Habs Drunkenness and a Flimsy Tale of Deceit
This episode happened last February as The Real Deal and I went to the Bell Centre to watch our beloved Canadiens and, as usual, it turned into a colossal beer festival. The Habs were playing the Washington Capitals and my papa had generously given me tickets to the game. It was a Tuesday night game and The Real Deal and I both worked together at the time, so it made sense to go together. Also, the Olympic medaless and Stanley Cup barren Alexander Ovechkin is The Real Deal’s favorite player, so I decided I’d take him to the game. What followed was a morbid affair reserved for degenerates and winos.
Unbridled Stupidity and Unmitigated Mayhem on a Thursday Night
Since I’ve been on a tear writing about Tyler Durden’s heroic vehicular exploits lately, I figure I’d go for the hat-trick and pump one more disastrous car night into the site. This is one of the vintage nights where I go out with the simple dream of having a few pints and getting to bed at a reasonable time, you know, so I can be somewhat coherent at work the next day. Sadly this was not the case and I ended up in a completely absurd situation filled with unconditional confusion and un-paralleled wonder at how I or Tyler Durden have not been thrown in prison yet.
The Championship Debacle
I play hockey religiously. I have been doing so for the last 20 years without having missed more than half a season to injury due to the simple fact that I am a towering juggernaut of a man with the muscle mass of a God, not because I’m a pussy who avoids the corners at all costs. I figured you all should know, that’s what friends do. They share. This past summer the team I played for won the garage league playoffs and we proceeded to party like wild animals well into the morning, ending with a near sleepless night for myself, complete paranoid fear of police arrests and a disaster of a day at work on Friday.
The Night Prison Beckoned
Everyone at some point or another in their life makes some absolutely retarded decisions and hopefully they learn not to make them again. Hopefully. I am of a different breed, a breed of sheer stupidity which thrives on the outright refusal to learn anything from my errors. Not because I mean to, it’s just the way I am. I’m plagued with no memory of the past or common sense once I drink heavily. For example, as you will come to see in the following stories as well as in some I’ve already posted, I get into cars where the driver should not be driving, due to whatever ridiculous reasoning I have at that moment. By no means am I glorifying this, I’m just saying I get gunned and poor decisions tend to follow.
The Ouzo Battle
I’m more of a long distance drinker, a marathon runner if you will. Chugging beers and pounding an endless succession of shots was never really a staple in my drinking abilities. I can abuse my liver for hours at a time but sit me down at a table and make me chug beers for a drinking game or slam shots consecutively out of the pure hate in your heart, I will not impress anyone. That doesn’t mean I don’t do it, it just means it erupts into an unmitigated disaster.
Extreme Canada Day Inebriation
I love National holidays because you get a day off work (paid if they’re not dicks about it) and the entire country usually holds hands and gets all fucked up together. Except maybe in Québec, things aren’t as easy going over here. Every year on July 1st (for those who don’t know when Canada Day is) my buddies and I join forces and get completely trashed and it usually turns out to be an absolute shit-show. The venues change from year to year, a few years ago we partied in Ottawa with Jim Lahey and Randy of Trailer Park Boys, but the general ideology is to drink as many beers as you can and stumble around yelling incoherently and hugging strangers. The summer of 2004 was no different.