« Oh, liver. | Home | I’m a model, you know what I mean … »
Lost: One (1) weekend. Reward.
By briantologist | June 30, 2003
dear sweet heavenly merciful crap. I’d say I’m amazed I survived this weekend, but frankly I’m more amazed that Jimmy Jam both lived and somehow, improbably, impossibly, was not arrested. Like, repeatedly and forcefully, with much jailhouse brutality.
To start: Damn, what a lovely wedding. Dr. Voltron and Shaniqua worked their asses off (mostly Shaniqua’s ass off), and it showed. Their wedding was by far the most fun one I’ve been to since Darleece and I got hitched. It was, of course, more fun for the fact that I wasn’t the one getting married; since we got hitched first, we now have the luxury of sitting back and watching our friends sweat it out. Which, y’know, is nice. It was beautiful, the food was freakin’ awesome, the booze was plentiful, the band was even good (shocking, for a classic rock cover band, but they were talented and knew their shit and knew what to play, which is way more than I can say for the fucking bee-yatch that DJ’d our wedding — I hope you’re reading this, you craphead, and that you’ve been fired for playing fucking Kenny Chesney at everybody’s goddamn wedding instead of the music the goddamn groom asked you to play), and the tuxes made us look fly. And I didn’t choke and piss myself during the toast. Way to best man there, champ.
So by the end of it, as you may have read in Agent Foxxy Boxing’s blog, Jimmy Jam was fucking plowed. I didn’t know this at the wedding, though; since he was wearing a suit (JJ looks damn good in a suit, incidentally; he may be the only person I know who does), he says, he managed to appear pretty sober at the church, despite having had like five glasses of wine and four beers. Meanwhile, in a truly surreal development, an anonymous member of the wedding party had her sights set on Mr. Jam the whole time, officially making her the first sane, hot girl I’ve seen be interested in JJ in … at least since his last long-term relationship ended. Like, four years ago. Give or take ever.
So they go by our place for a little while, as detailed in Darleece’s blog, and then split after five minutes, citing a beer run. Ho har, ho har. It is, as Daffy Duck once said, to laugh. An hour later, they’re still MIA, and we’re ready to go to the rockin’ pool party we ended the night with. I kept ringing his celly; turns out he was drunk out of his mind (after a bottle of wine and a bottle of champagne) and making out with the anonymous unsuspecting member of the wedding party, and so in fact I was mistaken when I berated him for acting “too cool” while trying to score. Turns out he was just “too drunk.” This was my honest mistake, for which I extend a hearty “my bad.”
AAAAAAaaaanyway, we ended up at the pool party, where JJ shoved Max Power and Ortega into the pool less than a minute after arriving. He then made the fucking brilliant decision to sit in the chair inches from the pool’s edge. The forward-thinking reader will not be shocked to learn that Mr. Jam was promptly yanked into the pool, chair and all, within roughly 30 seconds. This led to him spending the evening swimming in a suit, rather than a swimsuit, thus making it the closest to being in a stupid ’80s movie that I’ll ever be.
Man. Lemme tellya, drunk pool parties are absolutely, positively, unequivocally Where It Is At. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had such a freakin’ awesome time, and though I wish I could thank our benefactor in name, he’s a semi-important guy here in town (in addition to being a prince among men), and his reputation might be harmed by association with such a bunch of fucking retards as us. And so I shall simply thank Mr. Allah, friend of Dr. Voltron’s dad, for the positively knock-down, drag-out, awesome time we had after the knock-down, drag-out, awesome wedding.
There’s more, so much more to tell. Like how JJ spent a half-hour asking Mr. Allah, a lawyer, why he’s not a judge yet, while wearing only sopping suit pants. Or how, when Max Power went to drive JJ home (in JJ’s boss’s car, which JJ drove because he was “too drunk to drive my own car”), he turned his back on him for ten seconds only to hear the door slam and tires screech, and JJ was off like Steve McQueen for two blocks before wheeling around 180 degrees through two different front yards and barreling back toward Max, who stood in the street wearing only soggy swim trunks, holding his arms above his head and hoping fervently for JJ to recognize this gesture as a suggestion that he might stop, and JJ came to a screeching halt, the door flew open, and when Max came around, JJ slurs, “WHRRRWEGOIN’?” Or how, after Max dropped JJ off, Jam had the following conversation with himself:
“It’s only one-thirty! Last call’s still 20 minutes away!”
“I should go cruising for hookers!”
“I’m okay to drive — I drove myself home, didn’t I?”
“… where’s my car?”
If the weekend sounds like a tale of Jimmy Jam making a drunken fucking ass of himself … well, it is. It’s so much more, though. Such a magical weekend, all told. And really, there’s so much to tell, that all will never really be told.
Topics: Hoo!, Tales of Drink | Comments Off
Comments are closed.