Leading up to Saturday, I had no real plans that were at all out of the ordinary. I wanted to eat fried chicken (something I do with alarming regularity, and yes, I plan it), I wanted to play tennis, and I wanted to get drunk. After all, it wouldn’t be a weekend in Uptown Dallas without tennis, southern cooking, gay bars, drinking with my friends, and Marco prancing down Cedar Springs holding a purple umbrella (NOTE: purple umbrella, to my knowledge, isn’t a slang term for anything, but it totally should be…any ideas?). No, this was just going to be a normal day in the gayborhood…or so I thought.
Because it was Pride weekend, the bars were PACKED. I actually like it when bars are more crowded, mainly because I dig the atmosphere. What I don’t like is how all the assheads crowd around the game room so you can’t play anything. I don’t care if the room is being used for a “Billiards is for Dicks” Chapter of the “Fuck Billiards and Anyone Who Plays It” Club meeting. Pool tables are for playing pool. They aren’t to be sat on. Or around. I need room to swing my stick (if you catch my drift). On a side note, I feel I am required by the laws of decency to tell you that towards the end of the night I myself used the same pool table as a gigantic coaster/beer net. Felt, as it turns out, is very absorbent.
Anyway, most of Saturday night is a haze. The only things I really remember are arguing with my friends over fictional military ranks (yes, ours) and my slam-dunking a full Diet Coke from MacDonald’s into the sink. In case you didn’t know, I fucking hate Diet Coke. Mainly because it splatters so damn much. Where’s a pool table when you need one? As I said, the majority of the night’s events escape me, but at least I didn’t get sick. On a scale from “completely sober” to “passed out naked in the bathtub” I was only “trashcan next to the bed…just in case” drunk. That kind of drunk makes for great nights, but terrible mornings.
I woke up Sunday with the intention of doing something productive, but instead I spent the day holding my head in my hands thinking “I fucking hate alcohol” and dreading spending my afternoon in the sun at the Gay Pride Parade. My favorite boss of all time once told me “parades rejuvenate the soul.” Well, they don’t do a goddamn thing for a hangover.
For those that don’t know, “parade” is an old French word meaning “to stand touching sweaty strangers while screaming at people to throw things to you for hours.” Nothing says “pride” like hurling rock-hard candy at someone’s face. Jawbreakers, indeed. I gathered quite a bounty of junk throughout the day, but the swag-snatching culminated with my going all Dennis Rodman on the drunk slobs around me and snagging a mini-beach ball out of mid-air. My moment of glory was cut short, however, as some jerk started yelling at me, “YOU STOLE MY BALL! YOU KNOW YOU STOLE MY BALL!” After accusing me of theft of a free item, she took a more reasonable approach and offered to buy this waste of plastic from me for $1. Now, I’m a stand-up (and clearly, when the situation demands it, a jump-over-drunk-slobs) kind of guy, so I just gave her the damn thing. I don’t live near a mini-beach, so the ball is probably better off in her menagerie of worthless shit anyway.
The rest of the day was a fuckin’ blast with more of the same, but I think you get the idea by now. Throughout the day, I texted Raoul regular updates of whatever ridiculous float was passing by. When the leather-daddy float came upon us toward the end of the parade, I intended to text two simple words: “assless chaps.” My phone, in its infinite wisdom, autocorrected me with “assless chaos.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
NOTE: The most compelling argument I've ever seen for the existence of a benevolent God is that none of these gentleman are facing the other direction. And the church said, Amen.
4 comments:
are thsoe pictures from gay pride or the stewart family reunion? BAM!
anyhow, you were supposed to make those pictures smaller so I could post them. i fucking hate you.
thank you for being the kind of guy that goes with me to gay pride, and that loves my gay friends and family. and who would never judge or dismiss someone for their sexual preference, long before you ever met me. i love you and your open mind...
yeah, ditto your beaver. thanks for loving my gay ass....with or without chaps.
this morning i arrived in class with shit on my shoe. In addition to peeling an orange and wafting my coffee at my neighbor, you know, to create a smell-shield until i could sneak out of the room to scrub my shoe in the handicapped shower of the ladies room, i distracted myself from my humiliation (which was creating a distinct possibility of my sweating through 3 layers), and this striking metaphor for my existence by reading your blog.
as i think is universally acknowledged, assless chaps serve myriad purposes.
Thank you.
If "Assless Chos" isn't the name of an upcoming Skullcrotch 7-inch (you know what I'm talking about) then it fucking well should be. On a side note, my dad wants you to take his picture down pronto.
Post a Comment