Happy Monday. Had a pretty good weekend. Friday night was the first of my girlfriend's two Going Away parties thrown by people at her office. Why is she having two? I guess they really like her. Anyway, being the good sport that I am, I offer to be her designated driver for the night. I figured that she wanted to go out and get wasted with her colleagues and who was I to stand in the way of that? I wasn't about to be like, "Hell no I won't DD! If I go out, I'm drinking!" No. That's not me. That's something her ugly loser ex-boyfriend (emphasis "ugly") (extra emphasis "loser") would do.
So I get out of work and meet them at a Mexican restaurant for dinner and a few drinks. Then they decide to go out to another bar afterwards, but my girlfriend wants to go home and change first. So we drive home where one of her friends/colleagues meets us and I drive both of them to this bar about 25 minutes away out in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't until I got to the bar that I remembered how much I hate being the designated driver. My last DD stint (several months ago when I was still living in southern California) ended with my car getting towed. Not only does it suck not being able to drink when you're at a bar, but it's absolutely excruciating not being able to get drunk when you're at a bar full of pickup truck-driving hillbillies and other various retards from the shallow end of the human gene pool. I really needed a few shots of jack, but was unable to do so.
And to make matters worse, my girlfriend started getting offended when I was making fun of said hillbillies. She took it as an affront to where she grew up and got quite upset with me. As far as I was concerned, I hadn't really done anything outlandish or out of line. At least I didn't think so. I didn't think it was too much of a reach to call the skinny 30 year old dude drinking Coors Light out of a can in the NASCAR t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, bad tattoos on both arms, shaved head, bad goatee, and messed up teeth a "hick". Nor did I think it was crazy to call the 45 year old guy with the dirty white t-shirt tucked into his Wrangler jeans, wearing white high-top Reeboks, who smashed his cell phone repeatedly into the bar until it was in four separate pieces before throwing it into the woods, a "stupid redneck." I was not making a blanket statement about everybody from that region. I was simply pointing out individuals and proceeding to make fun of them. That is all. And I usually do that whenever I go to a bar, no matter where it is.Anyway, so that was Friday night. Saturday afternoon we went to a bbq which was fun. Crabs and shrimp were cooking on the grill, beers and margaritas were free-flowing, the sun was shining, the pool was open, etc. It was good times all around. Someone actually bought three bottles of Patron over. For those of you who don't know, that's about $160 worth of liquor right there. Patron is basically the Mercedes Benz of tequila. It's freakin good. But some idiot actually used almost half of it to make margaritas. I don't know how the woman who purchased the Patron held herself back from sticking that guy's hand in the blender. I would have been super pissed if some shlomo used Patron that I bought in margaritas. But all was not lost. I still managed to get myself two shots, and thus, I was satisfied.
Anyways, at this bbq, I was introduced to a game called Cornhole. Don't worry, it's WAY less gay than it sounds. It's pretty much a cross between horseshoes and that huge tic-tac-toe game you played with the beanbags when you were a kid. Based on the way the game looked when it was set up, I expected to play for about 8 seconds before I got bored. But a strange thing happened after I started playing; I got hooked. I think there's something in the male brain that requires them to become addicted to any sort of game where you have to throw some sort of object and some sort of target, because I could have played that game all night. If I had the motivation...and a yard...I would totally build a set of my own.
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