Upon my arrival, I paid Thrifty for the pleasure of driving a Hyundai Elantra, which had XM radio. When I got in the car, the first thing I did was press the "4" preset button. The Elantra knew it was Hair Band Friday, so it changed the station to XM's Hair Nation. Soon, I was cruising through Colorado Springs jamming to Tyketto.
I was left to my own devices during the rehearsal dinner. Thankfully, there was a BW3 across the street from my hotel. During the next four hours, I sat by myself at the bar, eating wings, drinking happy hour-priced draft beer, and beating the shit out of the rest of the restaurant at NTN trivia. There was a round about songs about drinking -- two things I love. Come on, NTN.
It stopped being fun at some point, so I texted Dan, and he informed me that they reserved a conference room at the hotel that was fully stocked. I settled up and walked out of BW3 to a standing ovation. Around this time, someone else in town for the wedding headed to BW3, where he was accosted (in the bar) by two guys who demanded his wallet and said they had a gun. He said, "No you don't." They said, "Yeah, you're right." And then they drank some beers together. They turned out to be, I shit you not, members of the United States Army.
But I digress. I headed into the party room, and it was bumpin'. I conversed with an old high school friend Carl. Beers were consumed. Laughs were had. Then something magic happened.
You know that scene in Braveheart where Longshanks's gay son's cocksure "friend" is trying to convince Longshanks that he is a good hire, so he tells Longshanks, with hubris, "I am skilled in the arts of war and military tactics," then Longshanks takes him by the scruff of his neck and tosses him out of a window, sending the cocky fop to his death? That's almost exactly what happened Friday night.
At some point in the evening, it was rightfully decided that a game of flip cup would be played. A non-Italian suggested the teams be comprised of those of Italian descent on one side and everyone else on the other. Presumably, the thought was that these non-Italians were more skilled in the arts of cups and flipping tactics than the Italians. "Without papers!" the non-Italians mockingly shouted. We were called guineas, goombas, and degos.
The Italians gathered on one side of the table –- olive-skinned gods and goddesses prepared to conquer as our people have done in the past. We were unified, gregarious, and terribly good looking. On the other side of the table, a ragtag bunch of "multiculturals" gathered, including people of Irish, English, Jewish, Mexican, German, and Polish descent. Notably, there were no Ostrogoths on their team.
With a "salud!" from our side of the table, the game started. The other team had no idea they were about to get thrown out of the window.
The grease from our fingers allows us to flip with less friction, so there is a much smaller chance of overflipping – a problem that plagued the Saxons on the other side of the table. And the Anglos? Jesus. Last time we had to deal with them, all we did was put up a wall and that was that. The Gaels were too overcome by the effects of alcohol to successfully flip a small plastic cup 180 degrees and have it land on its top, which is the entire purpose of the game. The Poles kept trying to flip the cup before drinking it, while the Germans kept barking orders and trying to take the game over. These shortcomings were not enough for the Jews and the Mexican (no strangers to ancient empires themselves) to overcome.
Our victory celebrations were marked with shouts of "tutti bravi!," hugs, dual cheek kisses, whistling at any woman who walked by, and sliced "capicohl." Here is the only record of the event. We stopped counting at five.
Eventually, the other side of the table surrendered, and soon the room devolved into an all-out orgy, in honor of Caligula. There was arm wrestling and beers poured on peoples' heads (the latter mainly as a result of infighting on the non-Italian team). At one point, the night clerk from the hotel walked in and was quickly sacrificed and devoured.
I woke up Saturday morning facedown in my bathtub wearing only giant gold pinky ring. "Volare" played from a nearby record player that was for some reason in my room. Balled up in a pile nearby were my silk boxers, wifebeater, black Z. Cavaricci jeans, and a Slovenian woman's hand. Battabing.
I dressed myself in what I would consider a post-modern summer casual frat guy attire, popped a few Excedrin Migraine, and shuffled my way to the front desk. I asked the still-living clerk where to get some fast food. Her response was, "There are tons of fast food options right around here. There's Chili's, Outback Steakhouse, BW3, Denny's, and Baskin Robbins." Really? I drove less than a mile and saw a Burger King, Arby's, Fazoli's, and Carl's, Jr. This explained why I dominated these people in games of the mind the night before.
I settled on Carl's, Jr. and bought a gigantic burger. When I got back to the hotel, I saw Dan, who was on his way to Outback (another fast food joint) for lunch with some other dudes, so I had a bite of my burger and put the rest in the minifridge. At Outback, I ordered a gigantic burger, but I ate the whole thing, which made me feel surprisingly good about myself.
We dispersed, as Dan had to get married. I took a much-deserved nap, took a shower, put on a suit, grabbed a VHS tape of Kid Colter, and headed to the front of the hotel, where a shuttle bus was waiting to take guests to The Broadmoor, where the wedding was.
On the shuttle bus ride, our driver informed us that the bears "are out," as if she was taking us to a campground instead of a wedding at the nicest hotel in Colorado Springs. Regardless, I left my stash of walleye on the bus.
The venue was pretty awesome. It was at a reception hall on the grounds of The Broadmoor, with an awesome view of the mountains on one side and Colorado Springs on the other.
The cocktail hour at the reception was on a terrace overlooking the city. A Latvian boy named Adam gleefully served the guests appetizers with smoked salmon and shrimp. Quietly hoping to see a bear maul an Eastern European live, rather than on YouTube or When Animals Attack, I failed to inform him of the bus driver's warning and stuffed chunks of salmon in his pockets while he wasn't looking.
Over the next several hours, people ate, drank, and danced. Grand plans were hatched on the shuttle ride back to have another rager in the party room, but we had no beer. Apparently in Colorado, you can get medical marijuana for back pain, but you can't buy booze after midnight on a Saturday. That didn't deter us, as we had several cases of wine in the party room. A sign was made, so that people wouldn't be confused as to the direction of the party.
Notice how the exclamation marks are smiling. I found that to be very inviting. Apparently few others did. The crew Saturday night ended up being much smaller than Friday night, since many people were drunk off of alcohol from the wedding. On the bright side, we could just drink our own bottles of wine, and there weren't any parents around to bust us, so we stayed up till like four in the morning. Whatever.
Sunday, I had some time to kill between checkout and my flight. I hoped to drive up Pike's Peak (which is a mountain, not the bosom of some one-titted chick named Pike). Unfortunately, there was some construction on the only road up there. It was a risk I wasn't willing take. Instead, I went to Garden of the Gods (Roman gods, no doubt). I walked around on some rocks, openly mocked some people with an Idaho license plate ("no YOU da ho!"), and then got back in the Elantra and jammed out to some White Lion while I drove back to the airport. Then I flew home and went to bed.
In conclusion, I like Colorado Springs. And remember, no Hair Band Friday post tomorrow because I will be doing it all over again in the dirty South.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment