In the End
In the end, there are no words of wisdom. The body of the infirm does not serve as a vessel through which a higher power can communicate to the living.
You simply go into nothingness. Hopefully the people you love are nearby.
Such was the case for my father. My last day with him is one that I will always remember, even though it is not the kind of memory I’ve ever wanted.
Now I’m staying up north for an extra couple of days to help plan the funeral.
I’m no good at this. Family members that I haven’t seen in years are coming to the service. I have nothing to say. My pain is something personal. I hold it close to my heart and refuse to talk about it.
Fortunately I have my writing.
-KFD
Happy Holidays
It’s noon on Christmas Eve. My Dad is on the couch, breathing heavily and bleeding from his thigh. He’s looking at going back to the hospital for the third time in three days.
Happy holidays!
I knew I wasn’t coming up to Ohio under the premise of a holly, jolly Christmas. My Dad is sick. He has been for three months, but they waited until November 6th to tell me. I responded by getting blackout drunk with S.
On December 13th I found out it was liver cancer. I proceeded to get blackout drunk with Casey.
Notice a pattern?
I’ve never had to deal with cancer in the family, so I’ve never seen how it ravages a person. The last mental picture I have of my Dad is from January 2008 as I began my merry drive back to Florida.
Usually, he’s 6’5”, a little more than 300 pounds, with big eyes, big teeth, and a skunk stripe of white going through his otherwise dark gray hair. At 55 he looks relatively youthful, with minimal lines on his face.
This new person, my new dad, is hunched over and withered. He could easily pass for my grandfather. In just three months he has lost 60 pounds. Chemo has triggered male pattern baldness. The stress of a weakening immune system has turned most of his hair white. His skin and eyes are jaundiced, making his chiclet-sized teeth gleam whiter than ever. His kidneys have taken a turn for the worse, so he’s dehydrated. His lips are dry, cracked and crusted over with flecks of blood.
It’s hard to look at this Dad. My mom and brother have had time to grow accustomed, but this is all so new to me.
I wasn’t supposed to find out about the liver cancer until I got here. That’s how my family works; we ignore the problem until there’s no choice but to come clean. He was just going to sit me down, all jaundiced and shrunken, to give me the news. Compassionate, yes? My mom saw the flawed logic in that and (thankfully) broke the news to me early.
Unfortunately a life-threatening infection in his leg got in the way of his plans, and I ended up going straight to the hospital from the airport.
I anticipated the potential for an awkward and traumatic situation, so I popped two Trazadone on the plane. Trazodone is a serotonin reuptake inhibitor that, in small doses, can be used as a sleep aid. In larger doses, it is an anti-depressant with hypnotic properties. I figured that two pills would keep me from making a scene when I saw my Dad for the first time.
I guess I took too much, because I started sweating and hallucinating on the plane. On the plus side, when I wasn’t tripping balls I slept fantastic.
I got progressively sicker between leaving the airport and arriving home. Within three minutes of stepping into the hospital, I found myself running through the hallways, hands over my mouth, throwing up and swallowing said throw up in an effort to find a restroom.
Trazodone, you have bested me.
I immediately felt better, and the humor of the situation (and telling my mom I had maybe OD’d on anti-depressants) helped distract me from the shock of seeing my father.
I don’t know if it’s insensitive to write this in the blog. I know it’s not a drinking adventure, but it’s the cheapest therapy available. Besides, I’m still unwilling to talk about this with anyone, so it looks like the written word is my best option.
I promise I have an epic drinking adventure up my sleeve that I’m fine-tuning. I just needed to get this shit out of my head and onto something else.
On that note, my porn-store-owning Uncle has just arrived from Orlando and has poured me a tall screwdriver. Time for some liquid therapy.
-KFD
Our readers
It’s interesting to check the statistics for this blog. I know a lot of our facebook friends are casual readers, and that’s cool, but I’m more interested in the people who find us by accident. Sick fucks.
You see, people aren’t googling “Awesome alcoholics” and finding us (although that should really be ranking). People are searching some really twisted shit. They must be really disappointed when they figure out that we are not a butt-plug emporium or whatever it is they’re searching for.
I often text Maren about the more interesting search results. A couple of the best are listed below.
- Cops ass boobs rape
- Ass rape whore slut
- Genital tattoo
- Wile Coyote butt tattoo
- Red bull and vodka affect equilibrium
- Male ass lock
- Ucf walk of shame
- Sexy acrobatics rape videos
- Kiefer Sutherland
Our parents would be so proud!
On that note, I saw the most interesting homeless man underneath the 408 overpass near Anderson Street the other day (and no Maren, it wasn’t your favorite literate homeless man).
He had two posters attached to his home (read: bike). I don’t think they were meant to solicit money. I’m not sure why they existed.
The first was a yellow poster with a Star of David scrawled on it. The second was a poster with a lot of nonsense words. Across the top he had scrawled “Ped A Phill” which I am going to assume is the phonetic spelling of pedophile. Underneath it and written vertically were the words “non-denominational” and “ambiguous”, both spelled incorrectly. There were a couple other words, but I couldn’t discern what they were trying to convey.
These signs left me with way more questions than answers. Is that how sex offenders have to advertise these days? Was the poster advocating or rallying against pedophiles? If he is a pedophile, is he equal opportunity? Maybe he has a preference about gentile or Jewish kids?
Something tells me I’m going to start driving near that overpass more often on my quest for answers.
-KFD
The Christmas Card You Really Wanted.
So we haven’t written in awhile. Our bad. But here are some damn good reasons (and fun little factoids) why YOU should never stop reading the adventures Maren and Katie happen to survive:
1) KFD came to live with me in February 2009. Our lease ended in May 2009. In between that time we purchased 16 HANDLES of vodka (almost always Three-Olives BTW) not-with-standing our frequent and often documented vodka purchases at various bars. No, we were not throwing crazy ragers every night, those large, glorious, beautiful bottles were for us. Do the math.
2) When drinking gets boring we spice it up with various outfits (i.e. “business casual”) or extreme goals such as ending the night sharing a beverage with hotties from other countries (i.e. “Aussie Aussie Oy Oy Oy”).
3) We have NEVER and will NEVER allow anything Twilight connected to interfere with our drinking agendas. In fact, drinking has only enhanced our hate towards all that is Jersey-Blow-Out-Vampires and their multitudes of brainless fans. Seriously, when you can come up with ANY thematic relevance, decent character development, or an argument for the “anti-hero” within this mormon trash—well then you should be reading better things.
4) We are quick to scoff at—and then attack anyone or any drinking establishment that attempts to instigate regulations against our drinking. This is a direct assault against those at The Rio who seem to think they are tough enough to tell me I cannot take down more than three margaritas in one sitting. Hello? Have they seen KFD and I in our full blown Two Dollar Tuesday mode?
5) Holidays away from KFD are rough. We’ve been remote drinking and simultaneously texting to ease the pain; but it ain’t the same, and I NEED her in my life…soon. or, NOW.
6) Flights from my new home to Vegaaaasssssssssss are less than 100 bucks round trip. I feel like this should be documented. On my gravestone. Not to mention one more solid reason for KFD to give this address a go-round.
7) Everyone we know and love has a Maren J and KFD story to tell—don’t be afraid to share yours with us, chances are (if it was REALLY good) we don’t remember it.
“I didn’t come here to experience this particular town’s various happy hour specials.” —unspecified person not in compliance with Maren and KFD norms.
Maren and KFD: Huh? Well, why not? Oh hell, what the fuck are we supposed to do now? Oh, I know, just drink the voice away.
9) Double penetration, anal beads, and Real Dolls. Say this (or any variation of extreme sexual expression) to Brian after a few drinks. You ain’t heard giggling like that since Shirley Temple tap danced around much older inappropriate sailors.
10) This has been a not so subtle cry to KFD: come see me. I’ve already made besties with all of the local liquor store owners ANNNND Three Olives just changed their bottle design—we must celebrate. Plus, my many purchases of handles of vodka have proved slightly pathetic without your presence.
In short, send help…STAT!
Love you KFD, happy holidays, give those bullshit bar patrons hell! My liver awaits you.
Thanksgiving
Happy Thanksgiving from Maren and Katie!
Hope your day is filled with delicious food, great company, and lots of alcohol.
-Katie
I have a Colorado story too, Maren.
So, I haven’t been wreaking my normal havoc recently. Multiple jobs and looming homework deadlines have put the kibosh on my drinking. (By the way, as I write this I have a glass of Baileys over ice nearby. Old habits die hard.)
Also, I’ve been dealing with some personal issues. Kind of dampens my mood from time to time.
Since I can’t regale you with tales of debauchery, I thought I’d give you a peek into my early years. Maybe this will explain how I’ve grown into the person I am today.
Let’s go in reverse. I was always a creative child with (apparently) a morbid sense of humor. When I was nine I won my elementary school’s writing contest. I had submitted a short story about one of my classmate’s murdering a bunch of other classmates. All of the names were real. How I avoided getting sent to the counselor, I’ll never know.
When I was eight I was obsessed with biographies and sad stories. My idol at the time was Lucille Ball. I would read anything about her that I could get my hands on. Our teacher’s assistant encouraged my love of biographies and started loaning me some out of her private collection. Obviously, my fascination with the lives of others continues to this day. My other favorite book at the time was The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe. Yeah, I was an odd kid.
But I think the first sign that I was a little ‘off’ began when I was five. This was the year I planned on murdering my family.
What?!
I don’t remember harboring any hatred toward my family. For all I know, it was just a bad combination of permanent markers, Looney Toons, and an overactive imagination. (Of course, this was the year that I unsuccessfully auditioned for A Miracle on 34th Street. Maybe my five-year-old brain couldn’t deal with failure?) All I remember is that for a couple of days straight I would ask my mom for the permanent marker. She would happily hand it over (Didn’t she wonder where this magical stash of paper was?) and I would go to a wall in a corner and work my magic.
You see, I couldn’t read or write at the time, so my plan for mayhem was written out in stick figures.
All in all, I think my plan was pretty reasonable. I was going to shoot my mom, hang my brother, and push a boulder onto my father. The only difficult part would be convincing Dad to stand on the giant bulls-eye at the bottom of the cliff without him getting suspicious.
Wile E. Coyote is a terrible role model for children.
From what I can remember, this masterpiece of a mural looked something like this.
And yes, I did go on to be accepted into my 8th grade advanced art class
A note to all children vandals – when you deface the dining room wall of your rented house, your parents will notice. And they will not be pleased.
Surprisingly, the only punishment I received was being sent to bed without dinner. Jokes on you, Dad; Mom totally slipped a hot dog and apple sauce to me when you weren’t looking.
So, the moral of the story is – there is no moral. There were absolutely no repercussions for my actions. It’s a miracle I’m as well-adjusted as I am.
Hopefully Maren and I will be back in fighting form to entertain you all again soon.
The Locals.
KFD: I don’t have my passport yet, but thankfully I’ve got a HAZMAT suit:
Well, I’m back in St. Louis albeit, alone. Same as last time, here for some doctor stuff completely unrelated to my slowly dying liver. Alone. No KFD, no Brian, so no way to get into trouble right? Oh, how lofty [and unattainable] that goal is.
Last time Brian and I were here, and at this hotel, a restaurant that shares the parking lot was slated for opening. For two people that love beer and didn’t have access to a car this was a wonderful coincidence. A wonderful coincidence that never came to pass–the restaurant was behind schedule. But now, I’m back! And able to step out into the hallway, walk exactly two feet to the rear entrance, skip across the parking lot, and surround myself with LCD screens and $2.50 domestic bottles. Oh hurray! The first time I did this was somewhat uneventful, I expected food and booze and I got it. On the second day I got a little more.
It was a Thursday, all of my doctor’s appointments were done and I knew sitting one more minute in my hotel room would be very detrimental. The Press Box, the sports bar next door had your typical happy hour: 4-7 cheap beer and well drinks. So I showed up pretty much at 4:01. Every bar across the country has “those regulars.” You’re never quite sure what they do for work, they chatter easily with all the employees, they have their own specific seat at the bar (which if you accidently sit in can shift entire world paradigms). They’re usually middle-aged men, not of retirement age which makes you wonder how they get to be lucky enough to sit their afternoons away with their favorite adult beverage. This new establishment was no different and had all the usual suspects.
Other than the bartender and two servers I was the only female in the place. Sitting at bars alone has never bothered me. Until the eleventh grade I was an only child, and I’ve worked in bars since I was 19. These two things combined creates a person who can sit comfortably in silence without constantly wondering if everyone pities her; OR, someone who can talk to anyone if need be, brick walls included. I ordered a beer and some food and settled into Woody Paige and PTI. Apparently, a lone lady in a bar makes the person closest to her designated “question asker/welcome committee.” Informalities were passed along and soon everyone (all three of em) sitting at the bar had figured out I was staying in the nearby hotel and I was from Colorado by way of Florida. You could tell my new friends wanted more information about the reason I was visiting a doctor a few states away. I thought about coming up with something truly gruesome or rare (I watch House I could make it plausible) but I’m a big believer in karma and spinning something like that could have consequences. So I let mum be the word, allowing them to think what they wanted. A nice enough guy across the bar started asking me about the weather in Colorado, which I had narrowly escaped. The night my flight left, Boulder had over 14 inches of snow dumped onto it. I gushed about how much I liked it so far and how I was a little sad I’d missed the first real snow. I made a point to mention my boyfriend casually enough and the fact that we had moved out there together, I threw in the fact he would be joining me in St. Louis on Saturday; it wasn’t obvious I was putting out a warning, but clear enough to discourage any fanciful ideas.
The man across the way who had asked about Colorado kept up a steady flow of conversation. He told me he had lived in CO for quite a while and he loved it. He asked if I was an outdoorsy person and when I confirmed he launched into several different adventures I could have in my new home state. He also said to always- ALWAYS- have 100 feet of rope with me wherever I went, he told me if I did this I would never forget him and his excellent advice (not if the beer does its’ job mister).
Five O’clock came around and it was time for the changing of the guards. The day bartender came and sat next to me talking comfortably about nothing in particular. A much older man had joined the group across the bar. As he sat down he asked if the former CO guy and myself knew about glassware. Um, glassware?
Old Man: My father always dumped his beer from the bottle straight into a cold glass, allowing for all the gas to escape and a full wonderful head to emerge.
[At this point I am unsure if he is as excited about the beer as he was about saying the word “head.” But I know for a fact he must have come straight from the Anheiser Brewery Tour since he parroted their basic beer school.]
Old Man: He did this because he knew what he was doing…he knew how to drink beer the correct way.
Me: [After a long swig] Pretty sure I just achieved the same result.
Guy Across Bar From CO: ‘Least I don’t drink it from a can. Plus I’m saving the bartender the extra dish duty.
Old Man: Harumpf.
I’d kind of tuned them out, none to thrilled by the idea of a beer debate when I noticed what the guy had ordered: well vodka, in a snifter, six ice cubes. Really? Really, Mr. Beer Snob? Well? School me in beer all you want, but I know my way around the frontier of vodka and what’s in the well has never been the way to glory or refinement.
Old Man from then on would randomly interject with an anecdote about a “place called Chesterfield” (the suburb of St. Louis we were currently in) as if it were a far-away land. We were also privy to his days in the army when they were stationed in Colorado where the men were forced to sleep in pup tents in 30 below temperatures, but he was lucky and got to stay in “special tents from the future” that kept their inhabitant in a comfortable constant 60 degrees. Yes, he really did say special tents from the future. His nonsensical commentary on life continued but I had somewhat tuned him out and instead was talking to the day bartender about getting lipstick off of wine glasses. She leans in and averts her eyes to the guy across the way (CO Guy not Old Man):
“he’s a little creepy, he’d usually be gone by now but you’re here so he’ll be a little slow to leave.” Flattering in a disturbing way, he hadn’t made an attempt to sit next to me so I didn’t think anything of it. The day bartender and I got into a conversation about the plausibility of me being able to purchase a bottle of wine from the restaurant and take it back to the hotel (the liquor laws in MO are somewhat lax, liquor is sold at gas stations and you can drink beer and wine while grocery shopping). CO Guy overhears my questioning.
CO Guy: What’s the matter you don’t have a rental car? You know [smiling widely] if you’re real nice the free shuttle might take you up the road to get some wine since it’s so rainy and wet outside.
Me: ugh.
That’s when I stopped responding to his comments, any of them. Disaster averted, bullet dodged…right?
Maren, you wish.
All-in-all just your run of the mill bar flies. Or so I thought. A man, younger than the rest, but still sporting male-pattern-baldness rushes in from the weather, shakes off his rain coat and sits next to me and the day bartender (I never did get her name, bad Maren!) PM Bartender (Kalie) leans across the bar and immediately demands information from this man about some “stalker” he acquired while drinking at this fine establishment, he will, from now on, be referred too as Ultimate Douche.
Ultimate Douche: We drank for about 45 minutes, went back to my house, I fucked her and kicked her out. She’s fucking crazy! She doesn’t get it, she’s sent me 74 text messages and today she googled me and wrote me an email stating what a wonderful asset to my company she would be. She fucking googled me! She’s fucking nuts! I even booted her out, she wasn’t even allowed to stay the whole night.
[and here comes the kicker folks]
I mean, what the fuck? (he turns to face me and grins) I mean, I’m not that good.
I would like to now introduce this as an open forum to our male readers: Have you ever turned to a girl before even giving your name, stated your promiscuous unsanitary ways to her, then admit you’re not very good at these sexual escapades and then SUCCESSFULLY score with that girl? I didn’t think so. Well, neither did he.
So he tried a new tactic.
Ultimate Douche: I’m guessing she’s going so crazy about me because she googled me and my company. And now? Well, now she knows about my private jet.
Me:::fiercely trying to keep my beer from shooting out of my nose::: even the word flabbergasted does not do my emotions justice.
Ultimate Douche: Yeah, you know I can fly wherever, whenever. I don’t have to stand around and wait for stupid security, I could leave tonight if I wanted.
[Good, then please do. Oh, and take your two checked bags of bullshit with you.]
Now, please understand that there was never a look of interest on my face, or ANY kind of body language that indicated I condoned his lies and ridiculous stories. And yet, they continued without fail. Most of the following was spoken to my back:
Ultimate Douche sits silent for a moment and then gets on his iphone, pretending to leave a business message making sure to speak loud and clear enough for me to hear: “Hey Paul, it’s Mike…”
Please allow me to make a small note here. OF COURSE his name was Mike, if you know KFD and I, and our stories then you also know that any Mike (short of my stepfather) has never failed to be a complete douche. That we have more ridiculous stories starring Mike’s and their bullshit than boys of any other name combined. I should have known…it is also in this moment of revelation at his name that I nearly teared because KFD wasn’t here to witness this with me. But back to the proving of my name theory:
“I just wanted to give you a quick call and let you know to tell your buyer that his offer of $600,000 is ridiculous. If he wants to live in that neighborhood he’s going to have to pay. Tell him not to get back to me until his offer includes seven digits.” [hangs up the phone and sighs] “When are people going to learn?”
Then he looks at me and smiles: “recession? I’m not feeling it, I’m made of money. I have a jet.”
I don’t think I have ever rolled my eyes that many times in one night…not even when I went through that bratty thirteen year-old phase where it is the only appropriate response to anything your mother says.
Me:::nothing but silence:::
Ultimate Douche: I’m having a party on my four-hundred acre ranch tomorrow night, you should come. I spent $15,000 on a fireworks display. There’s going to be a DJ (as if this last fact would render me incapable of not attending).
Me:::nothing but silence::: I was also coming to the realization I really had to pee, and I was far from comfortable with leaving my drink on the bar. But, I also have a strong aversion to bringing my drink into the bathroom with me, it’s an air germ thing, don’t ask.
Ultimate Douche: Turns to Kalie the bartender and repeats his party plans to her. Then snorts and says some cute comment about never fucking a girl from a bar again.
Me:::silence::: hoping maybe he’s run out of bullshit to sling.
Ultimate Douche stays quiet for a few moments. Then goes back to his trusty iphone. “See? She sent me this email, haha she misspelled realize!” pushing his phone into my face.
Me: No she didn’t, you did. You’re in your note-taking app, that’s not your email.
This stops him for awhile, and I start to relax, thinking maybe this is finally over.
10 minutes later:
Ultimate Douche: (sucking wind and about to pull out the big guns)
“I started shopping last night for puppies, it gets so cold at night sometimes.”
Me:::laughing so hard I’m getting those weird little light flashes::: GASP:::still laughing:::
Ultimate Douche: What? You think I’m gay for saying that?
At this point my bladder has reached its’ limits. I look across the bar, ask Kalie where the restroom is, place a coaster over the top of my drink, and lean over the bar so I can put it on top of the cooler out of Ultimate Douche’s reach, then turn and look him straight in the eyes:
“No. Gay men are articulate and interesting, I think you’re full of shit.”
Kalie looks over from the beer taps and nods her head ardently. Apparently I’m not the only one who’s had about enough of this crap. I laugh all the way to the restroom.
Returning to my seat I think to myself there is no way this man will continue, surely he will stop after having a girl laugh in his face. But no. I was not that lucky. He had gotten back on his phone and pulled up pictures of puppies (apparently there’s an app for that). He shoved the phone in my face.
Me: Yorkies? Really?
Ultimate Douche: “Well, yeah. My condo doesn’t allow dogs over 35 lbs…” He drags the last part out suddenly realizing the gaping hole in his story, coloring a deep shade of red.
Me: Yeah? Must be pretty cool to live in a condo community that has leer jet parking and allows you to light off $15,000 worth of fireworks.
Kalie and the other patrons who have been watching this pending train wreck all start laughing and snorting. He left shortly after.
MAREN-1 ULTIMATE DOUCHE-0
And no, I am not ashamed to state I live for glorious moments like these. On Sundays The Press Box has $10 all you can drink beer specials. Brian will be in town by then; maybe we’ll run into the richest condo owner/fireworks king/leer jet flying/puppy cuddler of them all.
If we’re lucky.
Wanderlust
I’ll admit, I’ve started obsessing over the amount of hits the blog has been getting. We’ve had 535 hits since the Vegas story hit the net, almost doubling our overall amount of hits since we started. It’s hard not to let that go to your head. On the plus side, it’s forced me to start writing more. On the down side, I’m not paying attention to my schoolwork. Not that I really was to begin with.
Checking my blog stats has made me realize that people are fucked up. Like, super-mega-ultra fucked up. A new popular search term that brings up the blog is “sexyacrobatics rape video”. And no, I didn’t find this out by myself. That search term brings up the blog 4th on Google, right after a Web site about violent rape videos. I feel bad for the guy who clicked on this and was expecting some good old-fashioned sexy acrobat rape, only to be disappointed by this blog. Sorry.
Incidentally, “Vegas drunken Katie”, “Maren Vodka Tampons”, and many other terrible combinations bring this blog up. Awkward.
Another good thing to come out of Vegas is our newfound wanderlust. S, Lindsay and I caught up with David, the Spanish gentleman we met the first night, and grabbed some wine in downtown Winter Park. It turns out he’s David Carbonell, an uber-talented photographer. We spent a couple hours with him and listened as he regaled us with stories about carrying a knife for protection when he took photographs in Afghanistan and Iraq and what the dating scene is like in France and Spain. David is easily one of the most genuine and interesting people I’ve ever met.
We contributed to David’s life, too. Who else would have helped him add “DTF” to his lexicon? Or teach him that when a girl says she needs to use the bathroom she’s actually blowing you off? You’re welcome.
He also showed us his passport. Well, his French one. He has three. His French passport was stamped everywhere. Indonesia, Malaysia, all sorts of countries. It made me think of mine, which has been in pristine condition since 2006. How have I gone all these years without traveling abroad? (Mind you, Cancun and Paradise Island don’t count.)
This has to change.
The next day Lindsay began the process of signing up for a passport and I was more intent on traveling than ever. You see, I recently signed up for an internship abroad. I’m going to go to Australia for two months this summer and work 40 hours a week. Neat, right? I checked, and my apartment will be within walking distance of several bars. And they have a lax “overnight visitor” policy. Sweet.
So get excited, you small group of readers. This blog is going global. Maren, do you have a passport yet?
Yes. We Think These Types Of Things.
Why, WHY would someone go to all the trouble and expense of designing and ordering a Real Doll and then order it with a flaccid penis? WTF? You can go to any bar any night of the week and find someone who has a problem getting it up. Do them a solid and hit on them.
Hippies are to Boulder like orange tans and glued spikes are to Jersey. It will become an SAT comparison question.
What happens to Edward when Bella’s on her period? Brings a whole new meaning to eating out.
A solid day is one that begins with Red Bull and Three Olives and ends with $2 Tuesday. Yes, I realize this limits solid days to Tuesdays. However, if you started with the right amount of Red Bull and Three Olives you’ll forget that and make it a solid day regardless.
Katie figured out the other day that searching “lesbian kissing” now pulls up our blog. Oh boy. Wait, I mean oh girl.
KFD and I are not known for our restraint. Watch yourself next time you’re on a brunch date with us and someone brings up the topic of tattoos.
iphones don’t give you apps. They give you the license to take pictures of all the world’s crazies, overly-imbibed, and style challenged. Examples include Kenny G hairstyles, Miller Lite pajama bottoms underneath jorts, and elderly couples who bring their entire stuffed animal collection into SeaWorld and rent strollers for them.
There is a homeless panhandler in Boulder that gives talks and refers to himself as the “Emperor of The Universe.” Senility has its’ advantages. Dreadlocks on rich white kids acting out against daddy do not.
The Alphabet Game
So it seems that our little Vegas adventure breathed life into the Alphabet Game. Now, children all over the world (or at least two girls in Tallahassee) are giving the game a shot. Be wary, my friends, for the Alphabet Game involves a great deal of skill, luck, and the loosest of morals.
Maren and I have noticed that there is a little confusion in how the game should be played. In order to maximize the competitiveness (and minimize the chance of a herpes epidemic) the game should have a codified set of rules. With the original creators’ permission, we are setting out to give the Alphabet Game a defined structure.
With that being said, we are pleased to bring you…
The Official Alphabet Game – Rules and Regulations
The goal of the Alphabet Game is simple – make out with 26 people whose first names begin with a different letter of the alphabet. We realize that this can be a lofty goal, so we have offered the option of a point system.
Letters will be scored according to Scrabble’s point system. Therefore –
1 point – E, N, A, O, I, R
2 points – D, S, T
3 points – G, K, L, M, B, P
4 points – U, H, J, V, Z, F
5 Points – C, W
8 Points – X, Y
10 Points – Q
Stipulations:
- It must be “making out”. This means open mouth, tongue, the whole shebang.
- Advanced players may modify the game to include only sexual conquests. Just don’t get near me with your dirty, dirty germs. There is an automatic 30-point deduction and please, for the love of God, get tested. STD’s will result in an automatic disqualification from the game and possible shunning from society.
- Letters may be repeated for additional points up to three times. After three times, the player will lose two points for each repeated letter.
- Unattractive participants will result in a five-point deduction. The attractiveness of participants shall be rated by an impartial (and hopefully somewhat sober) judge. In the event of extreme beer goggles, a photograph should be taken. Let’s not get crazy and post it on Facebook, though; players should be allowed to retain their pride. In the event of an extremely attractive participant, Facebook posts are encouraged in the interest of bragging rights. There is also a two-point bonus.
- Nicknames shall not be honored as first names. If you know somebody well enough to shove your tongue down their throat, you should take the time and learn their actual first name.
- No “renames” or creative spelling. You cannot change the name of participant in order to gain points. I’m looking at you, Annalise. More likely than not, Kevin isn’t spelled with a Q. Please preserve the integrity of the game by not cheating.
- Ideally, the game is played with a specific timeframe in mind. It works best with a minimum timeframe of a week and a maximum timeframe of a year. We are choosing to include the option of retroactive points (i.e. using the year timeframe and going back to the beginning of 2009). Once again, play fair.
- Do not disclose the purpose of the game to potential participants. Pity make-outs don’t count. Man up, do a shot, and make it happen, cap’n.
- Two-point bonus if make-out occurs in front of an ex.
- Two-point bonus if make-out occurs with an enemy’s current lover or ex lover.
- No points awarded if you make out with an ex. Come on, we know you’re better than that. He/she treated you terribly. (Or you did something stupid. I don’t know your life) It’s time to move on!
- Two-point bonus if you make out with a foreigner. One extra point if they don’t speak English. Wow, you’re good.
- Participants can only be made up of the gender that you are attracted to. No stupid Katy-Perry-pseudo-lesbian girl kisses are allowed. This puts bisexuals at an unfair advantage, but we can’t think of a way that is fairer. The rulebook is always open to suggestions. ..
If relying on the point system, winners will be determined at the end of the timeframe when all points are tabulated. But, in reality, doesn’t everyone win?
Best of luck!
