World Class Smuggler & Eventual Buffoon
Almost every time I go watch the Canadiens play (they're a hockey team for those who are confused) at the Bell center, it's more or less a given that I get completely mangled. I don't necessarily have the mindset to go out and swill like a jackass, it just seems to happen. Just go through "The Drunk Tank Beckons" story and you'll get a better picture. This fateful night was no different as I, The Real Deal, Dimsum and DMilz embarked on an early evening drink-a-thon which resulted in me waking up genuinely confused and scrambling to get to work on time in the morning while still battling a heavy drunken stupor.
This past November the Canadiens were playing the Calgary Flames and The Real Deal had scored us tickets. We were way up in the Molson Ex Zone (aka the nose bleeds) but we didn't care. You generally have more fun up there since it's more of a blue collar atmosphere filled with obnoxious drunks and slobbering fools. People go insane trying to win the many mini competitions for free beer, t-shirts, pictures etc. etc. etc. It's generally a shit-show. The Real Deal and DMilz worked downtown so it was up to Dimsum and I to take the 45 minute train and meet them at Thursday's, a happy hour bar on Crescent street located in the heart of downtown Montréal. We made it to the bar for 6ish which gave us roughly an hour and a half of cheap drinks before the game started. This suited us just fine.
The way happy hour at Thursday's works is that it's basically two for one on nearly anything alcoholic. Order a beer, you get two for the price of one, order a Gin & Tonic, you get two for the price of one, order a glass of wine, you get two for the price one, and so on and so forth, get it? From years of drinking there, we eventually figured out the best bang for your buck is buying mixed drinks. The bartenders pour such a filthy mixed drink that it evens out to a half and half, if that. I've had Rum & Cokes there that have been damn near translucent. Anyway, the four of us sat at a table and slammed back round after round of drinks, watching the crowd and making fun of some idiots around the bar because that's what cool people do, right?
There's this one old chick we see nearly every time we go. She's usually dressed in knee-high boots, a pretty revealing dress and make-up that was clearly applied by a single shotgun blast to the face. Or maybe a shovel, the point is that she looks frightening. She's what you would call a bar whore. She'll usually have a few drinks then hit the mini dance floor, embarrass herself and make everyone watching genuinely uncomfortable. After studying this buffoon dancing like she was having a stroke, we realized we were nearing game-time and needed to fuck off to the rink. On our way there we picked up some cold shots (beer in a can that you pummel in a single shot) and hammered a few each before getting to the rink. At this point we were pretty drunk.
DMilz had brought a flask with him so he could avoid paying the ridiculous $10 fee for a single beer. This was a great idea until the security guard decided that DMilz and I looked suspicious upon entry to our seating level. We were actually well dressed so I don't know what the hell was so alarming about us but it was irrelevant as DMilz had his flask taken away, forever. So now we were fucked into paying for these stupid fucking $10 beers. This wouldn't do. We bought a beer for the first period because, well, we wanted to have a beer and watch the game. At the end of the period, I decided I would smuggle in a bunch of King Cans from the Esso across the street. I took my buddies' orders (except for one of them, I forget who, I was very drunk) and stumbled off to begin my first smuggling operation. Buying the beers was easy; finding out how I was going to get them in was going to be an issue.
I was literally on the side of the Esso stuffing these giant cans of beer into my (ankle) socks, down my pants, into my sleeves, wherever I thought they would look inconspicuous. I looked deformed every time I could fit all three somewhere, kind of like a hunchback or some kind of deranged mutant freak. A few yards away from me were two guys literally looking at me and laughing. They knew what I was up to and subsequently knew I was fucked. Then, (I don't know how I figured this out) I ripped off my belt, lifted my Habs jersey, set it around my mid-section on the last buckle and slipped all three cans in perfectly. That was it, I was a fucking genius! I walked back to the arena, past several security guards, beaming like I just discovered America. I got back to my seat where I saw my friends look at me as if I'd failed. The game had started, they wanted some booze, they thought I had none. At that moment I whipped up my jersey and revealed the contraband sauce in all of it's splendid glory. I was a hero! It felt nice.
The second period was shit, it was a defensive nightmare but we were getting pretty mangled so it wasn't as painful as it could have been. At the second intermission I took down another order and made my way back to Esso. I bought another round, went outside and began executing my new smuggling system. Before I started, I saw two guys nudge each other while looking at me. It was those two bums who had mocked me the first time before I had eventually succeeded. I faced them, raised my jersey and began stuffing beers into my belt. They burst out laughing and told me that I was a genius. I informed it wasn’t news to me and made my back to the arena. I wasn't as proud this time since I was very drunk and not very nimble on my feet. I was almost playing pong with people and walls on the way up to my seat.
I distributed the beer, took a few sips, watched a bit of the game, spoke incoherently with a young man next to me and then promptly fell asleep. This was the last I would remember from that evening.
The next morning I woke up in my bed naked, still pretty drunk and with my girlfriend sleeping beside me. I was too panicked and confused to try and make sense of anything that may have led to any of this confusion because I needed to rip ass into the shower and go off to work in record time. The morning was eventful as I was noticeably drunk at work. At lunch time I began placing phone calls to find out what the hell had happened after I fell asleep.
It turns out we took a bus back home after the game, which was an offensive thriller with the Flames winning 1-0. On the bus, I berated The Real Deal in a sleazy Northern Québec accent, much to the amusement/horror of the other people riding along (I got mixed stories on how people reacted to my drunken comedic prowess). Dimsum drove me home from the bus stop while we sang and air-guitared Guns N' Roses' November Rain. I played the final solo on my front lawn while Dimsum rocked out behind the wheel. This is where the night ended with my buddies but continued with my girlfriend, who I called at whatever time it was, invited over to my place, had sex with, fell asleep and woke up next to the next morning with absolutely no recollection of anything I just mentioned taking place. It still counts if I have sex and I don't remember it? Right?