I should have just stayed in bed.
Friday, I went out to celebrate a friends’ birthday. Usually this would be a lot of fun because my friends and I are a wild and crazy bunch who like to have a good time. However, some of us don’t seem to understand that we are no longer as young as we once were and that certain things that used to be so insanely dumb that they were fun have instead become just plain stupid. Things like chugging beer, eating live goldfish, spur-of-the-moment road trips and going to bars whose claim to fame is having scantily clad women serve you overpriced bar food and watered down beer should have been left behind when we all graduated college. I will now suggest a new law that my friends and I should adopt in order to save us from future mistakes of such immensely moronic magnitude as what transpired this weekend.
When trying to find a restaurant at which to celebrate anything, anyone who suggests Hooters will be immediately flogged to within an inch of their life and then dipped into a lemon juice and salt solution to soak in for the rest of the night.
I won’t even get into the gory details now because I’m so ashamed of our complete lack of good taste that writing about my evening here would only force me remove my eyelids and watch Susan Serandon movies until I honestly believed she had talent.
Trust me, I would die first.
Saturday I got to find out just how old and out of shape I was when I went to the park with my younger brother and his friends to play Ultimate. If you don’t know what Ultimate is let me explain by humming the National Anthem while eating a Shepard’s Pie and skinning a live llama in my pajamas.
How the llama got in my pajamas, I’ll never know. [baduhmp-buhmp]
Seriously, Ultimate (also known as Frisbee football) can be best described as a form of cardio-vascular torture devised by some ancient god of sadistic pleasure who really hated human beings. In Ultimate, there is no time to stop and catch your breath, there are no time outs and the action doesn’t stop until someone scores a touchdown. Originally, we were going to play until one team scored 11 touchdowns but after we realized how amazingly, impossibly, almost freakishly out of shape we all were, we concluded that 5 touchdowns would be more than enough to fulfill our manly quota of testosterone-filled summer sports.
We arrived at this conclusion after the first ambulance left but before the “My god, your eyes are bleeding!” fiasco.
If anyone really wants to know, my team lost in a most spectacularly pathetic fashion. It took about an hour for the game to end and the final score was 5-2 but I don’t think any of us cared who won as long as we could stop running around pretending we were still in college. Hell, I never ran around that much when I was in college.
So, did anyone else try to relive their youth this weekend and get hit upside the head by the Louisville Slugger of Truth and Crushed Dreams?
