Oh, The Irish Red That Never Calls...

As a follow-up to last Saturday's post about career-limiting drinking, I figured I'd bend out a quick report about the morning after, and the weekend that followed.

I had a really bad headache the next morning. Like I'd been turbo-baked in a jerky machine or something equally nonsensical. I then realized that I'd pretty much forgotten to drink any water altogether past 3 pm that Friday. My lips resembled a teriyaki Slim Jim, and it felt like a bird had shit in my left eye. I realized then that I'd fallen asleep with my contacts in and that in order to forget something so basic as nighttime eye care, I must have been all but knocked out by the fart that Tom released the night before. I felt like a sack of ass.

Silly me, I figured that the best way to make myself feel good was to get dressed and take advantage of the beautiful 52 degree day, so I toddled on over to the Carberry's for a pastry and a chai. Of course, I made a pit-stop along the way at Utter Chaos, the apartment building of my favorite friend Steph, and her equally hospitable housemates, only to find that Steph was asleep (as usual) and her 6 other housemates had mysteriously disappeared (perhaps upon hearing the melodic clod of my tripping up the stairs). Rather miffed I left a message on their public whiteboard for them to find on their return and was on my (slightly-less) merry way.

I discovered that my pit stop had cost me my favorite roadkill pastry (aka the Carberry's almond croissant), as it seems that I'd caught the tail end of the breakfast crowd and they'd probably sold the last one to some hungry Arlington yuppie or his wailing child; of which there were plenty, I might add. I don't know what it is about Carberry's on a Saturday morning, but if you hit it at just the wrong time, it looks like a McDonald's Playplen for yuppies where a bunch of ugly, hairy, aging hippies in ethnic clothes or bike spandex read their newspapers, sip their coffee, and ignore their equally ugly, hairy, offspring hippies-to-be.

I found this to be a bit much to handle in one morning so I happily took my pastry and chai back to the house (only slipping once on the black ice), and watched cartoons and an infomercial featuring Jackie Chan.

Peppy Cableflex spokeswoman: "So Jackie, aren't you excited about the full-body workout that the Cableflex offers?"
Jackie C: "Yes. I am very excited."
Peppy Cableflex spokeswoman: "Now, you of all people should know the importance of keeping in shape since often times your life depends on being fit for these amazing stunts you do."
Jackie C: "Yes. Is very impotant to be in shape."
Peppy Cableflex spokeswoman: "Cableflex offers a free-movement style exercise regime to give you a total-body workout, from your biceps, to rock hard abs, and toned thighs."
Jackie C: "Yes. I like-ah the toned thighs treatment-ah. Very goot!" *thumbs up*

I get a feeling that Cableflex might have been taking advantage of his limited English language repertoire, but then again, he might really just like toned thighs. Really, it's a priceless thing to catch on a Saturday morning, and I highly suggest that you watch it just once to have the experience. Fortunately, a phone call from my friend Nicole rescued me from the clutches of Chanfomercials for a slightly more exciting day of battling uglies at the mall in search of a prom dress and dinner at the Border Cafe, where we eventually met up with Bob and his wife.

While waiting 20 minutes for a table in the rather crowded restauraunt, I received a call from my friend Kilean, who apparently I had drunk dialed to wish him a happy birthday during the previously mentioned office party debaucle. Up until that point, I hadn't really remembered that I'd done so, but I guess my drunker persona is better at remembering birthdays than the sober one. Kilean was out having a birthday dinner somewhere but agreed to call me back later to let me know when he was heading over - a compromise I gladly accepted since, at the time, I found myself mashed between two smelly Tex-Mex food aficionados attempting to change a diaper in the area between the Border's double-doors. Whoever the fuck uses the main atrium of a seriously crowded restaurant as a changing area might want to reconsider their decision to procreate and donate their kid up for hors d'oeuvres in order to placate the hungrily growing crowd (TOSTITOS!). Though from the parents' sense of hygiene, I couldn't help but feel qualms about finding a "baked bean surprise" in the center of the infant con queso.

Kilean never did call back. But given the way the rest of the night panned out, it's probably for the best since loose stools just aren't that sexy to begin with. Allow me to explain:

Tom and Bob's wholesome heterosexual World of Warcraft playdate came to an abrupt conclusion 15 minutes after it had started due to matters beyond their control. Rather than subjecting Nicole and her fiance to the minor disaster that I knew was going to occur, I left the job of getting Bob rapidly drunk before his ride returned to Tom. Nicole and I went out to get beer. After acquiring beer, we swung on over to Steph's apartment only to discover for a second time, that NOBODY WAS HOME. Only minorly distressed, we availed ourselves of Steph's Wii and cracked our beers.
Some time between sessions of WiiBowling with Nicole's man, perhaps subconsciously in retribution for Steph's not being home, I accidentally committed a hate-poop in the bathroom. It's like the equivalent of a hate-crime, in that it makes you think "what did that toilet ever do to you?!" although, unlike a hate-crime, it does not necessarily have to be executed on purpose. Bowel movement-wise, it was a Mexplosion of epic proportions, complete with rice and bean shrapnel. Not even the cat would go into the bathroom after that. I should preface that by saying that I began to feel very ill about half an hour after dinner and had started getting stomach cramps shortly beforehand (which made me realize that I'd finally succumbed to that goddamn flu that Tom's been carrying around for the last two weeks).

I went home shortly after that little Ku Klux Kan incident, and collapsed into a restless aching sleep. In retrospect, I felt really bad about it because Steph must have eventually come home to find that terrible smell and possibly a couple of poop flakes the toilet had coughed back up and probably blamed it on Eric or Nicole. But at the very least, she didn't find a giant flaming turd on her lawn or people covered in white sheets of toilet paper parading around the neighborhood screaming "Wipe Power! Wipe Power!" so I guess it still counts as an accident, no matter how foul it was. The only good news here is that that Lothario of a stomach bug seems to have only wanted a one night stand (as opposed to Tom's longer-term stint with the flu), as I felt nowhere near as bad the next day; and I hope for my sake, it doesn't call back anytime soon.

Happy *fraaap* sexy birthday, indeed, DJ Az. If only you knew what you missed out on by not calling me back. Way to dodge a bullet there.

Further bulletins as events warrant.