Die Perkies, Die!
Unlike myself, Sunshine had this entire past weekend through the 4th of July off of work. To kick off her unofficial vacation she had a little pre-Independence Day bash at her house last night.
I rustled up my posse (A bunch of guys at the party were trying to teach me how to be ghetto, I failed...miserably.) which included Sunshine's newest love interest, DC, Chris, Boyfriend and pretty much the entire crew from work.
We came.
We ate.
We drank.
We conquered the blender.
We drank some more.
I did my infamous Cartman dance. (The 1st sign that the party has officially reached its climax.)
I was introduced to Hennessey.
And then I bunked at Boyfriend's.
On a side note: Chris invited WorkBuddy and he pussed out. He did however invite her over for a little "after party" at his house but apparently that only consisted of watching Southpark until 3AM. Lame.
When I got the call at 9:30AM (Remember I work nights. Anything before 11 is like some God forsaken time I've never even heard of.) that my Mom had some how gotten food poisoning and been taken to the hospital during the night, I had only about 3 hours of sleep and was still drunk.
Fantastic.
Mom was fine. Puking. Apparently suffering from extreme diarrhea about which she described to me in great detail later. Eck. But fine all the same. Dad wanted me to come look after her "as soon as I could" so he, another night-shifter, could get some sleep.
I moaned something I hoped came out unslurred, about being on my way and then rolled over to nudge Boyfriend.
Boyfriend, the bastard that he is, has a liver of steel. He had drank about 18 beers, 1 bottle of champagne (I have no idea where he found that), helped me finish another bottle of champagne, and an unknown number of daiquiris. He had also managed to pour about half a bottle of rum into one of my daiquiri concoctions while I wasn't looking and happily handed me a straw when I started drinking it out of the blender.
I nudged. Boyfriend didn't move. I called his name. Didn't move. I punched experimentally. Didn't move. At this point I wondered briefly if he was dead and decided the only sure way to tell was to resort to extreme measures. Remember, I was still drunk.
So. I smacked his balls.
He came awake screaming violently.
I rejoiced in the brilliance of my reasoning and of course, that Boyfriend wasn't actually dead, then proceeded to make my way to the bathroom without an explanation for the cursing naked man in the fetal position in the middle of the floor. (He'd rolled off the bed.)
About half an hour, and one slightly slurred explanation about someone trying to poison my mother, Boyfriend was driving me back to Sunshine's house to pick up my car.
On another side note, when I drink too much my hangovers the next morning tend to manifest themselves as some sort of evil stomach flu. I want to puke and die and puke some more. The morning after my 21st I begged Boyfriend to kill me the entire morning. Thankfully, he didn't oblige.
So we're chugging along in Boyfriend's truck, him singing and car-dancing along to some Spanish rapper, me with my head basically out the window, my eyes as tightly shut as they can be while I focus on not vomiting. After waging a silent battle with the volume button on his stereo while slowly inching our way through the BurgerKing late breakfast drive thru, I was ready to not only smack Boyfriend's balls again but fucking deep fry the bitches.
Over the past few months of not bunking at his house, I'd forgotten that Boyfriend is one of those people. The lepers of the drinker's world...prepare yourself people, Boyfriend is a Perky.
He has never had a hangover in his entire life, and he could be running on 2 hours of sleep and still be spry as shit the next day. Singing. Dancing. Cracking really bad jokes.
I can see how some of you may confuse this DISEASE with being a “Morning Person.” But you would be so very wrong. A Morning Person is that guy at work that walks in and is all, “Good morning” with a bright-eyed smile as he passes your cubicle.
A Perky is that annoying fucker that's at work before everyone else so he has time to dance around the office whistling show tunes and waving like a crack addict as he skips on by. He’s the one that stops by your desk nearly vibrating with early morning excitement to start a fresh new day sniffing coffee grounds and jabbering in all his goddamn perkiness about the puppies perky fucking Kelly Ripa was kissing on some morning show I‘ve never even heard of.
I hate these people.
I was genetically predisposed to hate these people. I was conditioned since birth to want to smack the shit out of them whenever I see them.
And there I was. With a hangover the size of Texas, stuck in the BurgerKing drive thru surrounded by Perkies while my Perky Boyfriend orders three value meals and makes some confusing analogy about studying and the primer stage of painting.
“You know, you look so cute when you just wake up and your hair is sticking up in the front like that.”
Still slightly drunk but sobering fast in the presence of Perkies, I flipped him off. “I hate you so hard.”
He smiled like I’d said something really cute, “Aw. Well I love you too, Babe.”
“Fuck.” Oh shit. I could feel the puke. Feeeel it! No! No puke. Bad puke! “Off.”
“You’re even cute when you’re hungover and you’ve still got that slightly flushed, glazed look.”
When I reached to slap his balls again he laughed and easily escaped my groping hands. Fucking Perkies.
I rustled up my posse (A bunch of guys at the party were trying to teach me how to be ghetto, I failed...miserably.) which included Sunshine's newest love interest, DC, Chris, Boyfriend and pretty much the entire crew from work.
We came.
We ate.
We drank.
We conquered the blender.
We drank some more.
I did my infamous Cartman dance. (The 1st sign that the party has officially reached its climax.)
I was introduced to Hennessey.
And then I bunked at Boyfriend's.
On a side note: Chris invited WorkBuddy and he pussed out. He did however invite her over for a little "after party" at his house but apparently that only consisted of watching Southpark until 3AM. Lame.
When I got the call at 9:30AM (Remember I work nights. Anything before 11 is like some God forsaken time I've never even heard of.) that my Mom had some how gotten food poisoning and been taken to the hospital during the night, I had only about 3 hours of sleep and was still drunk.
Fantastic.
Mom was fine. Puking. Apparently suffering from extreme diarrhea about which she described to me in great detail later. Eck. But fine all the same. Dad wanted me to come look after her "as soon as I could" so he, another night-shifter, could get some sleep.
I moaned something I hoped came out unslurred, about being on my way and then rolled over to nudge Boyfriend.
Boyfriend, the bastard that he is, has a liver of steel. He had drank about 18 beers, 1 bottle of champagne (I have no idea where he found that), helped me finish another bottle of champagne, and an unknown number of daiquiris. He had also managed to pour about half a bottle of rum into one of my daiquiri concoctions while I wasn't looking and happily handed me a straw when I started drinking it out of the blender.
I nudged. Boyfriend didn't move. I called his name. Didn't move. I punched experimentally. Didn't move. At this point I wondered briefly if he was dead and decided the only sure way to tell was to resort to extreme measures. Remember, I was still drunk.
So. I smacked his balls.
He came awake screaming violently.
I rejoiced in the brilliance of my reasoning and of course, that Boyfriend wasn't actually dead, then proceeded to make my way to the bathroom without an explanation for the cursing naked man in the fetal position in the middle of the floor. (He'd rolled off the bed.)
About half an hour, and one slightly slurred explanation about someone trying to poison my mother, Boyfriend was driving me back to Sunshine's house to pick up my car.
On another side note, when I drink too much my hangovers the next morning tend to manifest themselves as some sort of evil stomach flu. I want to puke and die and puke some more. The morning after my 21st I begged Boyfriend to kill me the entire morning. Thankfully, he didn't oblige.
So we're chugging along in Boyfriend's truck, him singing and car-dancing along to some Spanish rapper, me with my head basically out the window, my eyes as tightly shut as they can be while I focus on not vomiting. After waging a silent battle with the volume button on his stereo while slowly inching our way through the BurgerKing late breakfast drive thru, I was ready to not only smack Boyfriend's balls again but fucking deep fry the bitches.
Over the past few months of not bunking at his house, I'd forgotten that Boyfriend is one of those people. The lepers of the drinker's world...prepare yourself people, Boyfriend is a Perky.
He has never had a hangover in his entire life, and he could be running on 2 hours of sleep and still be spry as shit the next day. Singing. Dancing. Cracking really bad jokes.
I can see how some of you may confuse this DISEASE with being a “Morning Person.” But you would be so very wrong. A Morning Person is that guy at work that walks in and is all, “Good morning” with a bright-eyed smile as he passes your cubicle.
A Perky is that annoying fucker that's at work before everyone else so he has time to dance around the office whistling show tunes and waving like a crack addict as he skips on by. He’s the one that stops by your desk nearly vibrating with early morning excitement to start a fresh new day sniffing coffee grounds and jabbering in all his goddamn perkiness about the puppies perky fucking Kelly Ripa was kissing on some morning show I‘ve never even heard of.
I hate these people.
I was genetically predisposed to hate these people. I was conditioned since birth to want to smack the shit out of them whenever I see them.
And there I was. With a hangover the size of Texas, stuck in the BurgerKing drive thru surrounded by Perkies while my Perky Boyfriend orders three value meals and makes some confusing analogy about studying and the primer stage of painting.
“You know, you look so cute when you just wake up and your hair is sticking up in the front like that.”
Still slightly drunk but sobering fast in the presence of Perkies, I flipped him off. “I hate you so hard.”
He smiled like I’d said something really cute, “Aw. Well I love you too, Babe.”
“Fuck.” Oh shit. I could feel the puke. Feeeel it! No! No puke. Bad puke! “Off.”
“You’re even cute when you’re hungover and you’ve still got that slightly flushed, glazed look.”
When I reached to slap his balls again he laughed and easily escaped my groping hands. Fucking Perkies.
Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings, Drunken Adventures, The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)
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on 2.7.06 at 11:34 PM.
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