Listen. There is the responsible thing to do, and then there is the fun thing to do. For us, it is not the typical matter of choosing one or the other, but rather pursuing the latter right up until it conflicts with the former. Marriage would be one of those obligations were our friends' "engagements" actually real. Hence round three of the fake bachelor parties:
After a late start, we ended up in Burlington, VT around 5pm and started detailing the logistical minutiae: where to go, what to eat, where we should stay. Our ideal hotel would be that with the closest proximity to Church Street, the local hot spot for nightlife. The first one we found was crackwhore-sheik, resembling a double-wide trash heap with boarded windows and an infectious aura of Malaria. We decided to put Scabies Motel into the maybe-watching-the-walls-bleed-could-be-fun category, and moved on. Finding only overpriced suites, we ventured further from Church and decided we would gladly suffer a $20 cab fare for a $200 cheaper room at the Comfort Inn. We were given the key to room 131, but when we arrive at the door, the desk clerk is waiting to inform us that 131 is occupied, and gives us new keys to 143. Being veterans of hotel shenanigans, we immediately raid a housekeeping closet and acquire an additional folding bed to accompany our two Queens.
In our new room, we start to pre-game, while mike calls the front desk to inquire if the hotel offers a shuttle service. It turns out that they actually do...but only to deliver people to and from the local hospital. We instantaneously remember that our good friend "Timmy" has just had surgery, and use this to further tempt our souls into the fiery depths of hell by taking our free ride.
Church Street does not disappoint. In our now blissfully inebriated states, we shamefully lie to strangers inquiring about the silly hats perched atop our noodles, a cause for them to vicariously celebrate Will and Kristen's upcoming nuptials with us.
We meet Sam the Magician as he is tearing down his set and convince him to do just one more trick. It's on. He grabs Will and places our bachelor in an open area, advising him not to move from that spot. He then grabs a big bottle of lighter fluid and begins furiously dousing the ground in a tight circle around Will's feet. Will starts panicking and I muse at how great a story about him on fire will be for our personal history books. "Just take this one for the team! They can do wonders with skin grafts these days!" After pooling a flammable moat, he leads off with a wide trail of fuel and stops, picking up 3 objects. It is dark and hard to see, but the sounds and silhouettes give away that he is holding swords. Within a moment's time, they are now 3 FLAMING swords. The death of our friend is sure to be an entertaining one.
Magic Sam starts juggling them, throwing them higher and higher, behind his back, twirling and spinning as the anticipation of a fatal mistake looms over the captivated silent crowd. Up again, Down again, whizzing dangerously close to the ground, and then caught! Will is gulping in breaths like an asthmatic and is no doubt covered in his own urine at this point. Sam catches the final sword, and Will expels a massive sigh of relief. It is at this very moment that Sam throws the swords down onto the pooled fuel to set our man aflame! Will's face turns ghostly white, his eyes bulge wide, and his jaw drops wider. A giant roar of flames tearing down its course toward Will's feet is what we expect, but as the swords clatter against the ground, nothing happens. When we realize it had been water, the crowd erupts with uproarious laughter! Will lives to burn another day and we explain that the overwhelming discomfort he has just felt is the same as actually getting married.
Starving from our journey, we stop at a Gyro stand for some grub. I love lamb. My God , do I ever. But I don't want a whole meal, so I ask the shopkeep in his puffy vest and cabby hat how much he charges for a just handful of delicious meats, standing before him with my palms cupped together, gesticulating the portion I desire. Wish granted! AND on the house - Double bonus! I eat from my hands like I'm adjusting an oxygen mask, and we begin harassing tables of people seated al fresco.
Two such lovely ladies, Astrid and Merran, invite us to join them for a drink, and we accept. After chatting to these spectacular girls, Quebecois by way of the Yukon, we piggyback race to Red Square where a charity event is taking place. They are about to start a Twister contest, and this is temptation that cannot be fought. I am the second one out.
Fine - I didn't want to win anyway! George can barely stand at this point, but somehow manages to take 3rd place out of the 30 or so people involved. We dance with our respective ladies for a bit and are having a blast when they announce that they are going to have a speed-dancing competition; I assume this just means arhythmically moving my legs really fast . Mike and I begin to battle it out, legs kicking, arms flailing, crowds cheering (though likely not for us) until the song ends. Mike takes first, and I credit myself with a close second. In hindsight, I think my 2nd place was out of two.
We part ways with two of the coolest girls I've ever met, and it is bittersweet that we must trudge on through the night without them. At Nectar's, another big dance bar, we bump into a bachelorette party that is ridiculously less fun. We dance until close, cause a scene in our hats, and head back to the hotel - far from retiring for the evening.The weather is crisp but fantastic, and I have yet to find a pool in Boston. They exist, but are kept secret by buoyant leprechauns, I suspect. As we have paid for the room and the pool has no gate, it is perfect for a 3am dip. In our boxer briefs we sneak around the building and dive in, save George who returned hours earlier to pass out. It's great to be in the water, but as we forgot towels, the trek back to the room is freezing. We decide that as penalty for George's early night, we'll tackle him, leaving him equally soaking wet and freezing. He now shares our discomfort, and our roughhousing somehow escalates to where Orange soda and Pert Plus spills all over both beds, and a thrown pillow shatters the plastic innards of a lampshade! We may be retarded. It is 530 am, and finally exhausted, we flip the beds to dry sides and crash.
Checkout comes too early, and George, being the only one well rested, aggressively wakes us to clean up after the shampoo battle royale from the night before. Mike leaves without saying anything, and bitterly we assume it's to avoid helping. The lampshade is in dire condition, and George being the reason is left to figure out a solution. A light goes on, and by innate douchebag reasoning, one presents itself.
Down the hall, he finds that our original key to 131 still works! He hurriedly rushes in our lampshade 'o disrepair and out one that still resembles an actual lampshade (write this down for Yom Kippur, G).We wait and no Mike. We call - no Mike. He has been gone for over an hour and the breakfast Gods are beckoning fiercely, so we leave. Another hour passes as we lounge and eat, and still no word. Daylight is hastily burning, and we have a Brewery to go to! C'mon Mike! Sometime later, and sufficiently intoxicated from free Magic Hat beer (1pm), we hear from mike who we make take a $45 cab to find us. A just penalty for his disappearing act, we say...and we can't really drive anyway. At this point it becomes a good idea to acquire capriciously placed mannequin hands as souvenirs from Magic Hat, and so we do...though without any real purpose. Finally reunited we leave, just the 5 of us and a pair of hands.
Drunken road trips with good friends are a volatile mixture, and as such, we immediately begin backseat shenanigans. Kidneys are punched, deadlegs are given, pumpkin seeds are thrown, and triceps and nipples are ruthlessly pinched. We start playing a game: Sid Hoffman or Sid Frenchman? You simply ask your opponent - if the person is thinking the opposite of your guess, you let him slap you. If you guess correctly, you slap him. There's no way to be certain, but just because we are hitting each other doesn't mean we don't trust each other. This lasts mere seconds before Will, who's driving, has had enough. He locks the windows and doors and hot boxes the car. Not your stoner-smoke hotbox, but rather blasting the heater on high until the cab feels more akin to a sauna. His unorthodox modus operandi works, and we can barely stay awake, let alone fight each other. We sweat profusely, secede, and begin pathetically begging for mercy. He refuses to yield, and we are left with only one option: to discard layers of clothing. Two can play at this game, you rogue! Soon every sweaty pore will be in direct contact with your cloth seats! Huh Ha! This lasts for what feels like days, slowly dying in our underoos. He demands that we apologize, and though hesitant, the heat has successfully melted away our stubbornness. He unlocks the windows, and we are finally free! I put my head directly into the wind, and watch as my overpriced aviators are whisked off my face and underneath the tires of a following truck.
How could this get any worse?
This rhetorical question is answered by the approach of flashing Vermont Highway Patrol lights. The glare strobes into the car, and my immediate thought is, "I am not wearing any pants." I could see tomorrows headlines already: "Naked Men Arrested on State Highway!" or "Nude Males found Bruised and Beaten in Backseat of Car! Why are there pumpkin seeds everywhere and what were they being used for? Details at 10." Mike and George must have had similar thoughts, as we all three started rushing, as discretely as possible, to get dressed. Then, like God's own mercy, the Trooper exited the freeway.
Disaster narrowly averted, with let out a communal sigh of relief. I still have the swimming bug, and ask Will, "If we behave, can we find a lake to go jump in?" He says yes, but I have my doubts. We are no longer at war, but our alliance is too fresh to trust. I fall asleep, and wake up as the car comes to a stop. I crack an eyelid, and before me lies quite the sight to behold! A lake! A big lake, with water and everything! Hot damn! Never having successfully redressed ourselves, we spill out of the doors with vehement enthusiasm, properly attired for the plunge. The feeling of rejuvenation tingles through my toes and up my spine as I dive in the chilled water - this is heaven. We sit, reveling in that the beers we sip are warmer than our bodies. I cut my foot and realize that the ground is comprised of large, perfect skipping stones! We start throwing them, until George announces that he just pooped in the water and forces us to scurry out - refreshed, amused, and terrified of the biproduct of George's binge drinking.
We still have no towels, so we continue driving as we had before, without pants or shirts. The quest for the Holy Lake now fulfilled, a high priority quest for food had taken its place. It had become so routine enough over the last several hours that not one of us questioned riding in the car so scantily clad...routine enough that I decided pants were not necessary to eat at the McDonald's we had just found either. I mean, come on, it's Mickey Dee's. So I throw on a shirt and saunter in. I get half way through the line, when the manager notices my apparel and abruptly shouts, "Hey, you can't come in here without SHOES on!" I chuckle, and just to reiterate that I heard his concern correctly: "Wait, so I don't have to wear pants, but I DO have to wear shoes?" Yes. Though certainly anecdotal, thinking about the sanitary conditions of the dirty fast food floor, I acquiesce. Outside, I find a lonely scrap of some deeply disguised sense of pride, and even put on jeans. Our group would almost reflect socially acceptable practices were mike and I not assembling the "greatest McFeastowich known to man"; A big mac stuffed with french fries, tucked sloppily between a double cheeseburger. Neither of us can stifle more than a bite or two, because despite its towering ingenuity, it's still McDonald's food. It quickly becomes the McTrashowich.
Two bites is enough to make you feel terrible for the remaining car ride home. Worn down from the last few fatiguing days, the car is finally silent and still; introspective. For whatever reason, I feel sad as I stare blindly out the passenger window and silent tears stream down my face. I look over and see mike crying too, inexplicably. Neither of us know why, but maybe that's how great friends work? Though touching, it comes to an abrupt halt with a single question: Sid Hoffman or Sid Frenchman?
http://www.homestarrunner.com/sbemail81.html
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K23RWyRsl00
