I Got (Bur)Wood

I don't know about you, but my weekend was pretty sweet. I didn't bag any babes or anything, but I definitely got some smiles!

Friday at work, I had a sweet associate training session at lunch, the highlight of which was a discussion about Edgar Bellefontaine. I learned some things about him. It turns out that FBI Agent Chris Saviano -- the man Edgar wants to stop raping his wife -- was having an affair with Edgar's wife. Edgar caught said wife and Saviano doing it, and she feigned rape, as it were. She then divorced Edgar. Several months ago, Edgar went to a hearing before Judge Carol Bellows (one of the "outlaws" he once listed on his signs). Edgar told people that the hearing was related to the rape, which I guess it kind of was, since it was actually his ex-wife's hearing to renew her restraining order against Edgar. So the rapings have apparently stopped, although not in Edgar's mind. The consensus at the training session was that Edgar is crazy. Crazy like a fox. A fox whose wife was raped by FBI Agent Chris Saviano.

Friday night I had a party at the Burwood, in the back room. It was one of their notorious $30 all-you-can-drink-a-thons from 9-12 (or an extra hour for an extra $10). The nice thing is that the Burwood doesn't exclude much. Unlike other bars -- where you might be limited to domestic draft beers, white wine, diet tonic water, and alcohols that start with I, X, or Q -- the Burwood lets you have everything except bottled beer and Red Bull. Thus, I was drinking Black Bush and Bushmill's the whole night, with various shots mixed in there. To make things more interesting, the other party in the back room was a bad Christmas sweater party, so there was a lot to laugh at.

Here are some of the details/highlights:

• I drank more than $40 worth of Black Bush, Bushmill's, and shots.
• I didn't puke.
• Kyla showed up at some point, and all indications were that she drank her weight in grain alcohol before arriving because she greeted me with a cock punching. Thankfully I have the reflexes of a paranoid cat, and I partially deflected the brunt of the force, which is not to say she didn't do some damage.
• Kyla slapped me in the eye for no reason.
• I justifiably smacked Kyla in the right tit. I'm almost positive she didn't notice.
• Ari tried to break a beer bottle over Jessie's lip.
• After the Burwood, many of us went to The Vu, and again, Gregerson and I found ourselves playing Silver Strike Bowling. This time we brought in two rookies whose money we could take. I won $15 in the first game, and I was nice enough to waive the $15 the rookies owed me in the second game.
• Jessie left during the second game, presumably because watching me play video bowling for nearly $15.01 a game makes her more nervous than a patent lawyer who has ever refused to file a patent (too soon?).*
• At 2:52am, Jester sent me the following text: "This is the last time you put video bowling in front of your wife." What she doesn't know is that her Christmas present is a Silver Strike Bowling machine.
• After we finished the second game, those of use left headed to Los Tres Panchos, where I used a fraction of my winnings to purchase some steak nachos. Man was I laughing my ass off just knowing that those porr bastards sitting across the table from me paid for my food. To the victors go the spoils, indeed.

Saturday I woke up and went to play some Silver Strike Bowling instead of hanging out with Jessie. After I got back, we hit Einstein Bagels for a breakfast that prominently featured bagels. While there, we saw our nextdoor neighbors, the girl who threw the bad sweater party at Burwood, and the Brothers Veeser (minus Greg of course). Most of Saturday is a blur, on account of the mescaline. My attempt to get a haircut was thwarted my the 30 guys waiting in front of me at the barber shop. Lesson learned. Our apartment still smells like a campfire. Never close the flue.

Saturday night, Jester and I went to the traditional German haus of Uter and Greta Widenhofer for a traditional German Christmas party, featuring sushi, chicken wings, Bartles & James fuzzy navel wine coolers, vodka tonics, and Miller High Life. I was kind of leary of attending, on account of my non-Aryan heritage. I was not exterminated, at least not literally. At one point, a song from Uter's mix CD forced me to ask, "Is this Dido?" It was. Jessie and I then left in hysterics, torching the place on the way out.

Harley has not yet regenerated either of her ovaries, which I think is a good thing.

*Allegedly, this is the fourth time I have "made" Jessie walk home alone after 2am. I am not in a position to confirm or deny this rumor, but I have accumulated a sizeable video bowling booty.