Bear in mind, my definition of the "weekend" goes from any point on Friday until the conclusion of Monday Night Football. Really, only nine good things happened, but I had to include ten, so here you go.
10. Our laptop died. The smug bastards at Geek Squad could not revive it, nor could they retrieve the data from it, which includes all of our pictures and videos of Daughter from her first year, all of my other pictures (including Oktoberfest pictures, so the stringing out of the Oktoberfest recaps will continue into to the new year), as well as what I assume are millions of dollars worth of intellectual property. Thus, we have sent it to an outside data retrieval company, who we will likely have to pay more than the equivalent of a new laptop to retrieve our data.
9. I had a steak burrito for dinner on Sunday. Now that I no longer (regularly) roam the streets in a drunken haze between the hours of 1 and 4 a.m., my burrito consumption is less frequent. Still delicious.
8. I had Taco Bell for lunch on Saturday.
7. I got a new laptop.
6. My boss took a bunch of us out for "lunch" Friday, which meant I not only got a free lunch at a nice restaurant, but I also had to do nothing the entire afternoon.
5. While scouring the nearby Salvation Army for a bad Christmas sweater (which I did not find), I purchased several 1990s alternative rock CDs for $1 each, including, but not limited to, Smashing Pumpkins' Siamese Dream, The Offspring's Smash, Oasis's What's the Story Morning Glory?, Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville, Rusted Root's When I Woke, and Better Than Ezra's Deluxe. If you are looking for pretty much any early to mid '90s alternative rock or grunge, the Salvation Army on Clybourn just south of Fullerton is a bastion. I didn't realize The Why Store put out that many albums.
4. The Bears clinched the NFC North title last night.
3. I went to a bad sweater/white elephant party. My friend Adam and his wife Jen throw said party every year, and I had to miss it last year because Daughter had only recently escaped from the womb. Needless to say, good times were had, White Russians were drunk, and crazy holiday clothing was abundant. Here is a picture of Jester (as well as Gemkeezi's wife). She was the runner-up for the best dressed.
10. Our laptop died. The smug bastards at Geek Squad could not revive it, nor could they retrieve the data from it, which includes all of our pictures and videos of Daughter from her first year, all of my other pictures (including Oktoberfest pictures, so the stringing out of the Oktoberfest recaps will continue into to the new year), as well as what I assume are millions of dollars worth of intellectual property. Thus, we have sent it to an outside data retrieval company, who we will likely have to pay more than the equivalent of a new laptop to retrieve our data.
9. I had a steak burrito for dinner on Sunday. Now that I no longer (regularly) roam the streets in a drunken haze between the hours of 1 and 4 a.m., my burrito consumption is less frequent. Still delicious.
8. I had Taco Bell for lunch on Saturday.
7. I got a new laptop.
6. My boss took a bunch of us out for "lunch" Friday, which meant I not only got a free lunch at a nice restaurant, but I also had to do nothing the entire afternoon.
5. While scouring the nearby Salvation Army for a bad Christmas sweater (which I did not find), I purchased several 1990s alternative rock CDs for $1 each, including, but not limited to, Smashing Pumpkins' Siamese Dream, The Offspring's Smash, Oasis's What's the Story Morning Glory?, Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville, Rusted Root's When I Woke, and Better Than Ezra's Deluxe. If you are looking for pretty much any early to mid '90s alternative rock or grunge, the Salvation Army on Clybourn just south of Fullerton is a bastion. I didn't realize The Why Store put out that many albums.
4. The Bears clinched the NFC North title last night.
3. I went to a bad sweater/white elephant party. My friend Adam and his wife Jen throw said party every year, and I had to miss it last year because Daughter had only recently escaped from the womb. Needless to say, good times were had, White Russians were drunk, and crazy holiday clothing was abundant. Here is a picture of Jester (as well as Gemkeezi's wife). She was the runner-up for the best dressed.
2. I got a samurai sword at the white elephant party. I should say, Jester got a samurai sword. Since she was the runner-up, she had second-to-last pick for the white elephant presents. It was between the sword and a little gaming system you can plug into any TV that has old Atari games on it. We found out that the winner wanted the Atari thing, so we went with the next best thing: a fucking sword. Look at how giddy I am. Do not concern yourself with the trophy I'm holding. Now I just need to find some nunchucks, a bo staff, a couple sai daggers, three other turtles, and a mutated rat sensei. Then I'm coming for you, Oroku Saki.
1. Last night, I clinched a spot in the finals of one of my fantasy football leagues. The reason this trumps the samurai sword is the way in which it happened. I would liken it to Sunday's Eagles come-from-behind victory over the Giants. I was left for dead, staged a furious comeback that looked like it wasn't going to be quite enough, and then in the last minute, I stunned my opponent. Here's how it went down. I am the #4 seed in the playoffs, and I was playing the #1 seed. Going into last night's Bears/Vikings game, I was approximately 34 points behind. He had Joe Webb, who was somehow listed on Yahoo as a WR or a QB, so he started Webb at WR. I had my kicker, Robbie Gould, and the Bears defense/special teams. One note that makes it more interesting, which I didn't know until last night, is that, unlike many leagues, there are no points for special teams touchdowns (although we get a point for every 15 return yards). Anywho, the Bears defense was spectacular last night, and Devin Hester had a ton of return yardage (and a punt return touchdown for which I got no points). On his side, Brett Favre started, so it looked like Joe Webb was not going to play. Of course, the Bears finally ended Favre, and Webb came in, playing admirably. I was down by about one point when the 2-minute warning hit. The Bears had the ball in Vikings territory. They had a chance to kick a 48-yard field goal (which would have got me 3 points), but chose not to, since they were already up 40-14. So they went for it on fourth down and were stopped. The Bears D came on the field. I needed a turnover. Webb completed a pass. I was down by about 1.5 points. With about 30 seconds left, Webb completed another pass, and then it happened. FUMBLE! Bears recover. This put me up 122.60-122.17. The Bears knelt to run the clock out. I was literally frothing at the mouth. Christoff, who was over watching the game (and had stayed despite the fact that the game was a blowout solely to find out if I would win my fantasy matchup), was equally as excited for me. I burst into Daughter's room to tell her the news, and she was so excited she started to cry. For those of you who think fantasy football is just some dull thing dudes do, good God, you are wrong. And Jester, this is the last year you chastise me for being in three leagues.
While there, he saw this sign for sale, which was the only sign in English: 
Back at the Hofbraukeller, RPTre, Kellie, and Mirka showed up a little while after we got there. A good laugh was had by all. 
Gregerson and Emily followed a little while later. We had become too big of a group for our initial table, so we moved to a larger vacant table next to us. A stern fraulein waitress frantically rushed up to us and spewed what I assume were profanities at us in German, pointing to a wooden sign that hung from a tree above the table. What we gathered is that this table was reserved for someone named Mir San Mir!
Thus, we moved to another vacant table. That one was also apparently reserved, even though it was the middle of the afternoon and the place was pretty much empty. We finally found a table that was agreeable for both sides.
By the way, when you take a shit at the Hofbraukeller, they make you look at pictures on the back of the door showing German children eating Italian food and yelling. Unsurprisingly, the title of a German poster has the initials "KKK." There's nothing right about this. 
At dusk, some toddler walked up to our table. His soulless eyes and attempts to take our goats indicated to us that he was a gypsy.
Unsure of what to do next, we did the only thing we could think of: we popped and locked. Then we ate the gypsy kid (he tasted gamier than I would have thought). Then we got kicked out. Then we started riding lions and cows. 
Then we went to the subway station, where we started singing "99 Red Balloons" (English lyrics), which caused Kellie to air motorboat Mirka. Notice the guy in the background. From the knees down, he is a fucking deer. 
Then Gregerson made himself into a statue and mounded himself to a wall. 
After that, we headed to Der Pschorr for some dinner. While some of us ate, Kellie slept, as is her style. 
As night fell on Munich, we watched as a full moon entered the hop-filled Bavarian sky. 
We went back to the hotel somewhat early because we had to get up early Friday morning to head to the tents. No one slept well that night. I was restless, so I got up around three in the morning to wander the streets. I fed on a drunken Slovenia couple walking through the deserted market and some wild dachshunds I found in a nearby badger hole. Prove to me that it didn't happen.
Here are the results of the DNA test and pictures of the dog breeds that supposedly comprise my dog. I am fairly confident that no part of Harley consists of any of these breeds.
Dalmation (20-36% of DNA)
Irish Setter (20-36% of DNA)
German Shorthaired Pointer (10-19% of DNA)
Golden Retriver (10-19% of DNA) 
We had reservations at the Hippodrom (the same place we had reservations last time), but our reservations weren't until 3:30. We headed there from the outset, though, to get some of the unreserved seats until 3:30. By the way, it is completely reasonable to start drinking at 10:30 on a Wednesday morning in Munich.
When we arrived, some German dude sat us in some seats that were unreserved in the morning. We asked for English menus, because we're dicks like that. We were surprised and a little bit concerned about the following three menu items:
Poor horseradish. I can only imagine the terrifyingly weird scene in the kitchen. Then again, it couldn't have been more weird than the hill outside the back of the Hippodrom, aka "The Killing Floor," where people went to pass out and/or die, bodies strewn about like a scene from Saving Private Ryan, but not as funny.
While at the Hippodrom that morning, the discovery of the trip was made. A couple tables over, we happened to witness a twentysomething fraulein in a dirndl getting her picture taken. She was holding a giant pretzel in front of her bosom. And, thus, Tit Pretzel was born. RPTre, Kellie, and I immediately began plans for titpretzel.com -- a website devoted entirely to pictures of pretzels in front of boobs. There would be both PG-13 and adults-only sections. We made it our goal to take as many pictures of tit pretzels as possible over the next several days. RPTre and I would be the Tit Masters. Probably Chandler too. The Pretzel Master would probably be someone who's good at crunching numbers, maybe Timothy Geinther. Kellie would be the Creep Master, in charge of going up to unsuspecting German women and convincing them to get their pictures taken with a giant pretzel in front of their cans, since we figured guys have less of a chance of successfully doing the same thing. Fear not, I will have an entire post dedicated to our Tit Pretzel pictures. The Creep Master was very good at her job.
Speaking of Gregerson, at some point in the early afternoon, he went outside to have a smoke (smoking is no longer allowed in the tents, at least not until late at night after everyone gets really drunk). When he attempted to reenter the tent, the guy at the door wouldn't let him back in because of his "gypsy eyes." It takes more than that to keep a Michigan grad down. He turned his shirt inside-out, put sunglasses on, and just went to another entrance and walked back in.
We all enjoyed our German meal of food. I've never had a better half chicken than at the Hippodrom. Then we spent the next couple hours drinking liters of beer. 
After our reservation was over, we dispersed in order to infiltrate Munich. Reed, Ben, Colt, and Laura went to another tent. Gregerson, Daniel, Mirka, and Chandler disappeared. RPTre, Kellie, Shane, Derrick, Bonham, Alex, Emily, and I went to the Augustiner beer hall for some dinner. I kept a pretzel with me to use, not only as the pretzel part of the tit pretzel, but also as a beacon for those following me through the crowds. When in doubt, look for the jackass holding his arm in the air with a giant pretzel.
Dinner at the Augustiner allowed us to sober up by drinking half-liters of beer instead of full liters. We sat out in the beer garden, which is surrounded by four walls that go up three stories and has a bunch of nooks and crannies. RPTre and Kellie called it an early evening after ordering goulash. It turned out to be a bad move. Soon thereafter, we bought our sixtysomething waiter a half-liter of beer. Technically, he's not allowed to drink on the job, so he did what any good German waiter does. He made sure no one was looking, stood behind a giant post, and slammed the beer in about five seconds. Here's a pictures of Bonham and Alex in the aftermath.
That got him sauced enough that we immediately ditched out on the bill, and headed to the Lotter Leben, the bar a couple blocks from our hotel. On our walk back, we saw this business sign. 
By this time, it was probably 9 or 10. We had assumed Gregerson had been stabbed at this point, but we were wrong. He was alive, well, and drinking at the Lotter Leben, along with Daniel, Mirka, and Chandler. Meanwhile, there was a chicken on a rotisserie on one of the TVs in the Lotter Leben. Germans are weird.
Several of us grabbed a couple tables on the sidewalk and a liter, while the others drank inside. 
We were sitting there getting elegantly wasted, when two cars pulled up. The street is busy during the day, but not that busy during the night. The car in the front had apparently died. None of the five people in the first car got out at first. Then a guy in the second car, who I assume was a gypsy, gets out of the car and starts kicking the back right fender of the first car. No one in the second car did anything. We watched, confused, as the scene unfolded. The big gypsy was more pissed off about the dead car than the people in the dead car, and they didn't seem to mind when he resorted to physical violence against the car. Eventually, they pull the second car (a Mercedes station wagon) in front of the other car (some maroon, vaguely Slavic-looking car). These people obviously had knives, so they decided on the following course of action: cut a seat belt out of the maroon car and use that to tow it behind the Mercedes. A more brilliant plan could not have been concocted. It took them about four tries before they secured it enough to go half a block. Thankfully, by that time, it was no longer our problem. Fucking pikeys.
Laura put a flag in her boobs, thus birthing titflag.com.
Energized, Alex, Daniel, Shane, Derrick, Gregerson, Bonham, Emily, Mirka, and I did the only thing we could do: dance our asses off. I didn't want Ben to feel alone, so I whipped my now-stale pretzel into the air and attempted to catch it. This is what very hard salt does to one's wrist. 
We went to a club we call the Mall of America. I have no idea what it is actually called. Several people on the trip back in 2007 discovered it and went there several nights. Somehow, I never went to it on the first trip. It's called the Mall of America because it's basically a giant showroom converted into one hell of a good Bavarian time.
Gregerson couldn't deal with that, so he headed back to the hotel in a rage. However, when the band would take a break, a DJ would come on, and people would half-heartedly head to the dance floor. Needing a boost, we decided it was a good idea to do Jager shots. I nearly vomited anticipatorily when I saw the barfrau pour warm Jager into shot glasses. Thankfully, she dropped a single ice cube into each shot glass. These proved to be exceptionally good -- even better than a standard cold Jager shot. Something about the Jager over there was a little bit smoother than the stuff we have in the States.
From then on, it was bedlam. '80s songs were played with reckless abandon, as we slipped into oblivion. 
At some point, someone broke a few bottles on the dance floor. Not wanting Ben and I to feel alone, Shane fell to the floor and washed his hands in glass and spilt marzen bier.
Of course, this didn't stop him (or any of us) from continuing to work ourselves into a Jager, beer, and Journey filled frenzy. I don't know if it was the blood or what, but a German bear soon began to stalk Shane. This dude followed Shane around and tried to dance with Shane for a good half hour before finally getting the point that Shane was not into overweight hirsute dudes in lederhosen. The best part is that Shane was completely unaware that there was a bear trying to make him into horseradish.
For our own good, we all just headed up to our respective rooms and passed the fuck out. I love Oktoberfest.
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