Hot diggity, I'm feeling better today. Better enough to recap the Tricentennial? Even with the strength of 10,000 pumas, that'd be a challenge. Nevertheless, I'm going to give it a shot.
It's hard to know where to start with this, as the Trice differed from the past Goulash events in several critical ways. First, because of an equipment problem, we weren't able to tap the keg until the criminally late time of 8:15 PM. That may not sound so bad to you, but most Saturday nights at that time, I'm throwing a paint can through the window of a mannequin shop in a drunken rage. Oh yes, we made up for lost time, but there was brief talk of a mutiny before things got smoothed over.
Second, our most precious party tradition, the Topless Box, was ignored. Well, maybe it wasn't ignored as much as it was put to shame. You see, two individuals decided to leapfrog the topless concept entirely so they could fornicate in my closet. It's hard to generate much excitement for the Topless Box when the Intercourse Closet has already been established. Luckily, the Intercourse Closet gave the rest of us a much-desired chance to practice some amateur lock-picking skills. Boy, is that complicated. Fortunately for the nymphos, they finished up and unlocked the door right as I got exasperated with our efforts and gave the go-ahead to bust the door
down. Any day now, I expect to show up to work wearing a shirt that was used in the climax of a tawdry sexual fandango that I dare not imagine.
I could continue describing everything in great detail, but I'd like to eat a ham sandwich sometime during the next week, so I'll summarize. We made several excursions to the woods behind my house without anyone getting rabies or raccoon syphilis. We rocked the apartment hot tub so hard, it's now called the Apartment Too Hot For TV Tub. We dirtied up my apartment so bad, a leper would call us trashy bastards. Then, Sunday morning, I woke up to find my living room full of bags of black sand and metal furniture from the apartment pool. It was too cool, and I remember about 45 minutes of it.
Click more for the pictures.
Is it really a party without a chocolate cake with a dinosaur on it? I didn't eat any of the cake, but I look forward to cleaning chunks of it up for the next several months.
The kegs sits there and mocks us...
while the natives grow restless.
Sweet Sependipity, the tap arrives!
Holla!
The white spots on everyone's shirt are buttons that we made. Here's one of the few created without the f word prominently featured.
Fast forward several hours. We're slamming back the Jager now, and I've decided that if I'm going to act like an idiot, I should look line one as well; thus, no shirt. Check out that look of longing in Hound Dog's eyes.
Best Boj pic ever.
Ahhh! Much scarier pics of this man could've been taken, pictures him of doing things that you could never unsee.
Wet, drunk, and incoherent: Diddy represents for the pool posse.
If anyone has more pics, please send them along; these are like dipping your toe in the insanity of that night.