1/4, 3/4 Moon
Today I will break from my normal format and subject matter and tell a story of a recent night of amusement. After browsing through video selections with my newly subscribed membership to Netflix, I called a friend who was on his way to a movie with another friend. If you haven't seen the new Will Farrell movie about Nascar, filmed in the shining state of North Carolina, you are missing out on an adventure. Maybe it was the enthusiastic, irresponsibly speed-driven lives of race car drivers of maybe it was the 3/4 moon dangling in the sky that led to the course of events in this particular evening.
I should have known, as I helped consume cans of PBR in the back of a pick-up truck, that the evening wasn't going to be typical. I finished off my one can and then emptied the contents of my purse in order to conceal two more cans on their way into the theater.
The movie was far more entertaining than I expected, but the rest of the evening proved to be the bigger surprise.
After watching the end of the credits, I walked out to the truck with one friend to discover that the other friend had disappeared. All plausible explanations pointed to the possibility that he had strolled over to the adjacent Food Lion to purchase more packs of PBR. And so more cans were added to the truckbed of evidence, as I officially loitered in an Elizabeth City parking lot. When the theater manager started to harass the loitering group in front of us because he had found beer cans inside, we decided it was time to migrate. I hopped in the truck with a can in hand, and we fled with about 15 empty beer cans and a passenger in the back. Manuevering his broken gear shift and pridefully racing past the other highway drivers, our chauffeur somehow managed to safely arrive at his home, where we proceeded to nearly finish the beer and get bitten by 10,001 mosquitoes in under 20 minutes.
After fleeing inside for the aid of a certain hand-rolled euphoric substance, I immediately lost my friends. One managed to make it downstairs to pass out in the yard, while the other leaned over the kitchen counter unable to move. Having less than three PBR's in more than three hours, I couldn't quite relate to their sudden extreme state of paralysis, so I tried to make myself useful by making fun of them.
Left to the amusement of a 91 year old dog and a one-eyed, one-clawed cat, I realized I was stuck without a way home. Fortunately my little sister agreed to come pick me up. While waiting for her rescue, I chatted with the kitchen friend who had now made it to the floor and was modeling about 1/4 of his ass crack. When I whispered to him that his ass crack was showing, he responded, "I thought that might have happened, but I was hoping you wouldn't notice." About a minute later, he professed, "I'm sorry." "Sorry for what?" I asked. "I'm sorry my ass crack is showing."
When my sister finally arrived, she managed to resurrect the yard friend and remove everything in a possible line of vomit from the passenger seat, as she drove him home. Meanwhile, my kitchen friend told me I worried too much and proceeded to offer me health tips as he puked into the kitchen trash can. After leaving him on the floor and taking the other one home, we then went to buy Gatorade. I tried to revive kitchen friend, but since I wasn't strong enough to pick him up off the kitchen floor and carry him to a bed or chair, I put a pillow under his head, covered him with a blanket, and put a gatorade bottle next to his head.
I made it home safely and soberly with future ammunition for embarassing my friends.
The moral of the story is to know your limits, always have bug spray, and never expect to live down a story like that one.
I should have known, as I helped consume cans of PBR in the back of a pick-up truck, that the evening wasn't going to be typical. I finished off my one can and then emptied the contents of my purse in order to conceal two more cans on their way into the theater.
The movie was far more entertaining than I expected, but the rest of the evening proved to be the bigger surprise.
After watching the end of the credits, I walked out to the truck with one friend to discover that the other friend had disappeared. All plausible explanations pointed to the possibility that he had strolled over to the adjacent Food Lion to purchase more packs of PBR. And so more cans were added to the truckbed of evidence, as I officially loitered in an Elizabeth City parking lot. When the theater manager started to harass the loitering group in front of us because he had found beer cans inside, we decided it was time to migrate. I hopped in the truck with a can in hand, and we fled with about 15 empty beer cans and a passenger in the back. Manuevering his broken gear shift and pridefully racing past the other highway drivers, our chauffeur somehow managed to safely arrive at his home, where we proceeded to nearly finish the beer and get bitten by 10,001 mosquitoes in under 20 minutes.
After fleeing inside for the aid of a certain hand-rolled euphoric substance, I immediately lost my friends. One managed to make it downstairs to pass out in the yard, while the other leaned over the kitchen counter unable to move. Having less than three PBR's in more than three hours, I couldn't quite relate to their sudden extreme state of paralysis, so I tried to make myself useful by making fun of them.
Left to the amusement of a 91 year old dog and a one-eyed, one-clawed cat, I realized I was stuck without a way home. Fortunately my little sister agreed to come pick me up. While waiting for her rescue, I chatted with the kitchen friend who had now made it to the floor and was modeling about 1/4 of his ass crack. When I whispered to him that his ass crack was showing, he responded, "I thought that might have happened, but I was hoping you wouldn't notice." About a minute later, he professed, "I'm sorry." "Sorry for what?" I asked. "I'm sorry my ass crack is showing."
When my sister finally arrived, she managed to resurrect the yard friend and remove everything in a possible line of vomit from the passenger seat, as she drove him home. Meanwhile, my kitchen friend told me I worried too much and proceeded to offer me health tips as he puked into the kitchen trash can. After leaving him on the floor and taking the other one home, we then went to buy Gatorade. I tried to revive kitchen friend, but since I wasn't strong enough to pick him up off the kitchen floor and carry him to a bed or chair, I put a pillow under his head, covered him with a blanket, and put a gatorade bottle next to his head.
I made it home safely and soberly with future ammunition for embarassing my friends.
The moral of the story is to know your limits, always have bug spray, and never expect to live down a story like that one.
posted by Breeme at 10:44 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home