Shakespeare got it right when he informed the male gender that "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." But he left out the second part of the rule which reads, "A woman scorned hath no fury like a mother berated by her son at 4 in the morning." If I'd have known this little tidbit the decisions I made last night would have been totally and completely different. For instance, instead of going shot for shot with a guy that weighs a good sixty pounds more than myself, I would have found that good old Christian kid that "didn't really drink but liked the atmosphere." There's one at every party, conveniently stationed near the back for any sinner who feels like having a reprieve from the debaucherous and life-affirming activities of the 21st century breakdown. I love that kid, his only problem is that he talks to much and eventually mentions the miraculous healing powers of Jesus and what they could do for an individual such as myself with "so much wasted potential spent on the carnal affections of mortal life." WTF does "carnal affections" mean? Drinking, smoking, and women. In one of those funny little, life-coincidences that's what my religion calls the "Trifecta for Living" or "TFL" as we fervent devotees of the Church of the Fun Friday Night so affectionately call it. It's our highest decree.
If I could mulligan last night, instead of going out to the party that my mother specifically told me not to, I would have stayed in and read a book by Eric Carle or something. Eric Carle is my patron saint of literature, the pictures on his every page have fascinated me ever since early childhood.
Moving on, after a rowdy night that started off in a parentless basement and ended with the theft and subsequent racing of Target shopping carts, I stumbled back home singing drinking songs to myself and the girl I thought was with me. Upon returning home I announced that I was the racecart* champion and don't remember a thing afterwards.
Today I woke up with a bang, literally. My eyes shot open and the first thing I saw was my mother holding a pot in each hand. She could have scared the devil if he were in the room with me. When I didn't get up quick enough she did it again. I rolled over and looked at the time 6:03 a.m. WTF? I was about to say something when bbbbboooooooonnnggggg, she hit them again. To make matters worse, I hadn't drank any water or taken ibuprofen before I went to sleep last night, I do remember that much. So, if you can imagine, my brain literally rattled in my skull.
That was only the tip of the iceberg that made my life reminiscent of James Cameron's Titanic. The rest of my day was filled with yard work, the inability to address my mother as anything but "Sheer Commandant of the Thistledorp family," and the constant and self-aware nagging she was putting me through. After I had fried the last of the four pounds of bacon and cut up the fifteenth Idaho potato into perfect 1 by 1 cubes, my mother sat down next to me.
I couldn't control the nervous spasms in my leg so it bounced up and down and up and down. My mother looked me right in the eyes and filled in the little black spot from the night before. She used a lot of handquotes. When she was done informing me of my own life she stood up and left. As I was still afraid to speak whatsoever I texted my best friend.
(864): So my mom found me in the kitchen last night and asked me why I was making mac and cheese at 4 in the morning. Always prompt and witty in my returns, I apparently yelled at her to "get the fuck back bitch" and informed her "you don't know my life."
(562): Oh no.
Racecart - a specifically suburban sport that involves stolen shopping carts from bigbox stores such as Target and Wal-Mart. Teams consist of two individuals, the pusher and the pilot. There are many theories as to what exact body types make for the best team make-up, but most of them are forgotten after continuing to drink to much. This is a highly dangerous sport and should be practiced with immense caution.
(If any you guys out there have any footage of racecarting, please send it to firstname.lastname@example.org for a potential upcoming project I am working on)