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Posts Tagged ‘beer’

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Don't be that girl. Unless it's your birthday. Or you just got divorced.

The pressures of life and bills and relationships make it reasonable, nay necessary, to socialize with others and indulge in alcohol from time to time.   Of course the way that you interpret “from time to time” is up for speculation.   My cousin, friends and I decided to center our imbibing around a “super sports weekend” consisting of the Broncos/Patriots game and game 3 of the NLDS with the Rockies and Phillies.

Thanks to the subarctic temperatures in Denver Saturday night the baseball game was moved to Sunday, meaning that rather running the 100, this was more like the 1600…summer Olympics style.  A veritable marathon of talking, dancing, drinking, games and sports- – there was going to be some required stamina and decorum.  Looking back on how the weekend went, involving 1 arrest, a couple upheave episodes and several trainwreck bruises,scratches and wipeouts, it seems pertinent to use our collective group of 8 to lay a few ground rules about how – and how not- to be a class-A drunk.  It’s like a case study for the extremely hammered!

The wrongs:

1) The world is not your bathroom, don’t make it out to be: This is especially important should you find yourself involved in any type of outdoor festival, tailgating or public event.  Peeing on walls, yourself or in bottles (unless you have eagle eye aim) is for cavemen or cocker spaniels.  We are classy women and men here.  Find bathrooms before your 7 bottles of IPA because you know what?  That bush that you think is a hidden forest is pretty see thru once you’re blitzed.

Addendum: Use the bathrooms of your own gender.  A girl trying to go in a urinal is only funny to that girl and flashing genitals to the opposite sex at a sporting event only happens on Cinemax, not in real life.

2) Don’t Get Lippy: Unless you are provoked, don’t be the provoker.  A little ribbing when you kill someone in Cornhole is expected.  Unloading dirty expletives on the stadium worker who won’t sell you 9 beers at once is bad taste.  Now I swear like a sailor.  Much more than what is considered ‘classy.’ But the skank factor goes up to volume 11 if not only am I holding my own pint of Jack Daniels, but also screaming at someone “You Don’t Know Me!” It’s the equivalent of holding four children on my hip in front of a double wide.

3) Walk, don’t Run: I’ll use my self as an example for this one.  In my excitement for football during the weekend, I ran towards Invesco field only to find myself bite it, sprawling forward into some orange construction netting.  No one looks sophisticated sprawled out like one of those chalk drawings of murder victims. I now have to brush off at work why it looks like I had unsuccessfully tried to fight Mr. T all weekend.

If you are going to run, or need to (from the police, I’ll get to that in a second), make sure it’s early on in the game and not after 4 solid hours of drinking.  Ever see a pretty girl in a dress at a wedding with lots of cuts and bruises on her legs?  That girl has been running drunk.  Not cute.

Addendum:  If you can barely walk in the shoes you put on pre-drunk, you don’t have a shot in hell post-drunk.  I was wearing Uggs and still managed to almost cripple myself.  I’m not saying go the orthopedic route, but be honest about how fucked up you really plan on getting and act accordingly.

4) If you get caught by the police, they win: You can run, swerve, fake out, do the Heisman pose… but if the police get you, it’s game over.  Calling them pigs, swearing, spitting or throwing your beer only makes your time in the drunk tank that much worse.  Our friend during this weekend got her assault on and ended up in surgical booties and a holding cell which she likened to Alcatraz.  “They were so mean to me,” she said.  Well no kidding.

The rights:

1) Find an auspicious time to throw up: Yes, no one looks classy or regal throwing up.  Yeh, maybe you shouldn’t have drank that much.  But sometimes it happens!  Take a cue from my friend Diane who at the top of Invesco field managed to throw up in a french fry container with only her companions knowing!  Quiet, head forward, like nothing happened.  She also managed to say “Pardon me, hold on please, I’m going to throw up now”  several times.  That is the way a real lady would do it.  This style also comes in handy for women’s social functions when you can’t stand the lady talking about her ‘amazing, supportive husband’ or her ‘spiritual trip to Thailand’ and you find yourself downing vodka martinis.

2) The more polite you are, the less people focus on your hammer time: Using phrases such as “excuse me” “sorry” and “thank you” allow people to focus on you kindness and way less on your ability to beer bong like it’s a night game, mid season with your team going 7-0 ! You can bet they’re a little blizted too and the Mary-Sunshine Martha Stewart attitude goes a long way.

3) Continue to Tip Well: This goes along with politeness.  If you’re 5 patron shots in and you are still tipping at least 20 percent?  Not only are you a classy drunk, but you can do your math!  “Goddamn genius from a nice family” is what people will be muttering behind you (at least that’s what I pretend is happening!)

Point being, if you’re American and a breathing homosapien there’s a good chance you’ve been drunk.  But unless you’re 19, being “that guy/girl” is no longer acceptable.  Take a cue from the Irish and not only be wasted, but also fully functional.

It’s all about multitasking.

And we love that in the U.S.A.

And if you’re unsure?  Just yell “Michael Phelps is a classy drunk!!”

No one will question you.

Skelladay

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1. guy’s girl
 
That great girl who can just chill and be ‘one of the guys’. She’s into sports, beer, action flicks and doesn’t give a damn what others think.
However, unlike the tomboy, she has her gang of girl mates who she shops with and does girly stuff.
When attractive, this girl is mysterious and elusive. Acts aloof and gives off the ‘cool girl’ aura, like she’s very aware of both guys’ and girls’ worlds.

 

These would surely be flown on a ceiling fan.

 

 

“You’re dad must be awesome.”

 

“You’re a dad’s girl aren’t you?”

And my personal favorite (from Doug the other day) : “Hungover in Nashville? But you drink more than most guys.”

Ahhh yes, the saccharine sweet sounds of being a guy’s girl.  The girl that gets put in head locks and splits bills and honestly knows what Bucky *fuckin* Dent means without slyly navigating to Google.com on her Blackberry Pearl.  She knows about the German Purity law of 1516 and why it makes Hefeweizen taste so damn good.  She does tailgates and strip clubs, and no not to be a faux Katy Perry lesbian but because her pals knows that nothing they possibly say or do there would make her bat one lash of her DiorShow Mascara-d eye.  And plus it’s just too damn far away to take her home beforehand.

Hi my name is Sara Kelly and I’ an alcohol-,er, guy’s girl.

I know, I know.  What am I complaining about? Boys as far as the eye can see.  Trips to go hang out with *my boys*  Funny text messages from *my boys*  Hugs, and fist bumps and cramming in between 5 of *my boys* on the couch to watch soccer/hockey/football/baseball/insert anything drinking or competitively related here.

You wanna know why I’m complaining?  Here’s a list:

Nicknames: What does a girl call two girls both named Kristen?  Kristen N. and Kristen S. or “Blonde Kristin” and “Brunette” Kristin.  What happens when there are two girls named Sara(h) and you need to differentiate?  One is Sara the other is (and these are things I have been called within the past several weeks) : Cockhead, Lil Ho, Princess Lil Ho, Brakebeater, Playa, Punk, Loser, and my favorite, Nutsack. It’s even better being introduced that way as in, “Hey Sarah, this is Sara, but you can just call her Lil Ho.”

Bodily Functions: Gentleman, would you fart or burp on a first date? Pee with the door open? Would you then laugh?  Would you talk about back hair/nut hair/pimples “that hurt” to a girl who caught your eye at a party?  No way.  Do I get to hear/see/smell experience all of this?  You bet.  And no one thinks twice.

Drinking:  Yes I can drink.  And no, I don’t drink cosmos or appletinis and yes I do drink vodka and whisky and beer and bourbon.  But that doesn’t mean that my liver is the same size as yours or that the extra 5 inches you have on me is just height and that I can make it up in personality and go shot for shot with you for 12 hours straight.  Oh and PS- what happens when 5 guys order beers and you order a vodka tonic at dinner? You get called a faggot by 5 guys…I can’t make this stuff up.

This past weekend in Nashville I was denied entry into the Broadway Brewhouse because I was visibly intoxicated.  *My boys* answser? “Get your act together!”  Sirs, I will get my act together when you stop yelling “Slam that beer!”  It saves us all time when we’re running to get in a cab and you have to get back out to pick me up covered in bloody cuts because my heel was caught in a sewer grate.  Speaking of heels…

Pace: My shoes are 5″ off the ground.  They have a pointed toe box and yeh they kinda hurt, but they match my dress and I’m going to wear them.  I cannot run down asphalt/mudhills/backards/or in front of traffic in them.  And no, I will not wear “flat shoes” with my dress as I was told to do this weekend.  As in, “You’re wearing those?  We’re not picking you up when you break you back!  You’re done for cockhead!”  Speaking of pace…

Food: I can’t eat fried pickles and pizza and dirty burritos and gravy 7 days per week.  I also don’t want to see you do it so fast that your head is spinning a top your neck like a gremlin movie as you open your gullet and swallow a club sandwich the way a Burmese Python would inhale a small asian child that Angelina Jolie hoped to adopt.  Speaking of violent behavior…

Rough Housing:  This past weekend, and pretty much for the past 10 years of my life I have been bitten, slapped, punched, pushed down, fallen on, tackled and ninja kicked. Have you ever been fallen on my a whisky soaked 400lb Southern boy?  Probably not.  Sometimes it was a classic infantile “I like you so I’m going to get to touch you by hitting you” ploy, but the other 80 percent of it was a don’t touch my beer, I’m going to bite your forearm WWF move.  And you know what?  Guy’s girl or not, it still really hurts.  Even further, when you go to work in a pencil skirt with two black knees people either think you are an amateur boxer or a weekend hot mess.

Language: My heritage makes it easy enough to for me to swear or talk in un-ladylike tongues.  When you spend all of your time with guys that multiplies by 10.  An illustrious group of boys that I run around with, known as the Beaters,slowly but surely developed their own talk.  If something requires effort?  “Sounds like work!”  “May I have a cigarette?” becomes ” Gimme that tough stick!” (note: Beaters do not ask for things, but rather take things).  This is fine when I’m amongst them, but if I start saying “Gimme that tough beer” at work functions it will be the downfall of me.  One of the Beaters sisters noted that they “speak in code.”  Scary thing?  I’m fluent in it.

Messing with My Stuff:  Yeh I’m a guy’s girl, but I still have access to things that boys are interested in, and because I’m that guy’s girl, they may take it, steal it, throw it or ruin it without asking.  Think my bras being used as wrestling helmets and my underwear being flown around on ceiling fans.  You get the picture.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that deep down, each one of *My Boys* does in fact love and respect me, but when you’re having a bad day, getting punched while being called Super Ho at 9am makes you sometimes wish there was a girl to say Let’s Go Shopping and watch 4 hours of The Hills today.  It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, you can count on someone telling me to “Stop bitching and grow some balls.”

Which would not be good for anyone.

Especially me.

 

Skelladay

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first_cut_karaoke_soul_000_001_001_001Karaoke is one of the most fascinating and fun aspects of bar culture – period.  If one is fortunate enough to find him or herself in a truly welcoming and supportive karaoke environment, their entire perspective on life could be changed for the better!  These types of events provide a unique outlet for the less inhibited of us to get on stage and do something we can usually only do in our showers.  For those on the reserved side of the personality spectrum, with the support of friends and strangers alike, it’s a great chance to step out of one’s shell and find a new comfort zone.  Win-win!

Granted, there will always be the “performers” who are truly untalented and utterly hopeless, but, for better or worse, they get on the stage and for four minutes they get their chance to be the center of attention and have a little fun at their own expense.  No harm there, just good ol’ fashioned fun shared among multiple groups of friends with one common attribute – they’re all there to have a good time, get ninja drunk and sing!

However, not everyone is there to lend moral support and a hearty round of applause to those taking the stage; these are people I like to call “the judges”.  The judges are very easy to spot – they’re the (typically) female patrons who sit at the table, look around with a bored expression on their faces and judge each person who goes up there because they, obviously, aren’t as cool as them.  I mean, how can anybody who goes up on stage and talentlessly sings Piano Man, Friends in Low Places or even (my personal favorite) Ballroom Blitz be as cool as the person sitting there completely unengaged and totally judgmental??  I’ll tell you how – because they know how to have a good time and throw caution to the wind.  These are the folks who don’t g.a.f. what anyone thinks, as long as they and their group are having a good time out doing what they enjoy.

karaoke yo

Now, I have had my good and bad performances on the karaoke main stage a number of times, as I frequent karaoke joints on a pretty regular basis.  However, I only go with others who share my love of the genre and its transcendental attributes.  But what really gets me about the people who hate karaoke and think it’s the douchiest thing since Nixon is the fact that, inevitably, they still go!  NEWSFLASH COOL KIDS – you might not like karaoke, but we don’t like you being there even more so!  You’re a bigger buzz kill than Santa with cancer – FACT.  You don’t want to hear Sweet Caroline?  AWESOME – go to the bar down the street and leave the rest of us the hell alone… because when it’s all said and done and karaoke is over, regardless of how much fun you didn’t have, everybody else had a great time getting too drunk and singing along to the crowd favorites.  When there are fifty people in a room singing on stage and having a blast of a Saturday night, and four people having a shitty time sitting in the crowd making witty sarcastic jokes about the people on stage, it’s pretty easy to figure out who the assholes in the room are.

There’s a reason every city in every state on any given day has karaoke – it’s a good time for people who want to have a good time.  So the next time you walk by a karaoke bar and some “slut” (who is only a slut because you don’t know her) is on stage singing Spice Girls with her besties and you turn your nose up at how laaaaaaame they all are, think about what you’re judging people on – them having a good time doing what they like to do, their not being as cool as you – obviously.  Get over it. 

And yes, for those of you who hate karaoke but have never done it, it’s not because you hate it so much, it’s because you don’t have any balls  and hide behind a veil of snobbery and elitism as poor excuses for why you’re above such a good time.

 

Caus out.

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slip-and-fall-3N Allow me to set the scene: It’s the Spring of 2003. As a freshman, and newly initiated sister of Delta Gamma, I pretty much feel as though I have the world by the ass. I found myself proudly walking to class with my DG letter bag and actually saw people take notice of me—basically, I was the shit (Or so I thought).

Whenever a social event would take place, I was ALL over it. Getting ready with my best friends quickly became a rite of passage: we would collect our favorite clothes and meet in a dorm room and rifle through everything to come up with the sweetest outfits. This particular night, we were all going to a party at one of the fraternity houses so we had to look great. Keeping in mind this is 2003, we were most likely rocking the newest peasant shirt or a bitchin’ pair of gaucho pants (Cara). Once we had our look together, we’d trudge up the hill to the house, walk through the back door and into the basement where naked bar-slides were taking place right before our very eyes. Male pledges in white shirts and ties were getting our drinks and we were living the dream.

After hours of beer pong and the occasional pitcher dance, we were all about ready to call it a night. At this point, the floor of the fraternity house was littered with cigarette butts and God knows what the hell else, but, I can safely say the floor was COVERED in spilled beer. This I know for sure.  I wouldn’t exactly call myself a detective, but when you’re wading in a 1/4″ of Natty Lite, you know it.

The girls and I grabbed our coats and started to walk towards the door when the unthinkable happened. I slipped on the beer and fell. Hard. This CANNOT be happening. I’ve seen this happen to people: tripping and falling down an entire flight of stairs or missing a step and falling flat on their faces. This only happens to randoms, to the girl in the ugly shirt, to people on American’s funniest home videos… CERTAINLY not to someone as cool as me.

False.  It happens to everyone, and it happened to me. At the worst possible time.


I’m on the floor, waiting for my friends, a brother, a pledge, ANYONE to help me up. No one does. Instead, all I can hear is laughter…and I’m not talking chuckles, I’m talking guttural scream laughter that seems to continue to get louder. Its official, I want to die. I quickly collect myself and start cursing the Gap flip-flops with the worn out tread I was wearing, while doing everything humanly possible not to start crying right on the spot. Being unsure if the humiliation or the excruciating pain in my arm was worse, I try my damndest to make light of the situation. Luckily, one of the brothers of the house felt bad for me and ordered one of the pledges to walk my friends and I home and to report back to him on my progress.

Long story short: I broke my arm and had a cast. NEAT. No, I didn’t let anyone sign it.
Why is it human nature to laugh when someone gets hurt? Don’t get me wrong, I let out a good LOL a few weeks ago when my roommate came home from coaching field hockey with a soft cast because she, too, had broken her arm. BUT, why is that funny? It’s not. Are we victims of nervous laughter? Are we thanking God we weren’t that poor soul that just publically embarrassed him/herself?

I’ve also noticed that the older you get, the less laughter erupts when you fall.  The Caus said it best:

“If you fall and people are concerned, you’re old…or really fat.”

Anyway you look at it, we, as humans, are assholes.

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