…My Friend’s Backyard.
About 10 days ago I put my house on the market. It was a Friday, which meant drinking was inevitable regardless. But when one finally lists his house and manages to survive yet another week at a job he fucking despises, his only choice is to drink copious amounts of alcohol. Ah, who am I kidding. I could have returned to my house on a Tuesday and not listed a goddamn thing and still fucked myself up on High Life. Still, on this day my friends Pete, Nick and Lisa joined me at Brewhouse Grille. The weather was fantastic, so we sat on the deck amid a private, catered party. I proceeded to drink several pints of Franziskaner and spoke to an older couple who had just returned from Texas. They were there for the party, and despite my badgering them to do so, they refused to get me any of the free food or beer being served to their friends. Assholes.
From there we went to one of my least favorite places in all of Central Pennsylvania: the Appalachian Brewing Company. Why do I hate that place? Because it’s essentially a playground for hippies and patchouli stink. What’s more, their beer sucks ass. Um, you’re a brew-pub, yes? Shouldn’t your beer be, well, good? Anyway, we met up with a couple of friends there before at last retiring to my pal Pete’s place. From that point forward, there was much drinking to be had. And again, as we started around 4 and it was now, well, midnight or so, passing out was inevitable. It’s pretty much by bailiwick by now, and my friends are all too happy to point that out. From what I understand, Pete and Nick left for cigarettes while I passed out on the couch. When they returned, they woke me and I stumbled out to the back patio, where I rested, cross-armed, in a beer-induced haze. Fortunately, Lisa was there to pose with me. As you can see, she was all too happy to do so.
Nothing says “celebrate” like “horns” held high over the passed-out guy.
I haven’t a clue as to what else transpired that evening. All I know is that I started here…
I’m not sleeping; I’m pondering.
…and woke in the third-floor bedroom, fully-clothed, around six in the morning. It was confusing to say the least, but so be it. I put on my shoes, walked out the front door and, according to Pete, set off his alarm, which he was then forced to go downstairs and shut off. My bad.
Look, this obviously wasn’t the first time and it most certainly won’t be the last. These things happen, after all, particularly when you bypass dinner and go right to the booze. Do I regret my actions? Of course not. Hell, I wouldn’t have this delightful set of pictures otherwise.
So, until the next time I drink entirely too much and, perhaps, end up passed out on your lawn, have at it, you vultures!