Mildcats and Bad Sweaters

Well now that I have a moment, I can fill you in on the weekend's glorious events. Friday night was low-key, spent at the crib of Holt "Kick Me in the" Hedrick, watching Dogma, drinking Johnny Walker Black, and bitching about how we didn't get bonuses this year even though we will have both billed over 100 hours more than required. "Profits were flat, so we're only giving out very few bonuses this year," so says the bossman. But what I'm hearin' is "your bonuses helped pay for that Carrera you see me driving around town with a smug, shit-eating grin on my face."

Saturday was just an all-around solid day. Jester and I took Harley to the local dog park, where she immediately tried to take on 2 Dobermans and a Boxer/German Shepard mix. Luckily she's fast, or else she would have been dead long ago. Harley, too.

After some Christmas shopping, we headed back home to watch IU unleash 5 years of frustration on Kentucky. That, my friends, was a nice game to watch. Marco Killingsworth is simply a hoss who should not be mocked or even looked at in an unsatisfied manner. I can't wait until he makes James Augustine cry.

Saturday night we went to the hizzie of Kim "I'm Not Really Going to Attempt to Wear a Bad Sweater Even Through I'm Hosting a Bad Sweater Party" Byrum and Casey "Clark W." Mayo (shown to the right, stone cold pimpin') for their annual bad Christmas sweater party. If you've never been to one of these before, I highly suggest hosting or crashing one. It's more fun than getting stoned and watching Captain Ron. As a fortune cookie I got once said, "Good friends, good food, good times, goodbye oppression."

Jessie and I got some sweet sweaters, thanks in large part to Dayton's many deceased grandmothers whose hideous and generally unusable clothes are donated to the Salvation Army. As you may not be able to tell, my sweatshirt says "The joy of Christmas is my grandchildren." My cardigan sweater vest not only keeps me warm, but it also features playful teddy bears dressed in adorable elf uniforms. To keep my feet warm, I went with a dark blue cotton sock, complemented by vintage mid-'90s Eastland loafers. And yes, I am wearing women's size 16 plaid shorts. Jessie's sweater features a delightful array of gingerbread men and women, each one of them with their own costume and, really, their own personality. Underneath is a stylish turtleneck with Christmas trees and skiers in various stages of flipping. As you might imagine, her skirt is red felt, and boy do those green tights say "I'm in the mood for some yule-tide fun!"
Through Casey's many mafia and underwear company connections, he was able to procure many "presents" for a mid-party raffle. Many prizes were given away, including: men's briefs (size S), silk reindeer boxers with matching antlers for Christmastime ribaldry, and a talking Napoleon Dynamite keychain (damn you Kate). At the end, a winner and runner-up for best sweater are named. The fix was on, big time, as the two winners were Casey's family members. I tried to call "shenanigans," but it was to no avail. While I was hurt that I was not the winner, I am also glad that I did not have to accept the grand prize, a used red and white Santa-themed men's thong with what used to be a white puff ball that hangs down right around the chode. Not all was lost, however, as I went home with some spiced pecans and the traditional Christmas dessert, baklava.

So, aside from the Bears laying an egg in Pittsburgh, it was a pretty solid weekend. Let the Grossman era begin . . . again.