of the situation. Especially since I had already paid for us to bowl two games. We figured we would just get those two games out of the way as quickly and painlessly as possible (easier said than done with NO BEER!), and then head to Nipper's. In my very first frame, I threw a strike. The screen above our lane flashed with the big red X and then a little animated scene began. It showed a mug of beer sliding down a lane and smashing into all of the pins. Then the screen mocked me and proclaimed this was a "BEER FRAME!"
That started my rant all over again. "How can it be a beer frame when the bar is closed? That's fucking false advertising!"
I managed to bowl a 115 in that first game, which is a pretty decent score for me. Especially when you consider my technique. My Uncle Paul and his college buddies were the ones that taught it to me. They called it Ogre Bowling. First, you find the smallest ball you can. I like the six-pound ones they keep in the back for the little kids. Then you get a good running start and launch the ball as hard as you can down the lane. Even if you don't get it right up the middle, the sheer force behind it will usually mean that a lot of pins go down. Usually because they knock into each other after flying through the air. It's great fun.
Stacey's bowling technique is much different. First of all, she likes to cross the foul line and make the buzzer go off. Then the little referee animation comes on and yells at her. So then she takes the ball (She usually goes for the basic eleven-pounder, but this place is prejudiced against odd numbers so she switched off between a ten and a twelve) and walks all the way up to the beginning of the lane, turns around backwards, and tosses it between her legs. This usually gets her a strike. It's amazing to watch.
Shit. I got all caught up in the bowling story and now I'm losing steam. I'll never get around to explaining that opening line if I don't get on with it. Right.
Like I said, after the bowling alley we went to Nipper's. They also managed to disappoint us in various ways before our time there was up. I wanted to get some lunch since I hadn't eaten anything yet that day. Stacey had already eaten, but she got a crock of french onion soup anyway. I ordered a salad with chicken on it, and ranch dressing on the side. When the bartender delivered it, I took the lid off the little sauce cup of ranch dressing and noticed something strange right away. It looked really thick and seemed the wrong color. I sniffed it and thought it smelled a little bit like mayonnaise. But it didn't look EXACTLY like mayonnaise, and I did sort of smell ranch dressing too, so I asked Stacey for her opinion. She agreed that it seemed strange so we tasted it. It did have that little tang to it like ranch dressing normally does, so I figured it must be okay and dumped it all over my salad.
About three bites in, I realize that I taste mayonnaise. But I can't figure it out exactly, because I also taste ranch dressing. What the fuck? Stacey suggested that maybe they were running low on dressing & mixed it with mayo to make it last longer. I don't know. But whatever it was, it was starting to make me feel sick to my stomach so I stopped eating it.
Meanwhile, we still don't know what the fuck to do with ourselves for the rest of the day. It was still pretty early in the afternoon at this point and my ideas were running out just as fast as the disappointments were mounting up. Then I remembered that Nipper's has The Society Page by the door so I ran and grabbed one. We leafed through it, promising each other that if some asshole with a camera ever walked up to us in a bar and asked us to pose with The Society Page, we would promptly tell him to fuck off because we so don't want to be these girls. Towards the back I spotted an ad for O'Malley's that said Don't Call Me Francis was playing there that night. Stacey decided she needed a new memory there, so it was decided. We finally had a plan.
Unfortunately, our plan hit a speed bump right away. The band probably wouldn't hit the stage until at least nine, maybe later. That gave us something like five or six hours left to fill. What the FUCK were we going to do?
Somehow or other we came to the conclusion that the only thing left to do was go back home and crack open the bottle of whiskey that my Aunt Kathy gave me at Thanksgiving the day before. She is moving and cleaning out her house, and apparently they had a treasure trove of unopened liquor bottles that people had given to them as gifts over the years. They were just collecting dust and she didn't want to move them to the new house, considering they were obviously never going to drink the stuff. So I got a big basket of booze to take home.
I poured myself a glass and put on Eddie Murphy Delirious. We drank whiskey and giggled and said some of the lines right along with him. When Delirious was over, I put Raw in and we continued drinking and giggling. The sky grew darker, the whiskey bottle grew emptier, and before I knew it the credits were rolling and it was time to freshen up and head out.
I would like to point out at this juncture that the next morning I woke up and went into the bathroom to discover a half-drunk glass of whiskey sitting on the counter next to the curling iron, which was STILL TURNED ON. Yay whiskey!
Considering the state I left the bathroom in, I wonder what I looked like when we left the house. Did I even curl my hair? Did I reapply my makeup? I have no idea. I was probably nothing short of a hot mess.
Stacey drove, and when we got there we were delightfully surprised to find out that there was free valet parking. The valet parking guys were delighted by us as well. First, we made a big scene getting out of the car and yelling about putting things in the trunk. Then we walked into the bar, realized we still had our coats on, and turned around to go harass the valet guy some more. He walked us over to the heated garage in the back and we threw our coats in the car. Then, the real trouble began.
A bouncer sat at the door taking money and handing out bracelets. Don't Call Me Francis apparently rates a $10 cover. I thought nothing of this at the time because I had a wad of twenties in my hand, but the guy in front of us in line was very distressed. He was arguing with the bouncer about the outrageous cover charge, and trying to convince him that he knew "Frank." The bouncer was not impressed.
"I don't know any Frank," the bouncer told the cheap man ahead of us in line. "I know Francis."
I got bored of this scene very quickly and shoved a twenty dollar bill at the bouncer. "You won't have any problems from us!" I told him, pushing the cheap man and his girlfriend aside. The bouncer looked relieved for the intervention and handed us bracelets. We left the cheap couple there to fend for themselves.
Now, from here on in I have no real recollection of anything I was saying. Stacey could probably tell you better than I can. What I do know is that I was a ranting, whiskey-drunk asshole and that no one was safe from my scathing judgments. I was screaming at top volume all night long about this fat girl and her shiny shirt, and some dude with a watch. I made fun of the singer, the band members, and basically anyone that entered my field of vision. Stacey did not know what to do with me at all. She alternated between telling me to "Rein it in, Dana! Rein it in!" and falling on the floor convulsing with laughter.
She told me in the morning some of the things I was saying about these poor people, and I'm honestly surprised that I didn't get either kicked out of the bar or beaten up by that fat girl in the shiny shirt. Then again, Stacey kept telling me to knock it off and I would scream at her, "NO! I'll fucking fight that bitch if she has a problem with it! I'm not going to be quiet! Fuck her!" So I guess anyone in their right mind would've known better than to provoke me any further. It's not like the entire bar couldn't hear every word I was saying.
The fat girl in the shiny shirt was ridiculed for not only her weight and her clothing, but also because she was drinking a glass of wine. The guy she was there with got ridiculed just for being there with her. I believe Stacey told me I acted out a conversation between the two of them which had her laughing so hard she couldn't breathe, and then one of the fat girl's friends showed up and I yelled out, "Oh my God! Look at her FUCKING FRIEND!!"
The friend heard this and looked at me curiously. I turned back to Stacey and said, "Oh, shit. I think she heard me!" It was at this point that I finally let her drag me away from there, but it didn't take long for me to find someone new to yell about. "Look at those fat girls next to us! They should be in the corner or something!" I yelled, much to Stacey's dismay. Then, the fat girls decided to take a seat in a corner booth and I was overjoyed. "Oh look! They know they belong in the corner! Look at them go!" Beyond the Fat Girl Corner, I spotted a private party in the back room and said, "They look like they're all from West Virginia. Or Gloucester City. One of those." (O'Malley's is in Gloucester City, FYI)
I got dragged away again, and we went to go stand by the juke box. This was where Watch Boy and his friend Pink Shirt came into the picture. They asked us to scoot over a little so they could pick some songs on the jukebox. I told them it would be no problem for us to get out of their way, but that we were going to stand right next to them and ridicule all of their song choices. And we so did. I also decided that they must be dating each other, because who else would want them? And then I threw out an Eddie Murphy line from earlier. "I'm gonna bend over, and when I do, START FUCKING!"
Finally the band came on and I was distracted, at least temporarily, by the music. We danced for a bit, and I remained quiet until I noticed the girl dancing in front of me. "What is with her and those leggings?" I asked Stacey. "Is she serious?"
I really wish I could remember more of what I said. And it's not really like I have blank spots in my memory other than the actual words that were coming out of my mouth. I remember all of the images vividly. I remember the party of West Virginians, the shiny shirt girl with her glass of wine, the boys by the juke box. I remember every moment, I just have no idea what I was saying the entire time. This was a night when I REALLY could have used the tape recorder. It's a shame I didn't bring it with me.
Maybe if you're lucky, Stacey will rehash some of the finer points for you in the comments section.
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