SCENE: Saturday afternoon, Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 7. A train car. Ten friends are sitting on the upper deck, laughing, drinking, discussing television commercials.
"You guys remember that Herbal Essences commercial where the woman has an orgasm in the shower--"
The conductor below us stops snapping cash from his money belt and starts darting his head around like a scared bird. "What? Who said that?"
Dainon waves slightly, stoic.
"YOU---VESTIBULE! NOW!" the humorless conductor points all haphazardly around the train car. "We don't need that kind of language on here."
"I'm sorry, sir." Dainon is visibly confused. "It won't happen again."
"I don't want to hear it. You can't say that on a train! There are children on this train!" (There is not one child in our entire train car.) "I don't appreciate that kind of language, and neither does anyone else."
"Sir, I didn't curse..."
"I'm not trying to be funny, I don't want to hear that kind of language, mister."
"I understand, sir, but I didn't curse."
"Your language is--" blah blah blah. I don't even know, this guy made no sense whatsoever.
"I will try to watch my language, sir, I apologize."
"You better." Bullshit bullshit bullshit.
Five minutes later, we arrived at our train stop, and we get the hell off that train. The conductor is helping people board and de-board.
"Fuck that guy." I'm annoyed, and full of liquid courage. "ORGASM."
"Orgasm!" an echo.
"ORGASM!" a chorus!
"We got off, are you happy?"
"ORGASM."
Slinger gets closer. "You're just pissed you've never had one." The conductor's head snaps forward, and he stretches out his arm, a two-fingered beckon to Slinger to say it within arm's reach.
We laugh, because now we're bullies. Orgasm? That's the word that makes you quake with fury? Really? Drunk Dave is on the verge of swiping your neat little hat and teabagging your head, and your temper flares when we name-drop an Herbal Essences commercial in jest?
Anyway, then we got drunker, and me and Bobbay tried to learn how to play the bagpipes from Marc, a kilt-sportin' bagpiper from Northern Ireland. He was in a parade earlier that day, where he played his pipes for the Mayor, and he realized he split his bag so he had to duct tape it together and it was really hard to blow.
(Oh, I really liked typing that last sentence.)
...
Showing posts with label PCCCC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PCCCC. Show all posts
Monday, May 11, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
P4C7
It's been decided that there will be a slightly impromptu Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 7 next Saturday, in celebration of Bobbay's birthday.
And by "slightly" I mean "I fucking called it" and by "impromptu" I mean "we've been debating if this was plausible for a good two weeks and officially reached a decision on Tuesday in favor of debauchery."
Not that any of you are really coming, but I thought you'd like to know, so you can sit and stew in puddles of green envy, conjuring elaborate fantasies about loss of innocence and nubile twenty-somethings with insatiable appetites, floating in savory rivers of beer and drinking the juice directly from the vine, because that's exactly how shit's gonna go down. It's best represented by this equation:
(the Garden of Eden + train) x Jager = Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo.
...
And by "slightly" I mean "I fucking called it" and by "impromptu" I mean "we've been debating if this was plausible for a good two weeks and officially reached a decision on Tuesday in favor of debauchery."
Not that any of you are really coming, but I thought you'd like to know, so you can sit and stew in puddles of green envy, conjuring elaborate fantasies about loss of innocence and nubile twenty-somethings with insatiable appetites, floating in savory rivers of beer and drinking the juice directly from the vine, because that's exactly how shit's gonna go down. It's best represented by this equation:
(the Garden of Eden + train) x Jager = Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo.
...
Monday, January 12, 2009
Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo: A Modest Beginning
If you've ever taken the Metra all over the Chicagoland area, you'd know that nearly every single stop is accompanied by a bar. Years ago, after sharp surveillance, Drunk Dave said to MSM one day, "We need to just like, you know, fuckin' just go to like, all of 'em," and then he swept his hand for emphasis, knocked over his beer, and ordered a round of Rumplemintz for everyone who witnessed the faux pas.
MSM is a little gossip queen, and the following Sunday morning we were drinking at Orazio's, and she told a Smith Sister and I about Drunk Dave's plan.
"Well, we have to do this," I said. "I don't think we have a choice."
"I'm pretty sure this is the greatest idea ever, except for that one time you made beer cubes," the Smith Sister pointed out.
"Yes," I solemnly agreed, "My beer cubes were a huge success." I took a sip of my drink and pondered. "What should we call it?"
MSM lit a cigarette. "We don't have to call it anything, we just have to go to a bar, drink, get on the train, drink, get off the train, go to a bar, drink, and repeat until we can't see anymore."
"No, we have to call it something. I like Naming Things."
Within moments, we were silent and gazing upwards in contemplation, until the Smith Sister broke the silence. "Wait. Okay, I got it. What sound do trains make?"
I did the best train horn I'm capable of replicating, but I'm no Michael Winslow.
"Well, yeah," Smith Sister humored me. "But I was thinking more like, 'chooooo choooooo'."
So I did more train sounds, because I was all stuck on calling it a train sound and then giving it a symbol, like Prince.
"No, like, chugga chugga chooo chooo-" Smith Sister corrected me.
"I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can--"
They both ignored me, and MSM turned to the Smith Sister. "Oh-oh-oh...and what do you do with beer?"
"Chug it."
I "WAIT! I know! Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, a big fucking television. Choose the best fucking train crawl ever."
"Ross, we don't need to go too abstract here."
"Bu you know? From Trains-"
"Shut up, yes, I know. Focus. Think."
"Pubspotting!"
After like, fifteen more tries they got me to stop quoting movies about trains and describing my love for Shining Time Station and we settled on a name.
The word has spread, and what began as a fifteen person pub crawl has since escalated into a forty-person extravaganza of excellence. Any man that gets left behind? Stays behind.
Yes.
Next one's in May. Everyone is invited.
...
MSM is a little gossip queen, and the following Sunday morning we were drinking at Orazio's, and she told a Smith Sister and I about Drunk Dave's plan.
"Well, we have to do this," I said. "I don't think we have a choice."
"I'm pretty sure this is the greatest idea ever, except for that one time you made beer cubes," the Smith Sister pointed out.
"Yes," I solemnly agreed, "My beer cubes were a huge success." I took a sip of my drink and pondered. "What should we call it?"
MSM lit a cigarette. "We don't have to call it anything, we just have to go to a bar, drink, get on the train, drink, get off the train, go to a bar, drink, and repeat until we can't see anymore."
"No, we have to call it something. I like Naming Things."
Within moments, we were silent and gazing upwards in contemplation, until the Smith Sister broke the silence. "Wait. Okay, I got it. What sound do trains make?"
I did the best train horn I'm capable of replicating, but I'm no Michael Winslow.
"Well, yeah," Smith Sister humored me. "But I was thinking more like, 'chooooo choooooo'."
So I did more train sounds, because I was all stuck on calling it a train sound and then giving it a symbol, like Prince.
"No, like, chugga chugga chooo chooo-" Smith Sister corrected me.
"I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can--"
They both ignored me, and MSM turned to the Smith Sister. "Oh-oh-oh...and what do you do with beer?"
"Chug it."
I "WAIT! I know! Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, a big fucking television. Choose the best fucking train crawl ever."
"Ross, we don't need to go too abstract here."
"Bu you know? From Trains-"
"Shut up, yes, I know. Focus. Think."
"Pubspotting!"
After like, fifteen more tries they got me to stop quoting movies about trains and describing my love for Shining Time Station and we settled on a name.
The word has spread, and what began as a fifteen person pub crawl has since escalated into a forty-person extravaganza of excellence. Any man that gets left behind? Stays behind.
Yes.
Next one's in May. Everyone is invited.
...
Concerning P4C6
Well, birthday celebration aside, Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 6 was of course, a train wreck.
The Recap:
birthday girls: 2 (me and MoLinder)
bars attended: 3
bars that kicked us out: 1
trains ridden: 3
trains that nearly kicked us off: 3
times Muffy argued with an authority figure and doesn't remember it: 9
hospital trips: 1
men left behind: 0 (booyah.)
bars that gave us our own room because we are rowdy as fuck: 1
largest round of shots I purchased: 11 ("Give me nine shots of whiskey. No, ten. No, nine. No, fuck it, just empty the bottle. Eleven!")
strangers that offered to take me to Ireland on Tuesday: 1
times we sang "happy birthday" to me and MoLinder: 5
egg rolls I tried to eat: 1.5
old childhood next-door neighbors that I randomly ran into when I was good and plotzed and probably should have been embarrassed because they're friends with my parents but I wasn't and I make them by me a shot: 2
people that drove that had no business driving after twelve hours of drinking: 1 (you dumbass, no driving after P4C7, promise?)
times Gyna yelled, "MAKE OUT" at someone for no reason: 147
people who purchased a pair of boots while on the pub crawl because their feet were cold: 1
stolen beer bong thingers that are not technically a beer bong and more like a three-liter graduated cylinder with a valve release but were nonetheless stolen goods that were once full of beer: 1
secret guests that made me squeak with surprise, which is weird, because I don't have a high voice at all: 5
people I drunk dialed: 2
fights I got into: 1.5
times I cried: 1
text messages I couldn't finish because my thumbs de-evolve into unopposable appendeges when I drink too much: 7
largest gathering of P4C6 participants simultaneously at a bar: 36
total number of people who love me and MoLinder and came out for our birthdays because I fucking dominate and threatened people until they gave in and reluctantly showed up but had a good time anyway: 41
So yeah. Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 6? Excellent.
...
The Recap:
birthday girls: 2 (me and MoLinder)
bars attended: 3
bars that kicked us out: 1
trains ridden: 3
trains that nearly kicked us off: 3
times Muffy argued with an authority figure and doesn't remember it: 9
hospital trips: 1
men left behind: 0 (booyah.)
bars that gave us our own room because we are rowdy as fuck: 1
largest round of shots I purchased: 11 ("Give me nine shots of whiskey. No, ten. No, nine. No, fuck it, just empty the bottle. Eleven!")
strangers that offered to take me to Ireland on Tuesday: 1
times we sang "happy birthday" to me and MoLinder: 5
egg rolls I tried to eat: 1.5
old childhood next-door neighbors that I randomly ran into when I was good and plotzed and probably should have been embarrassed because they're friends with my parents but I wasn't and I make them by me a shot: 2
people that drove that had no business driving after twelve hours of drinking: 1 (you dumbass, no driving after P4C7, promise?)
times Gyna yelled, "MAKE OUT" at someone for no reason: 147
people who purchased a pair of boots while on the pub crawl because their feet were cold: 1
stolen beer bong thingers that are not technically a beer bong and more like a three-liter graduated cylinder with a valve release but were nonetheless stolen goods that were once full of beer: 1
secret guests that made me squeak with surprise, which is weird, because I don't have a high voice at all: 5
people I drunk dialed: 2
fights I got into: 1.5
times I cried: 1
text messages I couldn't finish because my thumbs de-evolve into unopposable appendeges when I drink too much: 7
largest gathering of P4C6 participants simultaneously at a bar: 36
total number of people who love me and MoLinder and came out for our birthdays because I fucking dominate and threatened people until they gave in and reluctantly showed up but had a good time anyway: 41
So yeah. Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 6? Excellent.
...
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Feckin.
So I was trying to remember Saturday's Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 5 (also known as P4C5 and The Best Train Pub Crawl Ever), because I couldn't for the life of me recall the name of the dreamy whiskey I was downing at bar number three.
Then I "racked my brain," and I couldn't decide if it was properly spelled rack or wrack and wondered if it really made that much of a difference, so I googled "racked my brain" and discovered that the first available link is a blog entry about a blog entry (Shakespearean blogs?) about the etymologies of rack and wrack. Apparently, it depends on if I'm referring to torture or ruin, respectively.
I pulled in ruin, because I tend to ruin things: surprises, marinara sauce, lives. So, I wracked my brain.
Of course, I ruined my last several batches of marinara by adding sugar, and so I sent myself a memo reminding me to never do that stupid shit again. But inevitably I will forget, and the next time I make marinara sauce I'm going to stand there in front of the stove and my Good-and-Evil Shoulders will argue over adding sugar or not, and chances are I'll fucking do it again, Evil Shoulder wins. Nothing new.
It would be fantastic if my mind operated like Photoshop, and all those blurry or darkened memories could just be sharpened or lightened by sliding up and down a mental scale. Then my marinara dilemma could be cleanly avoided and I would learn what kind of fucking whiskey I was drinking at P4C5.
And even though I forget the brand, I do remember this:
The Good-and-Evil Shoulders on whiskey:
Good: Thou shalt not drink it.
Evil: Hell yeah, whiskey.
Good: It is whiskey.
Evil: It's fucking whiskaaay-aaay.
Good: It is vile.
Evil: You love it.
Good: You'll make whiskey face in front of hot guys, like that one.
Evil: Not if you're hardcore, you fucking Sally.
Good: You'll get into a fight--
Evil: Fuckers deserve it anyway.
Good: You'll get all stumbley and slurrish.
Evil: Whatever, you're already struggling. It's not like you're driving.
Good: You will be That Girl--
Evil: Who fucking cares?
Good: Seriously, man, you'll be That Girl.
Evil: Dude, come on. Whiskey.
Obviously, Evil overcame. So anyway, googling types of whiskey was just too difficult. I wasn't fuckin around anymore, so I wikipedied that shit.
Feckin.
How I forgot a name like that, I'll never know.
...
Then I "racked my brain," and I couldn't decide if it was properly spelled rack or wrack and wondered if it really made that much of a difference, so I googled "racked my brain" and discovered that the first available link is a blog entry about a blog entry (Shakespearean blogs?) about the etymologies of rack and wrack. Apparently, it depends on if I'm referring to torture or ruin, respectively.
I pulled in ruin, because I tend to ruin things: surprises, marinara sauce, lives. So, I wracked my brain.
Of course, I ruined my last several batches of marinara by adding sugar, and so I sent myself a memo reminding me to never do that stupid shit again. But inevitably I will forget, and the next time I make marinara sauce I'm going to stand there in front of the stove and my Good-and-Evil Shoulders will argue over adding sugar or not, and chances are I'll fucking do it again, Evil Shoulder wins. Nothing new.
It would be fantastic if my mind operated like Photoshop, and all those blurry or darkened memories could just be sharpened or lightened by sliding up and down a mental scale. Then my marinara dilemma could be cleanly avoided and I would learn what kind of fucking whiskey I was drinking at P4C5.
And even though I forget the brand, I do remember this:
The Good-and-Evil Shoulders on whiskey:
Good: Thou shalt not drink it.
Evil: Hell yeah, whiskey.
Good: It is whiskey.
Evil: It's fucking whiskaaay-aaay.
Good: It is vile.
Evil: You love it.
Good: You'll make whiskey face in front of hot guys, like that one.
Evil: Not if you're hardcore, you fucking Sally.
Good: You'll get into a fight--
Evil: Fuckers deserve it anyway.
Good: You'll get all stumbley and slurrish.
Evil: Whatever, you're already struggling. It's not like you're driving.
Good: You will be That Girl--
Evil: Who fucking cares?
Good: Seriously, man, you'll be That Girl.
Evil: Dude, come on. Whiskey.
Obviously, Evil overcame. So anyway, googling types of whiskey was just too difficult. I wasn't fuckin around anymore, so I wikipedied that shit.
Feckin.
How I forgot a name like that, I'll never know.
...
Monday, May 7, 2007
Paper clips don't work on hair.
Well.
Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 3 was a huge success until about eleven at night (after eleven and a half hours of serious bar hopping) when it turned into Spring Break Train Wreck 2007 (re: Ross takes care of other Chuggers for several hours and yells a lot.)
Miles Long, the ancient Irish barman magician, had a great quote: "Shannon , I got a new waterbed. It ain't cheatin' if ye don't move."
This time around, Miles pulled a gerbil out of Bobbay's shirt, made a match piss on her hand (please don't ask me to explain that one, it was crazy), shot ice cubes out of his pants at Schmee, vanished about five cigarettes which kept on reappearing inside random bottles of beer, and pounded out cheesey Irish one-liners like a bad vaudeville comic. Glorious.
But that's not what this blog is about.
Cut off all of my hair on Saturday morning. Thirteen inches for Locks for Love. Gone. I love the hairstyle with the exception of the flippy-do's, which are not supposed to happen with this style, however my hair seems to disagree. But they're lame. When there's no flippage, my entire head dominates. But as of right now, every time I see my silhouette I want to punch myself and throw a heavy stapler at my foot.
I tried pinning them back with paper clips and scotch tape, because that's really all I have to work with in this office.
Lesson of the day: Paper clips don't work on hair*.
I understand that some people think having their hair flip out at the sides is stylish and attractive, but what they don't know is that they look like assholes. Just because a magazine says it looks good does not mean that you don't look like you have bubblegum stuck in your hair, or that it was styled by a sticky-handed pre-schooler who just ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some applesauce and used your hair as a napkin.
I feel the same way about pointy shoes. Everyone in pointy shoes looks a little clownish and a little bit evil-er than they otherwise would. Not in maniacal villain kind of way, but like "I will easily vanquish you and your evil pointy shoes" kind of way. More of a "you just wait til I get my round steel-toed boots and then we'll see who's evil" kind of way, or a sacharrine, passive-aggressive "someday that bitch will make me snap" kind of way. Not like Lord Voldemort, and more like Dolores Jane Umbridge.
*Scotch tape is not much better.
Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 3 was a huge success until about eleven at night (after eleven and a half hours of serious bar hopping) when it turned into Spring Break Train Wreck 2007 (re: Ross takes care of other Chuggers for several hours and yells a lot.)
Miles Long, the ancient Irish barman magician, had a great quote: "
This time around, Miles pulled a gerbil out of Bobbay's shirt, made a match piss on her hand (please don't ask me to explain that one, it was crazy), shot ice cubes out of his pants at Schmee, vanished about five cigarettes which kept on reappearing inside random bottles of beer, and pounded out cheesey Irish one-liners like a bad vaudeville comic. Glorious.
But that's not what this blog is about.
Cut off all of my hair on Saturday morning. Thirteen inches for Locks for Love. Gone. I love the hairstyle with the exception of the flippy-do's, which are not supposed to happen with this style, however my hair seems to disagree. But they're lame. When there's no flippage, my entire head dominates. But as of right now, every time I see my silhouette I want to punch myself and throw a heavy stapler at my foot.
I tried pinning them back with paper clips and scotch tape, because that's really all I have to work with in this office.
Lesson of the day: Paper clips don't work on hair*.
I understand that some people think having their hair flip out at the sides is stylish and attractive, but what they don't know is that they look like assholes. Just because a magazine says it looks good does not mean that you don't look like you have bubblegum stuck in your hair, or that it was styled by a sticky-handed pre-schooler who just ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some applesauce and used your hair as a napkin.
I feel the same way about pointy shoes. Everyone in pointy shoes looks a little clownish and a little bit evil-er than they otherwise would. Not in maniacal villain kind of way, but like "I will easily vanquish you and your evil pointy shoes" kind of way. More of a "you just wait til I get my round steel-toed boots and then we'll see who's evil" kind of way, or a sacharrine, passive-aggressive "someday that bitch will make me snap" kind of way. Not like Lord Voldemort, and more like Dolores Jane Umbridge.
*Scotch tape is not much better.
...
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